Travelling through space at close to six hundred miles per second for most people, would constitute living in the fast lane. For Yalgon it was merely another stretch at the viewing port of a star freighter long since passed its scheduled operational life-span.

Having slowed the craft at the outer edges of what the company referred to as the “Origin World Cluster,” Yalgon depressed the far left of eight crystalline protuberances on that which a layman might have incorrectly termed the ‘control panel’ in front of him. The slightest humming could be detected throughout the walls of the craft.

Just “why” the company insisted crew members engage the ship’s cloaking device when passing through this particular tract of space he could never fully understand. Inarguably the entire Valarian race owed their very existence to those intrepid explorers who hailed from the blue planet so many time-phases in the past. Since that period though, ‘humanity’ as they were collectively known, had curiously been plunged into epochs of technological redundancy and appeared to have now, neither the knowledge nor the skills of their own descendants. There had been concern during Yalgon’s childhood, when it was reported that an object of admittedly inconsequential size, had actually landed on the small moon which orbited the blue planet and that in fact two humanoids had emerged from the craft briefly. Exactly why they had chosen to visit so barren a location was not immediately evident to the Valarian scientific council. Initially thought to be a rekindled interest in interplanetary travel - though seemingly of a crude and indeterminate nature - no further exploratories appear to have been made since that time. Perhaps then he had pondered, it was simply a case of wishing to avoid detection and thereby unwanted interest, that craft were instructed to use their cloaking capability in the vicinity.

Barely had the red planet exited the portside viewing window when a discernible vibration became evident towards the rear of the cavernous interior. With practiced dexterity, Yalgon passed his hand across the transparent shield immediately to the right of the cloaking-crystal, his thumb and sixth finger spanning their normal one-eighty degree coverage. Almost immediately the skeletal structure of the craft in technical cross-section, appeared on-screen in sharp image, white outline against blue background. A second pass of Yalgon’s hand displayed what may have been a lower deck. Towards the rear, surrounded by an intricacy of fabricated structural-metal framework, a circular disc appeared to be glowing a blood red color.

“The fusion reactor,” Yalgon mused, running swiftly a diagnostic on the ship’s power-source. This merely served to confirm his worst fear. The port-side reactor, as it had threatened on an earlier star-passage, was now crippled and at this point in deep space, fully beyond repair. It was of little consolation now that having earlier raised concerns about the age of the craft, the flight council had examined the ship and deemed it worthy of extended certification. Whether or not a salvage team could even rescue him was in doubt, which meant he would be stranded in this quadrant pending the next allocated star-freighter ... a possible ninety “day” wait (as they measured time in this realm of the galaxy)

Evaluating his options, only the blue planet itself was within accessible reach of his damaged ship. On low power even, it would be able to remain in cloaked-orbit indefinitely while the space council decided its immediate fate. His subsequent transmission contained all the relevant data-scans and star-log details. Even on reduced power, the blue planet’s aspect was monopolizing the frontal viewing-port in moments. It was he decided far more beautiful than even his own planet, far away as it was now in the Andromeda cluster.

It would be necessary he realized, to acquaint himself with updated local planetary customs and recent history and thus he sat fully relaxed in the audio-pod as the ship’s compuserve oversaw the uplink that transferred all current data to the bio-implant chip located slightly to the left of his gills. Long since unused, he realized it would take a while to familiarize himself once more with the use of his lungs – an aspect they had emphasized as high priority during space-training.

Slowing appreciably, the craft entered its calculated upper-orbit silently and efficiently. Assigning all on-board systems to the care of the ship’s compuserve, Yalgon entered the molecular-dissociator, calmly awaiting transfer to the Blue Planet’s surface. He felt little more than a tingling sensation followed by a period of total black-out.

Even as the blue-tinged beam made contact with the scrubland a short distance from a semi-deserted section of Interstate 80 in Wyoming, the vague outlines of a life-form assumed a shimmering reality. Slowly, awareness returned to him. “So this is “Earth?” he muttered, looking across at the darkened highway upon which some primitive vehicle was travelling.

Although very much identifiable as humanoid still, evolution had overseen some significant changes to the Valarian race in the millennia since the arrival of Earth’s earliest – and hitherto forgotten – cosmic explorers. Generations of offspring, having by necessity to adapt to less of a gravitational influence and spending a far greater proportion of their lives in water than once did their ancestors, had resulted in the re-development of upper thoracic gills and the dark webbing between their six fingers. They stood taller also at an average height of six-foot six. Having consequently something of an ichthyic appearance, Yalgon concluded that his external frame required at the very least, some cosmetic attention in order that he pass unchallenged among the local populace – as and when he might locate such.

Pondering then his options, he depressed the touch-screen of his small wristpack, entering various parameters. Although unable to alter his height. quite obviously, Yalgon’s skin lightened considerably, the webbing appeared to retract between his fingers and his hairline to assume a normalcy no-one would commit to a second glance. The skin rippled around his neck, delicately covering the gill area, a physical characteristic he knew he would not be requiring for quite an extended period of time.

Breathing now pure oxygen instead of the methane he was more used to and which constituted ninety-five percent of the spacecraft’s on-board pressurization, he felt almost light-headed. This gravity however was definitely going to take a while to get used to – not half a dozen steps and he was feeling the weight of his body already.

Crunching gravel underfoot, he reached the shoulder of the Interstate, while in the distance could be seen the approaching lights of a second vehicle. Waiting there motionless, he raised his arm as the car approached. The vehicle’s driver braked hard, screeching to a halt almost alongside him.

“Jesus man,” he called out through the lowered window, “What the fuck happened? They took your clothes too?”

Yalgon’s eyes studied the man for a moment. Maybe not six-six, but tall enough!

Piloting a 1986 Oldsmobile Delta 88 following several months in deep space at the helm of a mile-long nuclear-powered space-freighter was for Yalgon, an object lesson in humility. “Just how primitive are these people?” he pondered, watching the needle struggle to its graded zenith of ninety miles per hour.

An exit for Green River flashed by on his right followed by an overpass, upfront of which was a sign Cheyenne 271 miles. It was to this co-ordinate he was navigating, the compuserve having indicated a higher concentration of humans clustered there than in the surrounding areas. Given the maximum speed of his present conveyance however, he calculated this to be probably three and a quarter Earth hours distant.

A short time later, a strange sound could be heard in the background. Yalgon concentrated on it for a few moments. He was unable to immediately identify the source but it appeared to be gaining in volume. A mechanical whining of sorts he decided. Just then he noticed in the mirrored reflection, twin beams of light sweep around the bend he had just negotiated. Evidently the newcomer’s conveyance was possessed of a higher speed capability than his own. Colored lights additionally were now flashing on the roof of the vehicle. Slowing to allow the whining object to pass, he was fully surprised when the conveyance slewed dangerously into his own path, forcing him to brake and skid almost off the roadway. He brought the vehicle to a stop as two quite large humans exited their vehicle and began striding towards his open window. One of them flashed a light-beam through the passenger’s side.

“License and registration please sir?” uttered the larger of the two “men” (as he knew the male of the species to be called) who was now standing alongside his window.

“What is that?” Yalgon replied, in a voice bordering on the robotic. He would need time to perfect the human tongue he realized, it being quite unlike his natural oral tone and resonance.

The man looked at his partner who, having checked the vehicle from front to back was now standing beside him “Are you saying Sir, you do not have a license to drive in this State?” he asked, acting in what Yalgon interpreted as a threatening manner.

“I do not understand what a “license” and “registration” is,” he replied. “How then might I show you either?”

The men conferred for a moment. “Please get out of the vehicle sir,” said the man’s partner. Even as he spoke, he was pulling something that may have been a weapon from the belt he was wearing.

“I have no wish to do that,” Yalgon replied, losing patience with these humans. “I must leave.” He re-started the engine.

“I said, get out of the vehicle Sir – right now.” screamed the weapon-holder, aiming his ‘tube’ at the driver’s head and standing there in a fully confrontational attitude.

“As I was led to believe - aggressive creatures,” Yalgon thought briefly. He then gestured towards the men. Both were flung backwards some twenty feet into the scrubland, the ‘weapon’ dropping harmlessly by the roadside. Glancing towards their vehicle that was partially blocking his way, he momentarily inclined his head, closing his eyes. Any observer would have found it incredible watching what happens to a large metallic object when simply the neutrons are fused together, the space between them evaporating. One might only describe it as total molecular anarchy in fact.

The officers remained where they were, on their knees and staring wildly ... at the six-inch “cube” of blackened metal there on the shoulder, that shortly they would find was so heavy they could not even pick it up.

It was as he had expected, more than three hours before he reached the Cheyenne interchange. Navigating the vehicle north on Interstate 25 now, the city outskirts were almost immediately encountered. He was he realized both hungry and in need of shelter for the night. Unfamiliar with local hospitality customs, he knew only that “Hotels” offered overnight accommodation. Having cruised up and down what appeared to be the city center, he had just turned into “Stillwater Avenue” when he noticed across the street, a large and brightly-lit building. The sign at the entrance proclaimed this to be “The Fairfield Inn.”

Taking the next intersection on the near-deserted street, he turned the car around and headed south, pulling into the hotel’s car-park alongside several other vehicles. Retrieving the keys, he walked towards what appeared to be the main entrance. Inside, he glanced around and noticed a female of the species standing behind a long desk over which hung a wooden plaque that read Hotel Reception.

Twenty-year old Kelly Stevens looked up as the man approached. “Boy, had she been rostered on the right night,” she thought to herself. Tall dark and handsome barely covered it!

“Hello,” he said, “Am I able to stay here overnight please.”

His voice was strangely accented she determined, certainly not local if even American.

“Well of course,” she replied. “What sort of room were you wanting sir?”

“Room?” he asked, fully unfamiliar with the word.

She looked up at him quizzically. “Well, we have rooms with single beds ... double beds (she blushed momentarily) ... it just depends what you prefer sir.”

“I’d like a double bed please,” he replied softly, finding the words easier to enunciate with each passing sentence.

“Certainly,” she cooed. “That will be eighty-nine dollars sir – and that does include breakfast. Will you be staying long?”

He rather liked the appearance and scent of this female, those of his own planet, though suitably equipped from a reproductive viewpoint, offered minimal variation outwardly from their male counterparts.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he replied, studying her features as he spoke. The girl lowered her eyes.

“You will have to sign-in please,” she half-stammered, thrusting a card and pen towards him.

He looked at the items, unsure of what was expected of him.

“What are these?” he asked, “I’m sorry but I have been away a long time and cannot remember...” he raised his right hand to the desk-top.

Fully unprepared for the girl’s shocked cry, he hurriedly withdrew his hand. “Of course,” he realized immediately “Humans do not have six fingers.” He cursed his short-term thinking.

“Please forgive me,” she was saying, in commendable control of her emotions now. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I-I just wasn’t expecting to see your er, hand...”

He managed a smile. “Just a birth defect I’m afraid. It has taken some getting used to ... I’m really sorry for scaring you, it was thoughtless of me.”

“Oh no,” she gushed, “please, you have nothing to apologize for. Would you like me to fill in the registration card for you? He allowed her to take back the items before him.

“Your name?” she asked sweetly.

“Grant Davies,” he answered, recalling the name on some of the papers he had found in the pockets of the man’s jacket he had acquired a few hours earlier.

“Address?” she added.

“1826 Rosenberg Boulevard, Phoenix, Arizona” he answered. “that’s Zip code 85008,” he told her, remembering distinctly the last of the address lines.

“Your car’s registration number Mr. Davies?” she looked up enquiringly.

“Exactly what those men in the whining vehicle had asked about,” he reflected. Turning around, he glanced towards the conveyance that had brought him here – clearly visible through the double glass doors. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“Is that Oldsmobile yours?” she enquired. He recalled that was the name he had noticed somewhere inside the car. He nodded. “It’s a friend’s actually,” he lied effortlessly. He then watched as she walked to the far window and added information to the card. Something about her movements and that rear profile especially, anchored his attention – so much more curvy than his own people. He wondered momentarily what she might look like without those items of clothing?

Seemingly happy with her investigative questioning and reaching beneath the desk to retrieve a plastic card that she placed in a small folder, the girl repeated her earlier request for the “eighty-nine dollars.”