Greenberg’s eyes flicked toward his boss, but showed no surprise. He had noticed that the boss had earlier said “associate” rather than “assistant” and had spotted it as the elementary maneuver of enhancing the prestige of one’s own negotiators for advantage in protocol—but he had not expected this sudden brevet. He was reasonably sure that Mr. Kiku had not bothered to have the rank approved by the Council; nevertheless the boss could make it stick and his credentials would probably show up on his desk. He wondered if his pay check would show it?
He decided that the boss must have a hunch that this silly business had importance not evident. Or was he simply getting the medusoid off his back?
Dr. Ftaeml bowed again. “Most gratifying to work with his excellency.” Greenberg suspected that the Rargyllian was not fooled; nevertheless it probably was really gratifying to him, since it implied that the medusoid was himself of ambassadorial rank.
A female aide brought in refreshments; they stopped for ritual. Ftaeml selected a French wine, while Greenberg and Kiku chose, by Hobson’s choice, the only Rargyllian item available—some stuff called “wine” through failure of language but which looked like bread mushed into milk and tasted as if sulphuric acid had been added. Greenberg went through the motions of enjoying it while not letting it pass his lips.
He noticed with respect that the boss actually consumed the stuff.
The rite common to seven out of ten civilizations gave Greenberg time to size up Ftaeml. The medusoid was dressed in an expensive parody of terrestrial formal clothes…cutaway jacket, lacy jabot, and striped shorts. It helped to hide the fact that, while he was a bifurcate humanoid with two legs, two arms, and head at the top of an elongated trunk, he was not remotely human in any but the legal sense.
But Greenberg had grown up in the presence of the Great Martians and had dealt with many other peoples since; he did not expect “men” to look like men and had no prejudice in favor of human form. Ftaeml was, to his eye, handsome and certainly graceful. His dry chitinous skin, purple with green highlights, was as neat as a leopard’s pelt and as decorative. The absence of a nose was no matter and was made up for by the mobile, sensitive mouth.
Greenberg decided that Ftaeml must have his tail wrapped around him under his clothes in order to carry out the pretense that he looked like a terrestrial as well as being dressed like one—Rargyllians would go to any trouble to conform to the ancient, urbane rule that when in Rome, one should shoot Roman candles. The other Rargyllian Greenberg had worked with had worn no clothes at all (since the people of Vega-VI wore none) and had carried his tail aloft, like a proud cat. Thinking of Vega-VI made Greenberg shiver, be had found it necessary to bundle up to his ears.
He glanced at the medusoid’s tendrils. Pshaw! they weren’t snakelike. The boss must have a neurosis as big as a house. Sure, they were about a foot long and as thick as his thumb, but they didn’t have eyes, they didn’t have mouths or teeth—they were just tendrils. Most races had tendrils of some sort. What were fingers but short tendrils?
Mr. Kiku put down his cup when Dr. Ftaeml set down his glass. “Doctor, you have consulted with your principals?”
“Sir, I have had that honor. And may I take this opportunity to thank you for the scout ship you so graciously placed at my disposal for the unavoidable trips back and forth from the surface of your lovely planet to the vessel of the people I have the privilege of assisting? It is, I may say without casting any reflections on the great people I now serve, more suited to the purpose and more comfortable to one of my build than are the auxiliary craft of their vessel.”
“Not at all, Glad to do a favor to a friend.”
“You are gracious, Mr. Under Secretary.”
“Well, what did they say?”
Dr. Ftaeml shrugged his whole body. “It pains me to inform you that they are unmoved. They insist that their she child be returned to them without delay.”
Mr. Kiku frowned. “No doubt you explained that we don’t have their missing child, have never heard of it, have no reason to think that she has ever been on this planet and strong reason to believe that she never could have been?”
“I did. You will pardon my inurbanity if I translate their answer in terms crude but unmistakable.” He shrugged apologetically. “They say you are lying.”
Mr. Kiku took no offense, being aware that a Rargyllian when acting as go-between was as impersonal as a telephone. “It would be better if I were lying. Then I could hand over their brat and the matter would be finished.”
“I believe you,” Dr. Ftaeml said suddenly.
“Thank you. Why?”
“You used the subjunctive.”
“Oh. Did you tell them that there were over seven thousand varieties of non-terrestrial creatures on Earth, represented by some hundreds of thousands of individuals? That of these individuals some thirty thousand are sentient beings? But of these sentient beings only a very few have anything like the physical characteristics of your Hroshii? And that all those few we can account for as to race and planet of origin?”
“I am Rargyllian, sir. I told them all that and more, in their own language, putting it more clearly than you could explain it to another Earthmen. I made it live.”
“I believe you.” Mr. Kiku tapped the table top. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“Just a moment,” put in Greenberg. “Don’t you have a picture of a typical Hroshii? It might help.”
“‘Hroshiu,’” corrected Ftaeml. “Or, in this ease, ‘Hroshia.’ I am sorry. They do not use symbology of the picture type. Unfortunately I am not equipped to take one of your pictures.”
“An eyeless race?”
“No, Excellency. Their sight is quite good, quite subtle. But their eyes and nervous systems abstract somewhat differently from yours. Their analog of ‘picture’ would be meaningless to you. Even I find it difficult and my race is admitted to be the most subtle of all in the interpretation of symbolic abstraction. If a Rargyllian…” He stopped and preened himself.
“Well…describe one to us. Use your justly famed semantic talents.”
“A pleasure. The Hroshii manning this vessel are all about of a size, being of the military class…”
Mr. Kiku interrupted. “Military class? Doctor, is this a war vessel? You did not tell me this.”
Dr. Ftaeml looked pained. “I considered the fact both obvious and distasteful.”
“I suppose so.” Mr. Kiku wondered if he should alert the Federation General Staff. Not now, he decided. Mr. Kiku was strongly prejudiced against the introduction of military might into negotiations, since he believed that a show of force not only was an admission of failure on the part of diplomats but also poisoned the chances of accomplishing anything more by negotiation. He could rationalize this opinion but he held it as an emotion. “Go on, please.”
“The military class are of three sexes, the differences in the types being not readily apparent and need not concern us. My shipmates and hosts are perhaps six inches higher than this table and half again your height in length. Each has four pairs of legs and two arms. Their hands are small and supple and extremely dexterous. In my opinion the Hroshii are unusually beautiful, form serving function with rare grace. They are remarkably adroit with machines, instruments, and delicate manipulations of every sort.”
Greenberg relaxed a little as Ftaeml talked. Despite everything, the vagrant notion had still been bothering him that this creature “Lummox” might be of the Hroshii…but he saw now that the thought came from nothing more than accidental similarity in leg number…as if an ostrich were a man because of two legs! His mind wanted to file Lummox into a category and no doubt would keep on trying, but this category did not fit.
Dr. Ftaeml was continuing: “…but the outstanding characteristic of the Hroshii, not covered by these mere facts of size, shape, body structure, and mechanical function, is an overwhelming impression of great mental power. So overwhelming, in fact…” The medusoid chuckled in embarrassment“…tha
t I was almost persuaded to waive my professional fee and serve them as a privilege.”
Greenberg was impressed. These Hroshii really must have something; the Rargyllians, honest brokers though they were, would let a man die of thirst rather than tell him the local word for water, unless cash was in band. Their mercenary attitude had the quality of devoutness.
“The only thing,” Ftaeml added, “that saved me from this excess was the knowledge that in one thing I excelled them. They are not linguists. Rich and powerful as their own speech is, it is the only language they ever learn well. They are even less talented linguistically than is your own race.” Ftaeml spread his grotesque hands in a gesture that was purely Gallic (or a perfect, studied imitation) and added, “So I repaired my self esteem and charged twice my usual fee.”
He ceased talking. Mr. Kiku stared glumly at the table and Greenberg merely waited. Finally Kiku said, “What do you suggest?”
“My esteemed friend, there is only one course that is of any use. The Hroshia they seek must be delivered up.”
“But we do not have this Hroshia.”
Ftaeml simulated a human sigh. “That is regrettable.” Greenberg looked at him sharply; the sigh did not carry conviction. He felt that Ftaeml regarded the impasse as somehow tremendously exciting…which was ridiculous; a Rargyllian, having accepted the role of go-between, was invariably anxious that the negotiation be successful; anything less than success caused. them to lose face in their own eyes.
So he spoke up. “Dr. Ftaeml, when you undertook this commission for the Hroshii, did you expect that we would be able to produce this, uh, Hroshia?”
The creature’s tendrils suddenly slumped; Greenberg cocked an eyebrow and said dryly, “No, I see that you did not. May I ask why, then, you accepted this commission?”
Ftaeml answered slowly and without his usual confidence: “Sir, one does not refuse a commission of the Hroshii. Believe me, one does not.”
“Hmm…these Hroshii. Doctor, will you pardon me if I say that you have not yet conveyed to me a full understanding of these people? You tell us that they are mentally very powerful, so much so that a leading mind of a highly-advanced race…yourself…is almost ‘overwhelmed’ by them. You imply that they are powerful in other ways…that you, a member of a proud, free race, must obey their wishes. Now here they are in a single ship, facing an entire planet, a planet so powerful that it has been able to create hegemony more extensive than any before in this portion of space…yet you say that it would be ‘regrettable’ if we were not to satisfy their impossible demand.”
“All that is true,” Ftaeml answered carefully.
“When a Rargyllian speaks professionally I cannot disbelieve him. Yet this I have trouble believing. These superbeings…why have we never heard of them?”
“Space is deep, Excellency.”
“Yes, yes. No doubt there are thousands of great races that we of Earth have never met, will never meet. Am I to infer that this is also the first contact of your race with the Hroshii?”
“No. We have long known of them…longer than we have known of you,”
“Eh?” Greenberg glanced sharply at Mr. Kiku. He went on, “What are the relations of Rargyll with the Hroshii? And why has not this been reported to the Federation?”
“Excellency, is that last question a rebuke? If so, I must answer that I am not acting for my government.”
“No,” Greenberg assured him, “it was a simple inquiry. The Federation always seeks to extend its diplomatic linkage as far as possible. I was surprised to learn that your race, which claims friendship with ours, could know of a mighty civilization and not make that fact known to the Federation.”
“May I say, Excellency, that I am surprised at your surprise? Space is deep…and my race have long been great travelers. Perhaps the Federation has not asked the right questions? As for the other, my people have no diplomatic relations, no relations of any sort, with the mighty Hroshii. They are a people who, as you say, mind their own business, and we are very happy to (as you would phrase it)…to stay out of their yard. It has been years, more than five of your centuries, since the last time a Hroshij ship appeared in our skies and demanded service from us. It is better so.”
Greenberg said, “I seem to be getting more confused the more I know. They stopped at Rargyll to pick up an interpreter instead of coming straight here?”
“Not precisely. They appeared in our skies and asked if we had ever heard of you people. We answered that we knew you…for when the Hroshii ask, they are answered! We identified your star and I had the unsought honor to be chosen to represent them.” He shrugged. “Here I am. Let me add that it was not until we were deep in space that I learned the object of their search.”
Greenberg had made note earlier of a loose end. “Just a moment. They retained you, they started for Earth, then told you that they were searching for a missing Hroshia. It must have been then that you decided that this mission would fail. Why?”
“Is it not evident? We Rargyllians, in your lovely and precise idiom, are the greatest gossips in space. Perhaps you would say ‘historians’ but I mean something more lively than that. Gossips. We go everywhere, we know everyone, we speak all languages. I did not need to ‘check the files’ to know that men of Earth had never been to the capital planet of the Hroshii. Had you made such contact you would have forced your attentions on them and started a war. It would have been a ‘scandal to the jaybirds’…a lovely phrase, that; I must see a jaybird while I am here. It would have been discussed with many a fine anecdote wherever two Rargyllians got together. So I knew that they must be mistaken; they would not find what they sought.”
“In other words,” Greenberg answered, “you people identified the wrong planet…and wished this problem on us.”
“Please,” protested Dr. Ftaeml. “Our identification was perfect, I assure you—not of your planet, for the Hroshii did not know where you came from—but of you yourself. The creatures they wished to locate were men of Earth, in every possible detail—down to your fingernails, your internal organs.”
“Yet you knew they were mistaken. Doctor, I am not the semantician you are. I seem to see a contradiction…or a paradox.”
“Permit me to explain. We who deal professionally in words know how cheap words are. A paradox can exist only in words, never in the facts behind the words. Since the Hroshii described exactly the men of Earth and since I knew that the men of Earth knew not the Hroshii, I concluded what I must conclude—that there is another race in this galaxy as like to your race as twin Sornia in their shell—as two peas in the pod. Peas? You like beans better?”
“‘Peas’ is the correct idiom,” Mr. Kiku answered soberly.
“Thank you. Your language is rich; I must refresh myself of it while I am here. Would you believe it?…the man from whom I first learned it intentionally taught me idioms unacceptable in your polite society. For example ‘as cold as…’”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Kiku said hastily. “I can believe it. Some of our compatriots have an odd sense of humor. You concluded that there is somewhere in this star cloud a race so like ours as to be our twin brothers? I find that notion statistically unlikely to the point of impossibility.”
“The entire universe, Mr. Under Secretary, is wildly unlikely to the point of ridiculousness. Therefore, we of Rargyll know that God is a humorist.” The medusoid made a gesture peculiar to his breed, then politely repeated it in idiom by making one of the most common Earthly gestures of reverence.
“You explained this conclusion to your clients?”
“I did…and I repeated it most carefully in my lastest consultation. The result was foreseeable.”
“Yes?”
“Each race has its talent, each its weakness. The Hroshii, once having with mighty intellect arrived at an opinion, are not easily swayed. ‘Pig-headed’ is your precise term.”
“Pig-headedness breeds pig-headedness, Dr. Ftaeml.”
“Please, my dear sir! I hope that
you will not be so tempted. Let me report, if I must, that you have been unable to find their treasured one, but that you are instituting new and more thorough searches. I am your friend…do not admit that this negotiation has failed.”
“I never broke off a negotiation in my life,” Mr. Kiku answered sourly. “If you can’t outargue the other fellow, sometimes you can outlive him. But I do not see what more we have to offer them. Except for that one possibility we spoke of last time…did you bring the coordinates of their planet? Or did they refuse?”
“I have them. I told you that they would not refuse; the Hroshii are not in the least afraid of having other races know where to find them…they are merely indifferent” Dr. Ftaeml opened a brief case which was either an imitation of a terrestrial one, or might have been purchased on Earth. “Nevertheless it was not easy. The where-and-when had to be translated from their concepts to those using Rargyll as the true center of the universe, for which purpose it required that I first convince them of the necessity, then explain to them spacetime units as used on Rargyll. Now, since I must shame myself by admitting that I am not skilled in your methods of reckoning the shape of the universe, it is necessary that I have help in translating our figures into yours.”
“No need to feel shamefaced,” Mr. Kiku answered, “for I don’t know anything about our astrogation methods myself. We use specialists for that sort of thing. Just a moment.” He touched an ornamental knob on the conference table. “Get me BuAstro.”
“They’ve all gone home for the day,” a disembodied female voice answered, “except the astrogation duty officer.”
“Then that’s who I want. Hurry it up.”
Very shortly a male voice said, “Dr. Warner, night duty officer.”
“Kiku here. Doctor, you solve space-time correlations?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Can you do it from Rargyllian data?”
The Star Beast Page 10
