This story has been worked on and worked on and worked on. There's no point in trying to number all of the revisions. I purposefully started the action in the middle, and there really isn't any action as it is all words, words, words. I'm my own worst editor. So, for the readers of the list, how's the story holding up so far? Have I gotten your interst? ---------------------------------------------------------------- The Kidding stays in the Tytlal The Synthian, Mi'nami, stood at the edge of the ten meter drop with a smug look of satisfaction on her raccoon-like face. Her single duenna bot was radiating just enough light for her to gaze down upon the scene below. She looked at the two humans and three tytlal who were now helplessly trapped on the floor of the Galactic Drop Cube. Her Wazoon crew were busy getting her scout class ship ready for departure; she had the portal all to herself. Every now and then a lightning flash from the storm outside overpowered the duenna bot's paler light. The flash masked Mi'nami's expression to those below by temporarily transforming her image into a sharp dark profile. Mi'nami could have left quietly, but instead she decided to give them a final parting comment before making her final exit through the portal's weather screen. "You may as well make no attempt to escape," she said. "After all, you don't want to offer the flying Pan into your foyer." Rupert C. Jones, Terragens Field Agent, knew that the Synthian thought that she was quoting some well used English--strike that, Anglic phrase. Plainly, she didn't know any better. But with this one last parting comment, Rupert almost lost his diplomatic coiffure. (A term he liked to mentally use when the situation becomes a bit hairy.) He had to suppress a strong urge to respond. He mentally weigh his options. He could accept the fact that he'd been gotten the better of. He could accept the fact that he was now trapped in a Galactic Institute of Migration survey cube along with Fred, his human coworker, and the three friendly, allied, but very annoying Tytlal. He could reluctantly accept the fact that this incident could affect Earth's chances of getting some type of official lease on Udine I. But he'd be damned if he had to put up with more of this flagrant punning and misuse of language. Drat those tytlal for selling the Synthian an _altered_ book of Anglic phrases. It was so annoying. And the word âannoyingâ should be included in the official Tytlal write-up given to every prospective agent. It would have been annoying to have had to use the tytlal's real individual names at all times, as common tytlal names are typically at least six syllables long. (They get shorter as a tytlal becomes more socially prominent.) But when they made their appearance as a threesome, instead of taking the now standard nicknames of Moe, Larry, and Curly--or Shemp or Curly Joe, they had to make their new nicknames annoying. They wanted to be called Tom, Deacon, and Harry. Yes, Deacon instead of 'Dick and.' The one who took the name Deacon even carried a little stiff black and white collar.... So annoying, and yet done in such a tytlal-like fashion that a terragen agent couldn't mention that it was annoying. To do so would be to admit that the tytlal had succeeded in being annoying Rupert was Earth's fourth ranking officer in this, the Galactic Institution of Migration's 'field trip' to the planet Undine I. Technically, though as his bleak surroundings constantly reminded him, no longer subjectively, he was in charge of this secondary expedition. As a smaller party removed from the main group, they were to explore the island chain that lay on the opposite side of the planet from the initial landing. The big interplanetary Synthian transport had landed on the one large equatorial continent. Jacob Demwa, safe and secure on that continent on the other side of Undine I, was tentatively planning to rename the planet Calafia. The continent he was on was tentatively to be named Farley, after Admiral Anderson's genetically unenhanced normal pet dog. That dog traveled everywhere the admiral went. Rupert had a few new names for the Synthian, and there was nothing tentative about what was racing through his mind. He was, in his own way, being very diplomatic about it. The names he used were from several Earth languages as well as five Galactic Languages. But, he was a diplomat, he was, and knew what speaking his mind--even in these circumstances, could mean to his career. The flashes of lightning that reflected through the cube's side portal were now diminishing in frequency. Except for this one random source of light, he knew that he was left standing in complete darkness. So when stood looking at the now empty portal, he let loose his freely expressed facial expressions. They could not be seen--there'd be no record. This was his emotional highpoint. The dramatic climax to what should have been nothing more than a boring night of rest before a full day's work of GIM planetary surveying. And it passed. Oh well, he thought, it comes with the job. He needed time to cool down more and so he collapsed to the floor. If only Mi'nami had left him an empty crate for use as a chair--but the tytlal had interfered with that idea. "Fred?" "Yup." "Feel like sleeping? Sunrise is about two hours away." ""Nope. Too wound up." "Me too," Rupert replied. "Can you think of anything to do at the moment?" There was a two-second pause. Then Fred wearily replied, "I can't think of anything to do except to sit down and think some more." With a sigh, Rupert said, "My thoughts exactly." Then he added in a slightly louder voice, "What about our tytlal friends?" There were no answers from the tytlal. "I think I heard them scurrying off to the far corner," Fred stated. "Wait for the next flash--" The lightning revealed that each Tytlal was now fast asleep--or at least pretending to be so. Tom, Deacon, Harry. (Mentally, Rupert could not add the 'and' to what already sounded complete. Score one for tytlal tricksterism.) The three were now stretched out on their backs. Each was on top of one of their own so called personal food cartons. The head was drooping off of one end, and the short stubby legs were flopping off of the other end at the knee. All three had their hips rotated upwards to allow for their thick boneless tails. But only Tom and Harry had let their tails droop. Deacon had his tail locked between his legs pointing upwards, giving a new life and new meaning to those two old sophomoric expressions of âindoor campingâ or âsleeping under a pup tent.â But there were no sheets to make any âtents.â Miânami said that it might be possible to hurl a tytlal up to the portal ledge by using a blanket as a sling. No bedding, no chairs, and even no belts or straps. Nothing remained but those three cartons, and because of them, Rupert and Fred had to make do with the bare floor. "You'd think that the floor would be more conformable," quipped Fred. "You don't know the Tytlal," said Rupert. "This looks funnier. And Peanuts was an old TwenCen comic strip that was approved for Tytlal consumption a long time ago." Fred was a neophyte junior agent and this was supposed to have been his very first, and therefore very routine, field assignment. But Rupert didn't need the next lightning flash for a confirmation of what he was sensing. Instinctively he knew that there was a look of puzzlement on Fred's face. Rupert thought that it would be best if he'd elaborate a bit on the nature of the Tytlal. Something that he personally felt was true, but was not yet considered to be canonical. "You may have been given the plain facts about the Tytlal, but I think so far you've missed the spirit of the Tytlal. âWhen you came onboard the ship, and were introduced to the tytlal, you saw that they were in the Attitude of Respectful Waiting. They had their hands folded in front. And you saw that they had changed the folding of the hands slightly when addressing only humans, chimps or dolphins. In respecting our culture, or so they say, they use the old Chinese greeting of putting an open palmed hand over the other handâs closed fist. âIâm betting you didnât look close enough for the fine details. Only one hand was in a true fist. The other two were doing paper and scissors. âHereâs something that should really explain the Tytlal. "I know you have the symbol for the Institute for Uplift memorized. A sphere lying behind a ring sectioned from a much larger sphere. The pictorial implication being given is that the sphere will eventually pass through the ring. "Think of this as the Galactic equivalence of a round peg and a round hole." "And the Tytlal are the square pegs?" Fred asked. "Yes, but you don't have the complete picture. It's one thing to wind up being designated as the square peg. But," and he paused for effect, "the Tytlal make a conscientious effort to _be_ that square peg. "Now transfer this mental image back to the Institute for Uplift cartouche. The vast majority of septs take pride in the fact that they, as a race, are being represented by that sphere, and they will one day pass through the ring. The Tytlal take pride in being represented as a cube that won't fit through the ring without someone having to use a sledge hammer." "So taking this conscientious effort into account, even while asleep, the Tytlal are displaying their choice of ...ah, what term to use.... devotion to Earth's historic catalogue of humor." Fred looked again when there was another flash of lightning.
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