The ten minor miracles required to successfully set the lander down on the Martian surface barely even got my heart rate up. However, as I descended the ladder, my helmet cam and mic ready to record the next historic moments for posterity, I broke into a cold sweat.

 

Armstrong had come up with a classic in 1969, and I needed to do the same. I needed to say something clever, and I needed to say it well. Because whether I aced my little speech or screwed it up royally, it would still end up with more views than a new Beyonce video, which was scarier to me than a six-month solo camping trip across the cosmos.

 

"When asked for their favorite hue," I began, "the majority of people say blue. And me, too. But now, as I take in this view, I retract every blue that I've said. From now on, I will always say—SHIT!"

 

Even with the new relays, the signal lag between Earth and Mars was about five minutes, which meant I'd have to wait ten to hear back from Mission Control. I expected something along the lines of, "Congratulations, and please don't cuss on this historic broadcast, and holy crap, is that an alien!?"

 

At the moment my boot hit red dirt, a bright light appeared beside me. It was rectangular and about ten feet tall. The suited figure who stepped through it was nearly that same height.

 

"Congratulations and welcome!" he said in plain, perfect English. Then he threw out his arms—all four of them, like he wanted a hug. Nope.

 

"Mission Control, are you seeing this?" I said in a quavering voice.

 

Through the clear faceplate of his beachball-sized helmet, the alien smiled, his fang-like teeth gleaming, his pale skin reflecting the red Martian light.

 

"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Bob," he continued. I was startled to discover his mouth didn't move as he spoke. And that he knew my name.

 

"Ummm, same," I responded lamely. "I mean, I—am—glad—to—meet—you—also. We—mean—you—no—harm."

 

From over my shoulder, another voice said, "You're already speaking in his language, but he's worried you won't understand him. That's adorable. I can't believe the humans are space-faring."

 

I spun around in time to see a second box of light just disappearing. The being who'd stepped through it was half my height and wearing a black robe that made her look like a tiny, green-skinned judge. She was enveloped in a shimmering bubble that floated just above the ground.

 

"I've got three more first contacts to make after this," she said, "so let's skip the nicey-nice bullshit. Here's the deal, human—having reached a planet other than your own, your species has become eligible to participate in the Intergalactic Commerce Cooperative, or ICC. As the first of your kind to set foot on this worthless red rock, you are entitled to negotiate trade agreements with any and all ICC members of good standing, of which there are many. Don't worry about the rest. We, the Kuthrotans, should be your only real concern. At the end of the last quarter, our reputable rare mineral traders were responsible for more than forty percent of—"

 

"Oh, now that's some bullshit," interrupted the first alien. "Referring to your planet-trashing strip-miners as 'mineral traders' is like calling the Zingari supernova a star fart. Besides, the hard truth is Earth is a tiny planet with little to offer in the way of tradable natural resources. Humanity itself, on the other hand, is rich with art and music from its many distinct cultures. The collectors I represent are very interested in—"

 

"Shit!" I yelled again as Marilyn Monroe appeared right next to me. Not kidding. She was wearing a slinky red cocktail dress and was every bit as stunning in person as in the movies. Except not really in person, of course. If I leaned forward just a bit, she disappeared from view.

 

"I am so happy to meet you, Bob," holographic Marilyn said. Then she tilted her head and quirked her lips in a way that made me briefly forget every other bizarre thing that was happening.

 

"Are you kidding me?" asked alien number two, her black robe swaying as if caught in an invisible breeze. "The old alien hottie routine? Even this primitive human isn't foolish enough to fall for that. You're being ridiculous."

 

"I have great news, Bob!" not-actually-Marilyn continued, undeterred. "Your planet is about to become the next hot vacation destination in this quadrant. With a little guidance from the trusted team at Deep Space Travel Agency, your species could stand to profit enormously from the current boom in interstellar tourism. Isn't that exciting!?"

 

Then she did the thing with her lips again. Then she winked.

 

Six months is a long time to spend alone. And solitude can make a man . . . susceptible.

 

* * *

 

"Mission Control, this is Captain Robert Rosen," I spoke confidently into my helmet mic a minute later. "I have great news. Earth is about to become a hot new vacation destination!"

 

I was barely done speaking when my earpiece came to life with a message from home: "Don't sign anything."

 

Oops. Too late.