Glam would have preferred to land the top job, but ‘Coordinator of Liaison Affairs’ doesn’t look too bad after all. He’s starting to get used to this new business card.
Being called director would have been even nicer. Who’d dare argue with a director? Never mind calling him stupid. But the ‘Liaison’ bit sounds posh. Glam has yet to discover his job description, but the term is cool. Who’d dare disrespect someone whose title they’re not sure how to pronounce? It took him half an hour of practice to get the iai-sound right, in all privacy and with an app…
And his new wage, called remuneration because management, is at director level. As far as he can tell, based on two hours of assiduous research. Performed on the job, of course. Glam’s little revenge for not making director.
Glam is fine with his new role, totally fine. He’s even throwing a party to prove it. Nothing too fancy, but cousin George will dial in from the Mars orbiter. How better to prove he’s doing big, career wise?
Cousin George was a bore even with less of a response delay, when he was still plundering the Arctic. And he’s always keen to join any event, because brag. Still chic to have him in attendance. Only 2422 guys up there. Everybody has someone somewhere upstairs these days, in a near earth orbit or on the Moon. But Mars, that’s so VIP. Cousin George has to be endured.
Just like the Contacts.
Glam would have preferred his new career not to involve interaction with the Contacts, but one can’t have it all. They’re probably much less vile in practice than their foul reputation suggests.
Some people even talk of cannibalism. That’s big BS. As Glam told the forever worried wife, once again, only yesterday:
“The Contacts can’t be cannibals, darling. Cannibalism, that’s human on human. Human eats human, more exactly. And the Contacts, we don’t know much about them, sure, their presence can be a bit – exotic. But this one thing we know one thousand percent certain: Human they aren’t, very definitely.
We don’t even know if whatever is inside those kind of shells they’re kind of wearing. Most probably not even biological, the Contact as such, inside. One more clever robot, my best guess. No big deal.”
The wife looked like she might be tempted to argue, for at least one split second, but a couple of happy years of marriage have told her not to. If Glam says the Contacts are ok, they are, as far as the whole household is concerned.
Glam checks his contract once again. Remuneration still there, all five digits of it, as recalled. Nice tidy sum, right from day one. Payable at the end of the month, every month. Adds up, over the course of the year. Would have taken him 18 months to make that much in his former role. With that kind of incentive, one can overcome many reservations. And they do value him. Want to debrief him in person every month, at the so-called remuneration event. He’s looking forward to chat with the other managers.
Trying to look forward to his first encounter with the Contacts in the same way, Glam feels a strain. It’s a little strain, but it’s there.
This whole liaison business would be much easier if his opposite numbers were smaller. Elefant-sized kind of ants are so imposing, even before giving one‘s best shot at eye contact. Glam is not keen on having to stare at the kind of multifaceted satellite dish covering what his protocol guide declares the front end, or head, of the Contacts. Very high-tech, very civilised, very nice to have neighbours, the Contacts. But so big. And them always showing up in groups of three doesn’t help with the size mismatch issue.
At least there‘s no mouth or fangs to worry about.
That‘s it. The door to the Contact zone. Big enough for a very, very big truck, obviously. The Contacts are not encouraged to roam, to minimize panic, but they‘re no prisoners.
Glam takes one more deep breath, pushes the button marked „Access request, human“, watches the grey metal vanish in a blink, steps through and hasn’t time to feel any pain before succumbing to the massive blow that smashes his head.