The Night the Aliens Gave Everyone Robert Goulet Tattoos
The Night the Aliens Gave Everyone Robert Goulet Tattoos
Marcy Bell had spent eleven years at Golden Years Harbor learning that anything parked in the fire lane eventually became her problem.
Ambulances belonged there. Fire engines belonged there. The shuttle bus could stop there for exactly long enough to load residents, provided Dennis did not wander inside for coffee and pretend he had forgotten how clocks worked.
The silver thing currently occupying half the lane belonged nowhere.
Marcy came through the lobby doors carrying a clipboard and the concentrated irritation of a woman who had been interrupted during medication-delivery paperwork by something without a license plate.
She stopped beside the faded FIRE LANE NO PARKING sign.
The object was smooth, oval, silver, and roughly the size of the facility shuttle. No tires. No windows. No doors. No company logo. No helpful magnetic sign saying ELECTRICAL CONTRACTOR or MOBILE DENTAL UNIT.
It had parked beautifully.
That made it worse.
She knocked on the side.
“Hello?”
The metal made a soft humming sound beneath her knuckles.
“Whoever is operating this vehicle needs to move it immediately.”
The automatic lobby doors opened behind her.
Sheila Park stepped outside with half a blueberry muffin in one hand and a roll of laminating film under her arm.
“What is that?”
“Something parked in the fire lane.”
“I can see where it’s parked.”
“Then we agree.”
“I meant what is it?”
“I’m working on that.”
Sheila walked around it once.
“No plate.”
“I noticed.”
“No windshield.”
“I noticed.”
“No wheels.”
“I noticed that too.”
“Could be decorative.”
“Decorative objects do not get to block emergency access.”
A seam appeared in the silver surface.
Marcy took one step backward.
Sheila took three.
The seam widened into a doorway.
White light spilled onto the pavement.
Marcy looked at the doorway, then at the fire-lane sign.
“There has to be a procedure for this.”
Sheila swallowed the rest of her muffin whole.
Two figures came out.
The taller one reached Marcy’s shoulder. Silver-green skin. Large black eyes. Three-fingered hands with an extra pair of smaller digits folded against the palms. An embroidered robe covered its narrow body.
Marcy stared at the embroidery.
Tiny human faces stared back.
The second alien came out holding a polished metal instrument with a glowing blue tip.
Someone behind the lobby glass screamed.
Someone else yelled, “Get Walt.”
Marcy turned.
Residents were already gathering.
That was Golden Years Harbor. A broken vending machine could attract six people. A delivery man carrying flowers could attract nine. Sheila whispering, “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” could pull twenty-five residents out of their rooms before she finished the sentence.
Walter Dempsey was rolling toward the doors.
Marcy pointed at him through the glass.
“No.”
Walt kept coming.
The taller alien lifted both hands.
A small device at its throat clicked.
“People of Earth,” it said, “we extend peaceful greeting, ceremonial affection, and assurance that our arrival contains no conquest.”
Marcy looked at the spaceship.
“Can you move your vehicle?”
The alien stopped.
Sheila covered her mouth.
Marcy pointed at the sign.
“You are in a fire lane.”
The alien turned toward it.
Its enormous eyes moved over the faded lettering.
“We have occupied the sacred path of combustion.”
“It’s not sacred.”
“We apologize for defiling it.”
“You haven’t defiled anything. You just need to move.”
The alien touched a control on its sleeve.
The ship lifted six inches off the driveway, slid sideways, rotated two degrees, and settled neatly into a pair of visitor spaces.
Marcy felt an unreasonable amount of satisfaction.
“Thank you.”
“We honor your emergency parking doctrine.”
“Fine.”
Walt came through the automatic doors.
“Marcy, are those aliens?”
“Yes.”
He looked offended.
“You were going to keep that from us?”
“I learned thirty seconds ago.”
“You already told me no.”
“Because you were coming outside before I knew whether they were safe.”
Walt stopped beside her and looked up at the visitors.
He was eighty-one, narrow-faced, silver-haired, and delighted by anything that gave him a reason to challenge facility policy.
“Welcome to Golden Years Harbor.”
The taller alien bowed.
“I am Tibbix, diplomatic coordinator of first peaceful encounter. This is Ploop, ceremonial image artisan.”
Ploop lifted the glowing instrument and bowed.
“Image artisan?” Sheila said.
“Correct.”
Marcy glanced at the thing in Ploop’s hands.
“What kind of image?”
Tibbix touched his chest.
“For many of our generations we received the electrical ghosts of your television transmissions.”
Marcy waited.
Sheila leaned in.
Walt looked thrilled.
Tibbix continued.
“We studied your dramas, musical ceremonies, formal garments, courtship songs, sacred performance halls, and leaders of cultural authority.”
The automatic doors opened again.
Dolores Finch came out with her walker.
Lenny Pike followed.
Behind them came Mrs. Kerrigan, Murray Dobbs, Jean Holloway, and four residents who had clearly abandoned whatever they had been doing.
Dolores stopped.
She stared at Tibbix’s robe.
“Oh, my God.”
Marcy turned.
“What?”
Dolores pointed.
“Those are Robert Goulet faces.”
Tibbix put both hands over his chest.
“The human recognizes Robert Goulet of Earth.”
A small blue light appeared above Ploop’s instrument.
It expanded.
Robert Goulet materialized in holographic form, tuxedoed and solemn.
Walt said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Dolores leaned forward.
“That’s mid-career Goulet.”
Ploop perked up.
Tibbix bowed deeply toward her.
“We have reached the learned district.”
“You have reached Ohio,” Marcy said.
Tibbix gestured toward the hologram.
“From your broadcasts we concluded that Robert Goulet of Earth embodied your civilization’s highest expressions of dignity, romantic command, male elegance, vocal authority, cultural achievement, and tuxedo governance.”
Marcy looked at Sheila.
Sheila whispered, “Tuxedo governance is excellent.”
“Do not encourage this.”
Tibbix continued.
“Our custom requires a commemorative marking during first peaceful contact. Every willing human encountered may receive, without cost or pain, a permanent ceremonial image of your civilization’s most revered cultural figure.”
Ploop raised the instrument.
The holographic Goulet rotated.
Marcy understood.
She wished she did not.
Tibbix opened his arms.
“We offer Robert Goulet tattoos.”
There was silence.
Walt rolled up his sleeve.
“I’m in.”
Marcy stepped in front of him.
“No.”
Walt stopped.
“No?”
“No tattoos.”
“You heard the part where they’re free?”
“Yes.”
“That usually helps.”
Tibbix looked between them.
“Does the administrator forbid Robert Goulet of Earth?”
“She’s assistant administrator,” Sheila said.
Marcy turned on her.
“Not helping.”
Walt tried to roll around her.
Marcy moved with him.
He went left.
She blocked him.
He went right.
She blocked him again.
“This is beneath both of us,” Walt said.
“You are trying to juke an administrator in a wheelchair.”
“Assistant administrator.”
“Thank you, Walt.”
Dolores approached Ploop’s hologram.
“Before anyone does anything, that portrait needs work.”
Ploop lowered the device slightly.
“Work?”
“The jaw is fine. The eyes are weak.”
Ploop touched a control.
The holographic eyes narrowed.
Dolores grimaced.
“No. Now he looks suspicious.”
Ploop changed them.
“Too wistful.”
Changed again.
“Too damp.”
Marcy stared at her.
“What does a damp expression look like?”
“That.”
Ploop’s shoulders fell.
Dolores pointed at the hologram.
“Insufficiently Goulet.”
Ploop whispered something untranslated.
Walt pulled his sleeve higher.
“How big can you make one?”
Ploop produced a larger hologram.
Marcy said, “Nobody is getting tattooed.”
Walt pointed at the image.
“Six inches.”
“No.”
“Eight.”
“You went the wrong direction.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
“It is not diplomatic.”
Tibbix turned toward Walt.
“You participate in Earth diplomacy?”
Walt folded his hands.
“In an unofficial capacity.”
“You do not.”
“I said unofficial.”
Tibbix nodded solemnly.
Marcy felt the evening sliding away from her.
Sheila pulled a pen from her pocket.
Marcy saw it.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Sheila turned slightly.
Marcy stepped around her.
She had written INTEREST LIST across the top of a sheet of paper.
“No.”
“It’s preliminary.”
“No list.”
“We already have five.”
“You have five what?”
“Interested residents.”
Walt raised his hand.
Dolores raised hers without looking away from the hologram.
Mrs. Kerrigan raised hers.
Jean raised hers.
Lenny raised his, paused, and asked, “Can they put one somewhere private?”
Half the group laughed.
Lenny looked around.
“What?”
Marcy pressed two fingers against her forehead.
“We are not discussing placement.”
“I’m just asking whether there are restrictions.”
“There are currently restrictions on the entire procedure.”
“So maybe later.”
“No.”
Walt said, “She said currently.”
“I heard it,” Lenny said.
Marcy pointed toward the lobby.
“Everybody inside.”
Nobody moved.
“Now.”
Dolores frowned at Ploop.
“I haven’t finished.”
“You can critique Robert Goulet inside.”
“That is all I ask.”
Tibbix followed them.
Ploop followed Dolores.
Walt rolled beside Ploop and pointed at his shoulder.
“I’m thinking full ceremonial coverage.”
Marcy turned around while walking backward.
“There is no such thing.”
Walt nodded toward Tibbix.
“He thinks there is.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
“Stop saying that.”
The orange fish in the lobby aquarium threw itself against the glass.
Everyone stopped.
Marcy looked at the fish.
The fish was named Senator because a former resident had named him that years ago and nobody had bothered changing it.
Walt said, “Goulet.”
Senator rammed the glass again.
Dolores said, “Interesting.”
Walt repeated it.
“Goulet.”
Thump.
Marcy pointed at him.
“Do not provoke the fish.”
Tibbix stepped closer to the aquarium.
His face changed.
“No.”
Tibbix bowed.
“The orange elder guards this house.”
“He is a fish.”
Senator bit a plastic plant.
Tibbix bowed lower.
“His humility is profound.”
“He eats his own gravel.”
“Wisdom takes many forms.”
Marcy looked at the ceiling.
She had been dealing with aliens for less than ten minutes.
The fish already outranked her.
Marcy’s office contained thirty-seven binders because thirty-six had once failed to cover a problem.
That had been a dispute involving a mobile podiatrist, a birthday cake, and a family member who insisted buttercream frosting violated a resident’s care plan.
She pulled down EMERGENCY PROCEDURES, OUTSIDE VENDORS, BEAUTY AND PERSONAL CARE SERVICES, RESIDENT CONSENT, RESIDENT RIGHTS, and MISCELLANEOUS SERVICES.
Walt watched from the doorway.
“You have a binder called miscellaneous?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Things that don’t fit anywhere else.”
“Aliens?”
“Not yet.”
Tibbix stood beside the printer.
Ploop sat in the visitor chair.
Dolores stood behind him.
Lenny had taken the other chair and was eating a peppermint he had found in his pocket.
Sheila stood at the copier.
The copier began running.
Marcy looked up.
“What are you copying?”
“Nothing important.”
Pages slid into the output tray.
Marcy walked over.
GOULET INTEREST REGISTRATION
PRELIMINARY — NOT AN APPOINTMENT
“Sheila.”
“It says not an appointment.”
“You made twelve copies.”
“Paper isn’t binding.”
“Neither is your employment agreement if you keep this up.”
Sheila picked up the copies.
“That felt managerial.”
“I am a manager.”
“Assistant.”
Marcy turned.
“Why is everybody suddenly obsessed with my title?”
Walt said, “It’s a rough night for hierarchy.”
Marcy opened the beauty-services binder.
“Outside hairdressers, barbers, manicurists, cosmetologists, and personal-care contractors must provide credentials, proof of insurance, sanitation documentation, appointment procedures, and—”
Tibbix raised one hand.
“Robert Goulet of Earth cut hair?”
“No.”
“Then this regulation appears irrelevant.”
Walt nodded.
“He’s got you.”
“He does not have me.”
“You’re reading barber rules to an extraterrestrial.”
“I am looking for the closest applicable policy.”
Dolores said, “That is probably the least applicable policy.”
Marcy flipped pages.
Tattooing did not appear.
Aliens did not appear.
Celebrity facial imagery did not appear.
The state had prepared regulations for massage therapists, mobile dentists, barbers, beauticians, and pet therapy volunteers.
No one had anticipated Goulet.
Marcy hated that oversight personally.
“What exactly does the device do?” she asked.
Ploop lifted it.
“Gives Goulet.”
“Yes. Mechanically.”
Ploop looked at Tibbix.
Tibbix translated.
“Painless noninvasive pigment harmonization.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means much to Ploop.”
Ploop touched his chest.
“Very much.”
“Needles?”
“No.”
“Heat?”
“No.”
“Incision?”
“No.”
“Dye?”
“No.”
“Chemical?”
“No.”
“Infection risk?”
Tibbix looked offended.
“We would not bring infection as diplomatic gift.”
“I am not accusing you of doing it deliberately.”
“That comforts us.”
Lenny raised one hand.
“What about somewhere around the hip?”
Marcy closed her binder.
“Lenny.”
“I’m asking for future reference.”
“There is no future reference.”
“Upper hip.”
“We understand.”
“Not too far down.”
“Lenny.”
“I don’t want Robert getting near the business end.”
Walt turned his wheelchair away and started coughing into his fist.
Sheila bent over the copier.
Dolores said, “The phrase itself is doing most of the damage.”
Lenny looked genuinely confused.
“What phrase?”
Marcy stood.
“I called Dr. Navarro.”
Walt groaned.
“You called a doctor over a free tattoo?”
“I called the medical director because an extraterrestrial device is altering human skin.”
“That sounds better when you say it that way.”
“It is not supposed to sound better.”
Tibbix bowed.
“Earth summons a healer to witness Goulet.”
“No. Earth does not.”
Ploop projected Thoughtful Goulet over Marcy’s desk.
Dolores frowned.
“Still wrong.”
“Stop working on him.”
“He looks troubled.”
“He should. He’s in my office.”
Ploop altered the mouth.
Dolores leaned closer.
“Now he looks concerned about parking.”
Marcy looked at the hologram.
For one dreadful second she understood what Dolores meant.
She turned away.
“There has to be a procedure for this.”
Walt said, “You already said that.”
“I am aware.”
“Just keeping continuity.”
Dr. Felix Navarro arrived wearing scrubs and the expression of a man expecting to hear that somebody had swallowed a hearing-aid battery.
He stopped in the doorway.
He looked at Tibbix.
He looked at Ploop.
He looked at the hovering Robert Goulet over Marcy’s desk.
He looked at Marcy.
“What happened?”
“Aliens.”
“Yes.”
“Free tattoos.”
“Yes.”
“Robert Goulet.”
“I can see that.”
“I need you to determine whether the device is medically safe.”
Felix looked at Ploop.
“May I examine it?”
Ploop handed it over.
Marcy pointed.
“Do not activate anything.”
Felix turned the device in his hands.
“I don’t know how.”
The device scanned him.
A soft chime sounded.
Felix’s face appeared in hologram form.
Then his skin disappeared from the hologram.
Muscle.
Bone.
Blood vessels.
Tiny labels appeared.
Felix went still.
Marcy saw the change.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You’re interested.”
“I’m a physician.”
“You were supposed to be alarmed.”
“I can be alarmed after I understand it.”
“That is not useful to me.”
They moved to the activities lounge.
Ploop placed a synthetic skin pad on a folding table.
Sheila had already put up a laminated sign.
EXTRATERRESTRIAL WELCOME AREA.
Marcy removed it.
Sheila waited until Marcy turned around and put it back.
Ploop touched the device to the air above the pad.
Blue light swept across it.
A detailed Tuxedo Goulet appeared instantly.
Felix put on gloves.
He rubbed the surface.
Scraped lightly.
Used a swab.
Examined it under a portable magnifier.
Residents gathered behind him.
Marcy noticed three holding coffee.
One held pretzels.
Someone had put a bowl of mints on the table.
“This is not an activity.”
Sheila said, “Nobody called it an activity.”
Marcy spotted a handwritten sign.
GOULET MEDICAL OBSERVATION.
She pointed.
“That is calling it an activity.”
“It’s descriptive.”
Felix examined the test pad.
“No puncture.”
Marcy stepped closer.
“No puncture at all?”
“None.”
“Burn?”
“No.”
“Residual heat?”
“No.”
“Chemical residue?”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Contamination?”
“The surface is cleaner than this table.”
Marcy looked at Sheila.
Sheila said, “I disinfected.”
Felix turned the scanner toward his own forearm.
Ploop reached for it.
Felix held still.
The device passed over his skin.
A projection appeared.
Ploop pointed at a tiny spot.
“Pigment variation.”
Felix looked down.
“What kind?”
“Benign. Observe twelve-month interval.”
Felix leaned closer to the hologram.
Marcy grabbed his wrist.
“Do not fall in love with the tattoo machine.”
“This has diagnostic capability we do not have.”
“It puts Goulet on people.”
“It also mapped a lesion without contact.”
“Can you find a medical problem with it?”
Felix thought.
“Yes.”
Marcy brightened.
“Good.”
He pointed toward Mrs. Kerrigan.
“She’s had coffee twice and water zero times.”
Marcy stared.
“That is not the machine.”
“You asked for a medical problem.”
“With the machine.”
“None identified.”
Mrs. Kerrigan lifted a paper cup.
“I have water now.”
Felix nodded.
“Good.”
Marcy looked betrayed.
Ploop began showing customization options.
Small Goulet.
Large Goulet.
Young Goulet.
Mature Goulet.
Regal.
Singing.
Tuxedo.
Thoughtful.
A resident near the doorway said, “Can he wear a white jacket?”
Ploop changed it.
Someone else said, “Can you add stars?”
Stars appeared.
Walt rolled forward.
“How many?”
Marcy stepped between him and the hologram.
“No shopping.”
“It’s not shopping. It’s free.”
“No browsing.”
Walt looked at the wall.
“I already browsed.”
Felix removed his gloves.
“From what I can tell, it is painless, sterile, noninvasive, and far beyond our current technology.”
Marcy’s jaw tightened.
“Could you sound less impressed?”
“No.”
“Try.”
“The residents should still hydrate.”
“Felix.”
Ploop demonstrated optical depth.
The projected portrait appeared to change slightly when viewed from another angle.
Walt slapped his knee.
“That. Put that on mine.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not need Robert Goulet tracking me across the dining room with his eyes.”
“That’s a you problem.”
Dolores stepped closer.
“Keep the face static.”
Marcy looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“Theatrical dignity requires commitment to a single expression.”
Marcy stopped thanking her.
Sheila leaned toward Marcy.
“Thirty-nine.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
“Forty-one if staff count.”
“Staff do not count.”
“Then thirty-nine.”
“No.”
Walt pointed to an eight-inch portrait.
“I’m thinking shoulder.”
Marcy turned.
“One inch maximum.”
The room reacted so loudly Felix covered one ear.
Walt looked at her.
“One inch?”
“If anything happens.”
“You can’t get a decent jawline in one inch.”
Dolores said, “He’s correct.”
“Why are you siding with him?”
“I have standards.”
Walt folded his arms.
“Six.”
“One.”
“Five.”
“One.”
“Four and stars.”
“One.”
“Three and tasteful stars.”
“One.”
He looked at Tibbix.
Tibbix watched closely.
“Two inches,” Walt said. “No border.”
Marcy did not answer.
Walt nodded.
“Excellent. We’re negotiating.”
“We are not negotiating.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
Tibbix bowed.
Marcy pointed at Walt.
“Stop teaching the aliens things.”
By eight-thirty, Golden Years Harbor had a Goulet menu.
Marcy found it in the activities lounge beneath a laminated sign reading GOULET CONSULTATION.
Sheila had arranged six sample portraits on a table.
REGAL GOULET.
SINGING GOULET.
TUXEDO GOULET.
THOUGHTFUL GOULET.
YOUNG GOULET.
MATURE GOULET.
Marcy stared at the display.
“You made a menu.”
“Reference board.”
“It has categories.”
“That helps reference.”
“It looks laminated.”
“It’s sleeved.”
“Why?”
“Lamination felt too official.”
Marcy looked at her.
That answer made things worse.
Residents surrounded the display.
Jean Holloway pointed at Young Goulet.
“He looks too young.”
Dolores said, “That is the point.”
“I know what young means.”
“Then what is your complaint?”
“I want him young, but experienced.”
Ploop considered.
The hologram changed.
Jean nodded.
“Exactly.”
Dolores looked disgusted.
“That is Mature Goulet with better lighting.”
Jean shrugged.
“Then I like dishonest maturity.”
Walt studied Regal Goulet.
“Put him in the tuxedo.”
Ploop changed the costume.
“Add microphone.”
Added.
“Stars.”
Added.
Marcy approached.
“No stars.”
Walt looked at her.
“What’s wrong with stars?”
“They make it larger.”
“Not necessarily.”
“They make it more elaborate.”
“That is not a safety concern.”
“It is a dignity concern.”
Walt looked at the hologram.
“I feel very dignified.”
Dolores said, “The border is cheap.”
Walt pointed at her.
“Now that is constructive.”
Ploop projected lettering beneath the portrait.
THE GOULET ACCORDS.
Dolores recoiled.
“No.”
Walt said, “That stays.”
“The spacing is terrible.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
“Diplomacy does not excuse bad kerning.”
Tibbix turned toward Dolores.
“What is kerning?”
Marcy said, “Do not answer.”
Dolores answered.
“Spacing between letters.”
Tibbix absorbed this.
“Earth treaty authority is determined by letter spacing.”
“No.”
Dolores tilted her hand.
“Not determined. Influenced.”
“No.”
Ploop adjusted the lettering.
Dolores leaned closer.
“Better.”
Ploop brightened.
“Still insufficiently Goulet.”
Ploop dimmed.
Lenny stood near the smaller samples.
“I think I’ll get Thoughtful.”
“Why?” Dolores asked.
“He seems pleasant.”
“He seems worried.”
“Maybe he cares.”
Dolores gave him a long look.
Lenny tapped his upper thigh.
“I’d put him around here.”
Marcy looked away.
“Upper outer thigh is fine.”
“What about inner?”
A nearby resident snorted.
Lenny frowned.
“I have perfectly good inner thigh.”
“No one disputed that,” Walt said.
“I’d just want to keep it above the business end.”
Sheila walked behind a folding screen and stayed there.
Marcy spoke through clenched teeth.
“Ploop will discuss exact placement privately.”
Lenny nodded.
“That’s sensible. No need for the whole room to hear how far down I want him.”
The folding screen shook.
Marcy walked toward the door.
Graham Pritchard entered before she reached it.
He wore a navy suit, polished shoes, and his executive-administrator expression.
The expression lasted until he saw the aliens.
Then it died.
He took in the room.
Thirty residents.
Two extraterrestrials.
Six Goulets.
A clipboard.
A laminated sign.
Walt holding up an eight-inch holographic tattoo design.
“What the hell is happening?”
Marcy pointed toward her office.
“You. Now.”
Graham supported her position for eleven glorious minutes.
“No tattoos,” he said.
“Yes.”
“No press.”
“Yes.”
“No photographs.”
“We can request—”
“No employee participation.”
“Yes.”
“No alien technology attached to facility systems.”
Marcy paused.
Graham stopped pacing.
“What?”
“They used the printer.”
“Why?”
“Portrait samples.”
He closed his eyes.
“Of course they did.”
“I want everything suspended until corporate counsel, insurance, compliance, and the state licensing office respond.”
“Yes.”
“I want the residents informed that nothing continues tonight.”
“Yes.”
“I want the sign-up lists collected.”
A muffled “No” came through the wall.
Graham looked toward the vent.
“Was that Sheila?”
“Probably.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“This could destroy us.”
“Exactly.”
“We’ll be known forever as the facility where aliens tattooed senior citizens.”
“Exactly.”
“With Robert Goulet.”
“Yes.”
“That part is somehow worse.”
“Thank you.”
His phone buzzed.
He looked.
Marcy watched his eyes move across the screen.
His panic changed shape.
She knew that look.
She had seen it when a resident’s granddaughter had posted a video of Golden Years Harbor’s disastrously under-rehearsed talent show and it had gone locally viral.
“What?”
Graham scrolled.
“What?”
“Family member posted a picture.”
“Delete it.”
“I cannot delete another adult’s post.”
“Ask.”
“It has nine hundred reactions.”
Marcy came around the desk.
The photo showed Tibbix sitting beside Mrs. Kerrigan in the lounge. Both held paper cups. Sheila’s EXTRATERRESTRIAL WELCOME AREA sign was visible behind them.
Mrs. Kerrigan looked thrilled.
The caption read:
MOM MET ACTUAL ALIENS TONIGHT AND APPARENTLY THEY CAME HERE BECAUSE THEY THINK ROBERT GOULET WAS OUR KING.
Marcy read it twice.
“They do not think he was our king.”
“Close enough.”
“No.”
Graham scrolled.
“People love this.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Graham Pritchard.”
He listened.
His posture straightened.
Marcy knew she was losing him.
“Which station?”
She mouthed no.
He held up a finger.
“Yes, we’re preparing a statement.”
Marcy pointed at the phone.
“No.”
He turned away.
“We absolutely support resident autonomy.”
“No.”
He covered the microphone.
“What?”
“You did not say that fifteen minutes ago.”
“I have always supported resident autonomy.”
“You called it catastrophic.”
“Catastrophe and autonomy can coexist.”
He uncovered the microphone.
“Call me back in twenty.”
He hung up.
Marcy crossed her arms.
“Channel Eight?”
“Yes.”
“No media.”
“They’re already coming.”
“You said no media.”
“That was before the narrative evolved.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You’re going to turn this into branding.”
“I’m going to protect the organization.”
“You’re going to rename it.”
“That is cynical.”
The door opened.
Sheila entered carrying a laminated sign.
HISTORIC RESIDENT-CENTERED FIRST-CONTACT ENGAGEMENT.
Graham looked at it.
Marcy looked at him.
Sheila looked between them.
“I heard ‘narrative’ through the vent.”
Graham pointed at the sign.
“Add wellness.”
Marcy stared at him.
Graham cleared his throat.
“Historic Intercultural Wellness Initiative.”
Sheila nodded.
“That’s better.”
“It is not better.”
“It sounds better.”
“It sounds insured.”
Graham adjusted his tie.
“We need to reframe the event.”
Marcy put both hands flat on her desk.
“It is an alien tattoo incident.”
“It is a resident-centered opportunity.”
“It is an alien tattoo incident.”
“Historic cultural exchange.”
“Alien tattoo incident.”
“Intercultural engagement.”
“Robert Goulet is being permanently placed on human skin twenty feet from my office.”
Graham thought about that.
“We probably don’t use that sentence with press.”
Marcy pointed at the door.
“Out.”
He left.
Sheila followed.
Before closing the door, Sheila asked, “Courtyard for media?”
“No.”
“Ballroom?”
“No.”
“Lobby?”
“No.”
“Courtyard.”
“Sheila.”
The door shut.
A fresh laminated sign slid under it ten seconds later.
POST-GOULET REFRESHMENTS.
Marcy picked it up.
Someone had added a little tuxedo.
The situation reached open revolt when Marcy announced ten consultation slots.
She had thought ten sounded reasonable.
Ten sounded controlled.
Ten sounded administrative.
Ten caused a black market.
The dining room erupted before she finished speaking.
“Ten?”
“Out of how many?”
“That’s favoritism.”
“Who decides?”
“Can spouses combine?”
“Does mobility affect priority?”
“Do veterans get preference?”
“Not relevant,” Marcy said.
“Do former teachers?” Dolores asked.
“No.”
“Artists?”
“No.”
“People with completed designs?”
“No.”
Walt raised his hand.
“Diplomats?”
“No.”
Tibbix sat beside him.
Walt pointed toward Tibbix.
“You may want to confer before rejecting that one.”
“I will not confer.”
The resident council president tapped a spoon against her water glass.
“We need a transparent allocation system.”
Marcy turned.
“You will have one.”
“What system?”
“I’m determining that.”
“That isn’t transparent.”
“It will be transparent when determined.”
Walt nodded.
“Government answer.”
Marcy ignored him.
Sheila ate chicken at a nearby table with the innocent posture of someone hiding evidence.
Marcy watched her.
Sheila ate faster.
“There’s a second list.”
Sheila stopped chewing.
“No.”
“There is.”
“I didn’t make one.”
“Where is it?”
“I couldn’t possibly know.”
“Left pocket.”
Sheila touched her left pocket.
The dining room laughed.
Marcy held out her hand.
Sheila surrendered a folded sheet.
UNOFFICIAL GOULET ALTERNATE PRIORITY ORDER.
Names covered both sides.
Arrows connected people.
Stars marked preferences.
Someone had written GOOD FOR MATURE in the margin.
Marcy found a notation beside Murray Dobbs.
THURSDAY PIE.
“What does Thursday pie mean?”
Murray raised one hand slowly.
Mrs. Kerrigan said, “He traded it.”
Marcy looked at him.
“You traded dessert?”
“For her place.”
“You cannot trade dessert privileges for a tattoo slot.”
Murray folded his arms.
“I don’t even like lemon.”
Mrs. Kerrigan said, “I do.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“It was relevant to the agreement.”
“There is no agreement.”
Murray looked wounded.
“We shook hands.”
“No dessert trading.”
A woman near the chandelier called out, “What about trades already completed?”
“No.”
“Grandfather clause?”
“No.”
“Pie has been exchanged.”
“I do not care what happened to the pie.”
Murray muttered, “Administration destroying local commerce.”
Dolores tapped the unofficial list.
“I require two appointments.”
“No.”
“One consultation and one approval.”
“You are not getting two.”
“My artistic process cannot be rushed.”
“You are not the tattoo artist.”
Ploop sat two tables away.
He raised one finger.
“Dolores supervises Goulet.”
Dolores sat straighter.
Marcy looked at Ploop.
“You did that.”
Ploop nodded.
“Correct.”
“Stop empowering people.”
Ploop lowered his head.
Tibbix stood.
“Question.”
Marcy braced herself.
“Yes?”
“We have heard that our ship must depart at midnight.”
The dining room went quiet.
Marcy turned very slowly.
“Who said that?”
Tibbix gestured toward the room.
“Numerous humans.”
“No.”
Residents avoided eye contact.
“There is no midnight deadline.”
Walt examined his potatoes.
Marcy pointed at him.
“Did you start that?”
“No.”
“Did you repeat it?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“It created urgency.”
“You manufactured urgency?”
“I heard rumors.”
“From whom?”
“People.”
“Which people?”
“The kind who start rumors.”
Sheila put her napkin over her mouth.
Tibbix said, “Our departure occurs after ceremonial exchange. Midnight holds no significance.”
The room relaxed.
Walt asked, “Would Ploop be awake at midnight?”
Marcy turned.
“No.”
“I asked Ploop.”
“No midnight tattooing.”
Sheila said, “Technically after midnight would be tomorrow.”
Marcy stared at her.
Sheila slowly drank water.
“I’m just observing time.”
“Do not schedule anything.”
“I haven’t.”
Marcy pointed.
“No midnight appointments.”
Walt said, “Consultations?”
“No.”
“Design review?”
“No.”
“Diplomatic planning?”
“No.”
Tibbix raised one hand.
“Ceremonial preparation?”
Marcy looked around the dining room.
Every face had the same careful blankness.
They were planning something.
She knew it.
The residents knew she knew it.
Nobody intended to stop.
She closed her eyes.
“This building is not operating a secret Goulet salon after bedtime.”
Walt said, “Secret is a strong word.”
She opened her eyes.
“Why?”
“Everyone knows.”
At 12:07 a.m., Marcy found Walt rolling backward through the east hallway with his wheelchair lights turned off.
She stood at the intersection outside laundry.
Walt stopped.
He turned the lights on.
“Evening.”
“Where are you going?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“You are wearing cologne.”
“It’s a free country.”
“You are going to the activities lounge.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know. I thought I was lost.”
“You have lived here three years.”
“Hallways change at night.”
“No, they do not.”
A blue light flickered beneath the activities-lounge door.
Marcy pointed.
“What is that?”
Walt looked.
“Could be anything.”
She opened the door.
Twenty-three people were inside.
Residents.
Staff.
Tibbix.
Ploop.
Felix.
Sheila.
Folding chairs had been arranged in a queue.
Masking tape created lanes.
A refreshment station offered coffee, water, crackers, and pudding cups.
A laminated sign hung above the check-in table.
EARLY-MORNING EXTRATERRESTRIAL CULTURAL ACCESS.
Marcy stood in the doorway.
Nobody spoke.
Sheila finally said, “I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“Not fully.”
“You created an underground tattoo clinic.”
“Nothing is underground.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s tomorrow’s activity.”
“It is seven minutes into tomorrow.”
“Correct.”
“You scheduled this?”
Sheila held up the activity calendar.
An entry had been added in blue pen.
12:01 A.M. — EARLY-MORNING CULTURAL ACCESS.
Marcy took it.
“You wrote this at eleven fifty-eight.”
“Still valid ink.”
Walt rolled past her.
“Good turnout.”
“You are going back to your room.”
“After my appointment.”
“There are no appointments.”
He held up a card.
GOULET CONSULTATION
WALT DEMPSEY
12:10 A.M.
Marcy looked at Sheila.
Sheila looked at Walt.
Walt looked at Ploop.
Ploop said, “Human prepared.”
Dolores came forward carrying three pages.
“We have revised the design.”
“We?”
“Ploop and I.”
Ploop projected Walt’s portrait.
Regal Goulet.
Tuxedo.
Microphone.
Stars.
Ornate lettering.
THE GOULET ACCORDS.
Marcy looked at Walt.
“This got bigger.”
“Ceremonial scale.”
“It is enormous.”
“Six inches.”
“You wanted one inch.”
“You wanted one inch.”
“That is what I meant.”
Dolores pointed at the border.
“I cut two stars.”
Marcy stared at her.
“You are acting as though you made it tasteful.”
“I made it less vulgar.”
Walt said, “We compromised.”
“None of you have authority to compromise on my behalf.”
Tibbix approached.
“Assistant Administrator Marcy Bell, we fear our gift has caused distress.”
“Yes.”
“We will suspend.”
“No!” came half the room.
Walt raised both hands.
“Let’s not be rude.”
Marcy looked at him.
“You created an illegal midnight queue.”
“Illegal?”
“Unauthorized.”
“Better.”
Mrs. Kerrigan called from the chairs.
“We signed your forms.”
Murray held his up.
“Three pages.”
Jean added, “Including the privacy section.”
Marcy turned to Felix.
“Why are you here?”
“Someone called medical.”
“Was anyone injured?”
“No.”
“Then why did you stay?”
Felix looked at Ploop’s device.
Marcy pointed at him.
“You are still fascinated.”
“Yes.”
“You could at least lie.”
“No.”
She took Walt’s consent form.
Every page was signed.
Every checkbox initialed.
He had even written I UNDERSTAND WHAT PERMANENT MEANS in the margin.
“If it isn’t documented, it didn’t happen,” he said.
“That is my line.”
“Seemed relevant.”
Marcy looked around.
Competent adults.
Voluntary decision.
No identified medical risk.
No coercion.
No confusion.
A stupid choice was still a choice.
She hated how much that mattered.
She handed Walt the form.
“Your arm. Your decision.”
Walt’s expression changed.
He had expected another fight.
“You mean it?”
“I mean I am not physically tackling an eighty-one-year-old man to protect him from a Robert Goulet tattoo he has spent five hours demanding.”
“Fair.”
“Documented consent.”
“Done.”
“Ploop confirms placement before starting.”
Ploop nodded.
“Done.”
“Felix watches.”
Felix nodded.
“Fine.”
“No additions.”
Walt looked offended.
“What additions?”
“No new stars. No border expansion. No second microphone.”
“I never asked for a second microphone.”
“You were thinking about it.”
He considered.
“I was.”
Ploop positioned the device over Walt’s upper arm.
Blue light flashed.
Two seconds.
Done.
Walt looked down.
Everyone crowded closer.
Marcy saw it from behind them.
Six inches of perfect Robert Goulet.
Dark tuxedo.
Commanding expression.
Microphone.
Stars.
THE GOULET ACCORDS arched beneath the portrait.
It was extremely well done.
Marcy hated that too.
Mrs. Kerrigan said, “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
Jean said, “I want bigger.”
Murray said, “You said six was too much.”
“I was wrong.”
Dolores examined Walt’s arm.
“The eyes are excellent.”
Ploop straightened.
“The jaw is maybe one shade sentimental.”
Ploop’s shoulders fell.
“But acceptable.”
Ploop lit up.
Walt rolled toward Marcy.
“Well?”
“I refuse to evaluate it.”
“You looked.”
“It is attached to a resident in my facility. Of course I looked.”
“Looks official.”
“No.”
He rotated his arm.
“Looks diplomatic.”
Marcy covered her face.
Behind them, three residents began arguing over whether Young Goulet or Mature Goulet carried more prestige.
Someone shouted that chest placement showed commitment.
Lenny asked whether upper thigh counted as “private prestige.”
Sheila started handing out appointment cards.
Marcy lowered her hands.
Stopping this was finished.
She had not won.
Nobody had exactly beaten her either.
The entire concept of winning had been laminated and placed on a folding table.
Walt’s tattoo became currency.
Residents who had mocked the idea now wanted appointments.
Residents already on the list changed their designs.
Mrs. Kerrigan chose a three-inch Young Goulet on her shoulder.
Murray requested Tuxedo Goulet on his forearm with “a serious lapel.”
Jean wanted Singing Goulet surrounded by light rays.
Dolores rejected the rays.
Jean ignored her.
Ploop found a compromise.
The rays became subtle.
Dolores called them “less offensive.”
Ploop accepted that as praise.
Lenny received a tiny Thoughtful Goulet on his outer thigh.
Marcy required the privacy screen after Lenny announced, “I’m ready to take my pants down for Robert.”
The entire lounge broke.
Lenny stood behind the screen.
“What did I say now?”
Walt shouted, “Nothing, Lenny. Keep going.”
“Is he too low?”
Marcy stared at the ceiling.
Ploop answered from behind the screen.
“Placement safe.”
“Not near the business end?”
Sheila walked out of the room.
Marcy heard her laughing in the hallway.
Felix checked each finished tattoo.
“No inflammation.”
“No pain.”
“No tissue damage.”
Marcy asked the same question after every resident.
“Anything medically concerning?”
Felix checked Mrs. Kerrigan.
“She needs water.”
Mrs. Kerrigan held up a bottle.
Felix nodded.
“Resolved.”
Marcy wanted a different medical director.
Sheila created aftercare packets even though no aftercare was needed.
Each contained moisturizer, gauze, mints, and a card reading CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR GOULET.
Marcy found one.
“Why gauze?”
“People expect something.”
“They have no wound.”
“Then they can use it later.”
“Why moisturizer?”
“Gift shop overstock.”
“You are liquidating inventory through alien diplomacy.”
“That sounds worse than it is.”
“Everything sounds worse when described accurately.”
Sheila thought about that.
“True.”
Marcy confiscated the sample sheets.
All of them.
At least she thought she had.
Twenty minutes later she saw Lenny examining one near the television.
She took it.
Another appeared at a dining table.
She took that.
Two residents had copied copies using the library machine.
By one-thirty, Goulet sheets existed throughout Golden Years Harbor.
Someone had one folded inside a crossword book.
Someone else had taped Young Goulet to a walker.
Walt carried a copy in a plastic document sleeve.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“It is unauthorized reproduction.”
“Of a publicly broadcast entertainer?”
“That is not the issue.”
“What is the issue?”
“I do not know anymore.”
“That’s progress.”
Tibbix approached.
His ceremonial robe now had a Golden Years Harbor visitor sticker attached to the chest.
Marcy had insisted.
The sticker read TIBBIX.
Tibbix had added DIPLOMATIC PRESENCE beneath it.
“We have observed Earth’s enthusiastic distinctions.”
Marcy braced herself.
“What distinctions?”
“Size hierarchy.”
“There is no size hierarchy.”
“Placement rank.”
“No.”
“Portrait-era doctrine.”
“No.”
“Decorative border faction.”
“No.”
“Letter-spacing authority.”
“Absolutely not.”
Tibbix looked delighted.
“Your Goulet theology is more complex than our scholars predicted.”
“You invented all of that from people arguing.”
“Yes.”
“That is not theology.”
Tibbix looked toward three residents debating whether Tuxedo Goulet was more formal than Regal Goulet.
“We accept your cultural modesty.”
Marcy rubbed her forehead.
Ploop’s device chimed.
A huge holographic Goulet appeared on the wall.
Tibbix raised both arms.
“Residents of Golden Years Harbor. Your ceremonial enthusiasm demonstrates readiness for the Grand Goulet Exchange.”
The lounge fell quiet.
Walt said, “I knew it.”
Marcy turned.
“You did not.”
“It sounds familiar.”
“You made up your entire diplomatic role.”
“Still.”
Graham hurried in.
“Did someone say grand?”
Marcy looked at him.
“No.”
Tibbix said, “Yes.”
Graham straightened his jacket.
“What is the Grand Goulet Exchange?”
Tibbix bowed.
“Final first-contact recognition. Earth presents its official cultural interpretation of Robert Goulet of Earth. We receive the meaning. We recognize your diplomatic seal. Our civilization witnesses.”
Marcy felt a headache form behind one eye.
“Our what?”
Tibbix pointed toward Walt’s arm.
Walt slowly rolled up his sleeve.
Marcy stared at him.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You let them think your tattoo is Earth’s official seal.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass them.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
Graham studied Walt’s arm.
“It photographs well.”
Marcy turned.
“No.”
“What?”
“You are not using his bicep for branding.”
“I said it photographs well.”
“You thought the rest.”
Graham smiled politely.
Sheila already had a marker out.
“No.”
She put it down.
“We need a room.”
“No.”
“Ballroom.”
“No.”
Graham said, “Ballroom.”
“No.”
Tibbix bowed.
“Earth selects ballroom.”
Marcy looked at all three of them.
Nobody seemed bothered.
She finally said, “I hate every person in this conversation.”
Walt called from across the lounge.
“Document that.”
The ballroom became the official site of interstellar cultural exchange because Sheila had access to folding chairs, microphones, extension cords, and signs.
Marcy had once considered those resources harmless.
She had learned.
Sheila mounted a laminated placard near the doors.
FIRST CONTACT CULTURAL APPRECIATION CEREMONY
Below that:
PLEASE SILENCE DEVICES DURING GOULET PRESENTATION.
Tibbix read both signs.
“Earth protocol is elegant.”
“They are instructions,” Marcy said.
“Formalized.”
“No.”
“Laminated.”
“That does not give them legal force.”
Tibbix touched the edge.
“Protected in transparent ceremonial shell.”
Sheila whispered, “Thank you.”
Marcy pointed at her.
“Do not bond over lamination.”
Dolores and Ploop stood onstage reviewing a six-foot projection.
“Jaw stronger.”
Ploop adjusted.
“Less.”
Adjusted.
“Eyes forward.”
Adjusted.
“Too forward.”
Ploop looked wounded.
“Eyes can only face so many directions,” Marcy said.
Dolores ignored her.
“Hairline slightly lower.”
Ploop changed it.
Dolores crossed her arms.
“Closer.”
Ploop waited.
“Still insufficiently Goulet.”
Ploop sat down.
Marcy almost felt sorry for him.
Graham entered with Channel Eight.
Marcy saw the reporter.
“No.”
Graham held up both hands.
“Controlled access.”
“You brought them into the ballroom.”
“They came early.”
“You told them where to come.”
“That is how access works.”
The reporter spotted Walt.
His sleeve was rolled up.
The camera moved toward him.
Marcy got there too late.
The reporter pointed.
“Is that the famous tattoo?”
Walt rotated his arm.
“Official seal.”
“It is not.”
The reporter looked at Marcy.
Walt nodded toward her.
“She’s in administration.”
“Assistant administration,” Graham corrected.
Marcy turned.
“I will fire everybody.”
The reporter laughed.
She thought Marcy was joking.
That was convenient.
Lenny approached.
His shorts revealed the top of Thoughtful Goulet.
The reporter noticed.
“Did you get one too?”
Lenny nodded.
“Tiny one.”
“Why there?”
“Class.”
Marcy felt a flicker of hope.
Lenny continued.
“I wanted him private without getting too close to the business end.”
The reporter’s mouth opened.
Marcy stepped in.
“Upper outer thigh.”
Lenny patted it.
“Exactly. Plenty of room before things get complicated.”
The cameraman lowered his camera for a moment.
Dolores marched over.
“If you are broadcasting this, you need to specify which Goulet.”
The reporter looked at her.
“Robert Goulet.”
“Era.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You cannot discuss Goulet imagery responsibly without acknowledging presentation period.”
The reporter looked toward the camera.
“We appear to have a specialist.”
Dolores nodded.
“Finally.”
Ploop joined her.
“Dolores is Earth Goulet authority.”
Marcy said, “Self-appointed.”
Dolores said, “Unchallenged.”
Tibbix saw the reporter’s microphone.
He bowed deeply.
The reporter froze.
“Greetings, sacred bearer of the voice rod.”
“It’s a microphone.”
“Yes.”
“Not sacred.”
Tibbix looked at Marcy.
“Your humility remains exhausting.”
The reporter laughed.
Graham stepped into frame.
“Golden Years Harbor is committed to resident autonomy, cultural exchange, and—”
The reporter’s camera light came on.
Marcy saw it.
“You’re live?”
The reporter nodded.
“Locally.”
Graham smiled harder.
Tibbix’s wrist device chimed.
Blue symbols appeared above the stage.
Tibbix turned.
“Our transmission begins.”
Marcy looked at him.
“What transmission?”
“The Grand Exchange.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tibbix pointed toward the microphone.
“Sacred voice rod activated ceremonial opening.”
Marcy turned on the reporter.
“Your microphone started interstellar television.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.”
She walked toward Tibbix.
“Stop it.”
He recoiled.
“To halt after invocation would communicate extreme insult.”
“How extreme?”
Tibbix considered.
“Comparable to presenting Robert Goulet of Earth without trousers.”
Dolores gasped.
Marcy stared at her.
“Why are you the one offended?”
“Standards.”
The ballroom doors opened.
Families entered.
Residents filled the chairs.
Several staff members came in during shift change.
Graham whispered, “Excellent turnout.”
Marcy turned.
“If you say one more thing about turnout, I will put you outside.”
He stopped talking.
Tibbix raised his hands.
The lights dimmed.
Ploop moved to the projector.
Dolores stood beside him.
Walt positioned himself near the stage with his sleeve rolled up.
Sheila checked her laminated signs.
Felix carried water.
Lenny adjusted his shorts.
Marcy opened her binder.
The sample sheet was gone.
She checked again.
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped.
“Sheila.”
“What?”
“The confiscated sample.”
“Oh.”
“That is not a good oh.”
Sheila looked at the stage.
Tibbix held the sheet.
It had been laminated.
Marcy read the title.
OFFICIAL EARTH GOULET REFERENCE.
She turned toward Sheila.
“You laminated evidence.”
“I found it on the copy table.”
“You turned it into official documentation.”
“I needed a clean visual.”
“Tibbix thinks it is Earth’s sacred Goulet charter.”
Sheila looked.
“Okay, that part got away from me.”
Marcy stared at her.
“That part?”
The ceremony began with Tibbix addressing his civilization.
The translator rendered fragments.
“People of the Great Broadcast.”
“Keepers of the Tuxedo Tradition.”
“Home civilization of Robert Goulet of Earth.”
Marcy stood behind the curtain beside Felix.
“They think television variety specials were government.”
Felix nodded.
“They think Las Vegas was sacred.”
“I heard.”
“They think dramatic singing had legal authority.”
“Possible.”
“Felix.”
“I said possible from their evidence.”
“They think a song title is constitutional law.”
“That one is harder to defend.”
Tibbix gestured.
Ploop projected the ceremonial portrait.
Ten feet of Robert Goulet appeared behind him.
Dolores inhaled.
“No.”
The entire ballroom stopped.
Ploop froze.
Tibbix stopped mid-sentence.
The alien transmission paused.
Marcy came onto the stage.
“What?”
Dolores pointed.
“The mouth.”
“What about it?”
“Wrong.”
Ploop’s face collapsed.
Marcy looked at the portrait.
“It looks fine.”
Dolores turned on her.
“Fine?”
“That was the wrong word.”
“Fine?”
“I retract it.”
“His romantic authority is gone.”
Marcy looked at Ploop.
Ploop whispered, “Insufficiently Goulet.”
Dolores nodded.
“Yes.”
Ploop lowered the device.
“I have failed Earth.”
“No,” Marcy said.
He looked at her.
“You have not failed Earth.”
Dolores started.
Marcy held up one finger.
“Do not.”
Dolores stopped.
That was a small miracle.
Tibbix stepped forward.
“We await Earth’s approved image.”
Residents began shouting suggestions.
“Regal!”
“Young!”
“Mature!”
“Singing!”
“More chin!”
“Less chin!”
“Keep the tuxedo!”
“Add stars!”
Dolores shouted, “No stars!”
Walt shouted back, “It’s diplomatic!”
Tibbix pointed at him.
“The seal bearer speaks.”
Marcy turned toward Walt.
“Stop accepting titles.”
“I didn’t ask for that one.”
“You’re enjoying it.”
“That’s separate.”
Graham hurried onto the stage.
“We need alignment.”
Marcy laughed.
He stopped.
She pointed at him.
“Do not use corporate language while an alien civilization is waiting for us to approve a ten-foot Robert Goulet.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You cannot help.”
Tibbix looked toward Sheila’s laminated sign.
OFFICIAL HUMAN CULTURAL REPRESENTATIVE STAGING AREA.
He bowed.
“Earth protocol requires representative.”
Marcy turned.
Sheila looked at the sign.
“I needed somewhere to line people up.”
“You created an office.”
“It’s a staging area.”
“Tibbix thinks it appoints someone.”
“That part was not intentional.”
Graham whispered, “We need someone to speak.”
“Go.”
He looked at the microphone.
Then at the portrait.
His face emptied.
Marcy understood.
Graham knew how to discuss branding.
He knew how to discuss occupancy.
He knew how to discuss reputation management.
He knew nothing about Robert Goulet.
Neither did Marcy, beyond the basic facts Dolores had forced into everyone’s head.
Tibbix waited.
Residents argued.
Lenny raised a hand.
“I can do it.”
Marcy imagined Lenny explaining Earth culture to an alien civilization.
“No.”
“Probably wise.”
The ballroom monitor changed feeds.
The lobby aquarium appeared.
Marcy looked at Sheila.
“Why?”
“Overflow camera.”
“Why is the fish on it?”
“Wrong input.”
Senator floated in the center of the tank.
Someone in the ballroom said, “Goulet.”
Senator slammed into the glass.
Tibbix gasped.
Marcy closed her eyes.
“No.”
The fish hit the glass again.
Tibbix stepped closer to the monitor.
“The orange elder responds to the sacred name.”
“He responds to noises.”
Walt said, “Goulet.”
Thump.
Tibbix bowed.
“The senior authority judges us.”
“No.”
The Channel Eight reporter lifted her microphone.
Marcy pointed.
“Do not interview the fish.”
The reporter lowered it.
Graham whispered, “That would be incredible footage.”
Marcy looked at him.
He moved away.
The alien transmission symbols pulsed.
Tibbix turned.
“Earth representative must interpret Robert Goulet of Earth.”
Marcy looked at everyone.
Walt with his enormous tattoo.
Dolores furious over mouth shape.
Ploop devastated by portrait criticism.
Sheila with three laminated signs and a backup sign behind the curtain.
Felix holding water.
Lenny standing carefully so his shorts did not reveal more of Thoughtful Goulet than intended.
Graham sweating through his corporate vocabulary.
Residents who had argued, traded pie, formed committees, broken her unofficial curfew rules, demanded informed consent, selected designs, changed their minds, changed them back, and chosen permanent tattoos because they wanted them.
Nobody needed saving.
They needed the microphone turned on.
Marcy walked to it.
Graham relaxed visibly.
She pointed at him.
“Do not say anything.”
He nodded.
She looked at Tibbix.
“Robert Goulet was an entertainer.”
Tibbix smiled.
“Yes. Earth modesty.”
“No. Literally. Singer. Actor. Performer.”
Tibbix’s smile faded.
“He did not govern?”
“No.”
“Command armies?”
“No.”
“Write constitutional song?”
“No.”
Dolores called from behind her.
“Technically the song—”
Marcy turned.
“No.”
Dolores folded her arms.
Marcy faced Tibbix again.
“People liked him. Some loved him. Some didn’t care. He wore tuxedos because performers wear tuxedos.”
Tibbix looked shaken.
“Without office?”
“Yes.”
“Without rank?”
“Yes.”
“Without legal command?”
“Yes.”
Walt raised his hand.
“Depends on the room.”
“No.”
Tibbix looked at the residents.
“Then why do humans compete for his image?”
“Because I limited appointments.”
Walt leaned toward Mrs. Kerrigan.
“She admitted it twice.”
Marcy kept going.
“They competed because people compete. They picked different portraits because they have different tastes. They argued about size because Walt turned size into status.”
Walt said, “You can’t prove that.”
“Everyone heard you.”
“Circumstantial.”
“They chose tattoos because they thought it was funny.”
Tibbix looked confused.
“Funny?”
“Yes.”
“Permanent humor?”
Mrs. Kerrigan called out, “Makes it funnier.”
Marcy pointed toward her.
“Exactly.”
Tibbix considered that.
“They liked meeting you. They liked getting to decide. They liked having something happen around here that wasn’t scheduled three weeks in advance between chair yoga and meatloaf.”
Sheila called, “Chair aerobics.”
“Not important.”
“Okay.”
Marcy gestured toward Walt.
“His tattoo is not a diplomatic seal.”
Walt rotated his arm.
“Still looks good.”
“It does.”
The words escaped.
Walt grinned.
Marcy regretted them immediately.
She pointed at Dolores.
“She knows the imagery.”
Dolores stepped forward.
Marcy pointed at Ploop.
“He knows the technology.”
Ploop straightened.
She pointed at Walt.
“He already convinced you his arm matters.”
Walt rolled forward.
“Finally.”
She pointed at Sheila.
“She made the signs you think are ceremonial.”
Sheila lifted one.
Tibbix bowed.
Marcy pointed at Felix.
“He’ll make sure nobody passes out.”
Felix raised a water bottle.
“Hydration remains poor.”
She pointed at Lenny.
“You clap.”
Lenny nodded.
“Safe.”
She pointed at Graham.
“You stand there.”
Graham looked offended.
“Can I—”
“No.”
He stood there.
Marcy stepped away from the microphone.
“Make the ceremony out of what actually happened.”
Tibbix considered everyone.
Ploop raised the portrait again.
Dolores stepped beside him.
“Jaw two percent stronger.”
Ploop adjusted.
“Eyes warmer.”
Adjusted.
“Not that warm.”
Adjusted.
“Hair.”
Adjusted.
“Mouth.”
Adjusted.
Dolores walked left.
Then right.
Then back.
Ploop waited.
The room waited.
The aliens waited.
An unknown number of extraterrestrials waited.
Dolores finally nodded.
“Sufficiently Goulet.”
Ploop made a sound of pure relief.
Residents applauded.
Walt rolled to center stage and displayed THE GOULET ACCORDS.
Tibbix bowed.
Sheila raised the laminated protocol sign.
Tibbix bowed again.
Felix made Mrs. Kerrigan drink water.
Lenny clapped.
Graham leaned toward Marcy.
“There has to be a procedure for this.”
Marcy looked at him.
“No. Apparently we survive some things without a binder.”
Tibbix raised both hands toward the alien transmission.
“People of our world. Earth has spoken.”
Marcy muttered, “Earth has improvised.”
Tibbix continued.
“We receive the Goulet.”
The ballroom erupted.
On the monitor, Senator attacked the aquarium glass.
The alien audience appeared to love that too.
By 3:42 a.m., the aliens had finished their work.
Fifty-one residents had Goulet tattoos.
Seven employees had them.
Sheila chose Young Goulet on her upper arm with a tiny banner reading ACTIVITIES beneath it.
Marcy objected to the banner.
Sheila said, “It’s branding.”
Marcy told her never to say that near Graham.
Felix refused a tattoo because he was too busy trying to understand the alien scanner.
Ploop gave him fourteen pages of technical diagrams.
Felix understood almost none of them.
He considered that a successful evening.
Dolores finally accepted a four-inch Mature Goulet on her shoulder.
Ploop called it his greatest portrait.
Dolores called it “worthy.”
Ploop nearly cried.
They exchanged communication codes and immediately began planning future critique sessions.
Walt remained the owner of the largest Goulet in Golden Years Harbor.
He also remained convinced this entitled him to minor diplomatic privileges.
It did not.
He asked anyway.
At six-thirty, the facility phones started.
Reporters.
Families.
Universities.
People asking whether the aliens were coming back.
People asking whether the tattoos were available commercially.
One woman called to ask whether Golden Years Harbor accepted residents under fifty.
Marcy said no.
Graham updated the website before breakfast.
GOLDEN YEARS HARBOR
DIGNITY. COMMUNITY. COMFORT.
SITE OF HISTORIC FIRST CONTACT.
Marcy stood behind him.
“Move that.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“It’s factual.”
“You put it above the care-services menu.”
“It’s visible.”
“So is the fire exit. We don’t make it the headline.”
“We should take advantage of positive attention.”
“Use one sentence.”
Graham typed.
HOME OF THE ORIGINAL GOULET ACCORDS.
Marcy reached over his shoulder and deleted it.
“Walt approved that.”
“Walt invented it.”
“It has interstellar recognition.”
“That does not make it real.”
Graham looked toward the doorway.
Walt was outside showing two visitors his arm.
He said, “Diplomatic seal.”
Marcy shut the office door.
Sheila knocked.
Marcy opened it.
Sheila held a laminated weekly calendar.
THURSDAY, 3:00 P.M. — GOULET APPRECIATION SOCIAL.
Marcy read the details.
Trivia.
Refreshments.
Portrait critique with Dolores.
Diplomatic-seal display with Walt.
“Walt’s arm is now an activity?”
“He volunteered.”
“Does he know he’s listed?”
“He suggested the title.”
“Of course.”
Marcy handed the calendar back.
“Keep it away from medication times.”
Sheila did not move.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“You’re not banning it?”
“Do residents want it?”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone being pressured?”
“No.”
“Does it interfere with care?”
“No.”
“Then keep it away from medication times.”
Sheila stared.
“Are you sick?”
“Go.”
She left.
Marcy went to the lobby.
The spacecraft was gone.
The shuttle lane was clear.
The fountain still did not work.
The visitor tablet froze when she tried to check the morning log.
Normal problems.
She almost missed them.
Felix approached carrying a folder.
“Have you seen what they left?”
“What?”
He pointed toward the front desk.
A silver device sat inside a clear plastic bin.
A handwritten note had been taped to it.
ALIEN DIPLOMATIC GIFT
DO NOT TOUCH
ASK MARCY
Marcy looked at the receptionist.
“You wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The receptionist seemed startled by the praise.
Marcy took the bin to the activities lounge.
Felix followed.
Walt arrived within three minutes because Walt somehow knew whenever something was none of his business.
Dolores came too.
Sheila brought the laminator.
Marcy pointed at it.
“Why?”
“Preparedness.”
“Put it down.”
Graham appeared last.
“What is it?”
“I thought communication equipment,” Marcy said.
Felix shook his head.
He activated the device.
A holographic arm appeared.
The arm had a tattoo.
A beam passed over it.
The tattoo disappeared.
Silence.
Marcy felt something loosen inside her.
“Removal.”
Felix nodded.
“Instantaneous.”
She looked at Walt.
Walt covered his upper arm.
“No.”
“I did not ask.”
“No.”
Dolores covered her shoulder.
“Absolutely not.”
Sheila shook her head.
“Mine stays.”
Marcy looked around.
“You all spent hours asking whether the tattoos were permanent.”
Walt said, “We wanted permanent.”
“And now we have a way to reverse them.”
“Good to have options.”
“Do you want the option?”
“No.”
“Dolores?”
“No.”
“Sheila?”
“No.”
“Murray?”
Murray had entered with coffee.
He covered his forearm.
“Why is everybody looking at me?”
“Removal device.”
“No.”
“Jean?”
“Don’t touch my light rays.”
Marcy looked at Felix.
“You see this?”
“Yes.”
“I want it documented that everybody refused.”
He handed her a clipboard.
Marcy took it.
The device chimed again.
A second hologram appeared.
Small tattoo.
Beam.
Large tattoo.
Nobody moved.
Walt leaned forward.
“What was that?”
Felix studied the symbols.
Marcy said, “Nothing.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing relevant.”
Felix said, “Enlargement.”
Marcy turned.
“Felix.”
“He asked.”
Walt rolled closer.
“How much enlargement?”
“No.”
Felix read.
“Adjustable.”
“No.”
“Without distortion?”
Felix nodded.
“No.”
Walt looked at his arm.
“I could take it up another inch toward the shoulder.”
“No.”
“Half inch.”
“No.”
“Quarter.”
“No.”
“It’s diplomatic.”
Sheila was already at the laminator.
Marcy turned.
“Do not.”
Sheila froze.
“What are you making?”
“Nothing.”
“Show me.”
Sheila slowly held up the page.
GOULET ENHANCEMENT CONSULTATIONS.
Marcy stared at it.
The sentence arrived automatically.
There has to be a procedure for this.
She nearly said it.
Then she stopped.
Walt watched her.
Sheila watched her.
Felix watched her.
Marcy closed her mouth.
From the lobby came a hard thump.
Then another.
Senator was attacking the aquarium glass.
Walt said, “Goulet.”
THUMP.
Marcy turned toward him.
“Do not start.”
The silver device lit up.
A holographic screen appeared.
Tibbix materialized.
Everyone gathered closer.
Tibbix bowed.
“Assistant Administrator Marcy Bell. We request immediate continuation of diplomatic communication.”
Marcy looked at the device.
“What happened?”
Tibbix lowered his voice.
“Our cultural council has reviewed the ceremony.”
Walt rolled forward.
“Positive?”
“Extremely.”
Walt nodded.
“Knew it.”
Tibbix continued.
“There remains one matter of rank.”
Marcy felt dread return.
“What rank?”
Tibbix looked past her.
Toward the lobby.
Senator hit the aquarium again.
Tibbix bowed deeply.
“We request audience with the orange elder.”
Nobody spoke.
Senator bit the plastic castle.
Walt leaned toward Marcy.
“Looks diplomatic.”
Marcy looked at the fish.
She looked at the alien.
She looked at Sheila’s GOULET ENHANCEMENT CONSULTATIONS sign.
Then she pointed toward the aquarium.
“Fine. But the orange elder fills out his own damn forms.”