The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (58 page)

“Are you suggesting that the Galactics are enemies?”

She shook her head indignantly. “I am
not
! I'm suggesting that language is primarily an instinctive social reflex. The least common denominator of a social problem is a human being. One single human being. And here we are all involved with getting this thing into mathematical equations and neat word frequency primarily oral!”

“But you've been researching a visual…”

“Yes! But only as it modifies the sounds.” She leaned towards Langsmith. “Dr. Langsmith, I believe that this language is a
flexional
language with the flexional endings and root changes contained entirely in the bodily movements.”

“Hmmmmmmm.” Langsmith studied the smoke spiraling ceilingwards from his pipe. “Fascinating idea!”

“We can assume that this is a highly standardized language,” said Francine. “Basing the assumption on their high standard of civilization. The two usually go hand in hand.”

Langsmith nodded.

“Then the gestures, the sounds would tend to be ritual,” she said.

“Mmmmm-hmmmm.”

“Then … may we have the help to go into this idea the way it deserves?” she asked.

“I'll take it up at the next top staff meeting,” said Langsmith. He got to his feet. “Don't get your hopes up. This'll have to be submitted to the electronic computers. It probably has been cross-checked and rejected in some other problem.”

She looked up at him, dismayed. “But … Dr. Langsmith … a computer's no better than what's put into it. I'm certain that we're stepping out into a region here where we'll have to build up a whole new approach to language.”

“Now, don't you worry,” said Langsmith. He frowned. “No … don't worry about
this.
”

“Shall we go ahead with what we're doing then?” she asked. “I mean—do we have permission to?”

“Yes, yes … or course.” Langsmith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “General Speidel has called a special meeting tomorrow morning. I'd like to have you attend. I'll send somebody to pick you up.” He waved a hand at the litter around Francine. “Carry on, now.” There was a pathetic emptiness to the way he put his pipe in his mouth and left the room. Francine stared at the closed door.

She felt herself trembling, and recognized that she was deathly afraid.
Why?
she asked herself.
What have I sensed to make me afraid?

Presently, Ohashi came in carrying a paper bag.

“Saw Langsmith going out,” he said. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to know what we're doing.”

Ohashi paused before his chair. “Did you tell him?”

“Yes. I asked for help.” She shook her head. “He wouldn't commit himself.”

“I brought ham sandwiches,” said Ohashi.

Francine's chin lifted abruptly. “Defeated!” she said. “That's it! He acted completed defeated!”

“What?”

“I've been trying to puzzle through the strange way Langsmith was acting. He just radiated defeat.”

Ohashi handed her a sandwich. “Better brace yourself for a shock,” he said. “I ran into Tsu Ong, liaison officer for our delegation … in the cafeteria.” The Japanese raised the sandwich sack over his chair, dropped it into the seat with a curious air of preciseness. “The Russians are pressing for a combined attack on the Galactic ship to wrest their secret from them by force.”

Francine buried her face in her hands. “The fools!” she whispered. “Oh, the fools!” Abruptly, sobs shook her. She found herself crying with the same uncontrollable racking that had possessed her when she'd learned of her husband's death.

Ohashi waited silently.

The tears subsided. Control returned. She swallowed, said: “I'm sorry.”

“Do not be sorry.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Shall we knock off for the night?”

She put her hand over his, shook her head. “No. Let's look at the latest films from the ship.”

“As you wish.” Ohashi pulled away, threaded a new film into the projector.

Presently, the screen came alive to a blue-gray alcove filled with pale light: one of the “class” rooms in the spaceship. A squat, green-skinned figure stood in the center of the room. Beside the Galactic was the pedestal-footed projection board that all five used to illustrate their “lectures.” The board displayed a scene of a wide blue lake, reeds along the shore stirring to a breeze.

The Galactic swayed. His face moved like a ripple of water. He said: “Ahon'atu'uklah'shoginai' eástruru.” The green arms moved up and down, undulating. The webbed hands came out, palms facing and almost touching, began chopping from the wrists: up, down, up, down, up, down …

On the projection board the scene switched to an underwater view: myriad swimming shapes coming closer, closer—large-eyed fish creatures with long ridged tails.

“Five will get you ten,” said Ohashi. “Those are the young of this Galactic race. Notice the ridge.”

“Tadpoles,” said Francine.

The swimming shapes darted through orange shadows and into a space of cold green—then up to splash on the surface, and again down into the cool green. It was a choreographic swinging, lifting, dipping, swaying—lovely in its synchronized symmetry.

“Chiruru'uklia'a'agudav'iaá,” said the Galactic. His body undulated like the movements of the swimming creatures. The green hands touched his thighs, slipped upward until elbows were level with shoulders.

“The maiden in the Oriental dance,” said Francine.

Now, the hands came out, palms up, in a gesture curiously suggestive of giving. The Galactic said: “Pluainumiuri!” in a single burst of sound that fell on their ears like an explosion.

“It's like a distorted version of the ritual dances we've been watching,” said Ohashi.

“I've a hunch,” said Francine. “Feminine intuition. The repeated vowels: They could be an adverbial emphasis, like our word
very.
Where it says
‘a-a-a,'
note the more intense gestures.”

She followed another passage, nodding her head to the gestures. “Hiko, could this be a constructed language? Artificial?”

“The thought has occurred to me,” said Ohashi.

Abruptly the projector light dimmed, the action slowed. All lights went out. They heard a dull, booming roar in the distance, a staccato rattling of shots. Feet pounded along the corridor outside the room.

Francine sat in stunned silence.

Ohashi said: “Stay here, please. I will have a look around to see what…”

The door banged open and a flashlight beam stabbed into the room, momentarily blinding them.

“Everything all right in here?” boomed a masculine voice.

They made out a white MP helmet visible behind the light.

“Yes,” said Ohashi. “What is happening?”

“Somebody blew up a tower to the main transmission line from McNary Dam. Then there was an attempt to breach our security blockade on the south. Everything will be back to normal shortly.” The light turned away.

“Who?” asked Francine.

“Some crazy civilians,” said the MP. “We'll have the emergency power on in a minute. Just stay in this room until we give the all-clear.” He left, closing the door.

They heard a rattle of machine-gun fire. Another explosion shook the building. Voices shouted.

“We are witnessing the end of a world,” said Ohashi.

“Our world ended when that spaceship set down here,” she said.

Abruptly the lights came on: dimly, then brighter. The projector resumed its whirring. Ohashi turned it off.

Somebody walked down the corridor outside, rapped on the door, said: “All clear.” The footsteps receded down the hall, and they heard another rapping, a fainter “All clear.”

“Civilians,” she said. “What do you supposed they wanted so desperately to do a thing like that?”

“They are a symptom of the general sickness,” said Ohashi. “One way to remove a threat is to destroy it—even if you destroy yourself in the process. These civilians are only a minor symptom.”

“The Russians are the big symptom then,” she said.

“Every major government is a
big
symptom right now,” he said.

“I … I think I'll get back to my room,” she said. “Let's take up again tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock all right?”

“Quite agreeable,” said Ohashi. “If there is a tomorrow.”

“Don't
you
get that way, too,” she said, and she took a quavering breath. “I refuse to give up.”

Ohashi bowed. He was suddenly very Oriental. “There is a primitive saying of the Ainu,” he said:
“The world ends every night … and begins anew every morning.”

*   *   *

It was a room dug far underground beneath the Ordnance Depot, originally for storage of atomics. The walls were lead. It was an oblong space: about thirty by fifteen feet, with a very low ceiling. Two trestle tables had been butted end-to-end in the center of the room to form a single long surface. A series of green-shaded lights suspended above this table gave the scene an odd resemblance to a gambling room. The effect was heightened by the set look to the shoulders of the men sitting in spring-bottom chairs around the table. There was a scattering of uniforms: Air Force, Army, Marines; plus hard-faced civilians in expensive suits.

Dr. Langsmith occupied a space at the middle of one of the table's sides and directly across from the room's only door. His gnome features were locked in a frown of concentration. He puffed rhythmically at the stubby pipe like a witchman creating an oracle smoke.

A civilian across the table from Langsmith addressed a two-star general seated beside the team chief: “General Speidel, I think this is too delicate a spot to risk a woman.”

Speidel grunted. He was a thin man with a high, narrow face: an aristocratic face that radiated granite convictions and stubborn pride. There was an air about him of spring steel under tension and vibrating to a chord that dominated the room.

“Our choice is limited,” said Langsmith. “Very few of our personnel have consistently taken wheeled carts into the ship
and
consistently taken a position close to that force barrier or whatever it is.”

Speidel glanced at his wristwatch. “What's keeping them?”

“She may already have gone to breakfast,” said Langsmith.

“Be better if we got her in here hungry and jumpy,” said the civilian.

“Are you sure you can handle her, Smitty?” asked Speidel.

Langsmith took his pipe from his mouth, peered into the stem as though the answer were to be found there. “We've got her pretty well analyzed,” he said. “She's a recent widow, you know. Bound to still have a rather active deathwish structure.”

There was a buzzing of whispered conversation from a group of officers at one end of the table. Speidel tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Presently the door opened. Francine entered. A hand reached in from outside, closed the door behind her.

“Ah, there you are, Dr. Millar,” said Langsmith. He got to his feet. There was a scuffling sound around the table as the others arose. Langsmith pointed to an empty chair diagonally across from him. “Sit down, please.”

Francine advanced into the light. She felt intimidated, knew she showed it, and the realization filled her with a feeling of bitterness tinged with angry resentment. The ride down the elevator from the surface had been an experience she never wanted to repeat. It had seemed many times longer than it actually was—like a descent into Dante's Inferno.

She nodded to Langsmith, glanced covertly at the others, took the indicated chair. It was a relief to get the weight off her trembling knees, and she momentarily relaxed, only to tense up again as the others resumed their seats. She put her hands on the table, immediately withdrew them to hold them clasped tightly in her lap.

“Why was I brought here like a prisoner?” she demanded.

Langsmith appeared honestly startled. “But I told you last night that I'd send somebody for you.”

Speidel chuckled easily. “Some of our Security boys are a little grim-faced,” he said. “I hope they didn't frighten you.”

She took a deep breath, began to relax. “Is this about the request I made last night?” she asked. “I mean, for help in this new line of research?”

“In a way,” said Langsmith. “But first I'd like to have you answer a question for me.” He pursed his lips. “Uh … I've never asked one of my people for just a wild guess before, but I'm going to break that rule with you. What's your guess as to why these Galactics are here?”

“Guess?”

“Logical assumption, then,” he said.

She looked down at her hands. “We've all speculated, of course. They might be scientists investigating us for reasons of their own.”

“Damnation!” barked the civilian beside her. Then: “Sorry, ma'am. But that's the pap we keep using to pacify the public.”

“And we aren't keeping them very well pacified,” said Langsmith. “That group that stormed us last night called themselves the
Sons of Truth
! They had thermite bombs, and were going to attack the spaceship.”

“How foolish,” she whispered. “How pitiful.”

“Go on with your guessing, Dr. Millar,” said Speidel.

She glanced at the general, again looked at her hands. “There's the military's idea—that they want Earth for a strategic base in some kind of space war.”

“It could be,” said Speidel.

“They could be looking for more living space for their own kind,” she said.

“In which case, what happens to the native population?” asked Langsmith.

“They would either be exterminated or enslaved, I'm afraid. But the Galactics could be commercial traders of some sort, interested in our art forms, our animals for their zoos, our archaeology, our spices, our…” She broke off, shrugged. “How do we know what they may be doing on the side … secretly?”