The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything

by George Alec Effinger

Copyright ©1984 by George Alec Effinger

First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1984

I was sitting at my desk, reading a report on the brown pelican situation, when the secretary of state burst in. “Mr. President,” he said, his eyes wide, “the aliens are here!” Just like that. “The aliens are here!” As if I had any idea what to do about them.

“I see,” I said. I learned early in my first term that “I see” was one of the safest and most useful comments I could possibly make in any situation. When I said, “I see,” it indicated that I had digested the news and was waiting intelligently and calmly for further data. That knocked the ball back into my advisers’ court. I looked at the secretary of state expectantly. I was all prepared with my next utterance, in the event that he had nothing further to add. My next utterance would be, “Well?” That would indicate that I was on top of the problem, but that I couldn’t be expected to make an executive decision without sufficient information, and that he should have known better than to burst into the Oval Office unless he had that information. That’s why we had protocol; that’s why we had proper channels; that’s why I had advisers. The voters out there didn’t want me to make decisions without sufficient information. If the secretary didn’t have anything more to tell me, he shouldn’t have burst in in the first place. I looked at him awhile longer. “Well?” I asked at last.

“That’s about all we have at the moment,” he said uncomfortably. I looked at him sternly for a few seconds, scoring a couple of points while he stood there all flustered. I turned back to the pelican report, dismissing him. I certainly wasn’t going to get all flustered. I could think of only one President in recent memory who was ever flustered in office, and we all know what happened to him. As the secretary of state closed the door to my office behind him, I smiled. The aliens were probably going to be a bitch of a problem eventually, but it wasn’t my problem yet. I had a little time.

But I found that I couldn’t really keep my mind on the pelican question. Even the President of the United States has some imagination, and if the secretary of state was correct, I was going to have to confront these aliens pretty damn soon. I’d read stories about aliens when I was a kid, I’d seen all sorts of aliens in movies and television, but these were the first aliens who’d actually stopped by for a chat. Well, I wasn’t going to be the first American President to make a fool of himself in front of visitors from another world. I was going to be briefed. I telephoned the secretary of defense. “We must have some contingency plans drawn up for this,” I told him. “We have plans for every other possible situation.” This was true; the Defense Department has scenarios for such bizarre events as the rise of an imperialist fascist regime in Liechtenstein or the spontaneous depletion of all the world’s selenium.

“Just a second, Mr. President,” said the secretary. I could hear him muttering to someone else. I held the phone and stared out the window. There were crowds of people running around hysterically out there. Probably because of the aliens. “Mr. President?” came the voice of the secretary of defense. “I have one of the aliens here, and he suggests that we use the same plan that President Eisenhower used.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I hated it when they said stuff like that. I wanted information, and they told me these things knowing that I would have to ask four or five more questions just to understand the answer to the first one. “You have an alien with you?” I said in a pleasant enough voice.

“Yes, sir. They prefer not to be called ‘aliens.’ He tells me he’s a ‘nuhp.’”

“Thank you, Luis. Tell me, why do you have an al— Why do you have a nuhp and I don’t?”

Luis muttered the question to his nuhp. “He says it’s because they wanted to go through proper channels. They learned about all that from President Eisenhower.”

“Very good, Luis.” This was going to take all day, I could see that; and I had a photo session with Mick Jagger’s granddaughter. “My second question, Luis, is what the hell does he mean by ‘the same plan that President Eisenhower used’?”

Another muffled consultation. “He says that this isn’t the first time that the nuhp have landed on Earth. A scout ship with two nuhp aboard landed at Edwards Air Force Base in 1954. The two nuhp met with President Eisenhower. It was apparently a very cordial occasion, and President Eisenhower impressed the nuhp as a warm and sincere old gentleman. They’ve been planning to return to Earth ever since, but they’ve been very busy, what with one thing and another. President Eisenhower requested that the nuhp not reveal themselves to the people of Earth in general, until our government decided how to control the inevitable hysteria. My guess is that the government never got around to that, and when the nuhp departed, the matter was studied and then shelved. As the years passed, few people were even aware that the first meeting ever occurred. The nuhp have returned now in great numbers, expecting that we’d have prepared the populace by now. It’s not their fault that we haven’t. They just sort of took it for granted that they’d be welcome.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. That was my usual utterance when I didn’t know what the hell else to say. “Assure them that they are, indeed, welcome. I don’t suppose the study they did during the Eisenhower administration was ever completed. I don’t suppose there really is a plan to break the news to the public.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. President, that seems to be the case.”

“Uh-huh.” That’s Republicans for you, I thought. “Ask your nuhp something for me, Luis. Ask him if he knows what they told Eisenhower. They must be full of outer-space wisdom. Maybe they have some ideas about how we should deal with this.”

There was yet another pause. “Mr. President, he says all they discussed with Mr. Eisenhower was his golf game. They helped to correct his putting stroke. But they are definitely full of wisdom. They know all sorts of things. My nuhp—that is, his name is Hurv— anyway, he says that they’d be happy to give you some advice.”

“Tell him that I’m grateful, Luis. Can they have someone meet with me in, say, half an hour?”

“There are three nuhp on their way to the Oval Office at this moment. One of them is the leader of their expedition, and one of the others is the commander of their mother ship.”

“Mother ship?” I asked.

“You haven’t seen it? It’s tethered on the Mall. They’re real sorry about what they did to the Washington Monument. They say they can take care of it tomorrow.”

I just shuddered and hung up the phone. I called my secretary. “There are going to be three—”

“They’re here now, Mr. President.”

I sighed. “Send them in.” And that’s how I met the nuhp. Just as President Eisenhower had.

They were handsome people. Likable, too. They smiled and shook hands and suggested that photographs be taken of the historic moment, so we called in the media; and then I had to sort of wing the most important diplomatic meeting of my entire political career. I welcomed the nuhp to Earth. “Welcome to Earth,” I said, “and welcome to the United States.”

“Thank you,” said the nuhp I would come to know as Pleen. “We’re glad to be here.”

“How long do you plan to be with us?” I hated myself when I said that, in front of the Associated Press and UPI and all the network news people. I sounded like a room clerk at a Holiday Inn.

“We don’t know, exactly,” said Pleen. “We don’t have to be back to work until a week from Monday.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. Then I just posed for pictures and kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to say or do another goddamn thing until my advisers showed up and started advising.

Well, of course, the people panicked. Pleen told me to expect that, but I had figured it out for myself. We’ve seen too many movies about visitors from space. Sometimes they come with a message of peace and universal brotherhood and just the inside information mankind has been needing for thousands of years. More often, though, the aliens come to enslave and murder us because the visual effects are better, and so when the nuhp arrived, everyone was all prepared to hate them. People didn’t trust their good looks. People were suspicious of their nice manners and their quietly tasteful clothing. When the nuhp offered to solve all our problems for us, we all said, sure, solve our problems—but at what cost?

That first week, Pleen and I spent a lot of time together, just getting to know one another and trying to understand what the other one wanted. I invited him and Commander Toag and the other nuhp bigwigs to a reception at the White House. We had a church choir from Alabama singing gospel music, and a high school band from Michigan playing a medley of favorite collegiate fight songs, and talented clones of the original stars nostalgically re-creating the Steve and Eydie Experience, and an improvisational comedy troupe from Los Angeles or someplace, and the New York Philharmonic under the baton of a twelve-year-old girl genius. They played Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in an attempt to impress the nuhp with how marvelous Earth culture was.

Pleen enjoyed it all very much. “Men are as varied in their expressions of joy as we nuhp,” he said, applauding vigorously. “We are all very fond of human music. We think Beethoven composed some of the most beautiful melodies we’ve ever heard, anywhere in our galactic travels.”

I smiled. “I’m sure we are all pleased to hear that,” I said.

“Although the Ninth Symphony is certainly not the best of his work.”

I faltered in my clapping. “Excuse me?” I said.

Pleen gave me a gracious smile. “It is well known among us that Beethoven’s finest composition is his Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major.”

I let out my breath. “Of course, that’s a matter of opinion. Perhaps the standards of the nuhp—”

“Oh, no,” Pleen hastened to assure me, “taste does not enter into it at all. The Concerto No. 5 is Beethoven’s best, according to very rigorous and definite critical principles. And even that lovely piece is by no means the best music ever produced by mankind.”

I felt just a trifle annoyed. What could this nuhp, who came from some weirdo planet God alone knows how far away, from some society with not the slightest connection to our heritage and culture, what could this nuhp know of what Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony aroused in our human souls? “Tell me, then, Pleen,” I said in my ominously soft voice, “what is the best human musical composition?”

“The score from the motion picture Ben-Hur, by Miklos Ròzsa,” he said simply. What could I do but nod by my head in silence? It wasn’t worth starting an interplanetary incident over.

So from fear our reaction to the nuhp changed to distrust. We kept waiting for them to reveal their real selves; we waited for the pleasant masks to slip off and show us the true nightmarish faces we all suspected lurked beneath. The nuhp did not go home a week from Monday, after all. They liked Earth, and they liked us. They decided to stay a little longer. We told them about ourselves and our centuries of trouble; and they mentioned, in an offhand nuhp way, that they could take care of a few little things, make some small adjustments, and life would be a whole lot better for everybody on Earth. They didn’t want anything in return. They wanted to give us these things in gratitude for our hospitality: for letting them park their mother ship on the Mall and for all the free refills of coffee they were getting all around the world. We hesitated, but our vanity and our greed won out. “Go ahead,” we said, “make our deserts bloom. Go ahead, end war and poverty and disease. Show us twenty exciting new things to do with leftovers. Call us when you’re done.”

The fear changed to distrust, but soon the distrust changed to hope. The nuhp made the deserts bloom, all right. They asked for four months. We were perfectly willing to let them have all the time they needed. They put a tall fence all around the Namib and wouldn’t let anyone in to watch what they were doing. Four months later, they had a big cocktail party and invited the whole world to see what they’d accomplished. I sent the secretary of state as my personal representative. He brought back some wonderful slides: the vast desert had been turned into a botanical miracle. There were miles and miles of flowering plants now, instead of the monotonous dead sand and gravel sea. Of course, the immense garden contained nothing but hollyhocks, many millions of hollyhocks. I mentioned to Pleen that the people of Earth had been hoping for a little more in

the way of variety, and something just a trifle more practical, too. “What do you mean, ‘practical’?” he asked. “You know,” I said, “food.”

“Don’t worry about food,” said Pleen. “We’re going to take care of hunger pretty soon.”

“Good, good. But hollyhocks?”

“What’s wrong with hollyhocks?”

“Nothing,” I admitted.

“Hollyhocks are the single prettiest flower grown on Earth.”

“Some people like orchids,” I said. “Some people like roses.”

“No,” said Pleen firmly. “Hollyhocks are it. I wouldn’t kid you.” So we thanked the nuhp for a Namibia full of hollyhocks and stopped them before they did the same thing to the Sahara, the Mojave, and the Gobi.

On the whole, everyone began to like the nuhp, although they took just a little getting used to. They had very definite opinions about everything, and they wouldn’t admit that what they had were opinions. To hear a nuhp talk, he had a direct line to some categorical imperative that spelled everything out in terms that were unflinchingly black and white. Hollyhocks were the best flowers. Alexander Dumas was the greatest novelist. Powder blue was the prettiest color. Melancholy was the most ennobling emotion. Grand Hotel was the finest movie. The best car ever built was the 1956 Chevy Bel Air, but it had to be aqua and white. And there just wasn’t room for discussion: the nuhp made these pronouncements with the force of divine revelation.

I asked Pleen once about the American presidency. I asked him who the nuhp thought was the best President in our history. I felt sort of like the Wicked Queen in “Snow White.” Mirror, mirror, on the wall. I didn’t really believe Pleen would tell me that I was the best President, but my heart pounded while I waited for his answer; you never know, right? To tell the truth, I expected him to say Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, or Akiwara. His answer surprised me: James K. Polk.

“Polk?” I asked. I wasn’t even sure I could recognize Polk’s portrait.

“He’s not the most familiar,” said Pleen, “but he was an honest if unexciting President. He fought the Mexican War and added a great amount of territory to the United States. He saw every bit of his platform become law. He was a good, hardworking man who deserves a better reputation.”

“What about Thomas Jefferson?” I asked.

Pleen just shrugged. “He was O.K., too, but he was no James Polk.”

My wife, the First Lady, became very good friends with the wife of Commander Toag, whose name was Doim. They often went shopping together, and Doim would make suggestions to the First Lady about fashion and hair care. Doim told my wife which rooms in the White House needed redecoration, and which charities were worthy of official support. It was Doim who negotiated the First Lady’s recording contract, and it was Doim who introduced her to the Philadelphia cheese steak, one of the nuhp’s favorite treats (although they asserted that the best cuisine on Earth was Tex-Mex).

One day, Doim and my wife were having lunch. They sat at a small table in a chic Washington restaurant, with a couple of dozen Secret Service people and nuhp security agents disguised elsewhere among the patrons. “I’ve noticed that there seem to be more nuhp here in Washington every week,” said the First Lady.

“Yes,” said Doim, “new mother ships arrive daily. We think Earth is one of the most pleasant planets we’ve ever visited.”

“We’re glad to have you, of course,” said my wife, “and it seems that our people have gotten over their initial fears.”

“The hollyhocks did the trick,” said Doim.

“I guess so. How many nuhp are there on Earth now?”

“About five or six million, I’d say.”

The First Lady was startled. “I didn’t think it would be that many.”

Doim laughed. “We’re not just here in America, you know. We’re all over. We really like Earth. Although, of course, Earth isn’t absolutely the best planet. Our own home, Nupworld, is still Number One; but Earth would certainly be on any Top Ten list.”

“Un-huh.” (My wife has learned many important oratorical tricks from me.)

“That’s why we’re so glad to help you beautify and modernize your world.”

“The hollyhocks were nice,” said the First Lady. “But when are you going to tackle the really vital questions?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Doim, turning her attention to her cottage cheese salad.

“When are you going to take care of world hunger?”

“Pretty soon. Don’t worry.”

“Urban blight?”

“Pretty soon.”

“Man’s inhumanity to man?”

Doim gave my wife an impatient look “We haven’t even been here for six months yet. What do you want, miracles? We’ve already done more than your husband accomplished in his entire first term.”

“Hollyhocks,” muttered the First Lady.

“I heard that,” said Doim. “The rest of the universe absolutely adores hollyhocks. We can’t help it if humans have no taste.”

They finished their lunch in silence, and my wife came back to the White House fuming.

That same week, one of my advisers showed me a letter that had been sent by a young man in New Mexico. Several nuhp had moved into a condo next door to him and had begun advising him about the best investment possibilities (urban respiratory spas), the best fabrics and colors to wear to show off his coloring, the best holo system on the market (the Esmeraldas F-64 with hex-phased Libertad screens and a Ruy Challenger argon solipsizer), the best place to watch sunsets (the revolving restaurant on top of the Weyerhauser Building in Yellowstone City), the best wines to go with everything (too numerous to mention—send SASE for list), and which of the two women he was dating to marry (Candi Marie Esterhazy). “Mr. President,” said the bewildered young man, “I realize that we must be gracious hosts to our benefactors from space, but I am having some difficulty keeping my temper. The nuhp are certainly knowledgeable and willing to share the benefits of their wisdom, but they don’t even wait to be asked. If they were people, regular human beings who lived next door, I would have punched their lights out by now. Please advise. And hurry: they are taking me downtown next Friday to pick out an engagement ring and new living room furniture. I don’t even want new living room furniture!”

Luis, my secretary of defense, talked to Hurv about the ultimate goals of the nuhp. “We don’t have any goals,” he said. “We’re just taking it easy.”

“Then why did you come to Earth?” asked Luis.

“Why do you go bowling?”

“I don’t go bowling.”

“You should,” said Hurv. “Bowling is the most enjoyable thing a person can do.”

“What about sex?”

“Bowling is sex. Bowling is a symbolic form of intercourse, except you don’t have to bother about the feelings of some other person. Bowling is sex without guilt. Bowling is what people have wanted down through all the millennia: sex without the slightest responsibility. It’s the very distillation of the essence of sex. Bowling is sex without fear and shame.”

“Bowling is sex without pleasure,” said Luis.

There was a brief silence. “You mean,” said Hurv, “that when you put that ball right into the pocket and see those pins explode off the alley, you don’t have an orgasm?”

“Nope,” said Luis.

“That’s your problem, then. I can’t help you there, you’ll have to see some kind of therapist. It’s obvious this subject embarrasses you. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine with me,” said Luis moodily. “When are we going to receive the real benefits of your technological superiority? When are you going to unlock the final secrets of the atom? When are you going to free mankind from drudgery?”

“What do you mean, ‘technological superiority’?” asked Hurv.

“There must be scientific wonders beyond our imagining aboard your mother ships.”

“Not so’s you’d notice. We’re not even so advanced as you people here on Earth. We’ve learned all sorts of wonderful things since we’ve been here.”

“What?” Luis couldn’t imagine what Hurv was trying to say.

“We don’t have anything like your astonishing bubble memories or silicon chips. We never invented anything comparable to the transistor, even. You know why the mother ships are so big?”

“My God.”

“That’s right,” said Hurv, “vacuum tubes. All our spacecraft operate on vacuum tubes. They take up a hell of a lot of space. And they burn out. Do you know how long it takes to find the goddamn tube when it burns out? Remember how people used to take bags of vacuum tubes from their television sets down to the drugstore to use the tube tester? Think of doing that with something the size of our mother ships. And we can’t just zip off into space when we feel like it. We have to let a mother ship warm up first. You have to turn the key and let the thing warm up for a couple of minutes, then you can zip off into space. It’s a goddamn pain in the neck.”

“I don’t understand,” said Luis, stunned. “If your technology is so primitive, how did you come here? If we’re so far ahead of you, we should have discovered your planet, instead the other way around.”

Hurv gave a gentle laugh. “Don’t pat yourself on the back, Luis. Just because your electronics are better than ours, you aren’t necessarily superior in any way. Look, imagine that you humans are a man in Los Angeles with a brand-new Trujillo and we are a nuhp in New York with a beat-up old Ford. The two fellows start driving toward St. Louis. Now, the guy in the Trujillo is doing 120 on the interstates, and the guy in the Ford is putting along at 55; but the human in the Trujillo stops in Vegas and puts all of his gas money down the hole of a blackjack table, and the determined little nuhp cruises along for days until at last he reaches his goal. It’s all a matter of superior intellect and the will to succeed. Your people talk a lot about going to the stars, but you just keep putting your money into other projects, like war and popular music and international athletic events and resurrecting the fashions of previous decades. If you wanted to go into space, you would have.”

“But we do want to go.”

“Then we’ll help you. We’ll give you the secrets. And you can explain your electronics to our engineers, and together we’ll build wonderful new mother ships that will open the universe to both humans and nuhp.”

Luis let out his breath. “Sounds good to me.” he said.

Everyone agreed that this looked better than hollyhocks. We all hoped that we could keep from kicking their collective asses long enough to collect on that promise.

When I was in college, my roommate in my sophomore year was a tall, skinny guy named Barry Rintz. Barry had wild, wavy black hair and a sharp face that looked like a handsome, normal face that had been sat on and folded in the middle. He squinted a lot, not because he had any defect in his eyesight, but because he wanted to give the impression that he was constantly evaluating the world. This was true. Barry could tell you the actual and market values of any object you happened to come across.

We had a double date one football weekend with two girls from another college in the same city. Before the game, we met the girls and took them to the university’s art museum, which was pretty large and owned an impressive collection. My date, a pretty elementary ed. major named Brigid, and I wandered from gallery to gallery, remarking that our tastes in art were very similar. We both like the Impressionists, and we both like Surrealism. There were a couple of little Renoirs that we admired for almost half an hour, and then we made a lot of silly sophomore jokes about what was happening in the Magritte and Dali and de Chirico paintings.

Barry and his date, Dixie, ran across us by accident as all four of us passed through the sculpture gallery. “There’s a terrific Seurat down there,” Brigid told her girlfriend.

“Seurat,” Barry said. There was a lot of amused disbelief in his voice.

“I like Seurat,” said Dixie.

“Well, of course,” said Barry, “there’s nothing really wrong with Seurat.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do you know F. E. Church?” he asked.

“Who?” I said.

“Come here.” He practically dragged us to a gallery of American paintings. F. E. Church was a remarkable American landscape painter (1826-1900) who achieved an astonishing and lovely luminance in his works. “Look at that light!” cried Barry. “Look at that space! Look at that air!”

Brigid glanced at Dixie. “Look at that air?” she whispered.

It was a fine painting and we all said so, but Barry was insistent.

F. E. Church was the greatest artist in American history, and one of the best the world has ever known. “I’d put him right up there with Van Dyck and Canaletto.”

“Canaletto?” said Dixie. “The one who did all those pictures of Venice?” “Those skies!” murmured Barry ecstatically. He wore the drunken expression of the satisfied voluptuary.

“Some people like paintings of puppies or naked women,” I offered. “Barry likes light and air.”

We left the museum and had lunch. Barry told us which things on the menu were worth ordering, and which things were an abomination. He made us all drink an obscure imported beer from Ecuador. To Barry, the world was divided up into masterpieces and abominations. It made life so much simpler for him, except that he never understood why his friends could never tell one from the other.

At the football game, Barry compared our school’s quarterback to

Y. A. Tittle. He compared the other team’s punter to Ngoc Van Vinh. He compared the halftime show to the Ohio State band’s Script Ohio formation. Before the end of the third quarter, it was very obvious to me that Barry was going to have absolutely no luck at all with Dixie. Before the clock ran out in the fourth quarter, Brigid and I had made whispered plans to dump the other two as soon as possible and sneak away by ourselves. Dixie would probably find an excuse to ride the bus back to her dorm before suppertime. Barry, as usual, would spend the evening in our room, reading The Making of the President 1996.

On other occasions Barry would lecture me about subjects as diverse as American literature (the best poet was Edwin Arlington Robinson, the best novelist James T. Farrell), animals (the only correct pet was the golden retriever), clothing (in anything other than a navy blue jacket and gray slacks a man was just asking for trouble), and even hobbies (Barry collected military decorations of czarist Imperial Russia. He wouldn’t talk to me for days after I told him my father collected barbed wire).

Barry was a wealth of information. He was the campus arbiter of good taste. Everyone knew that Barry was the man to ask.

But no one ever did. We all hated his guts. I moved out of our dorm room before the end of the fall semester. Shunned, lonely, and bitter Barry Rintz wound up as a guidance counselor in a high school in Ames, Iowa. The job was absolutely perfect for him; few people are so lucky in finding a career.

If I didn’t know better, I might have believed that Barry was the original advance spy for the nuhp.

When the nuhp had been on Earth for a full year, they gave us the gift of interstellar travel. It was surprisingly inexpensive. The nuhp explained their propulsion system, which was cheap and safe and adaptable to all sorts of other earthbound applications. The revelations opened up an entirely new area of scientific speculation. Then the nuhp taught us their navigational methods, and about the “shortcuts” they had discovered in space. People called them space warps, although technically speaking, the shortcuts had nothing to do with Einsteinian theory or curved space or anything like that. Not many humans understood what the nuhp were talking about, but that didn’t make very much difference. The nuhp didn’t understand the shortcuts, either; they just used them. The matter was presented to us like a Thanksgiving turkey on a platter. We bypassed the whole business of cautious scientific experimentation and leaped right into commercial exploitation. Mitsubishi of La Paz and Martin Marietta used nuhp schematics to begin construction of three luxury passenger ships, each capable of transporting a thousand tourists anywhere in our galaxy. Although man had yet to set foot on the moons of Jupiter, certain selected travel agencies began booking passage for a grand tour of the dozen nearest inhabited worlds.

Yes, it seemed that space was teeming with life, humanoid life on planets circling half the G-type stars in the heavens. “We’ve been trying to communicate with extraterrestrial intelligence for decades,” complained one Soviet scientist. “Why haven’t they responded?”

A friendly nuhp merely shrugged. “Everybody’s trying to communicate out there,” he said. “Your messages are like Publishers Clearing House mail to them.” At first, that was a blow to our racial pride, but we got over it. As soon as we joined the interstellar community, they’d begin to take us more seriously. And the nuhp had made that possible.

We were grateful to the nuhp, but that didn’t make them any easier to live with. They were still insufferable. As my second term as President came to an end, Pleen began to advise me about my future career. “Don’t write a book,” he told me (after I had already written the first two hundred pages of A President Remembers). “If you want to be an elder statesman, fine; but keep a low profile and wait for the people to come to you.”

“What am I supposed to do with my time, then?” I asked.

“Choose a new career,” Pleen said. “You’re not all that old. Lots of people do it. Have you considered starting a mail-order business? You can operate it from your home. Or go back to school and take courses in some subject that’s always interested you. Or become active in church or civic projects. Find a new hobby: raising hollyhocks or collecting military decorations.”

“Pleen,” I begged, “just leave me alone.”

He seemed hurt. “Sure, if that’s what you want.” I regretted my harsh words.

All over the country, all over the world, everyone was having the same trouble with the nuhp. It seemed that so many of them had come to Earth, every human had his own personal nuhp to make endless suggestions. There hadn’t been so much tension in the world since the 1992 Miss Universe contest, when the most votes went to No Award.

That’s why it didn’t surprise me very much when the first of our own mother ships returned from its 28-day voyage among the stars with only 276 of its 1,000 passengers still aboard. The other 724 had remained behind on one lush, exciting, exotic, friendly world or another. These planets had one thing in common: they were all populated by charming, warm, intelligent, humanlike people who had left their own home worlds after being discovered by the nuhp. Many races lived together in peace and harmony on these planets, in spacious cities newly built to house the fed-up expatriates. Perhaps these alien races had experienced the same internal jealousies and hatreds we human beings had known for so long, but no more. Coming together from many planets throughout our galaxy, these various peoples dwelt contentedly beside each other, united by a single common aversion: their dislike for the nuhp.

Within a year of the launching of our first interstellar ship, the population of Earth had declined by 0.5 percent. Within two years, the population had fallen by almost 14 million. The nuhp were too sincere and too eager and too sympathetic to fight with. That didn’t make them any less tedious. Rather than make a scene, most people just up and left. There were plenty of really lovely worlds to visit, and it didn’t cost very much, and the opportunities in space were unlimited. Many people who were frustrated and disappointed on Earth were able to build new and fulfilling lives for themselves on planets that until the nuhp arrived, we didn’t even know existed.

The nuhp knew this would happen. It had already happened dozens, hundreds of times in the past, wherever their mother ships touched down. They had made promises to us and they had kept them, although we couldn’t have guessed just how things would turn out.

Our cities were no longer decaying warrens imprisoning the impoverished masses. The few people who remained behind could pick and choose among the best housing. Landlords were forced to reduce rents and keep properties in perfect repair just to attract tenants.

Hunger was ended when the ratio of consumers to food producers dropped drastically. Within ten years, the population of Earth was cut in half, and was still falling.

For the same reason, poverty began to disappear. There were plenty of jobs for everyone. When it became apparent that the nuhp weren’t going to compete for those jobs, there were more opportunities than people to take advantage of them.

Discrimination and prejudice vanished almost overnight. Everyone cooperated to keep things running smoothly despite the large-scale emigration. The good life was available to everyone, and so resentments melted away. Then, too, whatever enmity people still felt could be focused solely on the nuhp; the nuhp didn’t mind, either. They were oblivious to it all.

I am now the mayor and postmaster of the small human community of New Dallas, here on Thir, the fourth planet of a star known in our old catalog as Struve 2398. The various alien races we encountered here call the star by another name, which translates into “God’s Pineal.” All the aliens here are extremely helpful and charitable, and there are few nuhp.

All through the galaxy, the nuhp are considered the messengers of peace. Their mission is to travel from planet to planet, bringing reconciliation, prosperity, and true civilization. There isn’t an intelligent race in the galaxy that doesn’t love the nuhp. We all recognize what they’ve done and what they’ve given us.

But if the nuhp started moving in down the block, we’d be packed and on our way somewhere else by morning.

The End

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