Free Angry Young Spaceman by Jim Munroe

know why. Were they at first amused by my awkwardness, but then shocked and moved to pity at this proof of how extreme my clumsiness was?

    I handed the correct amount of beeds to the cashier (there was a read-out, luckily) but before I could go crawling for the dropped balls (now rolling away) the female behind me in line picked them up.

    I put out my hand and smiled, trying like hell to remember Octavian for thank-you. She had them sticking to the suckers on her tentacle. She looked at my hand for a second, and then put them on the counter! She actually swerved around my filthy human hand to do it!

    I scooped up the two beeds and looked at her, dumb-struck. She had dipped her tentacle into her purse and came out with beeds running along its length, one for each sucker. Then she sort of twined it with the cashier’s tentacle for a second and the cashier deposited the money into the cashbox. All I could think was: she wouldn’t drop something into my hand, but twining with a stranger was just fine.

    Then she pushed by me to leave. After I stared a few daggers into her back I checked my aggrometer — surprisingly, a few notches below the red zone.

    I got my double-barrelled cucumber and turned to leave, and some budding comedian spits out “Hokay-thank-you-come-again” to the merriment of all assembled. This cut me free — I felt the giddy light-headedness of white rage. Balloonhead, as you call it. I swayed there for a second, looked at my double-barrelled cucumber and reminded myself of a few things: Octavian atmosphere made a fastball punch into a lob. Octavian boneless physiology made a lob punch rather ineffective. Which, as you know, is one of the reasons I chose Octavia in the first place.

    By this time, the people in the store had gone about their business — having tired of staring at the freak clutching the cuke — and my aggrometer needle had stopped rising and started sinking.

    And that was just the beginning.

    So a few steps from the store this cop comes up to me and says, or rather gestures, that I should come with him. I had this sudden paranoid flash that I had broken a law by dropping a beed, like how it was illegal on some planets to desecrate the flag, and that I had been reported. Of course I hadn’t thought to even register with the Earth consulate, even though I had had plenty of time. (And no, I still haven’t.) So we get to this little police booth — the rather sinister crest above the door involves several snaky looking creatures — and go inside.

    There’s a fat Octavian inside there, looking mighty pleased with himself. That’s when he welcomes me and asks me about being a criminal.

    Before I can say anything he busts out laughing, a few bubbles even coming from his nostrils. “Joke, that I thought of!”

    “How proud you must be!” is what came to mind, but dry wit doesn’t suit this atmosphere. Doesn’t suit it at all. Instead I said, “That is a very funny joke,” in a tone that sarcasm doesn’t begin to describe.

    Nauseatingly, this puffed him up even more, and he immediately said something in Octavian (except for “criminal” “joke” “very funny”) to the guy who had brought me in. I watched the little guy’s face and his nervous smile and noticed he only had one little snake pin on his collar to fat-boy’s five.

    “Und’s English, very good!” the little guy said, more to his beaming boss who didn’t even refute it — quite unusual, most Octavians I’d met were very modest. I gathered that I had been arrested to give Und an English lesson.

    “What are the snakes for?” I asked, determined to get something out of this.

    He looked at me, his mouth slightly agape. “Snakesfor?” he repeated, the crest above his eyes furrowing. The little guy said something quickly in Octavian and my host dismissed him with an undulate of his tentacle.

    I pointed to the silver pin on his collar once the underling had left. “Snake,” I simplified.