The Judas Rose (18 page)

Interesting. Definitely interesting. A militant eggdome, sitting in his office, by god! Of his own free will.

He leaned toward the man just enough to signal attention, keeping his facial expression carefully neutral, and bypassed all the formalities. He said, “Let's get at it, Professor, shall we? What do you want from Chornyak Household?”

He hadn't misjudged his man; there was no flicker of surprise in the pale blue eyes that stood out so astonishingly against the indigo skin. Just as there had been no trace of surprise on his face when he came through the door and discovered that the Head of the Lines had no real desk in which to work but sat at the same narrow table-like piece of furniture that had served the Heads of the Lines a hundred years ago. He had simply sat down in the chair across from Jonathan and made himself comfortable; if he'd expected baronial splendor and the latest technology and been startled not to find it here, he was hiding it superbly well.

“I have a two-week-old son,” said Macabee Dow. “I want permission to Interface him with your current Alien-in-Residence . . . your current AIRY.” Just like that, without preamble. He didn't even say hello first.

Jonathan was stunned. No doubt there'd been a good deal more than a trace of shock on
his
face. One point to Macabee Dow, and he'd only been here ninety seconds.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely serious.”

Jonathan stared at him, bearing down on the full eye contact, adding a reliable set of bodyparl flourishes guaranteed to shake anyone with reason to be uneasy, and waited. No reactions. Nothing.

“Just a minute,” he said. No point in wasting time. He turned to his comset, punched a red stud on the left, and was pleased to see the Ready signal come up immediately. “Grandfather,” he said, speaking directly to the set despite the fact that the old man had it blanked as always and there was nothing to be seen on the screen, “there's an eggdome flamboy down here in my office, wearing a dress shirt and a sarong, with his effing skull shaved bare and stained blue—wanting to put his baby in our Interface. I'd appreciate it if you'd come down here and give me a hand.”

He kept an eye on his guest as he talked, watching for any sign of resentment at the deliberate rudeness; there was none. Either Macabee Dow was indifferent to such things, or he'd been thoroughly briefed on what to expect and was determined not to be led down any linguistic lanes, or both. Or perhaps something
else was going on. The ethic of the broad-chested square-shouldered reaganic American male obligated the professor absolutely, intellectual or no intellectual, sarong or no sarong, to object to the blatant insults or to make an aggressive countermove of his own, but Macabee Dow was doing nothing of the kind. His face was as blank as Jonathan's comset screen, and he sat there in what looked to Jonathan's expert eye like a state of comfortable relaxation. Amazing.

“On my way!” said the old man's voice, the touch of glee obvious if you knew him as well as Jonathan knew him. “Give me three minutes for the stairs, and don't say anything important before I get there.”

The light went off, and Jonathan turned to look at Dow again.

“Do you have the baby with you?” he asked him bluntly.

Dow raised both hands, high and open. “No baby,” he said.

“Not stashed outside the office with one of the women?”

“Nope. Home with its mother, Chornyak.”

“And how does the mother feel about this project of yours?”

“She's having flaming hysterical convulsions, like any decent woman who believes everything she hears on the popnews. That has no bearing on this matter whatsoever.”

“No legal bearing,” Jonathan agreed. “But perhaps it has an emotional bearing.”

Macabee Dow's eyebrows went up a fraction, and the pale blue eyes turned paler. “I don't make jokes, Mr. Chornyak,” he said icily. “And I don't say anything I don't mean. The fact that my wife hasn't a brain in her head and is therefore behaving brainlessly has no bearing—of any kind—on this matter. I married her to run my bed and board and bear my children and look decorative; those are the only functions she serves.”

“Glad to hear it,” said the voice at the door. “Far too many young men let their wives get out of hand early on and then spend the rest of their lives in a futile attempt to regain proper control of the situation. Terrible waste of time, and no excuse for it in this day and age.”

“Good morning, Grandfather,” said Jonathan. “Thank you for coming down. Professor—my grandfather, James Nathan Chornyak. Grandfather, this is Professor Macabee Dow, Mathematics Department, Massachusetts Multiversity. Here to borrow a cup of Interfacing, so to speak.”

James Nathan sat down at Jonathan's side with a polite nod, and the professor across the desk from them said it again. “I am here to request that you allow me to Interface my two-week-old son with your current AIRY, gentlemen. ‘Borrowing' is not
involved. I am willing to pay any reasonable fee, and to sign whatever legal waivers you require. The boy is a healthy normal infant. Good bones. Like me, he is absolutely bald. Unlike me, his head is not stained indigo—he won't alarm the other babies you have in the Interface.”

The old man glanced at his grandson, noted the OVER TO YOU code gesture, and moved on it. “We'll need an explanation,” he said sternly, one index finger pointed straight at the professor. “This is completely without precedent, as I'm sure you know. College professors have not mingled with linguists since the year 2050. And nobody, in or out of academe, is willing to have their
infants
mingle with us. State your game, Professor Dow.”

Dow narrowed his eyes, and the linguists waited for the resentment to surface, but he was in full control of himself. “I am a man with a great deal of power,” he told them flatly. “I intend my son to be a man of at least equal power. If there is a more likely swift route to power than being the first layman to acquire an Alien language natively, I don't know what it is. I'm aware that power of that sort isn't available free of charge, and I'm prepared to pay you handsomely. I am also prepared to provide all the necessary proofs . . . of the child's perfect health, of my own financial position, and whatever else you consider necessary in that line. Whatever you need, my attorneys will get for you. The game, gentlemen, is
power
; there are no other games worth playing.”

“And if the answer is no?” Jonathan asked, prepared to hear the man say that in that case he'd go to one of the other linguist Households; but Dow must have been advised that a Chornyak decision would be a decision honored by all thirteen families. He made no such suggestion.

“I'll attempt to convince you that your decision is an error,” he answered. “And if I can't convince you, I'll go home and switch to an alternate plan. The boy is only two weeks old; I don't feel cramped for time.”

“And you don't think he's a little young for Interfacing.”

“You know perfectly well he's not,” said Macabee Dow, looking disgusted, “unless you're concerned about feeding and diapering and so on. And I see no reason why the arrangements you make for your own infants can't be extended to mine. If you want a baby nurse on duty to supervise that, I'll pay for one.”

It was quiet in the small room; the linguists were thinking. The air exchange was loud enough in the silence to be distracting, and Jonathan tapped a stud to cover the soft hum with a Bach fugue of appropriate tempo and complexity.

“Professor Dow,” he asked, “what makes you think this is possible?”

“The fact that I'm able and willing to meet your price,” snapped the academic. “You men earn four times my salary, but I'm not dependent on my salary—I know how to make money. The fact that one more little baby won't crowd your Interface. And the fact that there's no reason, other than the irrelevant ‘without precedent,' for you to refuse.”

“You don't think it's
genetically
impossible, then?” hazarded Jonathan, being exceedingly careful. Dow had made only one error so far, and it was a predictable one: he would have been hearing about the voracious greed of the linguists since he
himself
was an infant; naturally he believed it. But he was a man with plenty of avenues for publicity open to him, who might be capable of doing considerable damage in unanticipated ways. It would not be wise to underestimate him on the basis of a single error.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Come
now, Professor!” James Nathan's voice flicked the air, a deft cool lash of sound, fitting neatly into the spaces in the fugue. “Don't waste our time, please; we haven't been wasting yours.”

“If your reference,” Dow answered steadily, “is to the government propaganda that only infants of the Lines are genetically capable of acquiring Alien languages—and I assume that it must be—have the courtesy to remember that I am a scientist. I am quite able to recognize claptrap, even when the motive behind it is a mystery and the source of it is the State Department.”

“Then you are an
unusual
scientist, Professor Dow,” Jonathan observed, watching, aware that his grandfather was watching as carefully as he was; the professor with his absurd blue-hued hairless skull did not appear to be in any way conscious that the statement he had just made was unusual or remarkable. “We see scientists constantly in our work, and they all seem willing to accept the government's bizarre position. And to give scientific papers in support of the government's position. And to write articles in support of it. And so on.”

Macabee Dow sighed. “I'm not responsible for the ignorance of my colleagues,” he said. “Nor am I required to share it. And whatever you may encounter when you are involved in government-sponsored activities, gentlemen, I give you my word: there is no such thing as a
competent
scientific scholar who believes that the infants of the Lines are sufficiently different genetically to have unique language acquisition skills. We know what that would
mean, gentlemen. A radically different
brain
, just for starters. . . . It's nonsense.
No
one takes it seriously.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” breathed James Nathan. “Does this mean that we should now expect a long line of enlightened scientists on our doorstep demanding to share our Interface?”

“I have no idea,” stated Dow. “Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I rarely find myself part of a herd, Mr. Chornyak. This may be an exception, of course—but I did not reach my present position by doing things that everyone else does.”

“But it
could
happen? Mathematically speaking? Things have actually changed that much?”

“
Look
, Chornyak—both of you Chornyaks!” Macabee Dow said harshly. “There hasn't been a child of the Lines educated other than privately for generations. How the hell would you know what's going on in the scientific community? In the
real
scientific community, that is, not the community of federal toadies? You people sit around on your isolated butts, going nowhere except these houses buried in the ground like gopher burrows, and the government facilities where you work, and you take it for granted that you have your fingers right on the pulse of contemporary science! Shit! Where do you
get
that kind of arrogance?”

A more normal male display, Jonathan noted with satisfaction. Delayed a bit, showing fine control, but normal. Very good.

“I'm sure you're absolutely correct,” he said courteously, at ease now. “We're frequently as astonished by our own ignorance as you are, if that's any consolation.”

“I do not require consolation,” said Macabee. “And my son would be Interfacing with an Alien-in-Residence, not a Terran linguist, thank god!”

James Nathan folded his arms over his chest, clearing his throat, and grinned at his guest. “Your contemporary sophistication does not quite stretch to an absence of prejudice toward nasty Lingoes, then?”

“I can respect those against whom I am prejudiced,” Dow answered. “My prejudices are like anyone else's—irrational. They are not involved in this transaction any more than my wife is.”

“Very logical,” said the Head. “Admirable in every way. By all means, let us have scientific objectivity, even about our own corruption. Let's hear your proposal, then. Specifically.”

“I have a normal healthy infant son. I wish him to acquire an Alien language as one of his native languages. The only way to
accomplish this—since you people have somehow managed to establish a total monopoly on the process—is for him to go into an Interface along with an infant or infants of the Lines. And I am prepared to pay for the privilege. That's it.
Specifically
.”

“And you are ready to sign waivers of responsibility?”

“Certainly.”

James Nathan Chornyak shrugged his shoulders, and scowled thoughtfully down at his folded arms. While Jonathan waited for a cue, and Macabee Dow—at last—fidgeted. And then, to Jonathan's astonishment, he looked up and said, “Well, why not? The Interfaces are large. We could get another dozen infants in there at a time. The women in charge are perfectly capable of handling the needs of one more baby. I can't imagine that it would make any difference to our AIRYs. I have no objection to at least giving it a trial.”