Read The VMR Theory (v1.1) for Free Online

space station. Descending, it reached an appropriate orbit over the planet, where it unfolded into a dazzling display of multicolored light which hung in space spelling out its message in a cursive script.
    “I’m not sure,” I said, studying the flowing Macdonald lettering. “It’s either for antacid or tooth powder.”
    When the shuttle grounded, Catarina and I picked up our baggage and watched our happy henchmen hop into an animal-drawn taxi and speed away, in a manner of speaking, into the sunset.
    A fresh set of shadows nonchalantly took up positions, watching us. “You know, I’m beginning to think that you-know-who didn’t think through all of the angles on sending us here.”
    Catarina shook her head. “I’m afraid she did.”
    I shuddered. “Well, what’s the an-play for onight-tay?”
    “First, let’s stop at the embassy and make sure we have rooms.” Alt Bauemhof didn’t have much of a tourist trade, and the Confederation Embassy was the only place on the planet that maintained an Earthlike atmosphere and served human meals.
    Catarina flagged down a taxi, a ground car this time, and showed the driver the address for the embassy. As the driver whipped across two lanes of traffic to make a left-hand turn the wrong way up a one-way street, I asked him, “Do you speak English?”
    “New York!” he said, waggling his tongue.
    Twenty minutes later, after we made him pull over, we figured out that he couldn’t speak English or Sklo’kotax.
    I asked Catarina, “Do you think—no, forget the question. He couldn’t have.”
    “New York!” he said, waggling his tongue.
    Eschewing further discussion, Catarina got out and flagged down the Secret Police who were surreptitiously following us. “We need a lift to the Confederation Embassy,” she explained, opening the door and climbing in.
    The two operatives in the car looked at each other.
    Catarina added, “If you get us there in ten minutes, we won’t tell your boss how much we appreciate your assistance.”
    Cop Number One looked at Cop Number Two, who lolled his head helplessly and moved us out of there at a high rate of speed.
    The traffic was light, so we zipped along, passing street vendors who cheerfully waved fingers and other appendages, and badly whitewashed buildings that suggested the Macdonalds stressed functionality over aesthetics. The architectural style was half-baked, and so were the mud bricks. The combination made the downtown edifices resemble a collection of diseased horse droppings.
    “Local building style, or did someone visit Washington during the pigeon season?” I inquired.
    “It is tee unquenchable desire of tee common people to avoid any foreign influences,” Cop Number Two said awkwardly as we passed one enterprising citizen with a White Sox baseball cap on his pointy little head.
    We pulled up in front of the Confederation Embassy with two minutes to spare, and our secret policemen blew bubbles of relief.
    “We appreciate this very much,” Catarina said, peeling off a few bills from my wad. “Do you accept gratuities?”
    “Of course not!” the driver said indignantly, reaching for the cash.
    Catarina winked at me. “We should be back in about half an hour.”
    As they drove away I asked her, “Is this wise?”
    “Would you rather chance the cabs?” She tucked her arm in mine. “Come on.”
    The Marine guards at the gate saluted and passed us through the pressure doors to a reception room decorated in a charming mixture of middle Versailles and early motel. The second secretary, a portly man with a black toothbrush mustache and the turtle-in-shell look you associate with career diplomats, was waiting for us. Rising from behind his desk, he greeted us without any evident signs of warmth. “I am Second Secretary Mushtaq Rizvi. I bid you welcome to Klo’klotixa.” He glanced at his watch. “I have asked the third military attache to be present for this discussion.”
    He gave us wristband