Bill Johnson
We Will Drink a Fish Together. . . 

In the suspenseful but rather quirky story that follows, an alien ambassador travels down from the stars to go to someplace really alien: Summit, South Dakota. Where he receives an entertaining, eccentric, and pleasantly offbeat lesson about the value of interpersonal ties that may well broaden your own definition of "family"...
Bill Johnson is a forty-year-old engineering manager, who works on advanced multimedia hardware and software development for Motorola. A graduate of Clarion, he has sold stories to Analog, Asimov's Science Fiction, and elsewhere. Originally from South Dakota, he and his wife and two children now live in Illinois. Whether he drinks fish or not, he doesn't say.

"I'm sorry to call you at work, Tony," my brother said, "but Sam died about an hour ago."
Sweet Jesus, I thought. I could never get time to go see him, and now there's no time left. What have I done?
"Was it easy on him? Did he go quick?" I asked. Steve shook his head.
"It wasn't good, Tony. They think he fainted or something and fell while he was getting a shirt out of his closet. Probably hit his head against the door frame on his way down. His roommate was out walking with the nurses and nobody noticed Sam was missing. They found him later. He was unconscious and bleeding."
"Damn," I said softly. "Did they take him to the hospital?"
Steve shook his head again. "Doctor was there already at the home for someone else, so they put Sam back in his bed and sewed up his head. Then he started to complain about pain in his gut." He looked down and away from the camera. I heard a high-pitched voice and laughter and the sound of little running feet. Elizabeth, fresh from her second birthday party, crawled up in Steve's lap.
"Hi, hi, hi," she said in a sing-song voice. She reached up and kissed her daddy, her face and fingers still sticky and speckled with pink icing. "Elizabeth!"
Elizabeth's mother, Rose, appeared briefly on-screen behind her. She grabbed Elizabeth around the middle and swung her up to rest on one hip, then glanced at me and smiled. She handed Steve a brightly colored paper napkin with "Happy Birthday" printed on it in fluorescent pink and blue with the other hand.
"Elizabeth, Daddy's trying to talk with Uncle Tony," she said. She was a short woman, medium build, with strong arms and blonde hair cut in a shag. She turned quickly to face me. "Hello, Tony. I'm sorry to hear about Sam." She turned back to Elizabeth. "Let's go back to the party, honey. It's time to open presents."
"Open presents!" Elizabeth said with enthusiasm. She wiggled off her mother's hip and headed for the kitchen, her mother dragging behind her. 
Steve brushed crumbs off his clothes and icing off his face and looked up at me. We both smiled. "She gets worse after this," I warned. "Two year olds are very busy people."
"Like she isn't already," Steve said ruefully. "So, what happened?" I asked. "Was it his abdominal aorta again?"
"Probably, but there's no way to tell without an autopsy, and I don't think we need one of those," Steve said. He took a deep breath and looked away from me. He did not look happy. "Tony, he didn't want to go through the hospital routine again. After his last attack he put himself on a DNR."
DNR. Do Not Resuscitate. A big red flag written in dry medical language. In ordinary English it meant the patient was ready to die, and wanted to go quickly and easily, without massive intervention. I tried to imagine Sam hooked up to monitors and tubes and needles, a thin, frail figure lost among the machines. Sam never lived like that, and it hurt to even imagine him dying that way. DNR was one hell of a better way to go. Especially for Sam.
"Dissected aorta hurts a little bit," I said with careful understatement. Like a red-hot charcoal burning in your stomach, Sam told me after his last stay in the hospital. Like a cramp that never ends, and just gets tighter and tighter until it's a digging rat bite that never goes away.
"They gave him morphine like water," Steve said. "As much as he wanted."
"Did it work?"
"They said it did," Steve said. He sounded doubtful. He was a respiratory therapist at the University of Nebraska Hospitals. He knew all about DNR's and aortas and how hard it was to die. "There's always a first time for something to work."
"When's the funeral?" I asked.
"Bob and I are going up to Dakota tomorrow. We've got to deal with the bankers and the lawyers," Steve said with distaste. "Funeral will be on Saturday."
I thought quickly about work and schedules and how fast I could re-arrange my life. Luckily, or unfortunately, I didn't have much of a life to re-arrange. Just this once that was an advantage.
"How about you fly in to Omaba on Thursday and drive up with Rose on Friday morning?" Steve said. "Rose's sister will come to take care of Elizabeth but she can't get free until Thursday night. That will also give us two cars up there."
"However you want to do it, little brother. You're in charge on this one," I said.
"Thanks. I feel so lucky."
"I'm sorry, Steve. It doesn't seem fair ... .. "But I'm a lot closer and I'm executor of the estate," Steve finished for me. He hesitated. "Are you sure you can get away? I watch the news. I've seen you in the background around the alien."
I thought about my orders to keep everything confidential, and mentally said screw it. Steve wasn't in the media and he knew how to keep his mouth shut. "Yeah, I'm on security detail for the ambassador."
"Can you get away? I mean, we can handle this if you can't. Everybody will understand."
I stiffened. Something must have shown on my face because Steve winced slightly.
"This is family business, Steve. I know what I've got to do. I'll be there. You don't have to worry about me."
"We'll see you at the house on Friday, then," Steve said. "Visitation starts at three in Milbank."
I killed the call and leaned back in my chair. The holster around my shoulders tugged at me and I absently took it If and laid it on the desk. I rubbed my shoulders and looked out the window. Spring was well advanced in the District, and the trees were heavy with buds and a few leaves. The cherry trees were in full bloom.
I checked the weather forecast for Dakota. Sleet, mixed with snow. Just about what I expected. It could be a full greenhouse summer everywhere else in the country, and Dakota would get a blizzard. 
Enough delay. I took a deep breath and made the call.
"Carole? Tony. I need to take a few personal leave days.. .
"No," she said.
Five minutes after I called her, and got my first "No," I was in her office.
"Not a chance. No way. You're in charge of the security detail for the ambassador. You can take time off later, when the negotiations are all over, but not now. I'm sorry," Carole said.
I stared at the wall behind and above her. Everything in her office, from the standard-issue metal desk to her green, plastic-covered swivel chair to the leadlined anti-surveillance curtains that tightly covered the windows, was standard government issue. The same government that helped get me the hell out of Dakota, that gave me a career, that told me I was important and gave me a job that was important. I took a deep breath. "Then I quit. You'll have my resignation letter in an hour."
"You can't resign!"
"I just did."
Carole stood behind her desk and glared up at me. She was trim and athletic, but she couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds. She was medium height for a woman, which meant the top of her head came to just below my sternum.
In other words, I could have picked her up, tucked her under my arm and carried her around without any trouble. She scared the hell out of me. "You'll give up everything to go to a damn funeral?"
"Carole, he raised my Dad. He was the closest thing to a grandfather I had," I pleaded.
"I understand," she said softly. "I really do. I wish you could go. I want you to go. But not now. Not after last Monday."
Monday I became a hero, and the memory still hurt. I remembered the sudden feeling I had as I stood next to the ambassador, that it might be better if I moved just half a step to the left. Then the sudden flare of pain, and the way I spun and flailed as the bullet meant for the alien slammed into my impact vest.
The ambassador looked down at me, everything seeming to move in slow motion, his face a mask. Then he was buried under a pile of agents as they pushed him to the ground and covered him with their own bodies. The reaction team grabbed the shooter, and interrogation tracked him back to a reactionary group.
It was a simple solution. A crazy with a gun was something everyone could understand. And nobody got hurt except for me, and the vest protected me so that all I got was a huge bruise on my chest. The whole incident flashed on the news for maybe a day, and then was quickly forgotten. Everything was tied up nice and neat. Too neat.
Where did he get the gun? Where did he get the ID? How did be get so close?
What else was going on here?
The answers were logical and reasonable and too damned easy. Carole and I both suspected something more was involved, but there was no proof. Maybe we were too suspicious, but part of our job was to look for a conspiracy in everything. Now I just didn't have the time.
"Carole, I've got to bury Sam."
"Your brothers are there, right? They can bury him. You can pay your respects later," she said. She looked away, shook her head, then looked up at me and her face softened. "Tony, he's not going to know you're not there. Life is for the living, and I'm sure he'd want you to do your work first. I'm sure he'd understand."
I thought about Sam.
"First thing you've got to understand is that flatlanders might look like us, might sound like us, might even be related to us, but they don't think like us," Sam said in his cigarette rasp voice. I stood next to him in my footed paiamas, my favorite blanket in one hand, my other hand in his, and remembered how tall he looked as I stared up at him and his whisker-studded face. "Flatlanders measure themselves as individuals, and they use work as the measuring stick. We are different. To us, family is more important than kin. Kin are more important than line. Line is more important than any outsider. And everything is more important than work."
No, I did not think Sam would understand.
"Damn it, Carole, I'm the oldest," I said, frustrated. How to explain this to someone from the flats? I tried to make myself calm. "I'm the eldest in the line now. I've got to be there at the funeral."
She looked up at my stubborn face, and tried another tack.
"What if our side needs you in the negotiations? Ambassador Foremost says he owes you a favor. What if we need to use that?"
I remembered Foremost, when he and Carole came to visit me in the examination room after the attack. I remembered his voice, dry as sandpaper and correct as a computer, his head cocked to the side with a nervous manner that always reminded me of the jerky movements of my pet parakeet. The rest of him, however, looked nothing like a bird. He was stockily built, just a few inches taller than Carole, and broad. Underneath the robes and harness I knew he was all muscle and bone, with a protective exoskeleton over his most vulnerable points. He was an omnivore, and the exobiologists claimed he was descended from cursorial hunters, much like early man. He looked more like a wolverine than an ape, but I liked the way he thought.
And that was part of the problem, when the Trader ship found us. Our races were different enough that communication was difficult, and similar enough that we were potential competitors. Potential for war or peace, trade or conflict. We seemed to be more advanced in some technologies that they wanted, but they never let us forget that they found us, not the other way around. And with a starship in orbit that could reach any place on Earth, they held the high ground.
Our weapons might be better, but we had no way to get them up and on target. Our boosters were too weak, and the Traders routinely destroyed anything that came near their ship and might even remotely be considered a threat to it.
The Traders, on the other hand, could drop asteroids on us from space. But asteroid strikes were not going to help them understand our genetic engineering technology. Or get the humans rumor said they wanted to bring on board to join their crew.
So we exchanged ambassadors, and started to negotiate.
And negotiate.
And negotiate.
"Where you suffer, I suffer," Foremost told me in the hospital. He held my hand and looked closely into my eyes. "In my line, your name is now written."
Carole looked puzzled, but what the ambassador said made perfect sense to me. It did not make me happy, but I understood it. I wondered what obligations went with his line. I thought briefly of rejecting him, but I did not know how he would react. Safer to say yes.
Really? a small voice inside me said. Are you sure about this?
I thought carefully.
"I accept," I said. "What I have to tell you, though, is that in my line your name is not written."
He hesitated, then bowed his head.
"I understand and accept this. Perhaps one day I will earn the right to write my name in your line."
I relaxed, just a little. One part down. And no threats of war.
"But I'll make sure you're associated with my line as long as you're here, and my guest," I said.
He looked up, his eyes as black and hard and dead as a shark's. I tried to read his expression in his face, but he was too unfamiliar, too different.
"I accept," he said. He stood and left the hospital room.
I watched him as he left, his robe tight around his body. Now I was part of his line, and he was associated with mine. As long as he was on Earth he could claim protection and assistance from me and mine.
I hoped to hell he did not understand what I had just done for him. And I hoped I never had to find out what he had done for me.
That conversation was a week old, and that week seemed like a century ago. A week ago Sam was alive, and I was free to live any way I wanted, without responsibility. Now I had a different set of problems, and Foremost was not in them. Now my problem was Sam, and all the changes that Sam's death made to my life.
I shook my head to clear it of memories and looked up at Carole.
"It's not that kind of a favor," I said. "Any personal business Foremost and I have is just that, personal business. Nothing I can say or do will have any effect on the negotiations."
"But-"
"No," I said and cut her off. I stood.
"I'm going to the funeral, Carole. You'll have my resignation letter in an hour."
I flew into Omaha the next day.
Rose, with Elizabeth propped on one hip, met me at the airport. When Rose saw me she put Elizabeth down and waved to me. I hurried to them and got a quick hug from Rose and a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek from Elizabeth.
"Would you like to fly, Elizabeth?" I asked.
"No," she said firmly. She hid her face in her mother's skirt, then peeked an eye out at me and smiled.
"Just a little bit?" I coaxed.
"Oh, Tony," Rose said. "Here?"
"Here," I said firmly.
I picked Elizabeth up under her arms and swung her through the air, feet flying wildly, oblivious to the stares of the other passengers, just because I missed her. She laughed and giggled and threw her head back. Rose just smiled and shook her head while Elizabeth's hair swirled and flowed behind her.
"If you're done now," Rose said, when I put Elizabeth back on the ground. Elizabeth tried to walk in a straight line and instead staggered from side to side, like a drunken sailor, dizzy from her flight. She laughed and laughed until I scooped her up and put her on my shoulders. She grabbed my ears to use as steering handles.
"I'm ready now," I told Rose.
I liked Omaba and I liked Steve's house. It was a ranch style, built into the side of a hill so the basement was more like a first floor. He lived in a neighborhood on the far west side of Omaha, out where new subdivisions sprouted like wildflowers and cornfields fought a losing battle against construction bulldozers.
Elizabeth took me by the hand and walked me around inside and outside the house to show me her flowers and her toys. Rose walked next to me and worried.
"I saw you get shot on the news," she said, and everything about her changed with those words. Rose my sister-in-law vanished and suddenly she was Rose the nurse and I was a patient. She subtly moved back a step to look at all of me, then stepped in closer to focus on my chest, where the bullet struck. I wondered how she did the transition so quickly. "Are you all right?"
"They checked me out at Walter Reed," I reassured her. "I'm fine."
"And the ambassador?"
"Not a scratch on him."
"You're not there with him now, Tony."
I checked out the tulips that Elizabeth pointed out to me. There were red flowers and white flowers and buds that had not yet opened. "Security is with him all the time," I said. "I was just one more agent."
Rose walked away from us a few steps. Elizabeth saw a monarch butterfly and raced off to chase it. I saw the butterfly was in no danger, so I went after Rose.
We stood for a moment in the backyard and looked across the fence toward the fields. Next year they might sprout houses, but this year they still followed older rhythms. Furrows, newly plowed and rich with the stubble left over from last year's harvesting, waited for corn planting. The soil was black and ready, thick with the morning dew and last weekend's rain.
"Do you think things always get better, Tony?" she asked.
I did not think she was talking about the cornfield.
"No," I said, after a moment. "Things don't always get better. They may get better or they may get worse, but it's not an always kind of thing. The only thing that is always is change. Sometimes things change on a regular cycle, like the planting and the growing and the harvesting and the fallowing. Sometimes they change on a bigger cycle, and the smaller cycles change with them or are destroyed. Whether it's good or bad depends on where you stand and what you care about." 
"I don't like change, Tony," she said. "Everything I love is in those smaller cycles, the regular ones. I don't know anything about the bigger cycles except that they might crush what I love."
"I know," I said awkwardly.
She turned away from the fields to face me, her arms folded across her chest. She looked down at the ground, then turned her head and lookedout across the fields.
"We got rid of the bombs down here. Things finally looked safe for little girls to grow up. Then the Traders arrive," she said bitterly. "I couldn't stand it if anything happened to her."
I hugged her, gently. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but I kept my mouth shut and watched Elizabeth chase butterflies. Finally, Rose reached up and patted my hand. 
"Let's get inside. We've got a long ride tomorrow."
Rose never went to the north with Steve when he went up to Dakota to fish and hunt and visit Sam. Instead she stayed down south, in Nebraska and Iowa, and worked or visited her folks. This time she had to go north.
Margaret, Rose's unmarried sister, came to stay with Elizabeth while we were gone. As far as Elizabeth was concerned, she had two mamas. Margaret loved the idea, and Rose was always more relaxed when Margaret was in charge instead of a daycare center. We settled Elizabeth with Margaret, said all our good-byes, left all the emergency numbers, and drove north.
The interstate highway was on the Iowa side of the Missouri. I drove and Rose navigated as we followed the flat ribbon of gray concrete, two lanes wide in each direction, a man-made river of traffic. The river itself was out of sight on our left most of the time, and the loess hills, huge mounds of windblown dirt, rose up like miniature Rocky Mountains on our right. Gradually the hills arched away to the east and out of sight.
The Missouri curled back into view just as the smell hit us. Rose quickly rolled up the windows as we passed the mountain of manure from the Sioux City stockyards, and the giant billboard that declared: "This golden mountain represents millions to the Siouxland economy-"
North of downtown we passed over massive housing developments that rolled far to the east and west, like grass over a prairie. Neatly edged lawns and streets laid out in geometrically perfect curves and loops and cul-de-sacs spread out around us like some enormous geometrical poster child.
We crossed into South Dakota, over the Big Sioux river, and past the computer factories that hugged the Dakota side of the river. The factories were there because the corporate taxes were lower in Dakota, but the schools and the services and everything else were better in Iowa. So the houses and the people lived south of the Sioux, and the work stayed in Dakota.
Somehow, I was not surprised.
As we headed north, as the trees got fewer and fewer and smaller and smaller and more twisted and gnarled by the wind, Rose got quieter and quieter. She was an Iowa farm girl at heart, even if she was an expert transplant nurse, and she knew how a farm ought to be run. Nice and tidy. When she saw the fields had no fences, that the animals basically had nothing to stop them from coming across the roads, she had nothing to say.
The exit off the main road was marked by a stop sign and a small truck stop that had seen better days. It looked lost and forlorn in the icy drizzle and there was no sign of life except for a neon sign that sporadically blinked an advertisement for a cheap, local beer.
We turned right down a small two-lane blacktop road. I pointed across the brown cattails of a marsh to a copse of trees on the horizon. 
"Summit," I said.
Summit had a population sign-a small, metal rectangle with the town name and the population-at the turn off the main road. The sign read: 277. Now it was 276. We turned down Main Street, the only paved road in town, turned left at the pool hall, slid down gravel and clay roads for two blocks, then turned left again.
Sam's house was a tiny white two-story A-frame. The green roof was speckled with black rectangles where shingles had blown free. The exterior was leafed metal siding, smeared with rust marks where the builder used cheap, ungalvanized nails. My brothers were inside. We saw their cars parked outside on the lawn, next to the smoking, burning barrels where they were burning trash from Sam's house. The air was thick and humid with freezing rain and smoke.
I pushed open the door to Sam's house and we entered through the mudroom. We opened the door to the kitchen and a wave of heat and dust slapped us in the face. We went inside and the dust started us both coughing. My brother Bob sat in a big, overstuffed chair under a window. The curtain was drawn tight across the window. He looked up at us and smiled through his big, black beard as Rose sneezed.
"Just think of all them skin cells from Sam and Laverne. Thousands and millions and billions of them," Bob said. We coughed and he smiled again. "Wish we could open a window for you, but it's too cold outside." 
In DC, in Nebraska, hell, even in the rest of South Dakota, it was spring. Here, 2000 feet above sea level, on the highest spot between the Missouri and the Mississippi rivers, it was still winter. Outside, we heard a noise: Whirrrrrr "Oh, no," Steve said. He stood next to the kitchen counter with a bottle of beer in his hand. "Not him again."
Bob grinned. I closed my eyes and prayed. Around me I felt Dakota settle lightly, the first layer, and grasp me firmly.
Rose stepped next to her husband, a little speck next to a giant. Steve, just as tall as me and even bigger, just shook his head and put on a long-suffering expression. Rose watched all three of us and looked puzzled. Roaaarrrr "Again," Steve said, resignation thick in his voice.
Bob grinned again, but this time it was strained. I looked around and tried to figure out how I could get out of the house quickly, without my brothers taking vengeance later for leaving them like a coward. There was only one door out, and it was too late. Silence. "What's going on?" Rose asked in a whisper. She looked nervous and pulled a little closer to Steve. I shook any head and Steve squeezed his eyes shut, made a face, and opened them again. Bob slumped deeper in his overstuffed chair.
A perfunctory knock at the door and we heard it swing open and Indian stepped inside. He was medium height, with long, greasy black hair pulled into a tail. His skin was coppery-brown, and his eyes were black and glassy. He wore a green combat jacket, torn and stained with grease, and a pair of jeans. "How ya doin'?"
"Fine, Indian," Bob said. He gestured vaguely toward the outside, glanced at Rose, and grinned. "Got your town car outside?"
"Yep, yeah, I do," he said, his voice deep and hoarse, chopped off, as if each syllable came from the edge of an axe. "Not the country car?"
"No, no, that one I'm still workin' on. Yep, yeah, got that by the house up on some blocks," he said. He laughed, a deep, throaty noise.
"Ya know, Sam was a good friend of mine, my buddy. He leave me anything in the will?"
"We don't know," Steve said. He knew. He was executor of the will. But he did not want to talk with Indian. Particularly when Indian was drunk. "You'll have to ask the lawyer."
"Yep, yeah, Sam was my buddy," he said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He carefully straightened it out, but it still flopped down, almost broken through halfway down the white paper. He looked around vaguely, saw me, and looked up.
"You are one big bastard, aren't you?"
"Hello, Indian," I said resignedly. He smiled and coughed.
"Mind if I make some fire, mind if I smoke?" he asked. He ignored us, the question just a formality, and lit up. Bob stopped smiling.
"We don't have any ashtrays, Indian," he said sharply. Indian waved his hand through the smoke, and waved off Bob's irritation the same way.
"No problem," be said. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a green cotton work glove, stained black and hard with oil and grease. He put it on his left hand and dropped ash into it. "Yep, yeah, Sam was my buddy. He leave me anything in his will?"
Steve looked irritated. Bob closed his eyes. Rose pulled on my sleeve and I leaned down next to her.
"He's wearing nail polish on his fingernails. Pink nail polish. And he's got live .22 shells sewn on the outside of his jacket. Why is he doing that?"
I shrugged and stood straight.
Indian finished his cigarette and put the still-glowing butt into the back pocket of his jeans. He carefully gathered all the ash in his hand into a neat pile, then brushed his hands together and scattered the asb all over the floor.
Bob stood. He was well over six feet and two hundred pounds, and all of it muscle. Steve and I made Bob look short. The three of us formed up next to Indian and made a living wall. Rose huddled behind us.
Indian looked up, his eyes bleary.
"Yep, yeah, Sai- was my friend."
"We know, Indian. We know."
He stepped back. We stepped forward. Without any contact we did a slow dance to move him toward the door and out of the house.
"So, you and Teddy Wahford been running any races lately with your town cars?" Bob asked. He tried to keep Indian's mind occupied while we got him out of the house.
"Hell, no. Teddy's golf cart can't keep up with me," Indian said. He laughed. Two more steps closer to the door. "He's too damn slow."
"You take the blade off your town car, Indian?" I asked. Two more steps. "Yep, yeah, I had to," Indian said. He laughed again, his voice deep and thick with mucus. "Too much rock going' into windows. Had to take it off."
"You go faster with the blade off?"
"Slower. Don't know why. Maybe I'll put it back if Teddy gets a fresh charge in his cart." 
Finally, the door.
"Yep, yeah, Sam was my buddy," Indian said. He looked up at us again. "You think he left me anything in his will?"
"Good-bye, Indian."
He pushed through the door and went outside, back into what was now a mix of freezing rain and snow. Rose watched through the window as Indian got on his town car and pulled the starter cord. Roaarrr He drove off down the gravel road. "That's a riding lawn mower," Rose said flatly. Bob grinned. "Oh, no. That's Indian's town car."
Indian slid out of sight around a corner and past a stand of trees. The engine sound dwindled. The phone rang.
I picked it up, and it was Indian.
"Hey, big bastard, I forgot to tell you something," he said, his voice barely audible above the roar of his engine and the crackle of cellular phone static. "There's something asking for you in the pool hall." 
"Something. What's something?"
"Damned if I know what it is. But it's not part of any Summit line and the boys and girls got a little liquor in 'em. Whatever that thing is, if you want it to stay in one piece, you might want to get on down there."
"Jesus, Indian, thanks for telling me right away," I said sarcastically. Now I was angry. "We don't need any trouble with someone from the flats who got up here by accident. You get yourself in there and tell everyone to calm down. I'm coming straight down."
"What if the stranger isn't from our line?"
"Then tell everyone that as far as I'm concerned, that stranger is associated until I get down there. And if the stranger gets hurt before I get there, then someone else is going to get hurt after I get there. Got it?"
"Done," he said. "Don't take long."
The phone went dead.
Sam's Pool Hall faced on Main Street, directly across from the bank, in what I always thought of as some kind of weird commentary on the divine and profane of commerce. A blue and red neon Hamm's sign flashed in the window. I stepped up onto the landing, gave my boots a quick pass on the metal edge of the mudscraper to knock off the worst of the mud, and opened the door. Memories hit me like a sledgehammer.
Along the right wall were a dozen heavy oak chairs with high backs and broad armrests, like a king's throne. The wood was dark, almost black, and worn to fit by fifty years of use. The chairs were chained firmly together and then bolted to the wall so no one could take them down and use them in a fight. They smelled of stale beer and moonshine and furniture polish.
Pink sawdust was scattered across the floor and piled up a couple of inches deep against the feet of the two pool tables that dominated the center of the room. There they squatted, the leather cups worn and cracked, the green felt tight and shiny, one in line behind the other down the middle of the room. A single lamp with cheap imitation. Tiffany glass and a huge light bulb hung over each table. Wire, with scoring disks strung along it like beads on a necklace, stretched taut high in the air above and across each table. The only way to move the disks was to reach up and push them with a pool cue.
The rack with the pool cues and the stretcher and the spare set of balls was tucked behind the bar, out of reach of anyone in search of a quick weapon to settle an argument. The bar was Sam's pride and joy. 
It was thirty straight feet of dark wood that looked like it was carved out of a single tree trunk. A brass step rod, always polished until it shone, ran along the bottom of the bar. A wall-length mirror, the bottom obscured by rows of half-full liquor bottles, covered the left wall itself.
Chuck stood behind the bar. He'd worked for Sam as a bartender as far back as I could remember, and he never seemed to get any older. Now he held a skullknocker club as shiny and polished as his bald head, and faced the rear of the pool hall with a bored look on his face. When the door opened and I came in he glanced at me briefly, and then pointed with his chin toward the rear of the pool hall.
Indian was in the back at a table, a long-neck beer in his hand and a smile on his face. When he saw me he wiped the smile off and tried to look serious.
Foremost faced three drunks, two men and a woman. He was in a low crouch, his cowl pushed back, his snout forward, his hands relaxed and up. As I watched him I saw his claws flicker in and out.
The drunk woman held a knife, some kind of a slip blade, in her right hand. As I watched she pulled a feint, flipped the knife into her left hand, and slashed. Foremost caught the blade in his robe, whipped it away almost contemptuously, and struck her quickly on the shoulder.
She spun around, staggered, and kept her footing. She got a stubborn look on her face, glanced around quickly, and started for Indian's bottle. He got a protective look on his face and began to push his chair back, away from her.
"No way, Dove," he said. He held the bottle away from her. "No breaking bottles in the pool hall. You know Sam's rules. You can't use this anyway. I'm not done with it. No way-"
"What the hell is going on here?" I shouted in my best parade sergeant voice.
Everyone froze.
I reached over the bar, took Chuck's club, and tapped it lightly in my hand as I walked to the end of the bar. Indian quickly stood and arranged himself behind me.
Dove and the two other drunks looked up at me and said nothing. Foremost straightened out of his crouch and stood silently.
"Chuck!" I shouted, my eyes locked on Dove's. "Give my friends here a beer."
Three beers later I had Dove and her friends sitting down at a table. Another round later, including one for Indian and one for me, and a crame de menthe for Foremost, and we were all best friends.
"Hell, we never knew he was with you, Tony," Dove said. She spilled half the beer down her throat and half down her chin. She wiped her lips with her sleeve. I motioned to Chuck to bring her another beer. "We just thought he didn't look like he was part of a line. We thought we'd have a little fun with him."
"Well, you were right," I told Dove soothingly. "It's important to watch for things like that, just in case flatlanders show up. And he's not part of my line. But he's associated."
 "If he's associated, that's all right," Dove said, her head bobbing. "If he's good enough for you, he's good enough for us."
"Now, I appreciate that, Dove. I'm touched. Really touched. So I'm going to tell Chuck to keep bringing you beer," I said. I stood, and motioned Indian and Foremost to stand also. "Just for tonight, mind you. But all you can drink tonight."
We moved to the little office in the back of the bar to the accompaniment of cheers from Dove and her friends. Once inside I dropped into the green, fake leather chair behind the desk. Foremost took the guest chair, a high-backed wood job with a dirty white padded seat, and Indian stood.
"Indian, get the word out that Foremost here," I motioned to the alien, "is associated. I don't want any more accidents with people like Dove. Once is an accident and I can understand that. Twice is deliberate and I'll consider that an attack on the line. Understand?"
"Got it, Tony. I'll get the word out. He's associated and you want him left alone," Indian said. I nodded.
"And I want him protected while he's here," I said. "I want you to do that job yourself."
Indian looked down at his half-empty beer bottle. Something almost like shame seemed to flicker across his face.
"Maybe I'm not the best one for that, Tony. I'm not sure I'm everything I used to be," he said slowly.
"I'm not asking you, Indian. I'm telling you. You need some food and some sleep. Get a Polish and some decaf from Chuck to take home. You look like hell."
He opened the door to leave. I hesitated. "You did good tonight, Indian. Just like the old days."
"Yeah?" he asked, and his face brightened. "Yeah."
He shut the door behind him, and carried his new smile with him. I turned back to Foremost. "Jesus, you're one hell of a lot of trouble."
"It's good to see you again also," Foremost said, his voice deep and ragged. I sighed and shook my head. "What are you doing here, Ambassador?"
"I've come here for protection. Someone has tried to kill me."
I almost laughed at that, thinking about Dove, then realized he was serious. "Ambassador-" 
"Foremost," he said. "Call me Foremost."
"Foremost," I continued, after a pause. "We caught the shooter from the capital and rolled up his network. Right now that's probably the safest-" "You don't understand," he interrupted. "I'm not talking about the attempt on Earth. Someone tried to kill me on the ship."
The ship was a huge cylinder, bigger than Ceres, and massed less than if it was made out of water. This told us it was hollow. How many billions lived inside?
No one knew. No human had ever been aboard.
All I knew was that it covered too many stars in the night sky and scared the hell out of me.
"After the last negotiation session in New York I went back to the ship," Foremost said. He drank from a fresh crame de menthe I got him at the bar while I nursed a Scotch.
"The life-support system on my skimmer failed as I came out of the atmosphere into space. I tried to call for help, but my communications system was also broken. The temperature in the skimmer began to rise rapidly, and without life support I bad no way to get rid of the heat," he said. He sipped at his drink. "Neither of these accidents has ever happened in my memory. And I am old enough to remember the last time the ship found an intelligent race that lived on a planet. Now, suddenly, both of these systems fail? At the same time? Against my particular skimmer? At just the worst possible moment? I believe the universe is perverse and all luck is bad. But in this case, even I doubt chaos and suspect causality."
"You're still alive," I pointed out.
"I ejected. A secret precaution I put in place before the negotiations began."
"Just in case we weren't friendly," I said grimly.
"I am old," Foremost said. "Much, much older than you. I didn't get that way by accident."
The windows in the office rattled in the wind and I glanced outside. The rain and ice had stopped falling, and the temperature seemed to be at least a few degrees above freezing. The clouds were still there, low and gray, but they were lighter now, thinner.
Somewhere above them, the sun waited.
"Why are you here?"
"Before I left for the ship I asked about you, and was told about your resignation. Agent Carole also told me where the funeral would occur so I could send an appropriate memorial. I had the location with me and I coded it into my lifeboat. The computer did the rest."
I shook my head.
"No, Foremost. I don't want to know how you got here. I want to know why you got here," I said. "Carole would throw a security blanket over you like you never dreamed of, if you just ask her. Me? I can't even keep you out of a knife fight in a bar."
He finished his drink and put it aside.
"After the shooting I declared you part of my line. You accepted that, and carefully told me I was not part of your line, but that as long as I was here, I was associated with your line and under your protection," he said. He spread his arms wide. "Where else would I be safer than with you?"
Damn all lines, I thought. Damn all governments.
And damn my big mouth.
"Why would someone from the ship want to kill you?" I asked.
Foremost stood and walked to the window. The building next door to the pool hall was a feed store, and Claire bred bulldogs in a run behind her place.
When we were kids we played with the animals and helped clean them and their run. They were big, stupid, friendly dogs, with oversized paws and ears and the ugliest faces we ever saw. They climbed on us and pulled our clothes for attention and generally proved out the stereotype of the bulldog puppy.
Claire paid us in quarters, but we loved the dogs and we worked for candy when she was low on cash. Once, Steve and a runt got to be special friends. The two of them were constantly with each other, even to the point where he sneaked the dog out of the run when Claire was not looking.
Then one day Steve came to see his friend and he was gone. Sold. Claire tried to explain that she was sorry, it was a business to her, but he never understood. Finally she gave him extra candy and quarters and he ran all the way home, his face streaked with tears.
He gave everything to Bob and me, and never went back to Claire's again.
"Mine is not the only race on the ship," Foremost said. "And mine is not the only line in my race.
"Every time we find a new planet with something we want, some groups on board the ship prosper, and others lose. Overall, the ship gains. But that doesn't make it any easier for the groups that lose."
"This time the potential gains are bigger than usual," I guessed. "So the losses will also be bigger than usual."
"You understand," Foremost said. "So what are you going to do?"
He stood back from the window, which made the bodyguard part of me relax, and went back to his chair.
"I have a new proposal from your people," he said. "And I have a funeral to go to. I will think about one, and attend the other."
"I'll call Carole," I said automatically. Then I stopped. "Who knows you're here?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "No one, yet. By now my people will have found the empty skimmer and the message with my suspicions I left behind. The search will be on for me or my body."
I finished the Scotch.
"I have to bury Sam," I said, stubbornly. "If I call Carole we'll have flatlanders on us like a blanket."
"Ship people as well," Foremost added. "Both my friends, and those who tried to kill me."
The windows rattled to a fresh gust of wind and I heard the scattered pebble sound of freezing rain against the glass. "Did you bring any funeral clothes?"
When we were young, before Steve was born, my family lived in Sam's house. Downstairs was the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, and Sam and Laverne's bedroom. Upstairs were two tiny bedrooms.
I remembered the stairs as tall and hard to climb and for once a childhood memory was accurate. The stairs were steep, almost like a ladder, but Foremost scrambled up them quickly. I moved more slowly, my head down so I did not hit it on the doorways or the ceiling.
Foremost used the bedroom on the right. The bedroom on the left was completely filled with a huge, silvery, outdoor TV antenna. Foremost paused and looked at it.
"Communications?"
"Entertainment," I said. "Reception only."
"Wouldn't it work better on top of the house?" Foremost asked.
"Sam liked it right here where he could touch it," I said.
Steve and Rose slept in the downstairs bedroom. Bob camped out in the kitchen. Foremost used the upstairs and I was down on the couch in the living room.
The next morning we were up and moving at dawn. Steve made everyone a breakfast of scrambled eggs with American cheese, thick bacon, and bagels. Foremost discreetly tested everything for allergens, then took a dry bagel to eat with his field rations.
Bob finished his plate, pushed it back, and glanced at Foremost.
"So what do we do today?" he asked.
I finished my orange juice and put my plate by the sink. Steve got himself seconds from the skillet while Rose nursed a cup of coffee.
"Today we bury Sam," I said.
"We know that," Bob said impatiently. "Are you going to go get the Estep token?"
"I don't have much choice, do I?" I asked. Bob shrugged and looked at Foremost again.
"Always got choices. Might not like them, but always got choices," Bob said. "Token should be at the burial. Token always watches the Eldest get buried before it gets passed on to the new Eldest."
"We'll go to Oly's house and pick it up," I decided. "If someone does come looking for the Ambassador, they'll come here first. We might as well be somewhere else."
Bob grinned.
"What will Oly think about your friend?"
Steve snorted.
"Oly probably won't notice anything different from normal when you two show up," he said, disgusted.
"Oly's not so bad," I said, defensively.
Bob and Steve both stared at me, then smiled. Bob pushed away from the table and stood.
"We'll get everything ready at this end. Be at the cemetery a few minutes early," Bob said. I nodded and motioned for Foremost to follow me. As we got to the mudroom Bob tapped me on the shoulder.
"Steve and I'll talk to the boys and girls," he said in a low voice. "We'll have eyes out to see if any strangers are in town."
"The cemetery is an awfully lonely place. Lots of open country, except on the side with the woods," I said.
"Easy to hide in them woods," Bob agreed. "Or on a hilltop in the corn stubble."
"You'll take care of it?"
"Done."
Foremost and I took the car that Rose and I used to drive up to Summit. It was another dark, rainy day, perfect for a funeral, and I still dialed down the tint on the windows to make it even harder for someone outside to see inside.
We turned right on the road, then left. We drove silently in the barren hills south of town, past fields used only as pasture, that grew only a bumper crop of rock.
The rock reminded me of Washington. I remembered a party in Georgetown, at one of the ever-so-discreet townhouses near the university. In the back, behind all the security doors and the antique furniture and more pretentious people than I could suddenly stand, was a tiny courtyard. I fled there with my Scotch to escape a too-aggressive bureaucrat's daughter. There I found the rock.
Nothing special, just a small gray boulder about twice the size of a basketball, flecked with black and silver. It was tucked next to a dwarf willow beside a pool. Spray from a small waterfall moistened the rock, already tumbled and smoothed by the glacier that created it. I ran my bands over it and suddenly realized I was homesick.
Now we drove past uncounted fortunes of that kind of decorative rock, poking out of the fields, plowed into piles, pushed into heaps to get them out of the way. I glanced at everything around me, at the rain and the wetlands and the bare hills and the rock, and smiled. This was where that rock belonged, not in some little decorative garden, and maybe it was not the only thing that belonged here.
We crossed a ridgeline and stopped on top. I put the car in park, and started to get out of it. Foremost began to get out also. I reached over and touched him.
"You stay inside," I said. "This will only take a minute."
I stood on the ridge, silhouetted against the gray sky, for several minutes. Summit Lake used to be a field like any of a thousand fields in the old tribal lands. One day, as Sam told me, some fool woke up and thought he was in Iowa, not Dakota, and decided to try to plow good buffalo land. Instead of a neat, clean furrow through dirt he hit a rock. When he pulled the boulder off he found it was a caprock, over a spring.
Now Summit Lake filled the entire bowl, probably three or four square miles in area, with only a few scraggly trees to break the rolling, grass-covered hills. And it showed on no maps, not county or state or federal. You knew where it was, and you found it, or you were a flatlander and then what the hell were you doing here anyway?
Satisfied that Oly had plenty of time to see who it was, I got back in the car and headed off down the track to his shack next to the concrete boat landing.
Oly was outside on a bench tucked next to his house. He looked up when the car stopped, a knife and a piece of wood in his hands.
"He is a sculptor?" Foremost asked. I shook my head and pointed to the pile of wood shavings on the ground around Oly.
"He just likes to cut wood. He takes a big piece and makes it into a lot of little pieces. Then he starts over again with another big piece."
"Why?" Foremost asked.
I took a deep breath. I was impatient to get this over, and unhappy about any time we spent out in the open where more people could see Foremost.
"Oly used to be the best carver in this part of the state," I said. "I swear, magic used to flow out of his knife. Now he's got some bad arthritis and his fingers don't work so well. The magic still flows in him, but only in his mind. So he cuts the wood to remember, and he still sees the final carvings in his mind."
"And the rest of us only see the shavings," Foremost said.
"That's our problem, not his," I said briskly. "Maybe we just don't know how to look right. Anyway, let's go. We don't have that much time."
We got out of the car and walked over to Oly. He looked at me, then Foremost, then back to me. Then back to his wood.
The bench was an old driftwood tree trunk, gray and worn and twisted, roughly knocked with an axe into a flat surface. Oly propped the wood up on two old black plastic bait buckets to get it off the ground.
I sat on one side of Oly, and motioned Foremost to sit on the other side. We sat silently for a moment and stared out at the dark water.
Summit Lake was like a map if you knew how to read it. Small sloped waves, deceptively soft, in the middle where the water was deepest. Taller, thinner waves, with white froth tops and green water, almost as transparent as glass, near the shore and the underwater slope.
The fish that lived in the lake preferred different kinds of water and cover. A good fisherman could look at the lake, at the waves and color, and draw a mental map of what the bottom looked like. A good fisherman knew that walleye liked this kind of water; northern pike liked that kind. Bullhead swarmed over the points, and bass liked the sections where the branches of dead trees, flooded out years ago, poked through the surface.
Sam claimed the world was like a lake, and the people in it like fish. Most people went through their lives without much understanding of what was really going on. Only a few people could stand outside the world and actually see it and make sense out of it. He claimed Oly was one of the best of these.
Tradition said I had to talk first when I met Oly.
"So how's the fishing been, Oly?"
He took a cut with his knife, and a curl of wood peeled onto the ground.
"Been worse. Been better," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "I can see that."
"You came back for Sam," Oly said. Another curl of wood joined the pile on the ground. "Some people said you wouldn't come back. Some people said you were gone from the line, said you didn't even want to be associated anymore."
"They can say it," I said. "People can say anything they want. But I'm back."
Oly was older than Sam, so old that even his grandchildren were older than the brothers and I. His teeth were blackened and mostly missing, his hair thin and the leathery scalp covered with brown age spots. 
But his eyes were sharp and it was said that nothing happened in Summit he did not know.
"YOU brought a flatlander to the funeral," Oly said.
"Steve's wife, Rose," I said. "He's got a little girl now."
"Steve's got a baby," Oly said. He shook his head. "He was such a funnylooking little guy. Looked just like a duck. And now he's got a baby of his own. Funny."
I tried to imagine Steve, closer to seven foot than six, strong enough to break ribs as part of his job as a respiratory therapist, as a baby who looked like a duck. I smiled to myself.
"This is Foremost," I said. "He's from upstairs."
Oly nodded.
"Word came around," he said. "He's associated?"
"I gave him my word."
"With Sam gone, you can do that," Oly said. He looked up at me. "I heard how you handled Dove last night."
"Dove and the boys were just having some fun," I said, uneasily. "You did it right," Oly reassured me.
He took a final cut at the wood, looked at it critically, then folded the clasp knife and put it in his pocket. He stood and turned to Foremost.
"You come with a good recommendation," he said, and jerked his head back over his shoulder toward me. "I try to do my best," Foremost said.
"He's good people," Oly said. He stared hard at Foremost. "Don't mess him up.
Oly turned and walked with a firm, clean step to his shack. Foremost and I stood and waited.
Oly was back in a minute. In one hand he carried a bundle about a foot long, wrapped in an oilcloth and tied with a piece of rawhide. In the other hand he carried a mason jar. He handed the package to me, and unscrewed the jar with the other.
"Limbo came by this morning," Oly told me. "Said he found some tracks that he'd never seen before around his place. They looked like boot tracks, but not any kind of boot he's ever seen."
We all looked down at Foremost's feet. His boots were as wide as they were long, with three large bulges where a human had toes. There was no way to ever confuse his feet with one of ours.
"He found the tracks all around some kind of metal torpedo that someone had hidden in the brush," Oly said. "Limbo said there was writing on the outside of the metal, but he couldn't read any of it."
"I hid my escape pod after I landed. I hope I did not hurt anything on his farm," Foremost said.
"And then you just walked west into town?" I asked.
"South," he corrected me. "My garment has some camouflage capabilities, and my people are quite good at moving without being seen."
Oly looked at me and smiled, a thin slash across his face. Limbo's farm was east of town. So either Foremost lied when he said he walked south into Summit, or someone else was now prowling around town. The lie was too easy to check, if we looked in the brush north of town for another ship, so I had to assume we had another visitor.
"Sounds like we need a drink," Oly said. He reached in the jar, fished around with his fingers, and pulled out the complete skeleton of a fish, head and all. He tossed this on the ground, then tipped the jar to his lips and took a deep drink, so that his Adam's apple moved up and down like a piston. He wiped his lips and handed the jar to me.
The jar was old, tired glass, heavily decorated with curlicues and fancy writing. Inside I saw clear liquid on top and, on the bottom, a white sludge of particles that danced and flickered with oily, reflected light. The smell, a mixture of fish, spices, pickle juice, and pure alcohol, was enough to make my eyes water.
I took a small sip.
The sludge was smooth and silky, with a hint of cinnamon and bay on top of the full' fish taste. Northern pike, I guessed. Then the vinegar cut through and seemed to slice my mouth open. Finally, the alcohol seemed to lift off the top of my head and let the cool breeze swirl around inside.
I handed the jar to Oly. He handed it to Foremost. He looked at the jar, puzzled, and touched it with his allergen analyzer. He stared hard at the display, as if he couldn't believe the results, then tucked the analyzer away. He held the jar in his long, leathery fingers and took a hesitant sip. He closed his eyes while Oly smiled at him. He opened his eyes and handed the jar to Oly.
"Good," be said, his voice raspy and hoarse. "Very good indeed. This is how you preserve the fish you catch?"
"Oly doesn't fish," I corrected. "People bring him fish they catch and don't want." I turned to Oly. "Who's got the still now? I don't recognize the taste of the moonshine."
"You asking as a government man, or as one of us?" Oly said.
"I'm asking as me," I answered. "Government man resigned his job to come to the funeral."
Oly nodded and looked approving. Not many people around Summit had much love for the government. I lost a lot of respect when I went to Washington. The first time I got shot I gained most of it back, but it was an expensive way to put credit in that account.
"That batch of 'shine is from Flipper's new still," Oly said. He looked at the jar critically. "I canned that jar a couple of years ago. Just took it out to see how it's aging."
"Not bad," I said.
"But not quite ripe yet, either," Oly grumbled. "That boy keeps doing fancy things to the old recipe for grain. He just can't leave well enough alone. Makes it hard to can a decent fish when you don't know what the 'shine is going to taste like. These things have to match up just right."
"Sometimes change is good," I said.
"Don't you start up on me," Oly warned. "Change happens fast enough without rushing it."
"What about Sam?" Foremost asked. "Did he fish?"
"Sam? Oh, he put his lines out for all sorts of things. Yes, he was a great fisherman. He caught fish all the time, but he never wanted to eat them. He just liked catching them, and making them do what he wanted," Oly said, and grinned. "Kind of like what he did with people. He had his lines out for them, just like he did for fish. Never sure what he was going to catch, but always interested. Me, I'm different. I don't like catching the fish, but I like to take care of them afterward. Same with people. Sam and me, we were like both sides of the mirror, the face that looks in and the face that looks back."
The world is like the lake, and Sam and Oly sit on the shore, and talk and laugh and watch the water  ... "I put a fish in a jar, add 'shine, spices, and just a little pickle juice. Then I let it rest for a few  years. Makes it easier for me to eat with my gums," Oly said, and smiled to expose his lack of teeth again.
"There are people on the ship who would pay you much for that single jar," Foremost said.
"I'm always willing to talk about money," Oly said. He handed the jar back to Foremost. "Have another sip and let's talk."
I left them alone for the moment and took the oilcloth package back to the car. Once there, I gently untied the rawhide and unfolded the material.
The Estep token was two pieces of bone, speckled black with age. They looked like the thighbones of some animal, bigger than a rabbit, smaller than a deer, but nothing I immediately recognized. I touched the bones, ran my finger up and down them, felt the smooth surface with its little pits and whorls, then tied the bundle together again and placed it carefully in the back seat.
Sam never talked much about the token of our line, just enough to let me know it was important. Once a year, at Orville Knob's Nut Fest, the big party just before New Year's Eve, the token was carefully laid out on a table set with a brilliant white tablecloth. The table was always tucked into a far corner of the room, unobtrusive but visible. I sat next to  Sam all night one year, and brought him food and beer and listened and watched.
I saw members of the line sidle up to the table and look down at the token. Sam waited a moment, then leaned forward and spoke a few quiet words with the person. They would listen and nod and smile, or speak quietly about some problem they couldn't solve. Then they put a few dollars on the table next to the token and walked away. When they left, I took the money and put it into the strongbox under Sam's chair.
I knew that in the next few days Sam would work on the person's problem. It might get solved, and it might not. Nothing was perfect, not even the token, but as a symbol it was damned powerful to us. To everyone else, it was just a couple of old bones.
I knew what I needed to do next, and wished I could drink more fish with Oly to give me some liquid courage. Finally I promised to do myself a favor in the future and picked up my satellite phone and called Carole. 
Her personal secretary was an old friend and always answered the private number herself, instead of letting the voice mail do a screening, so I called that number. It rang twice and Phyllis picked up. 
"Protective service."
"Morning, Phyllis. It's me."
"Tony!" she said warmly. "Oh, it's good to hear you. I miss you already."
"Phyllis, you're a better liar than anyone else in the office," I said fondly. "I've only been gone two days."
"Two long days. Two extremely long days."
"I turned in my resignation, Phyllis. I'm not coming back. Better get used to it."
"Herself needs you back, Tony. Things aren't going so well right now."
"I know," I said. "More than you think. Is she in?"
"Hold two."
I glanced back at the porch. Three open mason jars rested on the ground and Oly held another in his hand while Foremost tested it with his sampler.
"Tony? Where are you? All hell's broken loose back here," Carole said. Her voice sounded cool, efficient, and just a little desperate. "I'm still in Dakota. The funeral is this afternoon."
"We got problems, Tony," Carole said. "An alien we've never seen before, from a species we've never met before, is down here with the President."
I nodded to myself. "I'll bet this one doesn't talk like an ambassador," I said. There was silence from the other end of the line.
"No. Not like an ambassador. More like a general than an ambassador. She says Foremost is gone, they think we have him, and they want him back. They're making demands and giving us veiled threats. No one is talking trade anymore. We have to find Foremost."
"I know where he is," I said.
"Where?"
"About fifty yards away from me, drinking with an old friend of mine," I said.
"Talk to me, Tony. Tell me what's going on," Carole said.
I explained the situation quickly, as if I was doing a debrief on a routine assignment. When I finished, all I heard was her soft breathing on the phone.
I looked over at Oly and Foremost. They each took a jar in hand and sipped. Then they put them down, argued, and picked up another jar, and sipped. It looked like the Dakota version of a wine tasting.
"I want you to keep him there, safe, until I arrive. I'll grab a jet at Andrews and get there in a couple of hours."
I started to laugh. "What's so damn funny?" she snapped.
"Where are you going to fly into? Fargo? Sioux Falls? Minneapolis? Those are the nearest cities with an airport big enough to take even the smallest kind of jet."
"Then that's where I'll fly."
"And then you drive," I said, my voice suddenly serious. "You drive for hours. And then you arrive here, with a column of cars and trucks and God knows what else."
"You have a problem with this?"
"We don't take to outsiders up here, Carole. We call them flatlanders, people from outside the hills. You arrive here like that, without any kind of an invitation, like an invading force, and someone is going to have a few drinks, and then take a few shots. Maybe at you. Maybe at Foremost for bringing in outsiders."
"No one would dare," she said, uncertain.
I sighed.
"Carole, there's a town up here where a man was shot down in broad daylight on Main Street with about a hundred witnesses around. No one liked the guy much and his death ended a feud between two lines. Everyone was pretty much satisfied with the result. Then a dozen marshals showed up to enforce flatlander law. If they were to arrest someone, anyone, it stood a very good chance of starting everything up again between the two lines," I said.
"So what happened? What did the marshals find out?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said. "Absolutely nothing. Because no one saw a thing, and no one ever said a thing. In broad daylight, in the middle of town. Everyone kept their mouth shut."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"We take care of our own up here, Carole. Let us take care of things our way. "Foremost isn't one of you."
"He is right now. He's associated, that means under the protection, of the biggest line in the county. He's fine," I said.
"Whose line is that?"
"Mine."
I glanced back to the shack. Oly and Foremost sat close together on the bench. Foremost watched intently while Oly drew in the dirt with a stick. Occasionally they stopped and sipped more fish. 
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"I want you to be careful. I want you up here, but I want you up here alone. We don't want the wrong people to follow you. Assume someone has a trace on you. Get rid of it. Then come up here, alone. Bring whatever communications equipment you want. I'll keep Foremost safe until you arrive."
"And then?"
"And then the three of us will get together and figure out what to do."
"What about the tracks? what if someone from the ship is coming after Foremost?" she asked. "If there's any trouble, we'll deal with it in our own way."
More silence, until it dragged on like one of those bargaining tricks they taught me in hostage negotiation school. The idea there was to let the silence drag on, let the person who is most anxious talk first. 
But this was not some damn role-play game. "I don't like it, Tony. But I don't have much choice. We'll do it your way."
"Good," I said, and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Put me back to Phyllis. I'll give her directions on how to get you here and where to meet me.
"All right. Give me a minute to tell her what I need and then I'll put her on."
The phone clicked once, I heard dead air, then the phone clicked again and Phyllis came on the line. "So how do I get her to you?" Phyllis asked.
I briefly gave directions. Phyllis repeated them back to me to make sure she had them down correctly.
"Tony, she'll never say this, so I'll say it for her," Phyllis said. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."
"She never would say it, would she?"
"Tony, she might not say it, but she doesn't want you to quit," Phyllis continued.
"How do you know that?"
"Those resignation papers of yours? They never made it to me. They're still in their envelope, on her desk. Unopened. Why do you think that is?"
I looked at the lake, at the wind-ruffled water and the grass that swayed and tossed on the naked hills. Oly and Foremost relaxed back on the bench now and spoke slowly to each other.
"I don't know, Phyllis. I just don't know."
"Think about it, Tony."
I thought about a lot of things as Foremost and I drove back into town. I stuffed the tokens in their oilcloth under the seat and drove back by a different route than the one I used to get to Oly's place. Training: never use the same route back from a location that you used to get there. Old habits from the Service died hard, and I decided sometimes it was good to keep in practice. Particularly with strange tracks and strange people walking around town.
We stopped at the house. I found a note taped on the back door that said Rose and Steve were at the church, and I was supposed to go directly to the cemetery. Bob was already out there to get things ready.
I changed clothes and carefully adjusted my holster so my handgun did not bulge under the suitcoat. Foremost scraped the mud off his feet and put on a clean robe. We met in the kitchen.
"How do I look?" Foremost asked.
He looked like a giant wolverine with funny4looking hands. He looked like the kind of person who could spend an hour discussing the nuances of fish-based moonshine with a stranger from the hills. He looked like the kind of person who brought strangers into my town and problems into my life.
He looked like someone under my protection.
"You look fine," I said. "Come on. Get in the car."
We drove down the side streets, strangely abandoned by the children who had been scrubbed, poured into suits and dresses, and then marched to church for the funeral. We crossed Main and drove past cars and trucks parked on the grassy strips next to the church.
The church was Methodist, with a three-story-tall steeple that was the highest point in town. A giant cross, half the gold paint flaked off, topped the structure proudly. White paint on clapboard, six-foot-tall stained-glass windows, and a set of walk-up concrete steps to the main entrance finished off the picture.
"You have many different religions here?"
"Not so many as some towns, but a few. Methodists go here. Catholics go to Blue Cloud Abbey outside of town. Lakota might go to the shaman and a sweat lodge," I said. "Your line goes to this church?" he asked, and nodded toward the church.
"Some do," I said. "Some go to the other places. We're all mixed up."
We left town gravel behind and drove on county gravel. It sounded like the same thing, gravel was gravel, but even in Summit there was a difference between the town and the country. It was a small thing, hardly noticeable to outsiders, but town gravel roads were graded and smoothed while the country roads were ridged like corduroy. A little thing, but I had seen fights break out at Sam's Pool Hall over less.
We bounced on county gravel while the clouds thickened up and got darker. A fleck of snow, huge and fat, struck the windshield. It stuck there, pinned like some exotic butterfly on display, then melted into a wet spot and a tiny droplet that streamed down the glass.
I turned left at a crossroads and went down the cemetery road. The surface was mixed gravel and dirt now, humped up in long ridges down both sides of the road. Once a year a grader might force its way down here, to level out the ridges and throw down new gravel. Maybe. If the county budget was in good shape that year. And it looked as if the budget had been in trouble for a long time. 
I drove down the tire marks of other vehicles and used the bottom of the car as my own grader when I needed. Sometimes this put me on the right hand side of the road, sometimes on the left. Foremost hung on tight and looked straight ahead.
Marshes and sloughs, tiny wetlands filled with reeds and tall grass and old decayed fence posts with the rusted barbed wire still attached filled the fields on both sides of us whenever the road crossed a low spot. jays and sparrows and blackbirds perched on anything dry and watched us as we passed. I watched Foremost as his head jerked like the birds, and wondered what the hell was going on inside that brain.
We turned once again and we were at the cemetery.
Raw headstones, shaped but not yet engraved or polished, lay together in a gray tumbled pile in the ditch next to the crossroads. Tall grass, mixed brown from last fall and fresh baby green new growth from this spring, sprouted through and around the stones like whiskers on a dead man's face.
The grass in the cemetery itself was clipped short and raked with military precision. Placed neatly in the field of green were the finished cousins of the headstones in the ditch. These, though, marched in strict rows, ordered by family and line, across the cemetery. Men and women, the important in life and those that passed through unnoticed, were all equal here. The only concession to sentiment was the small headstones of the children, tucked in close to their mothers. Bouquets of flowers, some real and withered, some plastic and worn, filled the cupholders of the children's headstones.
I saw Bob's car, the backhoe used to dig the grave, and a green canvas tent. The tent stood next to a pile of fresh black and brown dirt flecked with white glacial stone. Folding chairs were set up in two small rows under the tent and faced the grave.
I looked for Bob but didn't see him. What I did see were so many ambush sites where a shooter could lay up and hide that I almost turned around and took Foremost back into town right then and there.
Trees pushed up next to the cemetery on one side and provided excellent cover. Across the road, the flax field was plowed and planted and empty, with a tremendous field of fire. Sloughs covered both of the other sides, so that we were in a kind of island, surrounded by trouble. Most times I thought of the cemetery as beautiful, peaceful even.
But not when there were strange tracks around my town. And where the hell was Bob?
I drove slowly down the rutted dirt track, dotted here and there with a flash of white that was last year's crushed paving stone, toward the grave. I pulled the car into line next to Bob's, passenger side facing his car. Then I loosened my gun in the holster, and opened the car door. "Do you want me in or out?" Foremost asked. "What kind of weapon would a killer from your ship have?"
"Pumped laser."
"Could it cut through the car?"
"Yes. Easily."
"What kind of surveillance and identification equipment would they use?" I asked.
"There are many," Foremost said. "They might use a body-heat scanner or a low-light analyzer. Or any of a dozen other devices."
I thought for a moment. With the tint dialed to full on the car windows, Foremost was invisible inside. Invisible, that is, to the bare-eyed locals around Summit. I was pretty sure my little window-tint trick wouldn't keep him invisible to an assassin with military-level surveillance and identification gear. Foremost wasn't built to be able to slip down to the floorboards and hide, so he sat up straight and provided a perfect silhouette to any sniper who could see him.
"Might as well get out then. Better to be a moving target than one that sits and waits," I said. We shut the doors behind us softly, but it still seemed loud. "Bob?" I called. "Down here," came his voice. We walked closer to the grave. "Where?"
"Down here," he repeated.
We walked to the lip of the grave and looked down. The grave was about eight feet deep, with the concrete lining sunk into the bottom six feet of that so two feet of dirt remained on top to grow grass. Rob stood in the center of the open concrete box and looked up at us. "What the hell are you doing down there?" I asked.
He looked embarrassed. He slapped his hands together to knock off dirt and smiled.
"I wondered what it was like to be buried. I thought I'd just come down, feel it for a couple minutes, and come back out."
"And?"
"And I can't get out of the damned grave now. The concrete is too slick and the ground is too muddy. Give me a hand."
I looked at our clean clothes and the mud. Bob was dressed in casual clothing, streaked with brown and black dirt.
"Where're your funeral clothes?"
"In the car. I figured I'd change after I did this and no one would ever know."
"Sweet Jesus," I said disgustedly. "I didn't bring any spare clothes. And I don't want to think about what Aunt Gladys will say if I'm all covered with mud during the burial. Hold on a minute while I think of something."
I went back to the car. I figured there must be something in the trunk, snow chains left over from winter or an old piece of rope or hose, that I could let down to him to get him out and still stay clean myself. I reached in my pocket and fumbled with my keys. They dropped to the ground and I swore mildly and bent over to pick them up.
The rear bumper blinked at me.
I hit the ground and rolled. Foremost shouted and flung up his arms. He staggered and stumbled backward, his arms flung wide. A cloud of steam engulfed him.
The light flashed again, and this time I saw the laser flare and burn part of Foremost's robe. Jets of steam spurted from his clothes around his neck and armpits and waist and he hit the ground and lay motionless, half in the grave, half out.
I was up and moving, gun in my hand. I put the car between myself and the grove of trees where I saw the laser flash. :"Bob, you okay?"
"What the hell is going on up there?" he shouted back.
"Just shut up and do what I tell you," I said. "Can you drag Foremost down in there with you?"
I heard Bob grunt, the sound of something heavy scraping on the grass and dirt, and another deeper grunt from Bob. "Got him."
"He alive?"
"He's breathing," Bob said. "Not real regular, but he's breathing."
"Just keep him that way," I said.
What would I do if I was the shooter? Foremost was down, hit twice, but there was no guarantee he was dead. The steam was the giveaway. A laser cuts cleanly through fabric and messily through flesh. It never sends out jets of steam. Which meant Foremost had some kind of protective layer underneath his robe to dissipate the laser heat. Was it tough enough to handle two shots?
The shooter had to be certain.
I glanced quickly underneath the car and saw a figure with a pair of feet coming toward the car at a trot. I took three deep breaths and came over the top of the hood, gun outstretched.
I fired three times, direct hits to the body. The creature, short and squat and all in gray so I could not tell what was clothing and what was skin, jerked at the impacts but kept on coming. It stared at me with a fixed caricature of a wild grin on its face, writhing tentacles where I had teeth, a thin slash of bone where I had lips. Then it shuffled its feet for balance and aimed the laser at me. The grin widened and I knew I was dead. The head exploded.
The body stood for a moment, fixed, as if it meant to keep on conng, as if the loss of its head was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. I worried for the saine moment that with this alien that might be true, that the head was nothing more than a place to put the eyes, that the brain might be in the torso.
Then the body crumpled and collapsed.
I ran to the shooter, my gun out and level, ready to fire if I saw a flicker of movement. When I got closer I kicked the laser away, far out of reach, and felt the body. It was cool to the touch, and lumpy, like a plastic bag full of rocks.
"It is called a Synth."
I looked over my shoulder and saw Bob and Foremost, their clothes smeared with dirt. Bob stared at the alien, shook his head slowly, and went over to look at the laser.
"Do not try to use it," Foremost warned. "The odds are good it is a personal weapon, keyed to the Synth."
"Booby-trapped?" Bob asked.
"I don't know the word," Foremost said.
"Rigged to explode if someone other than the owner tries to use it," Bob explained. "Probably," Foremost agreed.
I stared at the country around me. The grass moved in waves to the winds, and the trees in the little forest rubbed and swayed in rhythm.
"Do they travel in pairs?" I asked.
"No, strictly alone. They are living killing machines. Put them in an area, give them instructions, and let them do their work. If you put two in an area they would most likely kill each other," Foremost said. 
"Hard to keep a species going that way," I said.
"They manage somehow," Foremost said dryly.
I stood and looked down at the Synth. Up close, the gray was partly clothing and partly skin, so close in color to each other that they blended to form a whole that was difficult to focus on. The alien looked like a silly-putty man, and I wondered if the rain would dissolve the skin and clothes and wash them into the grass.
I saw three smudge marks on the alien's chest where my bullets struck some kind of protective vest. I looked at the marks and, for just a moment, I was pleased with myself. The bullet pattern was tight, the  black smears close together, and I knew my old firearms instructor at the Service would be pleased. The Synth itself looked enough like one of the practice dummies at the Academy that I half expected it to snap back upright when this little exercise was over. But the rain puddled on the clothes and formed droplets on the skin and the Synth stayed dead.
"Indian, you can come out now," I said, my voice pitched to carry against the weather.
Indian, his fatigue jacket smeared with a few new grass stains that would soon dry and mix with all the others, drew himself up from the edge of the trees. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with snap-down ear flaps, just as dirty and stained as the rest of his clothing. He carried a scoped rifle, as clean and well-tended as an opposite could be. He pointed down the road, then disappeared back in the trees.
"Funeral procession is coming down the road," Bob said. I looked up and saw a black bearse, with a procession of other cars behind it. I kicked the Synth. "How the hell do I explain this?" I growled.
"Don't need to," Bob said. "This is Summit. That's all you need to know, and all you need to say."
Carole showed up about an hour after dusk, when the street lights on Main Street were just starting to get into some real work. Foremost and Oly and I sat on the steps outside the pool hall and passed a glass jar of fish back and forth. Bulibead, if I remember right. Bob and Steve and Rose were inside, acting as hosts for Sam's wake. I could tell, from the rising level of voices and music and laughter inside, that the party was just starting to take off.
Driving down the street, Carole saw us, and turned to parallel park in front of the pool hall. She stopped the car and the driver's side window rolled down. Even through the sharp cut shadows from the street lights I could see the relief on her face.
"All I thought about on the way down here was that you might be dead. Every time I closed my eyes on the plane I saw you in a coffin," she said, her voice soft and tired. She turned her head a little to the side. "I'm glad you're all right, too, Ambassador."
I'm glad you're all right, too, Ambassador? I struggled with the thought that Carole spent the trip worried about me. Something of my confusion must have shown on my face. She smiled. "You don't work for me anymore, do you? Then I can worry about you now."
"And before?" I asked. "You were an agent. You had a job to do, and I had a job to do."
"I wasn't a person before, and now I am?"
"You were a person before," she said carefully, "and an agent."
"And now?"
She smiled again. Her face relaxed in a way I never remembered from Washington. I realized I liked that smile very much, and wondered where she'd kept it all those years. I suddenly wanted to make her smile again.
She started to get out of her car and I shook my head.
She stopped for a moment, her face frozen, and the old mask snapped back into place. For a moment I saw pain and hurt and loneliness. Then it was  gone, and it was the Washington face back again. "Of course," she said carefully. "I understand."
"No, you don't," I said. "Park the car around the corner. We're keeping Main Street clear. Then come back here. We need to talk."
I moved over on the step a little and pushed Foremost with my butt, to move him down and make a space for her next to me. She watched me, startled at the way I touched him, and even more surprised when he accepted it without complaint. She smiled that smile again, and I was damned pleased with myself.
She drove around the corner, parked, and came back. She sat next to me. She wore a parka with a fur fringe and she fit just right next to me. Foremost passed her the glass jar of moonshine and fish. She wrinkled her nose at the smell.
"Tony, what is this stuff?"
"Ancient family drink," I said. I took the jar from her, sipped to show it was safe, then wiped the rim with my shirt sleeve to clean it. I felt awkward and clumsy and about twelve years old while next to me sat the prettiest girl I knew. I waited for her to look up, to see it was really me sitting next to her-not some perfectly turned-out diplomat with ideal manners and looks. Then I figured she would carefully and politely edge away from me and go find someone better to be around. I handed her back the jar. "It's really all right to drink."
She took the jar, looked up at me with total confidence, and took a small sip. She handed the jar back.
"What's going on out here?" she asked.
Main Street was strangely abandoned, even for Summit. Not a car was parked on the street, and the black asphalt was carefully chipped and scraped and cleaned so that it almost gleamed under the street light. A pair of freshly painted white lines, like the guard lines for a pedestrian crossing, stretched across the street.
"Time for the races," Oly said. Foremost nodded.
Around the corner came Teddy Wahford on his golf cart, and Indian on his town car. They lined up carefully side by side between the lines. Limbo, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt even as his breath came out in puffs in the cold, stepped between them. He carried two small construction worker flags, one in each hand, their color drained by the overhead sodium light until the flags seemed more like a muddy gray than a bright orange. Foremost leaned back and banged his fist on the pool hall door. Bob opened the door from inside. Waves of noise and heat and light washed over us from inside.
"Yeah?"
"First race is ready," Foremost said.
"About time," Bob said. He shut the door and we heard him pounding on the long bar and shouting. Everything went quiet for a moment and then the door banged open and the crowd spilled outside with a roar. Carole grabbed my arm for balance as the crowd shoved past us. "what the hell is going on?" she asked again.
Chuck the bartender brought out a metal washtub filled with ice and cans of beer. He looked down at me as he walked past.
"Race beer should be in bottles"' he growled disapprovingly. "Gets cold faster."
"It's cold enough already," I said as my breath puffed into the night air. "And you can't cut anyone with a can if someone gets angry about the race results."
Chuck set down the tub on the curb next to Steve and Rose and Bob. They sold the beer as fast as they could pull the cans out of the ice and water.
"You sell the beer at a wake? That's one hell of a way to make money," Carole asked. I shook my head.
"No, we won't make any money off this," I said. "The first round was free, and in the morning we'll take everything we made off all the rest of the beer and donate it to the town emergency heating fund."
"Then why charge for the beer?"
"If it was free everyone would take too much. All we'd have left by now would be a bunch of passed-out drunks. This way most of them are still awake."
"And that is important," Foremost added knowledgeably. Carole looked puzzled.
"Each person who knew Sam gives back what they did best at his wake," he explained. Steve overheard him and nodded, pleased.
"Ten on Teddy. I heard he got a new charge in his cart," Steve said.
"Ten on Indian," Foremost answered. He looked at me almost apologetically. "It would be disloyal to do anything else."
Limbo dropped the flags and the racers rolled ahead. The golf cart was almost silent, just a high-pitched whine, but Indian's town car roared and screamed. The crowd answered back.
Foremost leaned next to me and spoke quietly into my ear. "We need to talk," he said.
"About?"
"I contacted my friends on the ship after the Synth attack. My enemies obviously know I'm alive and where I'm located. I wanted to give my friends the same advantage."
"Sounds like a good idea," I said. "I also told them everything we know about the Synth attack," Foremost said.
On the street, Indian's town car suddenly swerved into Teddy and bounced off the protective rubber bumpers attached all around the body of his golf cart. Teddy swore and shook his fist at Indian. Indian smiled back, his eyes glazed, and tipped his hat to Teddy. The crowd roared its approval.
"And?" I asked Foremost when it got quiet enough to hear him.
"They asked me to give you their thanks, for keeping me alive. They also put a protective air and space patrol over Summit for tonight. In the morning they'll be down with transport to take me home," Foremost said.
He sat next to me on the stoop, the cowl of his robe thrown back so he could use all his peripheral vision, his snout pointed straight at me. His eyes were very flat and black, with the silky gleam you see on creek stones when just the barest sheet of water flows over them.
"Sounds like a plan," I said. "Why wait until morning?"
"Because I wanted to talk with you," he said.
I sipped the last of my fish and put the jar down on the street, out of the way next to the steps so no one would accidentally break the glass. Foremost and I seemed to be locked inside our own little bubble of silence, the noise of the crowd unimportant and distant. I looked at him directly.
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.
"You've heard that we plan to take some humans with us when we leave?"
"I've heard," I said. "I never understood why."
"From each world we take a society," he said quietly. "The ship is huge, but space is bigger. We will never come back here again. But we want to take part of you with us."
"Why?"
"Because we never know what we'll face out there," Foremost said. "All we know is that every planet is going to be different. And the more differences we have on the ship to choose from, the greater the chance that someone we have on-board will be able to talk with and understand whoever it is we meet."
The town car was more powerful, but Indian couldn't seem to steer a straight line. Foremost had bought him all the beer he could drink after the burial, to pay him back for his work that afternoon. Indian's capacity for alcohol was tremendous, but by now I was sure he saw three or four roads, not just one. Teddy, on the other hand, figured out the best path and held to it, his head tucked down as if to reduce his wind resistance.
I looked around me, at my line and all the others that made up Summit. Every year there were fewer of us, as more and more children left for the cities. I remembered those children, the exiles as they called themselves, from the East Coast reunions. They always seemed angry and lost, as if they never quite fit in outside of Dakota.
As I never quite fit in.
I leaned back to Foremost.
"We can talk," I said. I leaned forward and took a fresh jar of fish from Oly. I sipped and tried to figure out what kind of fish was in this batch. Northern Pike was my guess. "But tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight is for Sam."
Foremost nodded and I handed the jar to Carole.
Indian's town car swept by me and kicked up gravel and I felt something sting my cheek.
"That bastard put the blade back on his town car to make it go faster! Indian, get your butt over here .."

==========================================
This 1998 Hugo Award Winner in the Novelette category copied from:

V3.0 - fixed format, broken paragraphs, garbled text; by paragwinn 2005-11-24

THE YEAR'S BEST SCIENCE FICTION:  
FIFTEENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION
EDITED BY GARDNER DOZOIS