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Misunderstanding Twelve
by Carl Frederick
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Science Fiction
* * *
Fictionwise, Inc.
www.Fictionwise.com
Copyright ©2004 by Carl Frederick
First published in Analog Magazine, April 2004
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* * *
Roger zoomed his Gyroscooter through the streets of Free-trade City. But even just standing on the scooter took considerable effort in the 1.2 Earth-norm gravity and the chill winds of Delva in summer. Still, it would be worth it if he could finally impress his boss.
At an intersection, he stopped to make way for a clear-domed State touring-vehicle. Roger bristled as the Delvan lounging in the back seat looked down his nose at him—down his long pig-like snout—and give a condescending nod as if he owned the galaxy. But then, the Delvans practically did own the galaxy. Delva monopolized interstellar trade, leaving only crumbs for other planetary civilizations. And even those meager contracts had to be negotiated in Free-trade City.
When the touring-vehicle had passed, Roger gunned his scooter. Just ahead, he could see the Nril Trade Embassy. It was almost as small as the Terran facility. But then again, Earth was new to the Oxygen-breathers Trade Federation.
Roger pulled into the parking area of the Nriln complex, stasis-locked his scooter and, feeling far older than his twenty-seven years, trudged toward the door.
Inside, as the door whooshed shut behind him, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled the sweet air. The Nriln preferred an even higher oxygen-level than did humans.
Roger switched on his translator. All trade operatives in the city had received one as a ‘Welcome to Delva’ gift. But the translators were unpredictable. Internally, they used Delvan as an intermediary language. With such a huge number of languages in the galaxy, it was the only way that every language could convert to every other. But it made for some awkward translations.
Roger walked up to a Nriln sitting behind the reception desk.
The Nriln were humanoid, roughly human in size, had two eyestalks and two six-fingered hands. They had a mouth for eating, breathing, and talking. In addition, they had four small noses. These noses had vocal cords and could each produce a variety of simple tones. Just an hour ago, Roger had discovered why those noses made the Delvan-translators unreliable.
“State your language,” said the Nriln, pressing the ‘Identify Language’ button on its translator.
“AngloTerran."
“I bid you no welcome,” said the Nriln accompanied by a slew of nose tones.
“Thank you.” Roger didn't take offense. He understood the translator's shortcomings. “Could you speak your written language, please?"
“Yes, Of course I could."
Roger rolled his eyes. “Then do it. Please speak the written language."
The Nriln snapped back in its chair, its eyestalks quivering. Then it seemed to relax. “Our spoken language is ugly and capable of no subtlety,” said the Nriln. “We are maximally contemptuous of it."
“Please."
The Nriln swiveled its eyestalks in a furtive scan around the entrance hall and then repointed them at Roger. “It is maximally rude of you to ask,” said the Nriln, very softly and with subdued nose-tones. “But since you are obviously an alien with knowledge zero of our ways, I shall speak the written language."
“Thank you,” said Roger. “I'm from The Terran Unified Trade Embassy. I'm the AngloTerran Junior Cultural Liaison."
“Whom are you here to see?"
“Duncan Frye, the AngloTerran Trade Commissioner."
“Maximally unfeasible,” said the Nriln. “We would have to hold him down. And it would take a lot of oil."
“What?"
“Is it an Earth ritual of some sort?” The Nriln crossed its eyestalks.
Sheesh. Roger threw a glance at the ceiling. Damned Delvan-translators. He tried to look the Nriln directly in the eyes, but the creature's independently-moving eyestalks made that difficult. Roger spoke slowly. “I've come to see the AngloTerran Trade Commissioner, Mr. Frye. He's here negotiating for the purchase of Yttrium from Nril."
“Excuse the misunderstanding.” The Nriln consulted a computer monitor, then pointed down a hallway. “They are in not-particularly-grand conference-room number one four."
“Thank you."
Roger hurried down the hallway, counting doors as he went. They were each dual-labeled in what appeared to be Nriln and Delvan, but Roger could read neither language. He tried the fourteenth door, but the room was empty. Then he had an idea. The Nriln had six fingers per hand so their number system was probably base-twelve. Fourteen base-twelve would be sixteen base-ten. Roger went two doors further and then heard Duncan's frustrated voice coming from within.
“No, no. A mining-ship is not another kind of partnership. Please. Try to understand."
Roger tapped on the door and walked in. He saw Duncan sitting at one side of a rectangular conference table and two Nriln sitting opposite. As he entered, Duncan looked over at him and the Nriln moved their eyestalks further apart. Roger gave the ‘time out’ sign and padded up to Duncan. “Excuse the interruption, sir, but I've just learned something about the Nriln language—something that might make the negotiation go more smoothly."
“Oh?” said Duncan, raising his eyebrows. He looked every bit the career diplomat: early fifties, immaculately attired, manicured fingernails although God knows where he found a manicurist on Delva. And he seemed a man very comfortable with his job.
“I've been info-diving the computer,” said Roger. “And I've found out why it's so hard to understand spoken Nriln."
Duncan turned to the Nriln. “I'm sorry for the interruption, but my young colleague has just informed me of something that requires my immediate attention. Might I beg a short recess?"
The Nriln agreed and the Terrans went out to the hall for a talk.
* * * *
“So Nriln is tonal,” said Duncan, lounging against the wall of the corridor. “Many languages are tonal."
“Not exactly tonal,” said Roger, trying not to sound as if he were lecturing. “More like polyphonic. The Nriln language uses functionals. A single word is used for a concept and its opposite."
“That's it?” said Duncan. “It seems a small thing compared to say, Trelgvar, for instance, where the noun forms depend on the weather."
“Yeah, I know,” said Roger. “But in Nriln, next to an adjective, they put a number from zero to twelve to give the meaning."
“I'm not sure I understand. And why does it matter? The Delvan-translators should take care of it. I don't think this has any—"
“No, wait,” said Roger. “Let's invent a word. Badgood. Badgood zero would mean very very bad, badgood twelve would mean very very good, and badgood seven would mean so-so in the bad-good domain."
“But I still don't see—"
“That's for the written language. But in speech, especially the flowery speech of politicians and diplomats, they leave out the numbers."
“That's ridiculous,” said Duncan. “How could they understand each other?"
“It's the tones.” Roger tapped his nose. “They indicate emotional content. But the Nriln often use tones for numerical information as well.” Roger shrugged. “I'
m not even sure they know they're doing it."
“Ah.” Duncan nodded in comprehension. “It's like the grand-opera you're always singing around the office."
“Well, yes, sort of.” Roger laughed. “Grand-opera where the orchestra is made up of badly-tuned bagpipes."
Duncan glowered.
“Ur,” said Roger. “Duncan Frye is a Scottish name, isn't it?"
“Yesssss."
“Sorry.” Roger bit his lower lip. “About the bagpipe comment, I mean,” he added, quickly. “But anyway, now we know why it's so hard to understand spoken Nriln. The translators don't interpret the tones."
“Couldn't we just ask them to speak their written language?"
“I don't think so,” said Roger. “I've learned that it's very rude to ask that."
“Yes, they do seem exceptionally touchy about their language.” Duncan rubbed his forehead. “Even more so than the French. But please tell me you have a solution? I'd like to get this Yttrium contract negotiated."
“Well, as you say, I'm a grand-opera fan. With a little effort, I should be able to give you a rough idea of the missing functional-numbers."
Duncan blew out a breath. “Are you sure? Max is a very high-level official—shipped in just for this negotiation."
“I'm pretty confident.” Roger wrinkled his nose. “Max? You said the Nriln's name is Max?"
“More like Magszh. But I just call him Max. I don't think he notices.” Duncan straightened his tie. “All right. We'll give your idea a try. Let's go in and negotiate. Oh, and the other Nriln is named Vurzh. He's the senior trade Kurzsher."
“Kurzsher?
“I don't know what it means.” Duncan shrugged. “I expected you to know."
* * * *
Back in the conference room, Duncan made introductions. Then Max stood and began to sing.
Roger shot Duncan a quizzical look.
“It's a welcoming speech, I think,” Duncan whispered. “Scared the hell out of me the first time I heard it."
“And, I imagine,” said Roger, “that the Delvan-translators are useless."
“Totally."
Roger leaned back in his chair and tried to look intelligent and comprehending. It was a skill he'd picked up in graduate school.
When Max had finished singing, he drooped his eyestalks for a moment. It seemed something like a bow.
Max sat and as he did, Roger jumped to his feet.
“What are you doing?” said Duncan, softly.
“I'm going to sing."
“You're what?"
“Tit for tat,” said Roger. “He sang. Now I'll sing."
“I'm not entirely sure this is a good idea."
“We don't understand them,” said Roger. “We should at least give them the chance not to understand us.” He bowed toward the two Nriln. “They say that music is the universal language."
“We'll see.” Duncan shrugged. “You're the cultural expert."
Roger took a breath and then started singing. Largo al factotum della citta. La la la la la la la la! He looked over at the Nriln. He knew he was having an impact; they had crossed their eyestalks. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro! Now they were talking to each other and gesticulating at him. Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro su, Figaro giu, Figaro su, Figaro giu. Roger was pleased with himself. He'd never sung this aria so well, and never to an audience. Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo; Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo; a te fortuna, a te fortuna, a te fortuna non manchera. The Nriln had uncrossed their eyestalks and were staring straight at him. Della citta, della citta, Della citta! La la la la la la la la la!
Roger bowed again. The Nriln began walking toward him.
He turned to Duncan. “I think I impressed them."
“You impressed them, alright,” said Duncan. “They probably think you're out of your mind."
The Nriln stopped in front of Roger. “That was certainly the worst oratory we've ever heard,” said Max in a scream of nose-tones.
“I thought as much,” said Duncan.
Roger's face clouded, but then brightened. “Wait,” he said. “It's the nose tones. He means that it was the best oratory they've ever heard. I'm sure of it. And ‘oratory’ can mean ‘singing', I think."
Roger beamed at Max. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. I used to sing in college, you know."
“Please come with us,” said Max. “We will send someone down to attend to you."
“I think he really did mean ‘worst',” said Duncan as an aside.
Max swiveled his eyestalks to Duncan. “You come too—to calm your colleague."
“I'm calm,” said Roger.
“Come.” Vurzh put an arm around Roger's shoulder and urged him toward the door.
“I'm calm,” Roger shouted.
“I can not believe this,” said Max. “At a trade negotiation, this Terran comes in and maximally ridicules our language by engaging in an oratory of nonsense words."
“Ridicule? No.” Roger tried to escape Vurzh's hold, but the Nriln's grip was solid. “And they weren't nonsense words. It was a language called Italian."
“Italian?” said Max. “I have never heard of the planet Italia.” He wriggled his eyestalks in derision. “And what kind of a word is lalalalalalalalala?"
“Italian is a Terran language, I think,” said Vurzh.
“What. Another one?"
“Yes,” said Roger. “Earth has lots of languages, but—"
“And lalalalalalalalala?” said Max, not even bothering to cross his eyestalks.
“Well, yes,” said Roger. “I admit that was a nonsense word but—"
“Deranged,” said Max.
“No doubt,” said Vurzh. “We must bring them down to the contemplation-room, and then see if Ingvrau is in the building."
“Agreed.” Max turned his stalks toward Roger. “You are an alien, so we make allowances. But if you were a young Nriln, you would be beaten for committing crimes against language."
“That is,” said Vurzh, “if you were judged sane."
* * * *
“Why couldn't your hobby be stamp-collecting or something?” said Duncan. He paced back and forth in the small room. “But no. You had to be a singer."
“Sorry,” said Roger. “I really thought it was a good idea."
“Good idea, indeed.” Duncan tried the door. It was locked.
The room had a couch and a few overstuffed chairs that could accommodate either Humans or Nriln. The floor was springy and soft, rather like a plush carpet, and the walls had the same bouncy consistency. Diffuse whiteness radiated from the surface of the high ceiling, casting light without shadows against the furniture and the pale blue walls.
“Contemplation room?” said Roger, as he glanced around the enclosure. “Jeez! It's more like a padded cell."
“No kidding,” said Duncan. “I have no idea what the Nriln do with nut-cases."
“What do you mean, ‘nut cases'? It's just a simple misunderstanding.” Roger ran his hand over the soft wall. “Hmm. This stuff is a pretty good sound absorber.” He turned to Duncan. “In any case, our embassy will straighten it out."
“I wouldn't be so sure.” Duncan shook his head. “Technically, we're on Nriln soil; we're subject to their laws."
Just then, the door opened and a plumpish Nriln walked in. “Hello,” he said. “They told me you show only minimal plus one signs of violence.” He spoke with a low, steady, calming drone of nose-tones. “My name is Ingvrau."
“You're a psychiatrist, aren't you?” said Roger.
“Why do you say that?” Ingvrau plopped down on a chair. “Why do you think I'm a psychiatrist? And does that disturb you?"
* * * *
After Dr. Ingvrau's visit, Roger felt better. “I like this Ingvrau,” he said. “He talks very quietly and speaks the written language—and his nose-tones are rather pleasant."
“Probably trying not to rile his patients,” said Duncan, recumbent on a couch.
/> Roger sat on the edge of one of the chairs, his chin cupped in his hands. He glanced over at the door. “Anyway, I think he believed me when I explained it was just a simple misunderstanding."
“Let's hope."
There came a noise at the door. Roger sprang to his feet as Ingvrau walked in. Duncan swung up to a sitting position.
“All is forgiven,” said Ingvrau with a pleasant wave of his eyestalks. “Magszh and Vurzh cordially invite you to return to the negotiations."
“Very good,” said Duncan as he rolled to his feet. “Let's go.” He cast a sideways glance to Roger. “And no more singing, please."
“No, sir,” said Roger. “No more singing."
At the door of the conference room, Ingvrau took his leave. “It has been a maximum minus two pleasure meeting you.” He widened his eyestalks, then narrowed them again, turned, and walked off.
“Very expressive, those eyestalks,” said Duncan, watching Ingvrau disappear down the hallway.
“Yeah. It's odd though,” said Roger. “I've never seen Nriln use hand or arm gestures."
Duncan reached for the door lever. “Let's go in. But be careful."
Max and Vurzh stood as Duncan and Roger entered the room.
“It is bad having you back with us,” said Max.
“Yes,” said Vurzh. “I trust you are feeling worse, now."
Roger smiled. Damn Delvan-translators.
“Thank you,” said Duncan. He walked to his seat at the table and sat.
Roger followed, but before sitting, he waved at the Nriln, bringing his hand to his forehead in the manner of a salute.
Both Nriln jumped up.
“Again, he insults us,” said Max, his eyestalks quivering.
“Maximally unbelievable.” Vurzh's nose-tones were soft to the point of silence.
“I too am maximally stunned,” said Max, his nose-tones also barely audible.
* * * *
“We could have done these negotiations by phone,” said Duncan. Again, he paced the small room. “But no. You had to insist I do them in person."
Roger, wide-eyed and confused, leaned against the spongy wall of the room. “What happened?"
“Apparently,” said Duncan, “your little military salute didn't go over particularly well. Probably an obscene gesture or something."
Misunderstanding Twelve Page 1
