“Grotz?” He was puzzled. “I do not know the word.”

“Keep your goddam mitts to yourself. Is that clear?”

“But I…” He was holding a roll of untidy, cream-colored paper in his left hand; he twisted it agonizingly in his discomfort. “If I am not to… grotz…”

“That’s right.”

“…then how am I to greet you properly?”

I shuddered to imagine what an improper greeting might entail, but I was beginning to understand.

We in the West approach friends with the requisite handshake, a gesture of goodwill whose original purpose, it is thought, was to demonstrate that we carried no weapons, not even a fist. Some of us are even friendlier: the French with their cheeky kisses; Hispanics with the sedate abrazo, an embrace accompanied by a few swift, fluttery slaps between the scapulas.

The Assamans went further. They greeted by clutching each other’s genitals—what could be friendlier that that? And it did accomplish its aim, a weapons check to ascertain if a knife were hidden in a codpiece or, in the case of a woman, beneath her robe. Still, it was unnerving and required a bit of getting used to, and it happened so often in the days that followed that there seemed to be time for little else; the mind was inclined to dwell on it.

Both the Secretary of Commerce and I were eager to establish an amicable relationship after the salutatory rift.

“Here is the report.” He thrust his rolled paper into my hand. “The investment code I promised you.”

I riffled the pages. It was my turn to look bewildered. “You promised me?”

“Last night. The Disneyland projection. Read it at your earliest convenience,” he offered graciously. “And now let’s find a suitable spot for your theater.”

Comprehension dawned. “I think,” I said slowly, “you have me confused with Derek Bronson.”

“Impossible,” he said. He tilted his head sharply, as if the angle might improve his sight. “You are not the drama teacher?”

“Afraid not.”

“Sorry. It’s very confusing.”

“What is?”

“Well, quite frankly, you all look alike to me.”

“But Bronson is blond, and I’m dark…”

“Looks are superficial, wouldn’t you agree? Thing is, I suppose, you all act alike. Anyway,” he added, “read my report. Then we’ll get together and kick it around.” He smiled again, reached for my balls, thought better of it, and waddled off.

Those first few days I spent mostly with Val, studying our new habitat, intrigued by the statues in the square, drawn to (and repelled by) the everominous People’s Tower, a relic, we were assured, of the long dead and buried past, from which enemies had been launched for ganching. It was disturbingly reminiscent of the “baby drops” in prerevolutionary China from which unwanted little girls were thrown.