“You're nothing but a cheap whore.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it's not like that? I'm doing what my country needs.”

Mary Bixter threw the nearly-empty bottle of scotch at her husband Sam. Her aim was bad enough when she was sober, so the bottle missed him by three feet. He glared at her for a few seconds, then brushed non-existent dust from his uniform. A honk from the street made him say, “My ride's here.” He opened the door, turned and said, “I'll be home at six; try to be sober by then.”

Mary threw some choice words at the closed door.

* * *

There were even more protesters today. The armored car was supposed to look ordinary, but somehow the protesters knew a volunteer was inside. Several hundred people were lining the road leading to the base. Scores of signs repeated the messages “Don't be a whore” and “Share your secretes” along with caricatures of zombies in uniform.

“Sergeant,” Sam asked his driver, “How do they get here before us?”

His driver, who was approaching twenty years of service and had even seen combat, shook his head. In his slow monotone he said, “I don't know, son. A lot of these people probably don't have better things to do than stand on a corner waving signs.”

Sam smiled.

“Or perhaps,” his driver continued, “that reporter tipped them off.”

Sam could only groan at the suggestion. Under intense pressure, the Air Force was allowing a reporter to witness the “process.” Today was Sam's turn in the spotlight.

A few eggs smashed against the windshield and side windows. The protestors were yelling at Sam, but the thick glass cut out all sound. He doubted what they were saying was complimentary.

* * *

The orderly finished tightening the straps holding Sam to the chair, then patted him on the shoulder. “You ready?”

Sam nodded, then added, “I guess.”

“Don't worry, it gets easier each time.”

Both smiled at the lie. “Thanks.”

The reporter, Amanda Mortimer, asked, “Does it get easier?”

Sam didn't answer by saying, “It's different each time.”

Amanda smiled at the evasion.

“Ma'am,” the orderly said. “We need to go.”

“Of course,” she said. “Can't have a woman around to mess up the results.”

Once she left the chamber, the orderly gave Sam another pat, then left as well.

The door clicked shut, sealing him in. Sam closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He heard the panel in the ceiling slide open, and the whirl as the robotic arm lowered itself into the chamber. When it stopped, Sam opened his eyes. A golden sphere about six inches in diameter was almost touching his nose. After three or four heartbeats, the sphere split and Sam looked upon the glowing form of an alien.

* * *

It had taken nearly six months for humanity to realize it had been contacted by an alien race. At first people just ignored the odd memories as forgotten dreams. But as more and more men started speaking of them - and the reports of small, glowing forms flying around the cities surfaced - the authorities prepared for mass panic. While there were the usual rantings from doomsday cults, most people just didn't know if they should panic. Were the “hallucinations” natural or some nefarious plot by as-yet unnamed terrorists? As the reports were documented and studied, a pattern emerged. Through trial and error - and the occasional hint from the aliens themselves - the truth slowly began to emerge.

The aliens' method of communications was to merge with a host and exchange memories. But it wasn't always perfect. The standard analogy was that humans had a round hole while the aliens had square pegs. The flames of gender inequality were fanned once more because of a minor chemical difference; female brains were “too round.” An alien could get inside a woman's head, but even under the best conditions it could not stay long enough to exchange information. But, with a properly trained man in an electronically shielded room, an alien could merge for almost ten seconds.

* * *

The golden sphere sealed itself, and Sam was once more alone. When the robotic arm had retreated into the ceiling, the orderly, a lieutenant, and Amanda entered the chamber. Amanda watched while the orderly hooked up a laptop to check Sam's vital signs and the lieutenant put a pen in Sam's hand and held a notepad for him. Sam quickly sketched a diagram of eight nested spheres. For the inner-most sphere he started listing facts like diameter, thickness, and composition. He stopped in mid chemical formula and said, “That's all. I can't remember anything else.”

The lieutenant looked at the drawing and asked, “Any idea what it is?”

Sam closed his eyes and yawned. “I got the impression it's a component of a rudimentary stardrive.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Hmm. Well, I'll add it to everything else. Good work, Airman.” He looked to the orderly and asked, “How is he?”

“Heartbeat and temperature's a little high, but that's normal. He should be ready to go again in ten minutes.”

The lieutenant nodded again. “Good, good. I'll go log this in.” Looking at Amanda he said, “Miss Mortimer, you have five minutes.”

“I thought,” she pointed at the orderly, “he said it would be ten minutes before another merger.”

“He did, but the volunteers need some time to rest between sessions. You understand, of course.”

Amanda smiled. “Of course.”

She watched the lieutenant leave, then stepped closer to Sam. “So Airman Bixter, how do you feel?”

Sam shrugged against his straps. “A little tired.”

“You're not amazed that you just had an alien in your head?”

“The novelty wears off after awhile.”

Amanda nodded. “Do you often get bits of rudimentary stardrives?”

“No. I've heard music created by beings in another galaxy, seen architecture made of living buildings, and aliens by the dozen.”

“So, other than the knowledge that we are not alone in the universe, have we gained anything tangibly useful from these mergers?”

Sam smiled. “Orville Wright only flew 120 feet the first time they got their plane off the ground. If someone had asked 'What's the use of flying 120 feet?' we would look back and call them shortsighted.”

“So you believe your short flight just now will lead, in time, to a Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic?”

“Yes.”

“What if it doesn't?”

Sam smiled. “I have to believe that we humans aren't so primitive that we won't figure this out given enough time.”

For a few moments Amanda looked around the chamber. Turning back to Sam she asked, “How well do you know history?”

“I know bits.”

“The exploration of the Pacific?”

Sam shrugged. “Just what I've seen in movies.”

Amanda smiled. “When James Cook arrived in Tahiti, he posted guards in the ship's carpenter shop to prevent his men from stealing nails. An earlier vessel had almost fallen apart from the sailors pulling out nails to trade with the Tahitians for sex. The Tahitians wanted the advanced technology of iron, although it doesn't seem to have helped them much.” Patting Sam on the shoulder, she asked, “How do you know these scraps the aliens are giving you aren't just their version of nails?”