I work at the venerable firm of Laslow, Smythe, Smythe,
Bulkemacher, and Fine, which gives me a certain amount of cachet in particular
company, at the least to the degree one might expect given that my name
is Drovinsky. I shuffled a bit in my
slightly ill-fitting vest and sport coat, which had been carefully chosen for a
particularly avuncular look back in the days when I was a litigator. I continue to affect it largely out of
nostalgia; most of my recent clients probably wouldn't know the difference if I
showed up as a cross-dressing Elvis impersonator.
I enter Bulkemacher's office precisely 75 seconds before our
appointed time, as certain that this fastidious devotion to punctuality will go
unnoticed as I am that I would spend the first five minutes being chewed out
for tardiness were it otherwise. The
secretary waves me in immediately.
“Ah, there you are.
We have a another matter that calls for your, eh, special
sensibilities,” says Bulkemacher.
As it happens, I don't have special sensibilities. I had, however, had several years in which it
was inadvisable to show myself in the more decent corners of the legal
establishment, and thus had been especially motivated to familiarize myself
with the sort of specialized knowledge, both jurisprudential and...
otherwise... that would allow me to get my foot back in the door without having
it broken off with extreme prejudice.
“Yessir. And who do I
have the pleasure of representing today?”
I'm not resentful about this situation at all. Or at least, no one could see to the
contrary. I had been more than a decent
courtroom attorney at one time, after all.
“The clients are not actually here today. You will have to go upstairs to meet
them. I believe they are Quarterbacks.”
Ah. Could be worse, I
suppose. I had read a fair amount about
Lllll!!ldz, though I had not previously worked with the species. They lacked anything analogous to a larynx,
instead communication by touch using a sort of Braille output on their
pseudopods. Group discussions inevitably
involved a sort of huddle, hence their English moniker. First contact had been a bit sketchy, as the
human diplomats had naturally developed goosebumps when the Lllll!!dz explorers
bespoke them. Initially, it appeared
that our unintended salutation of “Curses upon your and all your ancestors back
to the spawning of dzl!ll!” would provoke a real interstellar incident, but
cooler cerebral ganglia ultimately prevailed.
Relations had been fairly smooth since then, so I had to assume that the
case was not in the domain of treaty obligations or other such weighty
matters. That, and the fact that I was
unlikely to be entrusted with such things any time soon, special sensibilities
or not.
“What sort of matter is this, sir?” I inquired.
“The message is a bit hazy... amateur hour over at the
'teletype' receiver station. It would
seem to a be a matter of inheritance,” burbled Bulkemacher.
“Inheritance?” I said, forgetting the “sir” in my
incredulousness. “The Llllll!!ldz
reproduce through budding. Is one of
them going to disown his almost-clone-to-be?”
“Well, Drovinsky, I expect you will determine such details
at your meeting this evening Do stop Ms.
Larrel's desk on the way out and she will see that the necessary travel funds
are placed in your account. Good day.”
Through a combination of force of will and good luck, I
managed not to sputter as I exited his office.
A meeting upstairs this evening.
Ah, but perhaps I should clarify.
Being a partner, Bulkemacher's office was, of course, on the top floor. “Upstairs,” in this case, meant up the
Elevator, presumably because the Quarterbacks wished to meet in a more
convivial gravity for them. Which meant
I had until this evening to catch a plane from New York to Florida, and then to
ride up to orbit. I confess, I have a
sensitive stomach. Turbulence on the
plane is bad enough. The elevator, as
far as I am concerned, should merit hazard pay, perfect safety record be
damned.
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