by Jerry
“They got as far as the Bohr atom, anyhow,” he said. “Well, not quite. They knew about electron shells, but they have the nucleus pictured as a solid mass. No indication of proton-and-neutron structure. I’ll bet, when you come to translate their scientific books, you’ll find that they taught that the atom was the ultimate and indivisible particle. That explains why you people never found any evidence that the Martians used nuclear energy.”
“That’s a uranium atom,” Captain Miles mentioned.
“It is?” Sid Chamberlain asked, excitedly. “Then they did know about atomic energy. Just because we haven’t found any pictures of A-bomb mushrooms doesn’t mean—”
She turned to look at the other wall. Sid’s signal reactions were getting away from him again; uranium meant nuclear power to him, and the two words were interchangeable. As she studied the arrangement of the numbers and words, she could hear Tranter saying:
“Nuts, Sid. We knew about uranium a long time before anybody found out what could be done with it. Uranium was discovered on Terra in 1789, by Klaproth.”
There was something familiar about the table on the left wall. She tried to remember what she had been taught in school about physics, and what she had picked up by accident afterward. The second column was a continuation of the first: there were forty-six items in each, each item numbered consecutively—
“Probably used uranium because it’s the largest of the natural atoms,” Penrose was saying. “The fact that there’s nothing beyond it there shows that they hadn’t created any of the transuranics. A student could go to that thing and point out the outer electron of any of the ninety-two elements.”
Ninety-two! That was it; there were ninety-two items in the table on the left wall! Hydrogen was Number One, she knew; One, Sarfaldsorn. Helium was Two; that was Tirfaldsorn. She couldn’t remember which element came next, but in Martian it was Sarfalddavas. Sorn must mean matter, or substance, then. And davas; she was trying to think of what it could be. She turned quickly to the others, catching hold of Hubert Penrose’s arm with one hand and waving her clipboard with the other.
“Look at this thing, over here,” she was clamoring excitedly. “Tell me what you think it is. Could it be a table of the elements?”
They all turned to look. Mort Tranter stared at it for a moment.
“Could be. If I only knew what those squiggles meant—”
That was right; he’d spent his time aboard the ship.
“If you could read the numbers, would that help?” she asked, beginning to set down the Arabic digits and their Martian equivalents. “It’s decimal system, the same as we use.”
“Sure. If that’s a table of elements, all I’d need would be the numbers. Thanks,” he added as she tore off the sheet and gave it to him.
Penrose knew the numbers, and was ahead of him. “Ninety-two items, numbered consecutively. The first number would be the atomic number. Then a single word, the name of the element. Then the atomic weight—”
She began reading off the names of the elements. “I know hydrogen and helium; what’s tirfalddavas, the third one?”
“Lithium,” Tranter said. “The atomic weights aren’t run out past the decimal point. Hydrogen’s one plus, if that double-hook dingus is a plus sign; Helium’s four-plus, that’s right. And lithium’s given as seven, that isn’t right. It’s six-point-nine-four-oh. Or is that thing a Martian minus sign?”
“Of course! Look! A plus sign is a hook, to hang things together; a minus sign is a knife, to cut something off from something—see, the little loop is the handle and the long pointed loop is the blade. Stylized, of course, but that’s what it is. And the fourth element, kiradavas; what’s that?”
“Beryllium. Atomic weight given as nine-and-a-hook; actually it’s nine-point-oh-two.”
Sid Chamberlain had been disgruntled because he couldn’t get a story about the Martians having developed atomic energy. It took him a few minutes to understand the newest development, but finally it dawned on him.
“Hey! You’re reading that!” he cried. “You’re reading Martian!”
“That’s right,” Penrose told him. “Just reading it right off. I don’t get the two items after the atomic weight, though. They look like months of the Martian calendar. What ought they to be, Mort?”
Tranter hesitated. “Well, the next information after the atomic weight ought to be the period and group numbers. But those are words.”
“What would the numbers be for the first one, hydrogen?”
“Period One, Group One. One electron shell, one electron in the outer shell,” Tranter told her. “Helium’s period one, too, but it has the outer—only—electron shell full, so it’s in the group of inert elements.”
“Trav, Trav. Trav‘s the first month of the year. And helium’s Trav, Yenth; Yenth is the eighth month.”
“The inert elements could be called Group Eight, yes. And the third element, lithium, is Period Two, Group One. That check?”
“It certainly does. Sanv, Trav; Sanv‘s the second month. What’s the first element in Period Three?”
“Sodium, Number Eleven.”
“That’s right; it’s Krav, Trav. Why, the names of the months are simply numbers, one to ten, spelled out.”
“Doma‘s the fifth month. That was your first Martian word, Martha,” Penrose told her. “The word for five. And if davas is the word for metal, and sornhulva is chemistry and/or physics, I’ll bet Tadavas Sornhulva is literally translated as : ‘Of-Metal Matter-Knowledge.’ Metallurgy, in other words. I wonder what Mastharnorvod means.” It surprised her that, after so long and with so much happening in the meantime, he could remember that. “Something like ‘Journal,’ or ‘Review,’ or maybe ‘Quarterly.’ ”
“We’ll work that out, too,” she said confidently. After this, nothing seemed impossible. “Maybe we can find—” Then she stopped short. “You said ‘Quarterly.’ I think it was ‘Monthly,’ instead. It was dated for a specific month, the fifth one. And if nor is ten, Mastharnorvod could be ‘Year-Tenth.’ And I’ll bet we’ll find that masthar is the word for year.” She looked at the table on the wall again. “Well, let’s get all these words down, with translations for as many as we can.”
“Let’s take a break for a minute,” Penrose suggested, getting out his cigarettes. “And then, let’s do this in comfort. Jeff, suppose you and Sid go across the hall and see what you find in the other room in the way of a desk or something like that, and a few chairs. There’ll be a lot of work to do on this.”
Sid Chamberlain had been squirming as though he were afflicted with ants, trying to contain himself. Now he let go with an excited jabber.
“This is really it! The it, not just it-of-the-week, like finding the reservoirs or those statues or this building, or even the animals and the dead Martians! Wait till Selim and Tony see this! Wait till Tony sees it; I want to see his face! And when I get this on telecast, all Terra’s going to go nuts about it!” He turned to Captain Miles. “Jeff, suppose you take a look at that other door, while I find somebody to send to tell Selim and Tony. And Gloria; wait till she sees this—”
“Take it easy, Sid,” Martha cautioned. “You’d better let me have a look at your script, before you go too far overboard on the telecast. This is just a beginning; it’ll take years and years before we’re able to read any of those books downstairs.”
“It’ll go faster than you think, Martha,” Hubert Penrose told her. “We’ll all work on it, and we’ll teleprint material to Terra, and people there will work on it. We’ll send them everything we can . . . everything we work out, and copies of books, and copies of your word-lists—”
And there would be other tables—astronomical tables, tables in physics and mechanics, for instance—in which words and numbers were equivalent. The library stacks, below, would be full of them. Transliterate them into Roman alphabet spellings and Arabic numerals, and somewhere, somebody would spot each numerical significance, as Hubert Penrose and Mort Tranter a
nd she had done with the table of elements. And pick out all the chemistry textbooks in the Library; new words would take on meaning from contexts in which the names of elements appeared. She’d have to start studying chemistry and physics, herself—
Sachiko Koremitsu peeped in through the door, then stepped inside.
“Is there anything I can do—?” she began. “What’s happened? Something important?”
“Important?” Sid Chamberlain exploded. “Look at that, Sachi! We’re reading it! Martha’s found out how to read Martian!” He grabbed Captain Miles by the arm. “Come on, Jeff; let’s go. I want to call the others—” He was still babbling as he hurried from the room.
Sachi looked at the inscription. “Is it true?” she asked, and then, before Martha could more than begin to explain, flung her arms around her. “Oh, it really is! You are reading it! I’m so happy!”
She had to start explaining again when Selim von Ohlmhorst entered. This time, she was able to finish.
“But, Martha, can you be really sure? You know, by now, that learning to read this language is as important to me as it is to you, but how can you be so sure that those words really mean things like hydrogen and helium and boron and oxygen? How do you know that their table of elements was anything like ours?”
Tranter and Penrose and Sachiko all looked at him in amazement.
“That isn’t just the Martian table of elements; that’s the table of elements. It’s the only one there is,” Mort Tranter almost exploded. “Look, hydrogen has one proton and one electron. If it had more of either, it wouldn’t be hydrogen, it’d be something else. And the same with all the rest of the elements. And hydrogen on Mars is the same as hydrogen on Terra, or on Alpha Centauri, or in the next galaxy—”
“You just set up those numbers, in that order, and any first-year chemistry student could tell you what elements they represented,” Penrose said. “Could if he expected to make a passing grade, that is.”
The old man shook his head slowly, smiling. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a passing grade. I didn’t know, or at least didn’t realize, that. One of the things I’m going to place an order for, to be brought on the Schiaparelli, will be a set of primers in chemistry and physics, of the sort intended for a bright child of ten or twelve. It seems that a Martiologist has to learn a lot of things the Hittites and the Assyrians never heard about.”
Tony Lattimer, coming in, caught the last part of the explanation. He looked quickly at the walls and, having found out just what had happened, advanced and caught Martha by the hand.
“You really did it, Martha! You found your bilingual! I never believed that it would be possible; let me congratulate you!”
He probably expected that to erase all the jibes and sneers of the past. If he did, he could have it that way. His friendship would mean as little to her as his derision—except that his friends had to watch their backs and his knife. But he was going home on the Cyrano, to be a big-shot. Or had this changed his mind for him again?
“This is something we can show the world, to justify any expenditure of time and money on Martian archaeological work. When I get back to Terra, I’ll see that you’re given full credit for this achievement—”
On Terra, her back and his knife would be out of her watchfulness.
“We won’t need to wait that long,” Hubert Penrose told him dryly. “I’m sending off an official report, tomorrow; you can be sure Dr. Dane will be given full credit, not only for this but for her previous work, which made it possible to exploit this discovery.”
“And you might add, work done in spite of the doubts and discouragements of her colleagues,” Selim von Ohlmhorst said. “To which I am ashamed to have to confess my own share.”
“You said we had to find a bilingual,” she said. “You were right, too.”
“This is better than a bilingual, Martha,” Hubert Penrose said. “Physical science expresses universal facts; necessarily it is a universal language. Heretofore archaeologists have dealt only with pre-scientific cultures.”
THE END
POINT OF CONTACT
John Kippax
When dealing with any race of people there must always be some focal point upon which mutual trust can be based before complete understanding can be attained. With an alien culture the difficulties are likely to be insuperable—but somewhere there will be the one action or deed which will be the centre-pin for further negotiations.
Dollan the quartermaster, the business of supplies constantly on his mind, spoke his line like the tolling of a bell.
“We canna stay more than a week.”
Commander Knightley screwed up his mouth and put a few more wrinkles in his leathery face as he grimaced at Anderson, the ET life specialist.
“No more to say, eh?”
Anderson, balding, thick spectacled, thirty-five, was nudged by the short beefy Gale, his psycho friend.
“Would have been better for the men if we’d got back into space a month ago.”
“You worried about the men, Gale?”
“The inaction’s getting them down, sir.”
“I know,” said the Commander. “Fights and rows.”
Anderson glanced out of the big yellow tent at the golden sun in the rich mauve sky and said, “It would be a wonderful place, Lemnos III.”
“Where every prospect pleases, and only Lemnosians are vile,” grunted Gale.
Knightley drummed his fingers, and the rest of the officer and officer grade personnel of the Oberth scuffed their feet at the grey-green turf on the tent floor, and smoked, and waited for the conference to end.
Knightley said, “I told Earth base long enough ago that they were wrong in accepting such a low standard of general duty man. That’s part of the bother. But some of you, civilians particularly, could help in discipline by not calling your personal servants by their nicknames or Christian names.”
“Bingo,” muttered Anderson to himself. He means Gale and me, he thought.
“Well gentlemen, if we fail, and it seems that we have, we have the consolation of knowing that keeping the rules of the Charter is the sole cause.”
No one spoke; from some way off a recorded bell note tolled the hour, echoing over the camp of yellow tents, with the bulk of the Oberth towering beyond. Inside the tent they stirred, Knightley reached for his cap, Gale passed Anderson a cigarette.
“Watch the discipline gentlemen,” said the chief. Then he gave dismiss, and the blue-overalled figures left for their tents or for the ship.
Gale watched the long figure of Knightley stride away, then he said, “Let’s go see Bingo about a cup of tea.”
Anderson laughed.
“You mean crewman GD, Bingley, Augustus Henry,” he reproved, as they walked down the rows of tents. The camp was set within a crescent-shape of trees, on the side of a long sloping down. Higher, and beyond the trees, stood the ship, and below the camp the ground fell away to a shallow valley where ran a slow wide river through clumps of golden brown trees. Down here, in a deep cleft near the valley floor lived the nearest Lemnosians. Beyond, red and purple hills stretched out under the great warm sun.
When they reached their tent they flopped on their beds, lit fresh cigarettes. A few seconds later a small sharp eager face looked through the flap.
“Two teas coming up, gents.”
“Right, Bingo.”
“Thanks, Bingo.”
The head disappeared. Gale looked hard at Anderson.
“Discipline, Glen.”
“Umph,” said Anderson. “Unnecessary familiarity.”
Bingley breezed in and set down two cups of tea, after which he looked up as though expecting to be praised, like a pup that had brought in a rat.
“Thank you, Crewman Bingley,” said Anderson.
“You may go, Crewman Bingley,” said Gale.
“Gor!” said Bingley. “You gents feel all right? What have I done?”
The silence was rather painful. Bingley broke it.
&nbs
p; “Do we get started on exploration, or do we leave here?” Gale said, “The Charter does not allow us to put down a bore or take a specimen of any kind until complete understanding with the inhabitants is reached.”
Bingley said, “So it’s space and home and payoff?”
“Probably.” Anderson studied the sudden misery on Bingley’s face.
“They say that unclassified men like myself—” began the little servant, then he shrugged and left the tent.
“He doesn’t want to go back to being a video vaudeville turn,” said Gale. “Ten week’s juggling a year, that’s all he used to average.”
“Jugglers!” said Anderson. “We do get ’em.”
Bingley whipped back into the tent. He quivered.
“We’re being watched from the wood!”
They got off their beds.
“From the wood—you peep out!”
They saw the face of a Lemnosian, brown and sharp, peering from the leaves. Then his black eyes saw them, and he disappeared. Bingley started forward as though to go after the alien, but Anderson restrained him.
“Blimey,” said the little man, “that’s the first time I’ve had a good look at a real live Lemnosian.”
They relaxed again.
“One look at us,” said Gale, “and he’s gone. That just about sums it up. They run from us, we mustn’t capture one, we can’t intrude, we can’t hear enough of the language to analyse it, and we know nothing of their family life except that they live in caves. Stuck, on what might well be the richest planet ever.” Bingley sighed, “Ah, well.” He balanced the cups and saucers in his hand, as though wondering if he had room enough in the tent to get them spinning. “Ah, well. Back to the treadmill then.”
The sky had deepened to a rich violet as Gale and Anderson came back from the mess tent. The camp glowed like a collection of yellow lanterns. They were not far from their own tent as they stopped to admire.
