Free Transgalactic by James Gunn

convenience that might provide a feeling of comfort or an excuse to linger.
    Asha felt a presence behind her and then the fall of heavy feet. She stood aside as a pachyderm-like Dorian moved ponderously past her, almost pulling her into its orbit, like the satellite of a massive star. The Dorian resembled Tordor, her sometimes-traitorous companion on the pilgrimage of the Geoffrey, but older, grayer, and more massive. The Dorian continued across the floor until it turned, stood behind the desk, settled back against the support of its sturdy tail, and looked at Asha with what Asha, with her Dorian experience, interpreted as contempt mixed with anger at being aroused in the middle of the Squeal-world’s night and perhaps with a cool, murderous intent.
    â€œYou are not a Squeal person,” the Dorian said, with some difficulty. His vocal chords were not made for squeals.
    â€œI am a human,” Asha replied in Dorian.
    â€œI have never met a human,” the Ambassador said skeptically, switching his short trunk, an appendage that she knew could be a delicate manipulator or a deadly weapon. He was no longer an “it.” Male Dorians were larger than females, and they wore clothing, or at best harnesses, only while traveling. In most circumstances they were naked, and this Dorian clearly was male. “You don’t look dangerous.”
    â€œUnlike your species, we were born fighting for existence.”
    â€œAnd yet,” the Dorian said, “you don’t look dangerous. How did you get here?”
    â€œBy magic.”
    â€œDorians don’t believe in magic.”
    â€œOperations beyond our ability to understand can only be described as magic.”
    â€œNothing is beyond Dorian ability to understand.”
    â€œThen you must explain my presence here on this world so dangerously close to the Galactic Center to which no alien other than yourself has arrived.”
    â€œYou must have a ship.”
    â€œYou would have noted its arrival, and, as you know, none has arrived. So you may explain how I happened to appear in the sacred receptacle at the peak of the fountain.”
    â€œAh,” the Ambassador said, “you are the Chosen One.”
    â€œSo I have been told.”
    â€œFrom the fountain that the Squeal people, in their primitive theology, believe will produce a savior. The fountain from which nothing has emerged in the history of Galactic contact with Squeal. And, in Squeal history, only Squeal persons—obvious imposters who have dared the night. And in Squeal mythology, only monsters. And you are neither.”
    â€œMaybe a monster. Or a princess. But certainly here by a means that I cannot explain.”
    â€œThen what are you going to explain?” the Ambassador asked.
    â€œWhy you are going to lend me a ship to leave this world.”
    The Ambassador studied her, as if wavering between amusement at Asha’s impertinence and impatience at the waste of his time and the interruption of his sleep. “It would be simpler just to have you killed,” he said, and raised his trunk as if to summon guards.
    â€œThat would be a mistake,” Asha said, and focused on not shifting in her stance or allowing any trace of uncertainty to enter her voice.
    The silence between them lengthened, as if the Ambassador was waiting for Asha to apologize, take back her request, and then, if he were inclined to be merciful, enjoy a quick and relatively painless execution. “You do not seem insane,” he said finally, “and yet you make these insane statements.”
    â€œIf you have me killed,” Asha said steadily, “the Squeal people will turn against you.”
    â€œHow would they know?”
    â€œYour Squeal person attendant knows,” Asha said, “and though you could have it killed, no doubt it has awakened its fellow attendants to tell them that the Chosen One has appeared out of the terrible night to see the mighty Ambassador,