The matter and exact wording of the two messages were not, however, given to the world. These remained classified. In the early contacts with aliens there are always details which will seem incongruous to the unlearned.
Others tried the feat with some success, and Energine repeated it again and again. The rapport grew. Soon Albert Tentative began to understand some of the words as well as the feelings of the messages. Small misunderstandings were gradually set right, as one from Albert—
“You ask if we can be sure that we are of opposite sex? How not opposite? With us are five sexes. Everybody partake of several, so everybody a little opposite. This make for clarity. Surely you drollery when you say there only two on your world.
“You wish to see me but say it is impossible. Why in kss@#rr*WQ”—‘mild profanity’.—Trans. note—“it not possible? Travel no problem with us. It problem with you? You want me—I be there. Like in little verse we find in Block Massive Cultural Transmission Corpus from your world, ‘Brush your tooth, say your prayer, go to sleep, I be there.’ What brush? What tooth? What prayer? What sleep? What it mean, understanding that great poetry not always to be taken literally? Profound poetry from your world having great appeal here. Also Aristotle Joke Book and fragments of Sport Page Statistic Epic Cycle. Decline in your civilization, huh? No .400 hitters for years.
“Who I see buy stock on exchange? Always looking for sound investment. All difficulties erased when we see each other. Albert Tentative.”
“He is coming to see me,” said Energine dreamily. “It is possibly a translation error,” cautioned Smirnov. “Perhaps there has been omitted a phrase such as ‘What mean come see me?’ You know it would be impossible that he should come. Our Block Massive Cultural Transmission will not be digested by them all at once. I am pleased at the success it has already had.”
“He is coming to see me,” said Energine.
“No, no, girl. That couldn't be. You are deluded, but I can never tell you how much I appreciate what you have done.”
“He is coming to see me.”
“No, he is not. It is completely out of the question.”
He came to see her.
It was known that he had arrived, that something had arrived. Instruments of a dozen sorts had recorded him. “Albert Tentative arrives” was the glad word, but where was he, what was he? He seemed to be invisible and inaudible. But for the evidence of the instruments there were some who would have doubted the arrival of Albert in the world. “I want a week off,” said Energine to Gregory Smirnov. “No, I want a year off. Albert and I have so much to say to each other that we will never get it all said. And we're going to get married if we can figure out how to go about it. I really need some private advice on that. But look, just look!”
“A very beautiful and odd ring, Energine. Did he give it to you?”
“Did he give what to me?”
The ring was a sort of furry metal. It glowed and it changed colors. It circled the chubby little finger of Energine, and she held it up to her cheek.
“I had no idea that anything could be so wonderful,” she raptured. “We're so happy together. We went to the new Syrian restaurant last night and had camel purée. It's so cute the way he eats it.”
“How, Energine?”
“Gets right down in the bowl.”
“Ah—Energine—let's get to the point. Where is Albert Tentative? It's important that we see him and examine him. Where is he?”
“Why, right here, Mr. Smirnov. Did you ever see anyone like him?”
“No, I never did, mainly because I can't see him at all.”
“Can't you see him? Why, I never suspected that. You mean that I'm the only one who can see him?”
“Patience, Patience, thou universal regent, do not desert me now! What does he look like, Energine?”
“Why, he's round and shining and furry, and he changes color.”
“Energine, the ring he gave you—”
“Mr. Smirnov, that is no ring. That is my Albert. Oh, Albert, he thought you were a ring. How funny!”
Albert Tentative was of great interest for about three weeks. There was first of all the epic press conference that Gregory Smirnov set up for him as soon as the method of plugging Alfred in and giving him amplification was discovered. It might be said that there was first and last of all the epic press conference. It was a success, let there be no doubt of that. It was a total success. There were those who came to wonder if the success was not too total.
There was resentment at first that foreign correspondents were not alerted and given a chance to attend it. Some came anyhow to see what they could pick up after it was over with, and found that it was not over with. Albert was still talking when they got there; he had been talking for a week.
Albert was a fine talker, now that he knew the words. The pidgin of the translation device had been that of the device, not of Albert. He answered all questions completely, oh how completely! He went into a spate and answered questions that had never been asked, and the newsmen and personages listened to him in relays, fascinated.
After a week of standing by, Energine—whose finger Albert had long since abandoned for many others—said that she thought she would go out to get something to eat. She looked dazed. She did not come back.
Albert answered the questions of the Chinese and the Arabs. He answered the questions of all the newsmen of Earth. He also had a Block Massive Cultural Transmission Corpus which he wanted to communicate. He recited the Epic Gilmish in which is comprised all wisdom. That took him thirty hours, perhaps not too long a period to be given to a work that comprises all wisdom. But the listeners were of flesh and blood, and nobody knew what Albert was.
Gregory Smirnov stayed with it two weeks and then walked out. He shouldn't have done it as he was the host, but there was a weakness in the great man that manifested itself here. He went to see the President of the Republic.
“Suggest Project's discontinuance,” he said to the President.
“But Mr. Smirnov, is not the Project a colossal success?”
“Quite.”
“But you have now established rapport with a completely alien being for the first time.”
“Unfortunately. And perhaps not alien enough.”
“Possibly you yourself are burnt out by your great labors on the Project.”
“Possibly.”
“I would be unwilling to abandon the Project now that it has proved such an outstanding success. Perhaps we should transfer the operation to another group. Could you suggest another group that might be able to handle it?”
“Enfield's Automations.”
“An excellent suggestion. They're a bunch of comers. We will take steps for the transfer of authority.”
“Good-bye,” said Smirnov, and left.
“Did you notice that he seemed very short-spoken today?” the President asked one of his aides when Smirnov had left.
Albert Tentative was a great success for about three weeks. Then the Project was turned over to Enfield's Automations, and the whole thing went on automatic. Albert is still talking.
It was some time later that Gregory Smirnov met Valery Mok on the street. “Well?” he asked her.
“I, yes. You, I hope. News?”
“Of the bunch? Cogsworth dead. Shiplap mad. Glasser vanished.”
“Energine?”
“Nun.”
“Which?”
“Contemplative. Not talk, you know.”
“Their address?”
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
Smirnov went to have a glossotomy performed on himself, as well as an intricate operation on the ears. So they all arranged their lives.
In their final solution they all owed much to Albert Tentative. For in his recitation of the Epic Gilmish he had omitted nothing, not even the remarkable five-hour speech on the medicinal value of silence.
Seven Story Dream
Gadberry had a contempt for dawns badly done. He knew h
ow blatant and stylized the outdoor world can be in its pristine moments: the contrived shagginess of grass, the stupidity of trees, the falsity of flowers, the oafishness of the birds and their inept melody. These scratched the smooth surface of his soul. “Bad work, very bad work,” Gadberry would opine, for he was an artist. Yet there were times when these sorry units arranged themselves with striking effect. On this very early dawn they made an almost perfect harmony, and Gadberry gracefully acknowledged it. There it was: the old oaks, and the new firs and hedges; the ragged Bermuda on the vacant lot in the new sun, the thin rye grass that held to the shade of the building, the corpse on the lawn, the row of hollyhocks and the lone aster in the middle of them, the drooping mimosa full of driveling birds, the even rank of garbage cans standing chalky in the aluminum dawn, and that damned dew over everything.
In spite of the elements that went into the composition the effect was near perfect — and yet there was one clashing entity in that aubade scene. Gadberry reviewed it in his mind, for the artist is satisfied with nothing but perfection.
The firs, the hedges, the corpse, the mimosa, the garbage cans, the lawn, the hollyhocks with their lone aster — something was in that peaceful morning scene that simply did not belong there.
Gadberry strode over and savagely struck down the aster with its white flower. The harmony of the scene was now perfect. He walked away, his artist's soul satisfied.
On his way to find an early eating place, he met a policeman named Embree and told him that Minnie Jo Merry was lying dead on that little lawn behind the apartment where she lived, and perhaps it should be looked into.
Captains Keil and Gold were there quickly and in charge. Minnie Jo was bruised about the throat and dried blood framed her mouth, but her death may have been caused by a violent concussion. Keil and Gold left her to Dr. Sanderson and their men. There was no crowd. This was very early on a Saturday morning, the apartment was on a quiet street, and the small rear lawn was secluded. Orders were given for all the residents of the apartment building to remain in the building, and Captain Keil sent for Gillord Gadberry, the only one who had left. Gadberry told the patrolman who came for him that he would come as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and not a moment before. He finished it leisurely, drinking coffee and sketching while the policeman fumed. He was sketching a fuming policeman.
“Mrs. Raffel,” Captain Keil said, “you are the owner and operator of this apartment. I assume that you know something of your renters. Who lives here?” “Minnie Jo lived here, and how will I get her rent now? She used to say, ‘You worry too much about my rent. I'm not much further back than some of the others. You should know that I'm good for it. As long as I live I will always be good for what I owe.’ But now who will be good for what she owes?”
“Your problem, Mrs. Raffel. Who else lived—lives here?”
“Dillahunty, Gadberry, Handle, Izzard, Lamprey, Nazworthy, all in a permanent or temporary state of singleness.”
“Six living and one dead tenant. Is that all?”
“It's a small place, but I do have two other empty units — three it will be now. I doubt if this will help me rent them.”
“It may not make a difference. The girl was murdered in her own room, we believe, and she seems to have made no outcry. She was either taken very suddenly, or she knew the intruder well.”
“Not necessarily, Captain. Minnie Jo was a very open person. If Jack the Ripper himself had come in, red from his trade, she'd have said, ‘Hi, honey, sit down and talk to me.’ But it was probably someone she knew.”
“What are your feelings on hearing of the death of Miss Merry?”
“Satisfaction—though I'll miss her—and relief and thankfulness that it has finally turned out all right.”
“Turned out all right? Do you call it turning out all right that she was murdered?” he asked her.
“Oh yes. There were many worse things that could have happened to her. How lucky that Minnie Jo was killed before they happened!”
“You will have to explain that. Did you hate her?”
“No, I loved her—and I will explain. Minnie Jo was quite a good girl, but she was on the edge of becoming quite a bad girl. I have seen it happen to so many of the young ones who are loose in the world. Every time I know one, and notice her nearing the change, I pray that something will intervene and prevent it. This is the first time my prayers have been answered, and I'm thankful.”
“Could you yourself have done anything to bring about this, ah, intervention, this preventative death?”
“I have just told you: I prayed. I didn't know it would be death, but that's as good a solution as any.”
Then they questioned her a little about other things.
Gadberry, now back from his breakfast, was questioned by Captain Gold.
“Gadberry, do you often get up so early?”
“Never. But I often stay up this late. I work at night and sleep in the daytime.”
“Why?” Captain Gold inquired.
“It was originally a pose. Then I became used to it.”
“You seemed extraordinarily cool on discovering Miss Merry dead. You did not make an outcry, or hurry to report it.”
“I reported it to the first person I met, a policeman. This seemed the logical person, and the logical thing to do.”
“Almost too logical. What was your opinion of Miss Merry?”
“Alive, or dead? The girl was somehow completed in death. It improves many people. So often we see only the outside of people, but to look at her smeared with her own blood gives an added dimension, a more total view.”
“Ah, what was your opinion of her alive?”
“Her hands and ankles were rather good; between, she was conventional. She hadn't eyes, no eyes at all. It isn't usual for a girl her age to have eyes. A child will sometimes have eyes, a woman after thirty may have them again, or a man after forty. I never saw her hair, which is to say that it was doctored. I sketched her ears sometimes, and her throat. I was not satisfied with either of them, but then it isn't twice a year that I come on either that is really good. Are you interested in these things?”
“We are somewhat interested in the throat of this girl, and other matters. Since you work at night, you must have been awake. Did you hear any outcry or evidence of a struggle?”
“No. I could be throttled myself and not notice it. When I work I am taken by the Holy Spirit of art. I am probably unable to help you on the more mundane details you are seeking.”
“What is your opinion of the tenant George Handle? It is reported that you sponge on him considerably.”
“The artist is worthy of his hire. George is an oaf, a fool; but do not believe that a fool and his money are easily parted. I have to work for every dollar I twist out of him. George has caught the sickness of self-improvement. He learns at night. He has one of those sets with an earphone for under the pillow. He's put quite a bit of money into the recordings, money much better given to me. He has his own recorder, reads into it things he wishes to learn, then has them played back while he sleeps. Whatever he learns while asleep, he is still a fool when awake.”
“You haven't any use for fools?”
“But I have! I often make use of fools.”
They questioned him a little more, then went on to Izzard.
“Mr. Izzard, what were your relations with Miss Merry?” Keil asked.
“Avuncular — of the Dutch-uncle sort. Low Dutch, really, but she hadn't come to realize that yet. I lavished gifts on her, and she was friendly. I believe I would ultimately have been successful. There was a change beginning in her.”
“Yes. Others have noticed the change. Were these expensive gifts?”
“Not to me. The price tags don't matter. I run the A to Izzard Variety Store. She was without discernment, and I have access to bargains.”
“You wouldn't have been rebuffed by her, and been angry enough to do her in?”
“I was rebuffed by her constantly, but she d
id it in a graceful way—never so as to stop the flow of gifts. My timetable for her was a long one and I am sorry to see it interrupted. No, I never laid a hand on her, except sometimes in attempted affection.”
They questioned him a little about the others, a little more about himself, and left him.
Next, they questioned Nazworthy, a large, sullen-appearing man. He said that any of them might have done it: Handle, Izzard, Lamprey, Gadberry, Dillahunty. “They are a bad bunch. All of them always looking at the young girl. Any of them do it. Yes, I am awake when it happen. I hear the shots ring out. I say, ‘Oh somebody have killed that pretty Miss Merry.’ Whichever one you decide on, I will positively identity him as the killer.”
“You are sure that you heard shots? She was not shot.”
“It was the knife I hear, then. I hear it go in loud. I say, ‘Somebody have killed that pretty Miss Merry.’ ”
“She was not knifed.”
“How was it, then? What is the loud noise I heard? How did he kill her?”
“We believe that she was strangled, and then thrown or pushed from her window.”
“My very thought. That is what I heard. The strangle noises and the thrown-out-of-the-window noises. I hear everything. I know everything. I will give testimony.”
There was the look of arrogant laughter behind the hard eyes of Nazworthy. He was talking nonsense, either seriously or speciously. They would get nothing out of him.
Mr. Dillahunty told Keil and Gold, “My opinion of the lodgers I cannot give as I would like, being opposed to profanity. You may have to discount my opinion of them, however. I always have a low opinion of those with whom I live; but when I have moved on to other lodgings I remember them with affection. No, I heard nothing in the night. I hear little without my aid, and I do not sleep with it. My acquaintance with the aforesaid Minnie Jo was sketchy. She would smile, and I would smile, but I am thrice her age and a crippled man. Having second sight, I knew that this would happen… No, I haven't second sight to that extent; I don't know who did it. You are sure it was one of the lodgers?”
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 43
