The first thing I noticed as the crisp smell of particles flashed through my nasal cavities was the sound of my need to pee. It didn’t occur to me, initially, that this was odd. In fact, my first thought was that I should have emptied my singing bladder before mounting the blasted transporter, but I’d been so preoccupied with my resistance to the infernal thing that I’d forgotten. Never mind the virtually unknown alien world to which I was being sent; what I knew about the transporter frightened me more than what I didn’t know about my destination.
It was at the first taste of their communication attempts that I realized that freaking machine had indeed fouled me up. The forms before me appeared mostly greenish beige, but somehow I knew that if my senses had been working correctly, I’d have seen them as skinned and bleeding giraffes the size of large aardvarks. The smell of red momentarily tore my attention from my whistling urethra.
I raised my creaking hand. “I come peacefully,” I said, choking back the taste of the half-truth. The nearest alien opened part of its body. The odor of its orifice was nauseating, but matched with the sweet spiciness of its words, I was overwhelmed. I turned and vomited, recoiling at the burning sensation. I turned on my extracom.
“Base,” I said sourly, “I’m having difficulty making contact.”
The acrid, ozone flavor of the response I received from my extracom gave me only one piece of information: I was on my own.
Fortunately, the transporter was set such that I’d be returned to base automatically within thirty minutes. Assuming I could keep myself alive for that long, I knew I had a good chance of returning. However, there was no chance that I could keep my howling bladder intact that long. I needed relief, and it would come one way or another.
It was difficult to ascertain my immediate danger level. What, exactly, do razor-sharp teeth smell like? And what is the taste of a menacing growl? The only thing I knew for certain was that if I didn’t relieve myself soon, I would quickly learn my new companion’s social views on wetting oneself in mixed company. I attempted a weak-sounding smile and turned away.
I tasted their confused murmurs as I stepped away toward a round-smelling potted plant. The relief I heard moments later was the Hallelujah Chorus. Never had I heard such beautiful music. Nor have I since.
With a tangy zip of my jumper, and renewed energy at the silence of my bladder, I turned again to face the aliens. They smelled much shorter.
For the next five minutes, they bowed and gesticulated (I somehow knew this due to the smell of rubber, sandalwood, and oregano). The mood had changed. I tasted marmalade and butter. Though I still don’t know how I knew, I was certain that they were expressing admiration.
They led me to another room. I heard myself sit down, and after a long, flavorful speech given by the apparent leader, I was treated to a feast of what I assume was their best cuisine.
The food smelled like it looked awful (and vice versa!), but out of courtesy and fear I ate. It felt palatable, though it took a while for my tongue to accustom itself to the textures of velvet, sea foam, and fine sand. The food in my mouth sounded much like untalented stage hands warming up an out-of-tune orchestra. However, I was still grateful not to be the main course myself, so I was polite.
I must have lost track of time, because I found myself surprised by the crunchy sound of particles. The automatic transporter had initiated. Surprise was replaced with horror when I returned home with my senses in order. My mouth was full of hairy, gelatinous goo that tasted like the spleen of a sick octopus dipped in chocolate syrup and mulch.
When we all were able to get the vomiting under control and take a look at the video transcript, we realized that my choice of urinal had not been a potted plant, but in fact some sort of important artifact of the culture. They mistook my physical relief as a valuable offering. Their necks shrunk (yes, they in fact did resemble skinned and bleeding giraffe-like aardvarks!) and they spent the rest of the time I was there treating me like a god.
Our work isn’t done, and my deity status makes me the only one for the job. I must return now. I’ve had plenty to drink, and I’m bracing myself at the prospect of facing another appreciative feast. As I stand on the transporter again, I’m moved by the irony. God, hear my prayer: Please let this blasted thing malfunction again!