Borrowed Expertise

You don’t know me, I don’t know you, but this is serious.

I don’t want to exaggerate. I just hope this description helps prevent anything worse.

Well… please read it carefully.

It was a depressing day. The sun kept hiding behind the clouds every half hour. Was it really necessary? Hardly. What for? Just to come back ten minutes later, as if nothing had happened. Why not stay bright all day long for once?

It even rained. I didn’t quite notice until I saw a rainbow. A rainbow! That’s when it hit me: the rain had simply been added to everything unpleasant about that day.

Why do we even have rainbows? No, no, I get it—I’m not some uneducated person. But it’s like a ribbon celebrating a bad day. Decorating a leak instead of fixing it. Shouldn’t we use our technology to get rid of useless rainbows? You tell me.

Do you think I am a negative person? You should have known my mom then.

A dull morning? A bad sign. If I went to school without a scarf, I would get sick—or even die—by the end of the day. But I survived. See? I’ve learned to manage such calamities. And neither the sun’s hide-and-seek nor a rainbow threatened me this time.

As you can see, I didn’t panic or anything. No. I pulled myself together and started cooking scrambled eggs. And right in the middle of it—guess what?—Terry Miukthakk called me. Because of him, I dropped the whisk, and my freshly cleaned floor got dirty again. Why did he have to call me at that exact moment?

You may say it was a coincidence. Like when your mom calls exactly when you are about to sit down. Ha! I would rather believe that was a coincidence. But Terry? No.

You should really keep an eye on him. He hasn’t liked me since the day we moved into this area. Only a year has passed, and this is already the second incident. The second. Can you imagine that?

I truly hope you can do something about it.

I am not some outcast. I am Frisky Smirksslint, you know!

Brian leaned back in his chair.

The reading was funny and relaxing, as usual. His new job left him with plenty of time—time that had seemed suspicious, especially in the early days after he moved here.

The weather outside was pleasant. His weekends were refreshing.

The last one he had spent on a lovely beach, getting a tan and swimming in crystal-clear water.

Come to think of it, he didn’t even regret that he had never married or fallen in love. Not yet, at least.

The phone on the desk rang. He picked it up. The boss wanted a word with him.

“Good morning, sir,” Brian said as he entered.

“Good! Extraordinary! Please, help yourself—have a seat.” The boss paused, thought, and added, “Please!”

Brian smiled. The manners in this town were… something. Charming, perhaps. Though the word didn’t quite fit.

“We’ve got a terrible situation,” the boss began. “A high-level emergency alert came in this morning. You’ll have to get to the site with another specialist. I can’t even describe how devastating it is. And… if you refuse, we’ll understand.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m in,” Brian said. “Just one question. Where do I go?”

“About a ten-minute drive from here. Hinlsy will accompany you. Be careful—it’s near the city aquarium.”

“A-ha,” Brian said. “I already smell something fishy.”

He had been a thrill-seeker since childhood. And whatever awaited him there, it already sounded interesting enough.

The work took all day, and late at night he finally managed to get back home. When the home robot suggested scrambled eggs, he instantly remembered the story he had read about Frisky Smirksslint. Still, he agreed.

He never expected to be pushed into a trap. Whizzing bullets and grenade explosions deafened him. The mafia was seemingly not prepared to let him go.

“I don’t want to exaggerate. I just want to prevent anything worse,” someone said through a bullhorn.

The noise of bullets filled the air, mixed with some strange siren.

And then, in an instant, silence.

Brian pressed himself hard against the bricks, hiding in a small recess in the wall.

“Hey, Brian!” he heard. “I’m unarmed. I just want to talk.”

A man slowly stepped out from behind the corner. No gun in his hands. Brian didn’t move. The man raised his hands a little higher and sighed.

Music started playing from nowhere.

“You can blame me for being in the mafia and all that,” he continued.

“But look at yourself! How am I supposed to cook scrambled eggs if you guys have taken all the eggs?”

Brian blinked.

“W-what?” he whispered.

“I don’t want to exaggerate,” the man repeated calmly.

“I just want to prevent anything worse.”

“I didn’t take any,” Brian said, puzzled.

The music grew louder. Sirens joined in. Police?

He felt uneasy. Disoriented. The sound became almost painful.

“I didn’t take any!” he shouted, his voice nearly crushed by the noise.

Noisy chords flooded over him.

…Brian woke up.

Where on Earth did they get this alarm clock? They said, “It’s the best,” with their usual charming smile.

He lay there for a minute, trying to separate the dream from a life that was only slightly less strange.

Then he stretched, got up, and went to the bathroom.

January 21st.

All of us—the factory management—are pleading for your sense of justice.

We do not want to exaggerate, but even writing this letter is already difficult. The situation is… well… unusual. You could hardly imagine what has happened recently. We are shocked—literally, and illiterately as well.

The issue is the following. The person in question did not come through the state employment office. She is a foreigner. A good one, actually. There are no problems with immigration whatsoever. She is very responsible and always carries her documents with her—she even claims to take them to the bathroom. She knows exactly where one might encounter immigration officers.

Had she come through the state office, the situation would have been much easier. At the very least, we would have known where to file a complaint. But she came on her own, with all papers in perfect order.

Miss Lientikkt.

At first, there were no complaints at all. She was bright and pleasant, spoke with HR, and everyone was satisfied. We could have been happy with her. Probably. No—actually, one hundred percent.

She started her job with a smile and remarkable discipline, as if she had been born to work here. Initially, this felt encouraging. However, soon after that, the performance indicators skyrocketed. Productivity went up. Salaries went up. The overall wealth of our workers and their families increased. All because of her.

We will not lie—we were surprised.

She worked with passion. Passion. We double-checked the dictionary. It is indeed the correct word. We were used to motivation; passion was new to us. She is also the first foreigner in our company, so yes, the whole situation felt unusual. Still, no one heard any warning signals.

Even her cooking—especially the scrambled eggs—was impeccable.

At that point, we remained optimistic.

Then, after some time, friends and relatives of our workers began to ask questions. Very polite ones, at first.

“Why do you work so well?”

“Why don’t we?”

“Why can’t we?”

We tried to explain, but how does one explain insufficient performance without sounding aggressive? We are a civilized company. Everyone genuinely tried to understand. Still, some kind of tension appeared—if that is the correct word. It feels slightly old-fashioned, but it seems appropriate.

We never intended to create tension within families or friendships. No one wants that.

As for Miss Lientikkt… well… what could we do?

We were becoming too good.

We usually plan for side effects in advance, but this one—we miscalculated. So, back to the subject. Our boss and all managers spoke with her and suggested that she reduce her level of professionalism by at least half.

She sincerely asked, “Which half?”

That puzzled us. We said she could choose. She agreed immediately and made a sincere effort.

And this is where things became difficult.

The more she tried, the more efficient she became. Could it be the wrong half? The factory improved even further—which means the situation worsened.

We cannot judge her. We cannot dismiss her. And if she does the same thing somewhere else, others may suffer as well.

This leaves us at a dead end.

Is there any legal punishment for excessive performance? Any official recommendation?

Please advise us. Preferably before we accidentally hire one more immigrant.

Brian read on, chuckling. For once, it sounded familiar.

A cup of coffee stood untouched on the table.

The day itself felt relaxed, as usual. A bit windy outside. Very hot. The air conditioner, fortunately, was doing its job.

They called this area “In the South.” The heat was “impeccable,” as some of the locals liked to say.

He recalled the day of his misfortune—or fortune—to end up in the HR department of a brand-new investigation company. He had hoped for a job matching his qualifications and experience. The office stood on a hill, far from the city center.

A strange choice, he realized later.

Hills were always up to something.

The HR guy had been young and precise. Something felt odd, but even with his instincts, Brian hadn’t recognized the trap.

Not long before that, he had clashed with the head of his previous department after a long investigation into some truly unpleasant people. He was fired.

Had he not needed the job so badly, he might have studied the new contract with a lawyer. But Brian was tired. He didn’t invent a clever option—he hoped for the best.

Turning a blind eye to the fine print saves time and money. Especially when you’ve spent your entire career doing the opposite.

And that was how he ended up here.

For two years...

By the end of the first week, he had actually started to like it.

Even after the first incident.

That was when his boss asked, “What are your preferences at the workplace?” and Brian joked, “Just some human warmth.”

An hour later, he found himself in a boiling-hot room set to 36.6 degrees Celsius.

It was funny.

Still acceptable.

He got used to pranks.

But after a year… he wasn’t so sure anymore. The boss, at least, seemed to know that something was difficult for him. And the southern “warmth” didn’t help.

Still, there was one undeniably good thing.

These folks had “imported” chickens decades ago, straight from farms in the state Brian had grown up in. They were almost obsessive about eggs. Eggs done right. Eggs done properly.

Brian had loved them since childhood.

The rest of the food, unfortunately, rarely lived up to that standard.

He took another paper, having no idea what else it could be about.

April 17th.

Dear all,

I have some trouble with our weather forecasters, you know. I am not the one who complains; I just don’t want things to get worse.

Yesterday I had a problem with electricity in my house.

Of course, I called Pelthittch, my neighbor. He is a good electrician, as I have heard. Mainly from himself.

I checked. He really had worked in repair companies. Quite a lot, actually. He changed five of them in two weeks. I assume he is very much in demand everywhere. That must be the reason. The only one, no?

As soon as he stepped in, he said the first words I clearly remember:

“Where are your disgusting wires, mate? Let’s get rid of the problem as quickly as possible.”

It sounded very professional.

To me.

He started checking everything. He looked either sad or excessively serious.

I had seen faces like that before—usually on people who felt squeamish.

So perhaps this was just how professionals dealt with problems.

At times he exclaimed:

“Wow! What’s that? Stupid circuits!”

“Oh! I’ve never seen this in my life!”

At that point, I probably should have intervened with a few questions or suggestions.

But I am not that kind of person.

Eventually, he did something somewhere. After that, we saw sparks. Then smoke. Quite a lot of smoke.

To my surprise, Pelthittch became much more inspired. Much more involved.

“No worries, mate,” he said. “Negative results are often underestimated.”

That was when I decided it might be a good idea to invite a new team player. Electricity was no longer the main issue. I called the firefighters.

The truck arrived quickly. There were two of them. Pelthittch and I were already watching from outside.

One of the firefighters sounded very positive. Not disgusted at all. He seemed genuinely happy I had called. He slapped my shoulder and smiled:

“I owe you one, bro! This is beyond expectations.”

I didn’t quite understand him, but felt pleased.

Then he said to his partner:

“See? I told you! There would be a fire somewhere. Cool, right?”

The other firefighter didn’t look that positive. He looked calm. Almost bored. Possibly less professional.

They didn’t do much. They just ran around and poured quite a lot of water on my house. After a while, something short-circuited somewhere. There was a boom, sparks all over the place, and eventually the anti-fire system got activated.

“Hey, mate,” I said to Pelthittch, “looks like you have partially fixed something. I guess it was an electrical signal that made the system start. At least it saved half of my house.”

He shook my hand sincerely. The good thing is, the eggs in the fridge were kept safe.

Finally, I would like to express my opinion about weather forecasters. If they had told me the day would be sunny, I would have gone to the lake and never invited Pelthittch at all.

That would have solved the problem completely.

Brian put the paper down, still smiling to himself.

Funny incidents from his own life came flooding back. Like that time, in a previous life, when his partner had sneezed loudly during an ambush—right in the middle of a training exercise. The entire police department had laughed about it for weeks.

Brian also remembered his first days here, laughing at stories so bizarre they didn’t even fit his idea of a problem.

“What’s the heck?” he had asked his boss on his first shift.

“Well,” a fluffy seven-foot giant replied, blinking his cute yellow eyes, “you are an experienced criminal detective. These are the worst cases our race deals with. It’s a hard job. And we do not have a detective mindset, so we had to hire you.”

Only later did Brian find out that the agency he had joined had once worked on Earth for centuries—and that many of the aliens’ stories could actually have been true.

They were kind. And caring. They even adjusted their calendar in the paperwork they gave him, so Brian wouldn’t get lost in the reports. They weren’t perfect, but they were very delicate in communication.

He took a sip of coffee. It seemed to be a universal drink. In every sense.

At that moment, his boss entered the room. As he opened the door, Brian heard a woman’s laughter from the corridor—bright and unmistakably human.

“Who’s that?” Brian asked.

“Well,” the boss replied, adjusting the tie on his white-fur neck, “you’re doing a great job as a Homicide Division detective. We understand the work here is a bit different, and that our hardest issues are not quite the same as the ones you dealt with on Earth.”

“Yeah!” Brian nodded with a grin. “Underestimated!”

“But we decided that our Administrative Issues Department should also have a specialist like you,” the giant said. “So we brought another woman from your planet. Looks like she already likes it here.”

“Let me guess,” Brian said. “A two-year contract?”

“Your detective skills are incredible,” the giant replied. “Could you please give her a brief orientation?”

Brian entered the room, greeted the lady, and shook her hand.

“Helga,” she said. “What’s all this about?”

A strict white-and-black uniform suited her perfectly.

“Well,” Brian said, “this world is either too kind or too naive. The worst things that happen here feel like someone’s joke. And you’re supposed to investigate them. And resolve them. So everything can be peaceful again.”

“Why didn’t they hire a kindergarten nurse, then?” she asked.

Brian assured her they took everything far too seriously and complimented her thick German accent.

She smiled. “I was called Terminator when I emigrated to the States. Had no idea it would take me this far.”

“A-ha,” Brian smirked.

“Then you surely know how to… calm kids down.”

“If they’re calm,” she said, “be ready for a disaster.”

Brian laughed.

“You’re definitely from Earth.”

He raised his hand, as if he had just remembered something.

“By the way… do you like scrambled eggs?”