Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [9]
Guided in by both land-based and onboard instrumentation, the shuttle performed a near-perfect final approach and touchdown. As it did so, the morning cloud layer began to clear, dropping the humidity level somewhat and alleviating the discomfort the diplomatic staff felt in their hastily donned dress uniforms. After slowing, the shuttle turned at the far end of the artificial runway and taxied slowly over to the reception hall, bypassing the main terminal.
As soon as it stopped, several of the senior diplomats strode forward to await disembarkation. They were dressed neatly but not flashily, having no wish to overpower the traditionally disoriented visitors with an overabundance of personal color and light. They wore no arms, nor was any sort of formal military color guard in evidence. Everything about the ceremony had been designed to put cautious, hesitant visitors at ease while impressing upon them the friendliness as well as the determination of the united peoples of Earth.
The forward door opened, and a disembarkation ramp was lowered. The diplomats waited expectantly, naturally curious but far from anxious. After all, the explorers had already communicated the fact that the aliens were unaggressive nitrox breathers. Shape and size and the style of visible organs of perception were no longer a novelty to the team of experienced professionals.
No one was prepared for what they saw, and the shock that ran through the small cluster of official greeters was almost palpable enough to set the seismographs located at the base of Mount Agung to stuttering. Despite intensive training, despite the presence of men and women who were experienced as well as highly qualified, despite the cushion of written procedure and the absence of a need to improvise for virtually any conceivable situation, for a long, long moment no one in the clutch of official greeters and welcomers had anything to say. It was extraordinary. It was unprecedented.
Most remarkably of all, the temporary paralysis extended even to the perpetually jaded representatives of the media who were on hand for the occasion.
Siringh Pranchavit, the leader of the survey team that had been exploring Argus V, led the way, accompanied by several of his top aides. Not all were present, a number having been chosen to remain behind to continue the work on that promising new world. Accompanying the scientists and researchers were officers of the Chagos itself. Behind them and in advance of representative members of the ship’s crew were the aliens. As attested, there were twelve of them. Half were male, the other half female. It could have been otherwise, of course, but among the diplomats and media reps present none would have bet half a credit on the separation of alien genders being anything other than what it appeared.
The Pitar were gorgeous. Drop-dead, overpoweringly, stunningly gorgeous. As beautiful as they were human. More properly, they were humanoid, but none present, least of all among the media reps who were now frantically scrambling to make certain their equipment was functioning properly, was prepared to bring up that distinction.
The males were magnificent. Without exception they were tall, though not intimidatingly so, with finely finessed lean musculature and faces that were devoid of blemish or whisker. Their countenances demanded revision of all previous descriptions of “chiseled” features. They were, as far as both the human men and women present were concerned, visually perfect.
As for the Pitarian females, the females were…The representatives of the media competed among themselves in a desperate