Jeb and I sat in the stale, white room staring at the poor, trembling thing in front of us.

"We come in peace," Jeb said softly with that Kentucky whistle in his teeth.

About a year ago, we were charged as a small team to go down to the surface and try to talk to the natives there. Neither of us had been on the xenothropology team so it was a surprise when our names were in that email.

Jeb was from what used to be Fulton Kentucky and, while I had been moved around a lot, I remember my roots being deepest where his state and Tennessee gently hug mine.

Odd now for us to have our 9-5 office dangling above P-65SQR. Don't ask me what geek was in charge of naming these rocks or why. I too would like to know.

Regardless, here we were, finally on the surface and the folks here are rightfully spooked out of their minds. Evident from their representative here who, wide-eyed and hyperventilating, was making quick work of fogging up his respirator.

"We come in peace, buddy. I promise."

When Jeb spoke, there were a lot of Y's where you wouldn't see them written out. it was a stark contrast to the T's that rattled out along the alien's vernacular. Whatever Jeb said, it didn't seem to be getting through to our guest.

"Maybe we need a new approach," I suggested. I rapped the rubber eraser of my pencil against my clipboard. The sheer number of pages that were held together by the giant, metal clip was probably one of the reasons our forest burned up and we had to leave our poor Earth in the first place. Pencil held between a couple of my fingers, I leaf through a couple of pages until I find one with the bold title I was looking for.

HOW TO COMMUNICATE WITH OUR FRIENDS DOWN BELOW

It should be understood that the individuals who populate the planet just below our daring team of scientists have a similar civilization and way of life that we did approximately one thousand years ago in 2007.

Linguistics have found that (along with spoken and written communication) they use a visual language, much like our sign language.

The fruits and vegetables…

I stopped reading there. Why a pamphlet about communication goes on and on about food is something I will never know. I'm now realizing I may not know a whole lot about quite a bit.

I shake my head for a reset and look up at Jeb who has been trying to coax something out of the alien for quite some time now. But the little man just stood there, unmoving.

I shuffle in my swivel chair just a bit, trying to get as centered on the alien's face as possible.

With my starting face blank, I wave. Just a short wave, palm out and I then add a small smile to go along with it. It didn't take, the alien still stood there shivering, but I could have sworn I saw a hint of recognition flicker across his eyes which were tar black all the way across.

At the end of an Earth day, the alien was very excited to sprint out the door; not waiting for the door to close--he didn't even glance back.

I turned to Jeb and sighed.

"I'll type up the report." He said sullenly.

The next day we both stood in tandem right up at the edge of the door to the outside. When it did open, we could both catch a glimpse of the outside from the bay hatch at the end of the decontamination room. Aliens of all sizes, shapes, and colors were huddled outside. Some were speaking into devices, others were hauling equipment around, and some were simply standing there, staring blankly up at our ship. Our ship was nothing to really look at, at least in my opinion. It was your standard Deployed In Space Science Retrieval Device. Or DISSRD, which Jed liked to constantly remind me sounds like “gizzard”.

Before I could get a better look at what was going on outside, the opposite bay doors closed and an alien in full respirator garb climbed through. Even at first glance, it was obvious it wasn't the same one from yesterday. Yesterday's alien had been our first one and, even though we didn't do much communication, I was surprised that I felt a little disappointed.

Where did he go? Why didn't he come back? Did he not like us? I think we're very likable.

Jeb and I decided that we needed a new approach. For the last two weeks, we had no luck with any of the aliens who came to meet with us. We were surprised they even kept coming for this long. We weren't sure what their system was for choosing which alien came and went, but there was no discernable pattern to it. Some aliens would come for a couple of days in a row, some only once.

The “new approach” was suggested by Jeb, as most good things are. We talked through the idea that children don't learn their native tongue just from having people speak it at them, but they also learn from listening to the world around them and forming patterns that way.

So this led to us already being seated and having a conversation before the bay doors even opened in the mornings. We would talk about all kinds of things. Home, family, our favorite television shows we used to watch when we were kids and back when the one TV on the ship was working. We could never find the time to get around to fixing it.

This system seemed to work. "Work" being a vague word here as we weren't sure if it was "working" per se, but there were certainly different reactions from our visitors. They sat calmer and simply listened to us talking. Some even started bringing what we assumed to be some kind of notepad on thin sheets of molding clay. They would simply press their fingers down, creating tiny craters in the tablet's surface intermittently, every couple of seconds or so. Some even “wrote” on sheets of metal that would crack back into place if pressed from behind. We were sure to install cameras behind the aliens so we could record and rewatch what they were writing later.

Paragraph after paragraph, or at least paragraph was the closest thing we had to compare with what they were giving us.

Soon the time that had passed within two months began to show on the walls in front of our desks. Out here ink and paper were precious, but we made an effort to print out our favorites. I had up a couple of what I thought to be poems and instruction manuals for various machines. Jeb proudly displayed his collection of alien music lyrics. Somehow he had even convinced a couple to sing them for him, so he had that playlist on loop as well.

Never did we venture from the confines of our bitterly solemn, metal shell, but our friends would sometimes bring us plants or pets from their world for us to see. From what I could tell, in terms of reverence and care, to them there seemed to be no difference between the creatures brought in in pots and those brought in on leashes.

I had just finished picking up a pile of shedded scales from a particularly energetic guest when I heard a ping from somewhere deep within the piles of documents in the office. I dug through notebooks and photographs to find what Jeb liked to call our "space pager".

My face fell as I read the only two words that lit up the screen in neon blue.

'come home'

There is a reason for the phrase "it's not rocket science". The reason is that rocket science is a particularly difficult art that I had never really dedicated any time to learning. This meant that we had never been in full control of our ship or its operations. We were just a little space doggies sent out to sniff around.

Only seconds after I read the message, I could hear clunks and clicks from deep inside the ship's belly. Jeb's typing came to a halt and looked up at me, sorrow filled his eyes. I watched him as he slowly shuffled his swivel chair over to a small side table to hit pause on the tiny MP3 player that had been singing what he had titled "The Life of an Orchid in 167 Parts"

I looked up at the clock. We didn't have much time before the real lift-off sequence would begin. But before I could move to start getting ready, the outside bay doors hissed open. I could see Jeb's eyes start to redden and dampen, and I was quite sure mine were the same way.

It was the very first alien, from all that time ago. He now stood confidently in the doorway. He worked his way through the chamber and eventually through our door. It seemed that he too could hear the inner workings of the spaceship and gave both of us a knowing look.

He opened his mouth and out came a sound unlike one we had ever heard from any of them. Their language was one like a whistle, an overtone made from the roof of the mouth. Now we could hear that glottal rumble from the back of his throat.

"This. For you. For you." He held out both of his hands. Cupped in his gloved fingers were two necklaces. Silver stones glistened in their clasps and the straps seemed to be constructed from a mix of dried grass and leather. He demonstrated their use by pinching his fingers together. We nodded in understanding. 

Jeb and I held up our hands to say thank you, and our guest copied the gesture. We watched him walk through the bay doors backward. He stood there for a moment, his eyes glazed over, staring at our work that covered the walls and desks.

It took him only a second. The button was located on a pad attached to his wrist.

With a small beep that we could hear all the way back in the ship, every spot of ink disappeared, every metal sheet cracked back into place. Jebb jumped up, his desk chair clattering behind him. Furiously he spammed the computer mouse, but the entire system had been wiped. His music wouldn’t play, my instruction sheets were blank.

As the bay doors closed for the final time, we could see the alien give us a smile and the same palm-out gesture I had given him on his first day.

Jeb and I stared at each other, the necklaces still grasped in our hands as the ship lifted off and headed back home.

Jeb wiped a tear and pressed his charm.

Along with a metallic click of them coming together, a sound started to play like an old 8-track recording.

"Bye, Jeb. Bye, Ellen. Love. [REDACTED]"

That last sound was the same words in their language. I have yet to find a good combination of English letters to translate.