The Vegans. (A Serving of Man.)

You don’t speak their language, so you don’t really know what’s going on, but you see other people accepting small chits from an automated dispenser. You grab one and take a seat. The ticket has symbols that mean nothing to you. The minutes turn into hours. Eventually you realize your number is being called when a bureaucrat with an electronic pad barks out some foreign gibberish, and several heads in the room turn toward you.

A freakishly tall, gaunt and bony creature silently leads you to a cubicle and offers you a seat. It’s hard to explain how you managed to get into this place, with or without a translator, and you’re not sure if that’s the question you’re being asked by the alien agent, or officer, who has no chair, but appears to roost on a low, limb-like contrivance and makes himself comfortable by squatting behind the desk in front of you. This brings his large sunglass covered eyes almost down to your level.

It's clear to you that he is, without a doubt, one of the aliens you’ve seen pictures of and heard about. Their arrival with a small fleet of ships stirred a great deal of initial interest, but did not produce the anticipated unity of humankind, nor the hoped for instant technological solutions to our gravest problems. On 21^st Century earth, even a highly advanced alien species could be dismissed after a few weeks if they refused to die, conquer, or work miracles. Aliens are real, they’re here, and though they are rarely seen, it is impossible to deny that you’re sitting across the desk from one.

Noting your verbal difficulty, he fiddles with a box on his desk, while he gazes at you with a blend of interest and annoyance. Speaking occasionally. Finally, the box beeps and begins translating his speech into questions you can understand. “You seek asylum?” He asks.

“Yes,” you reply. “I guess so.”

“What is your name?”

“Jesus,” you say, “Jesus Morales.”

“Hay-soos,” the agent recites, “Morale-ayez.” He smiles. You smile back, then he says, “How did you get in here?”

“I…” You hesitate. Was it divine providence? You were just loitering by the entrance when one of their human liaisons strolled by wearing similar overalls, so you adjusted your gait, fell in behind him and pretended to be his assistant. Once inside the building, with people milling around, sitting on benches in the massive lobby, you took advantage of a kind of herd blindness typical in large institutions. “I pretended I was one of you,” you finally say.

He smiles. “So you’re here of your own volition?”

“Excuse me?”

“You did not get a notice to appear?”

“A notice to—uh no, I didn’t, I just came in. Wanted to see what was going on.”

“You have no family? No friends? No children?”

“Not really. No.”

“Then you would not object to emigrating.”

“Uh, no.” You didn’t know it was an option. “Where?”

“Do you have a preference?” The alien asks.

Your laughter erupts spontaneously and ends just as abruptly. “I’ll take any country that takes me, as long as it’s better than this.” Your voice is teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Have you looked outside lately?”

There are no windows. The agent blinks in surprise.

“Half the continent is in flames, what isn’t burnt is water-logged, the food is laced with plastic, there isn’t a job to be had for love or money, the subsistence checks are a joke, crime is rampant, the heat is flourishing, the water is tainted, the drugs…” Your last few complaints are muffled as you lower your head and cover your face with your hands. While your particular circumstances may not be universal, your kind of desperation is widespread. But you are unprepared for an offer of asylum. What does that even mean? What if you turn it down?

The agent clears his throat and steeples his long, boney fingers together. “It is critical that you understand, Mr. Morales, that this is a one-way trip? There is no return, no exceptions.”

His warning has an ominous tone. Well, you didn’t think they were running a shuttle service. “One way to where?” You ask. Only now do you relax enough to observe some of your surroundings: The padded chairs, polished floors and unobtrusive lighting. You’re basking in the powerful air conditioning when the agent pulls some papers from his desk and signs them, one by one. His hands are long and articulated, he has many more knuckles than you. His skin seems to be a dark purple.

You’re about to repeat your question when he says, “Who, or where were you informed of our refugee program?” Then he holds the forms perpendicular to the desk and taps them into alignment. It’s a surprisingly universal act.

His tone is neutral, but you’re suspicious. “I didn’t. I was just guessing that you might have one.”

The agent says, “So you entered under false pretenses, hoping we had a program, that you’ve never heard of.”

That is essentially correct, and now you’re wondering if this was such a good idea. “But,” you say, “I’m not sure the pretense was false. I need help. Just like most of those people out there.” He nods toward the few lingering individuals waiting in the lobby. Grimy people, hunched over, scratching their heads or rubbing their necks.

Now you’re both gazing through a glass partition, watching humanity’s flotsam. “Did you speak with any of them while you were waiting?”

“Them?” Your laugh is bitter. “No. I don’t speak the local language. I imagine most of them are clueless. They have no idea who you are. Or…”

The agent leans forward and rests his large head on those extra-long fingers. “Or?”

“Or what you’re doing.”

“What are we doing?”

You hesitate, but really, what more could you have to lose? “I was sharing a lean-to with a fellow un-homed person in the alley across the street,” you tell him. “Just a tarp stretched out between two dumpsters. Once I settled in and got the lay of the land, I noticed the police were really thin around here.”

“You saw that as anomalous?” The agent asks.

“I did. It made me curious, and it gave me a chance to watch this building for extended periods.”

“And what was the result of these extended observations?” The agent whispers.

“Well, I’d say you’re doing an excellent job of hiding in plain sight,” you say.

The agent adjusts the nameplate on his desk, a name you cannot pronounce, and reclines against the wall. “And yet, you noticed—something.”

“Well,” you lean forward, “I made it my business to watch this place once for 66 hours straight. Never slept. Drank coffee. Did a little speed. Kept a tally as the hours went by…”

The agent smiles patiently.

“A hundred and ninety-four people entered the building, and only seven came out—in three days.”

“That’s not quite three days…”

“It’s close enough.”

“They could’ve left through the back door…” the agent began.

“One of which opens into the same alley across the street,” you say. “I had a clear view of that exit as well,” you say.. “People go in, but they don’t come back out.”

“How do you know…” the agent said, “that we’re not eating them?”

That thought, truly, had not occurred to you.

“Are you?” You ask.

The agent makes a weird clucking noise and says, “No. We’re vegetarians, and it’s a big part of your planet’s problems. Eating other sentient creatures is a mild form of cannibalism and leads to other forms of horrendous behavior. We’ve really got our work cut out for us here.”

“So, you’re not eating people.”

“As I said, we’re vegetarians.

“You don’t sound optimistic.”

“We’re not. Not sure we can pull it off,” every now and then he makes this weird chirring sound. “But we have a lot of resources. I hope you’re not having second thoughts?”

“Not really,” you say. But you are.

“Good. Though your diligence is commendable, I’m afraid your relocation is no longer optional.”

“Why is that?” You ask.

The agent rises to his feet and again appears to be about 8 feet tall. “You already know more than I’m allowed to tell you.”

You’re thinking about how wonderful it would be to spend another night in a familiar alley, under a blue tarp, stretched between two dumpsters, but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards. The agent holds out the sheaf of documents he has signed, and points you to a large, energized doorway that was not noticeable a few minutes ago. “Step through the door Mr. Morales, you will be assisted on the other side.”

“Assisted? On the other side of what? Wait a minute,” you protest. “Where am I going? Where are you sending me?” There’s a tremor in your voice. “Sir?”

He does not answer, and you’ve lost your voice, but you accept the papers and step forward as if in a trance, a dead man walking, as if he had some way to make you move against your will. The agent’s voice fades as you are pulled through the portal, but you are encouraged by his parting words. “Good luck, follow instructions, and if you do eat any of your hosts, Mr. Morales, we WILL bring you back here.”