The anthropologist, part 2

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Lotty

“Miss Delaware, Mr Duchy to see you,” the intercom informed me.
“OK, show him in,” I replied. A quite acceptable piece of irony, I thought, but from the stony silence that greeted it I could only assume that I was alone in this belief.
The screen in my reception room lit up. I made myself look as presentable as possible, stationing the lower half of my body quite firmly out of sight, and clipped the shutters down over the dry tank; I’m used to it now, but Michael still finds it pretty distressing.
“Michael!” I said finally, and grinned. He’s one of my real constants. There he was, just the same – that permanent, slightly frazzled look he has, as if he was dried with a giant hair dryer, and the face that reveals every nuance of his mood. Lately, of course, that’s been predominantly concern when I’ve seen him, though he tries to hide it.
“Lotty!” He walked towards the screen as if he would walk straight through it and give me hug, and then remembered himself.
“How are you?”
I smiled reassuringly. “Fine. Busy. How are you?”
“Oh, you know.” He paused. Actually, no you don’t. Um.”
I looked at him more closely then, and I thought perhaps I saw something different – something in the lines around his eyes, maybe. I waited. The best thing with Michael is just to wait until his thoughts manage to twist themselves around into a sentence. If you interrupt them he gets all flustered.
“What do you know about Llaren 5?”
“The micro-temporal planet? Quite a bit, starting with the fact that there’s no way you’re getting a permit to go there.”
He looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. That’s not the only reason I came.”
“I never said it was.”
“I know, but just coming straight out with it like that. It was…”
“It’s okay. It’s stressful – I know you!”
He cheered up a bit, and this time the pause was more companionable.
“So how’s the collection?” I have asked him this every time he has come to visit me for the last ten years. I’ve never known an anthropologist more inclined to treat the job like stamp-collecting.
“I want Llaren 5.” He wasn’t being pushy, just honest.
“You know I can’t. I used up all my strings getting you a permit for Mactuskin.”
“I got an award for that paper.”
“I know. And it was very good. This is different. It’s not a case of just asking nicely, it’s a case of having the whole planet re-assigned to suitable for study status.”
“It’s completely off limits?”
“Pretty much. There’re a few cases of people getting residency there through marriage, but the government keeps a pretty close eye on them.”
“That’s it?”
“’Fraid so. Your best bet’s to hang around the universities and try to persuade a native to fall in love with you and take you home.”
“Oh.”
“That was a joke, Michael.” Maybe I’m just not as funny as I think I am.
After that we just chatted. He told me how all our old friends from uni are doing. Most of them don’t visit. I’ve changed a lot recently. I think they find me a bit creepy.