Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (15 page)

Nothing as bland as a cubicle farm could fail to hide a dragon or two. “Improved Cubicle Door” was born out of that instinct for magic and my lifelong love of RPGs. I even gave the result to my coworkers. The HR director wanted to know why she got cast as the creepy one, and where she could get a cloak of her own.

Daughter of two Cuban political exiles, M.C.A. Hogarth was born a foreigner in the American melting pot and has had a fascination for the gaps in cultures and the bridges that span them ever since. She has been many things—web database architect, product manager, technical writer and massage therapist—but is currently a full-time parent, artist, writer and anthropologist to aliens, both human and otherwise.

by Mike Resnick

It was a sunny summer day on Selous, as it always was. The sky was a perfect blue, the grass was green, and you could smell excitement in the air.

“Just think,” said Anthony Tarica, as he and his companion stepped through the hatch of the ship and began walking down the ramp to the ground. “We might have won a negatronic washer and dryer instead.”

“Poor Roberts,” agreed Linwood Donahue, following him down the ramp. “If he’d sold just three more units, he’d have replaced one of us here.” He snickered. “I hope the poor sonuvabitch has a lot of laundry.”

“I can’t believe we’re really here!” enthused Tarica. “All my life I’ve wanted to go on a real safari.”

“I wonder how they could afford it,” said Donahue. “I mean, a safari has to cost a lot more than a washer and dryer.”

“Why worry about it?” said Tarica, taking a deep breath and scenting adventure. “We’re here for the next five days, and that’s all that matters.”

They cleared customs and walked out of the tiny spaceport. They looked around, but there were no people in sight, just a few parked vehicles.

“That’s funny,” said Tarica. “I’d have thought there’d be someone from the safari company here to meet us.”

“Yeah,” said Donahue. “What do we do now?”

“If you gentlemen will step this way,” said a cultured masculine voice, “I will attend to all your needs.”

Tarica looked around. “Who said that?”

“I did.”

Tarica and Donahue exchanged looks. “Am I going crazy, or did that safari vehicle just speak to us?” asked Donahue.

“I most certainly did,” said the vehicle.

“I never saw a talking car before,” said Tarica. “Oh, back home mine reminds me to fasten my seat belt and take the keys out of the ignition and not to try to beat the yellow light, and it castigates me when I go over the speed limit, but I’ve never actually had a conversation with one.”

“I am Quatermain, your fully-equipped safari car and guide, trained in every aspect of safaris and safari life. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the flora and fauna of Selous, I know every watering hole, every secret trail, every hidden hazard. I come equipped with a mini-kitchen in my trunk, an auxiliary trunk for your luggage, and a supply of water that will last for the duration of your safari. Furthermore, I am capable of erecting your rustic tent at day’s end, and of protecting your safety at all times. I run on a small plutonium chip, and will not run out of energy for another 27.348 Earth years.” One of the trunks popped open. “If you gentlemen will please deposit your luggage in here, we can begin our exotic adventure.”

“Right now?” asked Tarica, surprised.

“Have you a problem with that?” responded Quatermain.

“No,” said Tarica hastily. “I just expected that we’d spend a day unwinding in some luxury lodge before we set out on the actual safari.”

“Luxury lodges are incompatible with safari experience,” replied Quatermain. “If you gentlemen will climb into my back seat, we can be off on the adventure of a lifetime.”

“Do you do this every day?” asked Donahue, as he joined Tarica on the back seat and the door automatically shut and locked.

“Yes, sir,” responded the car. “This is old hat to me, but each excursion is still thrilling, because each is unique.”

“Have you ever lost a client?”

“No, sir,” said Quatermain. “I always know right where they are.”

Tarica pulled out a cigar. “Well, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this.”

“I’d prefer that you didn’t smoke, sir.”

“But you’ve got an ashtray built into the arm rest here, and I assure you my friend here doesn’t object.”

“It’s bad for your health, sir.”

“I’ve been smoking for thirty-five years,” said Tarica, “and I’m in perfect health.”

There was a brief humming sound.

“I have just given you a level three scan, sir,” said Quatermain, “and you have incipient emphysema, an eight percent blockage of the arteries leading to your heart, adult onset diabetes, and an undefined gum disease. You really must take better care of yourself, sir.”

“I feel fine,” said Tarica.

“I could give you a print-out of the scan, sir.”

“All right, I’ll take better care of myself.”

“You could begin by not lighting that cigar, sir,” said Quatermain. “I notice you’re still holding it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for animals?” complained Tarica.

“I can see in every direction at once, sir.”

Tarica sighed and put the cigar back in his pocket.

“I’m sure you’ll be much happier for doing that, sir.”

“You have two more guesses,” growled Tarica.

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Donahue asked Quatermain how to open the windows.

“Why bother, sir?” replied the car. “I am equipped with the most modern climate control system. You name the conditions and I will accommodate you.”

“But I’d like to feel the wind in my face,” said Donahue.

Suddenly a blast of cold air hit his face.

“Simulated wind at 32 miles per hour, 82 degrees Fahrenheit, 7 percent humidity,” announced Quatermain. “Would you like any adjustment, sir?”

“I’d just like some fresh air,” complained Donahue.

“All right,” said Quatermain. “Just let me slow down first.”

“Why?”

“Even a small insect could damage your eye at the speed I was going,” answered Quatermain. “It will take us an extra hour to reach the closest of the great herds, but your comfort is more important than an extra hour of daylight.”

“All right, forget it,” said Donahue. “Close the windows and get back up to speed.”

“You’re sure?” asked the car.

“I’m sure.”

“You’re not just doing it to make me feel better?”

“Just speed up, goddammit!”

They drove for twenty minutes in absolute silence. Then Quatermain slowed down to a crawl. “Bluebucks at nine o’clock,” it announced.

“It’s three-thirty,” said Tarica. “Do you expect to wait five and a half hours for them to show up?”

“Nine o’clock means to your left, sir,” explained Quatermain. “Three o’clock is to your right, twelve o’clock is straight ahead, and six o’clock is straight behind us.”

“And I suppose twenty o’clock is some bird that’s directly overhead?” asked Donahue with a smug smile.

“I don’t call that by an o’clock, sir.”

“Oh? What
do
you call it?”

“Up, sir.” A brief pause. “Daggerhorns at two o’clock.”

“There must be a thousand of ’em!” said Tarica enthusiastically.

“1,276 by my count, sir,” said the car.

“Drive a little closer. I’d like to get a good look at them.”

“I think this is as close as we should go, sir.”

“But we’re still half a mile away from them!” complained Tarica.

“783 yards from the nearest, to be exact, sir—or 722.77 meters, if you prefer.”

“Well, then?”

“Well what, sir?”

“Drive closer.”

“My job is to protect you from danger, sir.”

“They’re grass-eaters, for God’s sake!”

“There are two cases on record of tourists being killed by daggerhorns,” said Quatermain.

“Out of how many?” demanded Tarica.

“There have been 21,843 safaris on Selous, comprised of 36,218 tourists, sir.”

“So the odds are 18,000 to one against our being killed,” said Tarica.

“Actually, the odds are 18,109 to one, sir.”

“Big difference,” snorted Tarica. “Drive closer.”

“I really advise against it, sir.”

“Then take us back to the spaceport and we’ll get a vehicle that caters to our needs.”

“You don’t
need
to see a daggerhorn close up, sir,” noted Quatermain reasonably. “You merely
want
to.”

“The spaceport or the daggerhorns,” insisted Tarica. “Make your decision before they all move away.”

“You are adamant?”

“I am.”

“Very well,” said Quatermain. “Shields up! Screens up! Laser canon at the ready!” It began playing a male chorus singing an invigorating martial song.

Tarica and Donahue peered out through a suddenly-raised titanium grid that covered the windows. The daggerhorns continued their grazing, paying no attention to the approaching vehicle.

Suddenly Quatermain’s voice blasted out at 300 decibels through the external speakers. “I warn you: I am fully armed and will not let any harm come to my passengers. Go about your business peacefully and make no attempt to molest them.”

The second they heard the speakers all grazing stopped, and the entire herd suddenly decided it had urgent business elsewhere. A moment later Quatermain and its passengers were all alone on the savanna.

“Invigorating, wasn’t it?” said Quatermain in satisfied tones.

“I’m starting to understand why the corporation could afford this particular safari company,” muttered Tarica.

“Tailswinger at nine o’clock,” announced Quatermain.

“Where?” said Donahue, who was on the left side of the vehicle.

“Well, actually it’s about 1400 yards away, and is totally obscured by branches, but my sensors detect its body heat.”

“Well, let’s go over and look at it.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Why not?”

“There is a female tailswinger in an adjacent tree, and she’s nursing an infant.”

“We’re not going to steal it,” said Donahue. “We’re just going to look at it.”

“I really can’t disturb a nursing mother, sir,” said Quatermain.

“But you had no problem disturbing twelve hundred daggerhorns,” complained Donahue.

“None of
them
were nursing, sir.”

“Fine,” muttered Donahue. He tested the door handle. “Oh, well, as long as you’re stopped, unlock this thing.”

“Why, sir?”

“We left the spaceport before I could stop by a bathroom and I’ve got to pee.” He tried the door again. “What’s the problem? Is the door stuck?”

“Certainly not, sir,” said Quatermain. “I am in perfect repair.”

“Then let me out.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Nothing’s going to attack me,” said Donahue. “You scared all the animals away, in case you don’t remember.”

“I agree, sir. There are no potentially dangerous animals within striking distance.”

“So why won’t you open the goddamned door?”

“Uric acid can do untold harm to any vegetation it comes in contact with, sir,” said Quatermain. “We must keep the planet pristine for future adventurers. Surely you can see that, sir.”

“Are you telling me that all those daggerhorns we saw never take a piss?”

“Certainly they do, sir.”

“Well, then?”

“Unlike yourself,
they
are part of the ecosystem.”

“I don’t believe this!” yelled Donahue. “Are you telling me no one you ever took out had to relieve himself?”

“If you will check the pouch just ahead of you, sir,” said Quatermain, “you will find a small plastic bag.”

“What if he needs a big one?” asked Tarica.

Another humming sound.

“I have just scanned his bladder, sir, and it contains only thirteen fluid ounces.” A brief pause. “You really should cut down on your sugars and carbohydrates, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue muttered an obscenity and reached for the bag.

It was ten minutes later that Quatermain announced that they had come to a small herd of six-legged woolies.

“They look just like sheep,” observed Tarica.

“They are identical to Earth sheep in almost every way,” agreed Quatermain. “Except, of course, for the extra legs, and the heart, lungs, spleen, pancreas, kidneys, jaw structure, and genitalia.”

“But besides that…” said Donahue sardonically.

“Note the billpecker perched on the nearest one’s head,” said Quatermain. “It forms a symbiosis with the wooly. It keeps the wooly’s ears clean of parasites, and the wooly provides it with an endless supply of food.” Suddenly the wooly bellowed and shook its head, sending the billpecker shooting off into the air before the shocked bird could spread its wings.

“Its ear is bleeding,” noted Donahue.

“Very nearsighted billpecker,” said Quatermain knowingly. “It is my opinion, not yet codified in the textbooks, that this is actually a triple symbiosis. The billpecker is a bird with notoriously poor vision, and the blood it inadvertently draws due to this shortcoming actually attracts bloodsucking parasites. Without the blood, no parasites. Without the parasites, no billpecker. It works out very neatly.”

“Without the parasites there’s no need for billpeckers,” said Tarica.