Tear Tracks Read Online Free Page B

moist as Flur had expected, “the time our visitors have with us is limited by their technology, and unfortunately we will not be able to settle this question on this visit.”
    Flur’s hammock shudders with her urgency to speak, even as she catches Tsongwa’s warning look.
    â€œHowever, we look upon it favorably,” the president goes on. “We will take the time to discuss it here among ourselves, and converse again with our good friends soon.”
    Flur is about to say something, to ask at least for a definition of ‘soon,’ a deadline for the next communication, some token of goodwill. It is the Mission Director’s voice in her ear that stops her. “Stand down. Stand down, team, let this one go. We were working with a tight time frame, we knew that. And it’s not over. Great job, you two.”
    The positive reinforcement makes Flur feel ill. Irnv’s face, as she turns to her, seems to hold some wrinkles of sympathy around the mouth-covering mask and her cosmetic tear tracks, but all she says is, “We should get you back to your ship as soon as possible.”
    The return trip, indeed, seems to pass much more quickly than the journey into the city. Less constrained by the idea of making a good impression, Flur takes as many hyperphotos as she can, possibly crossing the borders of discretion. Noticing that they are taking a different canal back (unless they change color over time?) she scoops up another sample. She even pretends to trip in the forest to grab some twigs, or twig analogs. Irnv says little during the walk, although Tsongwa and Slanks appear to be deep in discussion. Probably solving the whole diplomatic problem by themselves, Flur thinks miserably. When they find their ship—it is a relief to see it again, just as they left it, under guard by a pair of Cyclopes—Flur half-expects Irnv to touch her arm again in farewell, but all she does is make the double-hand gesture of welcome, apparently also used in parting.
    â€œIrnv,” Flur asks quickly. “How old are you?”
    â€œEighty-five cycles,” Irnv says, then looks up, calculating. “About thirty-two of your years,” she adds, and Flur catches the corners of a smile again. Meanwhile, Tsongwa and Slanks are exchanging some sort of ritualized embrace, both arms touching.
    The return beam is less difficult than the landing, and once they are out of the planet’s atmosphere and waiting for the Mission Crawler to pick them up, Tsongwa takes off his breathing apparatus and helmet, removing the comms link to Mission Control.
    â€œYou okay?” he asks.
    â€œFine,” Flur says, trying for a why-wouldn’t-I-be tone. “You?”
    Tsongwa nods without saying anything.
    â€œI just wish we could have gotten the stupid thing signed,” Flur says finally.
    Tsongwa raises both palms. “It’ll happen. I think.”
    â€œThe president seemed so…” Flur shakes her head. “It’s a shame that we caught a weak leader.”
    â€œYou think she’s weak?”
    â€œWell, grief-stricken, maybe. But it comes to the same thing. For us, anyway.”
    Tsongwa leaves a beat of silence. “What did you talk about in the eating room?”
    â€œPersonal stuff, mostly … names, families. Oh, that’s something,” Flur sits up in her chair. So different from those hammocks. “Irnv told me she’s named after our planet, but after our word for it. Earth, I mean.”
    Tsongwa is stunned for a moment, then laughs. “Well, that’s very hospitable of them.”
    â€œTsongwa, she’s thirty-two. Thirty-two in our years!”
    Another pause. “Maybe her name was changed in honor of the visit?”
    â€œOr maybe…” Neither of them says it: Maybe the Cyclopes have been listening to us longer than we have been listening to the Cyclopes.
    â€œWhat did you talk about?” Flur asks