The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky

enemies of our
friends were savages, without the spark of humanity. And the last
Sheregal vanished into the jungles of time in the long-ago past.
The Terrans are not the same, and the g’Khruushtani cannot treat them the same. They
seek peace, not war, and they worry over children of their
own.”
    The Crutchtan leaned forward and gazed
intently at Munshi, then at each member of the party in turn until
his eyes came to rest upon Zatar. His eyes bulged wildly, and his
head nodded slowly, in the Crutchtan manner of showing
amusement.
    “ My friends mistake parable for
prejudice,” he said at last, “for we know that the longnoses are
not the enemies of legend. But they are simians nonetheless, with
the same driving curiosity and burning passions. Perhaps in time we
can live as neighbors, sharing friendship as friends share food.
But even now the Terrans cannot keep their word—for as we speak,
Terran ships continue straying beyond the Great Divide.”
    “ Though against the wishes of their
government,” Zatar interjected, speaking in his own
tongue.
    G’Rishela bowed in the Veshnan manner.
“And what does this tell us, Zatar? That any agreement we reach
will bind their leaders, but not their people? And where will this
lead us? If we accept their proposal, my grandchildren will live to
see the Terrans scattering throughout g’Khruushte , pounding at our doors and demanding
more, ever more. If they pass the Divide today with our blessing,
they will be with us forever. And they will never leave of their
own accord.”
    Zatar turned his eyes to the fire. Silently,
he watched the flames dance playfully along the heat-resistant
plastic that the Terrans had fashioned to look like a piece of a
dead tree. He searched his mind for a response to the Crutchtan but
the words wouldn’t come. None could tell whether G’Rishela was
right or wrong, and Zatar could not bring himself to disagree.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
    On Lexington Boulevard, across from the Senate Commons, a gracefully-aging two-story
building rose on the edge of downtown Covington’s Old Center area.
Bright flowers sprouting in large, white boxes beneath the upper
windows lent a splash of color to its gray exterior. On the
cornerstone, barely legible from the passage of time, the Old
English lettering fashionable in the era of its birth was still
decipherable: “O.E. 2397,” it read; “Burstein & Cohen
Building.” For the past thirty years, the structure had been home
to Ricardo’s , the most
exclusive and expensive restaurant in the city. It was the eating
place of presidents and admirals, businessmen and diplomats,
hosting leaders from every corner of Terra. The exquisite menu was
prepared by Roberto, the finest chef in all of Central Terra. All
came to see and be seen by their peers, and to enjoy the personal
attention of Ricardo himself, who took it as a personal duty to
make everyone welcome. Welcome, at least, in direct proportion to
the guest’s influence in Covington society.
    For his trouble, Ricardo was one of the
wealthiest, most influential men in Covington. He knew most of
Terra’s moves and shakers by their first name. All of them
appreciated the aging restaurateur’s discretion, as well as the
many services available to the powerful that were not apparent from
the stately exterior or gracefully decorated dining rooms.
    The ubiquitous host and owner was usually
the very model of unctuous charm, laughing urbanely at the jokes of
the mighty and overseeing the smooth functioning of his staff with
a discreetly iron hand. Today, he was near panic. Alarm paled his
dark features, and gone was the fierce, patronizing tone with which
he disciplined his staff. In its place was the echo of a small,
bewildered mind, terrified at the prospect of encountering
something it could not control.
    “ It can’t be him. He always calls
first, to make sure we have everything ready by the time he
arrives. You must be mistaken—yes, yes, you must