Frederick - A Higher Level of Misunderstanding

A HIGHER LEVEL OF MISUNDERSTANDING

by CARL FREDERICK

Illustrated by John Allemand

* * * *

Interspecies diplomats may have to take When in Rome... a bit beyond what theyre used to....

Roger stopped at the snack synth for a Hypercoffee and a candy bar before making his way toward a table at the far end of the lounge. There Duncan Frye, Commissioner of the Angloterran Trade Embassy, sat staring morosely out the window onto the jumble of architectural styles of Free Trade City. A file folder lay open in front of him.

How did we blow it? he said as Roger pulled up a chair. We had everything arranged: premier conference room, sterling silver commemorative pens, personalized notebooks, contracts bound in leather binders, translations in English, Nriln, and Delvan. What more could we have done?

Roger shook his head.

I dont understand the Nriln, said Duncan, gazing down at the hand-written notes in the folder. They said the meeting was unsuitable. But what the hell was unsuitable about it?

I almost think it was a translator problem, said Roger.

Translator problem? Duncan rubbed a hand across his forehead. They storm off with all their noses in the air. Some translator problem. I had to virtually beg them for another negotiating session.

Roger looked down at his hands, acutely aware of his inexperience; he was barely out of grad school. As the recently appointed cultural liaison, he was the only one at the embassy whod attempted to study the Nriln; one of the many planetary cultures promoting their interests in the free-trade zone of planet Delva. And Roger felt he should have an answer. Maybe its the food,

he said, softly. Maybe were supposed to eat together at these meetings.

Maybe, said Duncan. Well see today, wont we?

Roger hunted for signs of sarcasm in his bosss voice, but knew it was hopeless; the man was a diplomat, skilled at hiding his feelings. Duncan smiled, broadly but without mirth. All right. We have another chance. When the Nriln negotiators arrive for lunch, we will treat them like royalty. This time, perfection. He looked Roger up and down. For Gods sake, straighten your tie.

Just then, the door to the lounge flew open and a heavy-set man lurched in. He looked quickly around and then glowered at the snack synthesizer.

Whos that? said Roger, leaning in toward Duncan. I thought I knew everybody in the embassy.

Maurice. Duncan spoke in a whisper. A chef on loan from the Francoterran Consolate.

Does this mean the foods going to improve around here?

Probably not. Duncan closed his file folder. Id asked for him to come and oversee the menu for our Nriln luncheon.

A French chef preparing Nriln cuisine? I wouldnt have thought that...

The chef looked their way. There was murder in his eyes.

I changed my mind, said Duncan. Weve had the luncheon catered.

Good. Roger started to unwrap his Zingchocolate bar. I know what the Nriln eat.

Uh oh, said Duncan. Hes coming our way. Set your translator to French.

But hes not wearing a translator.

Doesnt need one, said Duncan. He speaks good English. He just doesnt usually choose to.

Duncan and Roger barely had time to put on their translators before Maurice stomped up to the table.

I have been cruelly insulted, said Maurice, his anger apparent, even through the synthesized voice of the translator. I, a blue string chef and a student of the book. It is unconscionable.

I dont really know what said Duncan.

You dont know? Ha. Maurice raised an arm to the ceiling. You have an official luncheon for Nriln diplomats, and you ... you... Maurice wrinkled his face as if hed caught a whiff of something vile....you have it catered. He shook his head. Catered! He slapped a hand to his chest as if he were taking an oath. I, Maurice, a blue string authority on the book and acclaimed as the finest Terran chef on Delva. Catered. How could you? An unforgivable affront.

Maurice. My dear Maurice. Duncan rose and clasped the chefs other hand. Roger suppressed a smile. His boss was smooth.

I wouldnt dream of offending you, said Duncan. And I insisted that we not misuse your highly educated palate by asking you to prepare a meal for aliens. What an abuse of your talent that would be.

Maurice visibly softened. Yes. You are correct. It would be an abuse.

So, to spare you, we called the Panstellar Specialty Food Boutique. What else could we do?

Maurice harrumphed.

You are justifiably famous for your exquisite pastries, said Duncan. And I beg you to prepare some for the luncheon. Even if their palates cannot appreciate it, the Nriln cannot fail to be impressed with the artistry of your creations.

Maurice nodded, apparently mollified. But then he pointed a finger at Roger.

You!

Me? squeaked Roger, suddenly pulled into the fray.

You drink slop! Maurice pointed to the coffee cup and then over at the snack synthesizer. From that!

Its not bad, actually. As soon as the words were out, Roger realized hed said the wrong thing.

Not bad! Maurice steadied himself by leaning on the table. Then he drew himself to his full height. You have the refinement of a slug. He threw a glance at the ceiling. Hypercoffee. InfiniTea. Fabricake. Rocket Chips. What kind of names are those? Thats not cuisine. Thats not even food.

Roger felt compelled to rise to the defense of the synth: a device that combined molecules by shape to create flavor, embedding them in a solid matrix for snacks or in water for beverages.

Its food to me, said Roger. You should try it. You might learn something.

Learn something? Me? You insolent toad. Im a chef, not a flavor chemist.

Roger, taking pleasure in baiting the man, nibbled at the Hypercoffee cup.

Tasty. The cups edible as well. Reduces trash, you know.

Maurices mouth dropped open.

And its fat free. Roger took a bite of his candy bar. And this Zingchocolates really good.

Barbarian, Maurice shouted. He turned and strode toward the door. Why do I even talk to these Angloterrans? He threw up his hands. Not even worth the lively wit of the staircase.

Barbarian? Roger watched the man go. If the chef knew the Nrilns taste in food, hed die of shock. He furrowed his brow. But what was that stuff about the wit of a staircase?

An untranslatable Gallic concept, I suppose, said Duncan. An idiom, maybe. I dont know. He took the translator from his ear and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Funny, he said. Until I got this French-capable translator, Id no idea how rude the chef really was.

Roger took his translator from his ear and stared at it. Maybe its just the translator thats rude. He rolled the little device over in his hand. Or maybe its not rudeness at all. He might just be acting the way a French chef should in his culture. And... Roger bit his lower lip. And maybe thats whats going on with the Nriln. Maybe were doing something they consider rude.

Any ideas?

Roger shook his head, but his eyes were on the snack synth; Maurice had just favored it with an obscene gesture. Blue string clearly meant Cordon Bleu, said Roger, as he watched the chef charge out of the lounge, but a student of the book? Was that a religious reference?

Religious? Duncan chuckled. Not exactly. Cuisine Galactica: A Compendium of Recipes and Antidotes. A must-have for cross-species chefs.

Then he could have prepared the dinner.

Maybe. But I wasnt prepared to take the chance. Duncan stroked his forehead. Everything has to be perfect.

Perfect. Roger toyed with the translator. You know, he said. If this thing gave me so much trouble just with French, I wonder what Im missing with Nriln. He juggled the little device. I almost wish these new translators didnt work so smoothly. It makes us think we understand what theyre saying.