Motivational Engineers Read online

  Motivational Engineers

  Bill Johnson

  The trick is to get people interested enough to do what needs to be done—and the operative word is “trick!”

  Bill Johnson

  Motivational Engineers

  “Today is our turn to show our products. And today we will discuss beverages.”

  Carolyn Sorenson sat at one end of the rectangular table. Urla na’Tydengh sat at the other end. A side table groaned under a rainbow of different­ly sized and colored bottles and cans. Plastic-covered sheets of paper filled with chemical specifications and vol­ume price discounts were pasted to the side of every bottle and can. An assortment of clear shot glasses, mugs, and tumblers were spread out in front of the human.

  “I will not discuss our space drive,” Urla said firmly. “That is not nego­tiable. I want to make that clear from the beginning.”

  The alien was covered with soft blonde fur, thin and fine on the face and shoulders, thicker and longer and darker on the lower half of her torso and her short legs. Her arms were long and muscular, the hands deft and slender, with two opposable thumbs flanking five fingers. Her feet were wide and long and flat.

  Her teeth were omnivorous, with both molars and prominent canines in a wide, thin-lipped mouth. Her nose was a shortened version of an ele­phant’s trunk, and where humans ex­pected eyes there were instead oval shaped black sensory pads. Her facial hair was short and trimmed and a nar­row mane of longer hair ran from the crest of her rounded skull to the tip of her tail.

  She wore an equipment belt and a vest with many pockets, each sealed with a hook and eye closure. A gold and diamond necklace hung around her neck.

  Imagine a six-foot-tall kangaroo with an extra pair of arms and an atti­tude…

  “Of course I understand you can’t negotiate about your space drive,” Sorenson said smoothly. Damn it! “And I respect your position.”

  “Then we can discuss your bever­ages,” Urla said, mollified. “Perhaps something there will have value as a trade item.”

  “There is no way to discuss them ,” Sorenson said. She reached over and took a dark green bottle and one of the pieces of paper from the side table. She took one of the empty glass­es from in front of her. “Each one is unique, the product of centuries of re­finement in one particular method of brewing or distilling. These are not simple fruit flavors, with alcohol added. These are art. Centuries and centuries of art. You cannot analyze these with a spectroscope and assign them a value. The only way to value art is to experience it. The only way to value these is to taste them.”

  “All of them?” Urla said doubtfully.

  “All of them,” Sorenson said firmly. “This is one of our original drinks, from a place called the Czech Repub­lic. The category is called beer,” she said. “It’s a fermented product, as you can see from the data sheet.”

  She opened it and poured a fine Pil­sner Urquell into a glass. A white foam head grew, then stopped just short of sliding over the edge of the mug. Car­olyn placed the glass and bottle to­gether across from Urla. Urla picked up the data sheet attached to the bottle and read it.

  “According to the data analysis, this is safe for me to drink,” Urla said. She stopped for a moment and frowned. “The alcohol content seems rather high.”

  “An important part of the taste,” Sorenson said. “And the Comparative Philosophies team reports you do drink alcohol.”

  “In certain religious rituals, yes,” Urla said doubtfully. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone drink it for pleasure”

  “Then perhaps this will open up new avenues for trade,” Sorenson said. And perhaps I'll get you drunk enough to talk and not know what you're saying. The biochemistry team reported that alcohol affects you the same as us.

  “Perhaps,” Urla said doubtfully. She picked up the mug then hesitated, halfway to her mouth.

  “It seems so… antiseptic,” she said innocently. “Whenever we use alco­hol it’s in a group religious ceremony. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk it by my­self. Perhaps you’ll drink with me?”

  Sorenson hesitated, then turned over a mug and filled it.

  “Of course,” she said. “No one likes to drink alone.”

  “Leave me alone. Let me die.”

  “You told her you never drank?” Detinla na’Tydengh said. “You told her no one ever drinks for pleasure?”

  “You’re going to remember this af­ter I’m dead. You’re going to remem­ber how you tortured me and you’re going to regret it and feel sorry for me.”

  “Feel sorry for you?” Detinla snort­ed. “I’m locked up with a team of hu­mans who smell like my child after he hasn’t bathed in a week, talking about religion until my mouth is sore and dry, while you’re sampling exotic alien beer. I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? ”

  “Not just beer,” Urla said. She smacked her lips together and stuck out her tongue. The inside of her mouth tasted like an old pair of boots and her tongue seemed to be coated white. “Distilled liquors. Vodka. Bour­bon. And something called Scotch.”

  “Take a pill and get up,” Detinla said. “Drink some water, wash your face, and I’ll be back.”

  Detinla left the cabin and the hatch slid shut behind her. Urla closed her eyes, but that only made the pound­ing in her head worse. She opened her eyes, tasted her tongue again and made a face. Finally she levered her­self up and off the bed and staggered to the washbasin.

  “Hangover cure,” she ordered. She looked at her face in the mirror and shuddered at what she saw. “Make that a double dose.”

  Two white tablets slid out of the dispensary. She swallowed them dry, gagged, then threw her head back and forced them down. She sat back down on her bunk and practiced deep breathing techniques.

  By the time Detinla returned, Urla was ready to admit that while she felt terrible, she no longer felt quite bad enough to require ritual suicide. Maybe, just maybe, and for business only, she might live long enough to try one more drink. Maybe some of that Scotch.

  “You’ll live,” Detinla said after she gave Urla a critical look. “Here.” Detinla tossed Urla a clean dress coverall. Urla looked up at her, puz­zled.

  “Word from upstairs,” Detinla said, with a jerk of her head. “It’s time to go faster. Your next session is sched­uled for this afternoon.”

  “You can’t hurry one of these,” Urla complained. Her headache was a fad­ed memory now, and more than any­thing she felt hungry. She slid out of her old, dirty coverall with the inter­esting stains and into the crisp new uniform. “They know that as well as we do. To come all this way and then fail because we get impatient is worse than a sin: it’s damned wasteful.”

  “And we don’t have so much raw material that we can afford to waste any of it,” Detinla said. “Yeah, I agree. But they’re not really rushing us. Com­parative Philosophies is finished with the humans.”

  Urla finished dressing and stood. Detinla opened the hatch and they stepped outside Urla’s cabin into the central dropshaft of the small scout ship. They fell gently to the lower lev­el of the ship.

  “What did you find? Can you make it work on them?” Urla asked eagerly.

  “No.”

  Detinla shook her head. She looked depressed, dejected. Comparative Philosophies was successful more of­ten than any other specialty, and Detinla was acknowledged as an ex­pert. To admit defeat was not some­thing she was good at.

  “They’ve got everything I need,” she said. “All the old legends, all the old beliefs. Angels and saints and heaven up above in the stars. And the cultural mores fit perfectly, with the ability to make a long term commit­ment to a goal and stick to it, for gen­eration after generation after genera­tion. You remember those pictu
res of the cathedrals?”

  “The big churches over in Europe?” Urla asked. Detinla nodded.

  “It took them hundreds of years to build those, back before they even had steam power or any kind of ma­chine tools. The original architects were long in their graves before there was even a recognizable outline of a structure. And still they kept on build­ing until they were finished,” Detinla said.

  “Impressive,” Urla said.

  Detinla shook her head.

  “They have everything we need,” she repeated. “A history of religious fanaticism as strong as anything I’ve ever seen in the textbooks. A history of hierarchical organizations that know how to put a plan together to attack a problem. And the ruthless­ness to create and enforce the rules we need to solve the problem.”

  “So why can’t we use religion?”

  “Because they have too damned many religions!” Detinla exploded. “Usually I have trouble even finding one with the right specifications that I can work with, and here we’ve got hundreds, with a thousand splinter sects off of those. We’ve got religion on their newstapes. We’ve got religion on their video channels. Hell, we’ve even got religious preachers in the parks.”

  “And?”

  “And none of them is worth any­thing ” she said disgustedly “We’re too late. The old centralized religions that built the cathedrals and the pagoda cities and the pyramids are all gone, the religions that could focus the en­ergy of an entire society all broken up. All these modern religions worry about is saving souls and doing good deeds and fighting with each other. That’s useless to us.”

  “What about the preachers on the media?”

  “Money. All they worry about is money,” Detinla said. “No, I’m no good this time. I’ll keep on talking with them to keep up our cover, but either you or one of the other teams will have to pull it off this time. If any­one is going to.”

  “You think we’ll fail?” Urla said. She felt a familiar deep depression start again, and the great homesickness wash over her.

  “I don’t know,” Detinla said, and shrugged. “We’ve failed before. But we must never give up.”

  “I’ve never been the solution be­fore,” Urla said.

  “We’ve never met people this strange before.”

  “Today is our turn to show prod­ucts,” Urla said.

  Sorenson sat across the familiar table from her, the rest of the human negotiating team in their chairs along the wall behind her. Urla was not sure of her ability to read human coloring and facial expression, but it seemed to her that Sorenson seemed more pale today, and the skin around her eyes darker. The eyes themselves were red and bloodshot.

  “Do you feel all right?” Urla asked.

  “Fine. Just fine. Everything is just fine,” Sorenson said. Her smile was forced and fixed. I'm fine, all right she thought. I might kill for a bottle of aspirin and eight hours of sleep, but I'm fine. She looked across the table at Urla. And damn those bas­tards in biochemistry. After all she drank last night she was supposed to have a hangover today. She looks just fine. And I feel like hell.

  Urla looked at Sorenson and al­lowed herself a secret smile. Add hangover cure to the list of trade items, she thought to herself. And I hope you feel as bad as you look. That was supposed to be me, feeling like that, wasn't it? Well, sometimes biters get bit, she thought spitefully.

  “Sometimes our young are adverse­ly affected after a religious ceremony,” Urla said smoothly. “When we mature we have no problem with consuming any amount of alcohol. I’m glad to hear you are fine.”

  “Yes,” Sorenson crisply. “Now, what do you have to discuss today?”

  “Ah, something I thought you might find interesting,” Urla said. She gestured and the drone set a shiny metal cylinder on the conference table, then slid silently back and out of the way.

  “And this is…?”

  “Something suggested by the speci­fications you provided our biology de­partment,” Urla said. She touched the side of the container and it became transparent.

  The cylinder was filled with a clear liquid that filled the container almost to the top. In the center of the liquid, supported by a webwork of semi-translucent strands, was a dark red object, about the size and shape of two clenched fists held together. As Sorenson watched, the object pulsed in and out, first on one side, then on the other.

  “It works in a liquid environment? Completely enclosed?” Sorenson asked.

  “It works in a liquid environment,” Urla said. She folded her upper pair of arms across her chest. She pushed a plastic sheet covered with specifica­tion numbers across the table to Sorenson. She picked it up, glanced at it, and handed it back to one of the engineers behind her. “If you expose it to air it begins to dry out and be­comes useless.”

  “It’s not very strong,” the engineer commented. Urla glared at him.

  “It’s not supposed to be very strong,” she snapped. “We met the specifications you gave us. It’s de­signed for endurance and reliability, not power. The pump has no moving parts and will last one hundred years without a failure.”

  “Guaranteed?” Sorenson asked.

  “Guaranteed,” Urla said.

  “How does it work?” Sorenson asked. She peered closely into the cylinder of clear liquid, the pump in­side.

  “It’s an electrically sensitive gel,” Urla explained. “When a current crosses it, the gel shrinks. When the current goes away, it expands.”

  “All at once?”

  “No, it’s localized. Your specifica tion showed four pumping chambers, each of which contracts and expands separately, but in sequence,” Urla said. “We built this to duplicate that func­tion exactly.”

  “The gel is chemically neutral?” Sorenson asked.

  “Completely neutral,” Urla said.

  “We have to test it,” Sorenson said.

  Urla heaved herself upright, tail tucked discretely behind her.

  “Of course,” she said. “If everything is satisfactory we’ll sell you all the manufacturing specifications and de­velopment samples.”

  Urla turned and left the room. Sorenson studied the pump in the dis­play cylinder.

  “So what do we do with it?” the en­gineer asked. He waved the specifica­tions sheet at her. “We’ve got better and stronger pumps that will last just as long. There’s no way this can be used in an industrial environment.”

  Sorenson continued to stare at the pump, fascinated by the slow, steady beat.

  “You’re a good engineer, Harry, but you think in black and white, in straight lines.”

  “I think like an engineer,” he said.

  “Exactly. Which is why I’m in charge of this negotiation,” Sorenson said. “Don’t think pump. Think heart. The fully implantable artificial human heart…”

  Excerpt, UN-Tydengh Economic Negotiations report, Dr. Carolyn Sorenson, Chief Negotiator, Blue Box report, General Secretary Eyes Only:

  “…Economic opportunities for human business in the interstellar market appear great. Tydengh nego­tiators have purchased large numbers of samples of various Earth products, including ceramics, textiles, process control equipment, and distilled liquors (particularly Scotch). In return we’ve received various high technolo­gy goods, such as a fully implantable artificial human heart…

  “…The one item the Tydengh have refused to sell is space drive technology. Intelligence operations have also been unsuccessful…

  “Conclusion: Human products have a potentially huge interstellar market. We cannot, however, get our prod­ucts to market except through the Ty­dengh. This limits our commercial op­portunities and the profit potential of the market. Unless and until we devel­op our own space drive.

  “Proposal: this office has been con­tacted by representatives of members of the Security Council, as well as Japan, Germany, India and other ma­jor industrialized powers. As per your instructions we have provided them access to our reports to you. The unanimous response has been a de­sire to com
bine technologies in a space drive development effort. Our analysis supports this effort…

  Urla sighed almost like a human when she was safely aboard her ship. Earth hung above her, a mottled blue and white and brown ball. The space station called Orbital Watch One float­ed next to the Kreela. The radar de­tector on board the Kreela glowed a pulsing yellow-orange, each radar im­pulse that reflected back to the hu­mans indicated by a single flicker.

  “Well?” Detinla asked.

  Urla closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. The familiar odors of home, the deep, musty smells she’d missed so much on Earth, seemed to roll up her nose and into her brain, and wash outward over her entire body. The closest she’d come to this on Earth was the day her trade delegation visited a farm and she lin­gered, alone for just a minute, in the hog confinement building. She hadn’t even realized she was homesick until then.

  And now.

  She opened her eyes and smiled.

  “If we do our last part correctly, then, yes, we will succeed,” she said. “They are almost ready to build a cathedral. But they need just a little more convincing.”

  “Good,” Detinla said. She turned back to the control board while Urla strapped herself in front of the com­munications console.

  Urla checked the clock and the lat­est messages from the other four ships. She sent out a synchronization signal to the ships, scrambled to sound like random solar radiation, and waited impatiently while the signal and replies crawled out and back at the speed of light.

  “I’ve got departure clearance from the humans,” Detinla said. She touched the keyboard and the Kreela began to drift away from Orbital Watch One.

  “We’re synched up,” Urla said, as the last acknowledgment signal came in from the distant ships. She touched her own keyboard. “Timing signal sent. We’re committed.”

  Detinla was busy with her controls. The Kreela accelerated away from the space station. Timing was every­thing. The Kreela must position itself so Orbital Watch One was the only station that could observe them, and then dip out of sight for exactly eight seconds.