That was tangled, but Calder thought she had the gist. "And the new species that are caused. How many—" Lucy quickly checked her dictionary. No, she didn't have the word for "generation." "How many cycles from parent to offspring between the old species and a perfected new owner
C'astille pulled her head back on its long neck, an involuntary gesture of surprise. "Why, none... or perhaps accurately one. The old form is taken, the changes are made on its—again, the word is not yet given to you. It is lasut. Do you have the concept of small structures that are controllers of what a live thing is?"
"Humans have known of this concept long years."
"Here they are called lasut." Calder noted its phonetics down, had C'astille repeat it so she could record it and practice it later, and the conversation went on. Both were used to such circumlocutions and pauses by now.
C'astille continued. "The genes are changed, and the next thing to come from them is what is wanted."
"That is not our way," Lucy said. "Human skill with changing these genes exists, but I have suspicions it is quite modest when compared to yours. Much time, many tried, many cycles of parent and offspring between first effort and success. Also, humans seek not to bring forth a wall-growing life form, but just a stronger animal, a plant that will give more food."
"So are all your things made, as has been seen?"
"Highly close to true. A human is the maker, or the maker of a machine that is the maker of nearly all our things."
"Even your secu werystlon?"
A tricky term. Literally, it translated as "outer memories," and seemed to cover both sound and sight recorders, computers, perhaps some other gadgets, perhaps even pencil and paper. It occurred to Lucy that the term was a Dad fit. It was their name for a class of things that had some equivalence to computers, and recorders. "Yes, if I understand with precision," Lucy said carefully. "These are not grown, but are themselves machines."
"Many of ours live."
Lucy had the sudden and ghastly vision of a disembodied brain inside a glass jar, hooked up to wires. No, it wouldn't be like that. But the image wouldn't fade. You learn something new every day, she thought, and the two of them got on with the language lesson.
The days passed, and both sides learned.
Gustav pounded away stolidly at the keyboard.
Alien Contact Status and Action Report 137
General Summary: Once again, no major changes since last report. CI Lucy Calder continues to make gradual progress on Outposter-l language. The Outposters have confirmed her earlier understanding that there are any number of different languages spoken by the Outposters, many of them mutually unintelligible. Previous theories to the contrary must be abandoned. Orbital examination and mapping of the surface continues to be hampered by cloud cover, but orbital work has located about 100 probable city sites on the planet, in widely scattered locations. Recent low-altitude atmospheric overflights, launched from Orbital Station Ariadne, of many of these sites have located definite small settlements. Many appear to be abandoned. The largest of these seems about as large as a human village of a few thousand. We at Contact Headquarters once again urgently request that these overflights be suspended, as they must be disconcerting to the locals. We do not wish to adversely affect relations with Outposter groups we have not yet met, and these overflights can tell us little more than they already have: that the Outposters have very many small settlements.
Specific Summaries:
Language: Calder has done excellent work, and has now established a reliable basic vocabulary of Outposter-l. At my instruction, she now divides her time between learning more O-l and teaching what she has learned already to the trainees sent from Capital. These trainees are already capable of some conversation with the locals. She is also involved in the effort to get a computer to serve as a translating device. All of these efforts will eventually succeed: Comer will become more fluent in O-l and she expects to be able to talk in related dialects; the trainees will learn the language as well; and the auto-translator device will be perfected. However, I must emphasize once again that all of these projects involve the most gradual and painstaking effort. By the very nature of the work—in large part patient trial-and-error-breakthrough simply are not possible. With all due respect, the work cannot be rushed, and I can assure everyone involved that we at Contact HQ are as eager for more results as anyone. But patience is required. We will be learning the subtle points of O-l for the next generation at least. Colder deserves nothing but praise for her efforts.
Culture and Technology: I am forced to make the same report I have made so many times before. The level of culture and technology is undetermined but high, and probably higher than thought at the time of my last report a few days ago, particularly in the biological sciences. Apparently, the Outposters can "custom-tailor" the local equivalent of chromosomes on a rapid and routine basis. What would seem a staggeringly difficult job of genetic engineering to us, they can do with casual ease.
At this point, I feel compelled to repeat a caution I have made many times before: It would be a great mistake to assume the Outposters are primitive because we locate no huge cities from orbit, or because they appear semi-nomadic, or because we do not detect powerful radio or electric power generation. We have by no means begun to understand these beings, but I can at least offer a theory. Humans have always assumed that cities, preferably large cities, are the centers of culture, and humans have always assumed that cities are permanent. The Outposters make neither assumption. 1 believe this is a key dividing point
in the development of our differing cultures. Insofar as the connection between culture and technology, I submit a statement that should have been obvious before we found the Outposters: There is no such connection. To cite but one example: The ancient Greeks certainly had a lower technology than many subsequent civilizations, but certainly they had a higher culture than most. . . .
There was a muffled thud, thud on the bulkhead, which was what passed for a knock at the door of a pressurized prefab hut. Gustav, glad of the break, hit the lock cycle button and spent the next two minutes straightening up the papers on his desk. One nice thing about airlocks—it was just about impossible for anyone to barge into his office.
A long series of thumps, clumps, and bumps further heralded the arrival of a visitor. "Hey, Johnson," Lucy said, her voice muffled by the breathing helmet, as she came into the room.
"Hi, Luce. How's the day so far?"
"Good," she said, pulling off her helmet. "I get two kinds of days—the kind where I wonder why it has taken us so long to get so little, and the kind where I'm amazed at how much progress we've made in so short a time. Today," she said with a grin, "is a Type Two day. The Outposter voice-recognition program seems to have most of the bugs out of it, finally, and that's progress. Making out the next report?"
"Yup. The top brass still want us to hand them a perfect auto-translator instantly, and can't believe we can't just pull it down from the shelf. I'm sticking my neck out to explain why it can't be done in slightly firmer and less oblique language this time."
"Damn bureaucrats. Yours are the same as ours."
Gustav grunted and said nothing. Lucy was still like that, probably always would be. She could not or would not identify herself as a Guardian. Even wrapped in all the excitement and challenge of this wonderful chance find, even granted all the privileges and freedom she needed to do the job the Guardians wanted of her, she refused to forget she was a prisoner.
It made things tough for Gustav because it threw both their motives into question. In his soul, he knew himself to be just as much a prisoner of the Central Guardians and their endless, desperate ambition. When, as he frequently did, he asked himself why Lucy went on, he was forced to ask at the same time why he went on.
Because it's an incredible opportunity, not to be refused. Because the dream of meeting the alien is what makes kids join the Navy in the first place. Because we're doing it for our species, not for whatever gr
ubby party goons are living in Capital Palace at the moment. Because to say no would be suicide. Because someone else would do it for them anyway, if not as well. . . . And from there on down the reasons got less convincing, more uncomfortable. Though Gustav couldn't answer why he went on, he thought that Calder might be able to. Which meant there was a limit to how far he could trust her. Gustav didn't like that, because Calder had become what no intelligence officer could afford, even an ex-Intelligence officer: a friend in the enemy ranks.
Gustav broke the silence at last with some comment about his report. They chatted about the routine affairs of the camps, and the progress of various language trainees, and the need to shut down the overflights that damn fool Romero insisted on making. At last they found themselves, as always, coming back to the central and endlessly exciting topic: the Outposters.
"I like them, C'astille especially," Calder said. "Using that damn language is like trying to wrestle wet noodles, but she and I can communicate, and either I'm getting better or she's learning to explain better."
"What does the language itself tell you?" Gustav asked. "I mean about the Outposters?"
Calder just shrugged. "I'm no xeno-psychiatrist. Fm not an ethnologist, or even a real linguist. The two glaring differences are the sound structure and the bias toward making passive statements. You've seen my translations. They are awkward because 0-1 is clumsy for statements of action. English is clumsy for passive statements. Where we'd say 'she came through the door,' they might say—" Lucy shifted to the local tongue and said a few words. "Now that can be translated to English as, The door was at the location passed through by the person,' and that's a mess. But the way of stating that very passive concept is very direct and succinct in O-l. The verb form is all one word with the proper prefix and suffix and intonation to give just that meaning. To state it in the typically very active voice used in English or most human tongues is very close to impossible.'
"And you don t think that says anything about our local friends?'
"It does, I'm sure of it, but I simply don't know what it says. It would be real easy to hand out some guff about they're being 'at one with their world' and not divided out from it. Some of the kids back home make that distinction between the aborigines and the Europeans. Mom's the abo and Dad's the Brit—they both laughed at that one. I have the distinct feeling the Outposters manipulate their environment for their own convenience just as much as we do. But their needs and methods are both different from ours."
"That's a long-winded way of saying, 'I don't know.' "
Lucy Calder grinned. "Or, to translate from O-l, 'The absence of knowledge is retained in my mind.' "
"Oh, shut up. Let's get some dinner."
CHAPTER SIX April, 2116 The Planet Bandwidth
With a moody, methodical air to his actions, as if he had been planning it a long time, Commander Randall Metcalf, United States Navy, pulled the bartender's head off.
George Prigot shifted uncomfortably on the next stool and looked around nervously. "Randall, I don't think that's allowed."
Metcalf ignored his friend and carefully set the head down on the counter. It resembled an oversized doll's head, with slightly glazed eyes, waxenly pink skin, and slightly over perfect rosy cheeks. The handlebar moustache looked as if it had been stamped out by a machine—as indeed it had.
"I have been," Metcalf said, pulling out a small tool set, "stuck on this automated hell-hole tor over six thousand hours. I have had my hair cut and my food cooked and my pants pressed and my pizza delivered by robots. I have been given exactly accurate directions to and fro by robot cops." Metcalf pulled the wig off the bartender's head, found an inspection plate, and began unscrewing screws. "I have been asked how long I will be gone by parking meters. I have been spoken to by doors, walls, taxis, airplanes, showers, clocks, and elevators, all warning me to use care, not to be late, not to forget, to be sure and look both ways before crossing." Metcalf pried the plate off and peered inside. "I have spent whole days engaged in conversation, without once talking to a human being. Every time I make a purchase my receipt tells me my remaining bank balance, to four utterly meaningless decimal places, not only in the U.S. dollars paid into it by the Navy, but in Bandwidth CashUnits and six other major currencies, based on the exchange rates as of a millisecond before. Every morning and night the damned mirror in the head in my hotel room reminds me to brush my teeth." Metcalf selected a set of wire cutters. "I," he said, snipping the leads to the speaker behind the bartender's smiling mouth, "have had it with all the nag, nag, nag, nag, nag."
"I dunno," Prigot said, still a little nervous and trying to soothe his friend. "I kinda like it. Attentive service, everything works."
"You, old pal, are an engineer. The damn robots don't bother you. You like machines—but would you want your sister to marry one? That's the only damn thing they haven't automated here—yet."
"I don't have a sister."
Metcalf looked up from his work to stare pityingly at Prigot. "Then, to paraphrase the immortal Marx, she's a very lucky woman. You don't get the point, do you? At least here, in the bar we come to every day, I want a machine that will shut up and just pour the booze and leave me alone."
"Ten C.U. says the maintenance machines have it repaired before you can order your next drink," Prigot said.
"You're on. Because I have also just cut the maintenance request caller inside this gizmo's head." Metcalf closed up the inspection panel, replaced the wig, stood to reach over the counter top, and shoved the head back down on the bartender's neck-pivot.
The bartender's body twitched once as the head's circuits linked back up with it. The head swiveled through 360 degrees, then the eyes seem to lock and track. The bartender turned, and its arm came up to shake a finger at Metcalf. A deep bass voice rumbled up from its chest. "Please use care in future, sir," it said. "If not for the back-up speaker in my body cavity, I could not now talk to you, and thus could not serve you properly."
Prigot roared with laughter as Metcalf glared at the robot. "Tomorrow," Metcalf said. "Tomorrow I come in here with a shaped thermite charge and melt you down. Now go get me a double Scotch."
"Draught for me," Prigot said cheerfully. "On your tab. Gotta start spending those ten C.U."
"Thank you. I will get your orders, sirs." The robot rolled down to the other end of the bar.
"Damn it, George." Metcalf stared into the mirror behind the box. "Damn it, George. Nothing's going right."
The robot delivered their drinks. Prigot reached out a graceful, long-fingered hand and took up his tankard. That was another thing he liked about Bandwidth: you got a really good-sized beer. Prigot carefully sucked some of the foam off" the head, caught Metcalf s eye in the mirror behind the bar, and grinned as he raised his glass to him.
George Prigot was the shorter, chubbier, more relaxed of the two. His brown hair had been bleached almost to blond by Bandwidth's sun, and he had put on a kilo or two. He had grown a beard, too. It was an improvement, and gave his face a maturer look, hiding the almost childlike delight that lit up his face whenever something interesting happened. He wore a rumpled old coverall covered with pockets and zippers and velcro. He seemed relaxed, comfortable. "Come on, Randall. It's not that rough."
Metcalf hadn't fit into Bandwidth as well as Prigot, to say the least. He had the air of a man forced to hurry up and wait, who needed to check the time every three minutes. He was tall, skinny, pale-skinned, with black hair and bushy black eyebrows. His fingers drummed on the counter top, and he leaned his bar stool back on two legs, threatening to overbalance and crash to the floor. He wore his non-dress tropical khaki uniform, with a line of ribbons over his breast pocket that would have deeply impressed anyone who knew what they all meant. "I take it you haven't heard the latest, then," Metcalf said. "I got it through the Navy scuttlebutt. I doubt it'll hit the news services for a day or two. They convicted Mac."
"My God."
"Busted him back to lieutenant commander, confine
d him to base at Columbia at the Survey Service training center. He's going to be a prisoner and an instructor there at the same time. He suggested the sentence himself, of course, as the best way he could still serve the war effort while doing his time."
"But why did they do it?"
"We've been through this. Because Mac said they could blow the Eagle the way we took out Leviathan."
"I know what the charges were. I just can't believe they'd really do it."
"That's something you've got to learn, George. You want to think we're all angels in white at this end. Well, you keep telling me there are decent people among the Guardians, and I believe you, because you're one of them. Here's proof that we've got some flaming bastards on our side."
George Prigot grunted and sipped at his beer. Suddenly his good cheer was gone.
Prigot was a Guardian, born and bred on Capital. He had met Mac Larson on New Finland, become his friend, fought at Mac's side, against his own people, when the brutality of the Guards became too much for his conscience. Prigot needed to believe in the lightness of his choice, and that made it difficult for him to accept that
League people could pull a rotten stunt like throwing the book at Mac. Illusions die hard with George.
Metcalf sipped at his Scotch. He had been on New Finland too, had earned his Distinguished Flying Cross there. He knew Mac, could very easily understand George's loyalty to the man—because he felt it himself. He thought back to the time when Berman had died, and Mac found himself forced to take up the command he had never wanted. Mac had saved them. The League forces and the Finns had wanted to curl up and die then, but Mac—Mac had found the way to pull them all together, had found the reserves of courage and hope that hadn't even been there before Mac went looking for them.
Metcalf had good reason to share Prigot's loyalty to Mac. Without Mac, they'd both either be dead or Guardian prisoners right now. Metcalf felt a strong urge to do something about Mac, help him in some way. But there was nothing he could do. Except maybe fight the war. And there was no war to fight—and wouldn't be until the bright boys found Capital.
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