day.
—Not everywhere, he grunted and wheezed back. An unusually direct response.
—Are you waiting for me?
—Who can say? I am waiting. His trunk made a philosophical circle in the air. —If you had not come, who knows for what I would have been waiting?
—Well, that’s true. He made a circle in the other direction, which I think meant What else? I stood there for a moment while he looked at me or the ground or the sky. You could never tell.
—I hope this isn’t a rude question, he said. —Will you forgive me if this is a rude question?
—I certainly will try.
—Is your name !ica’o *va!o?
That was admirably close. —It certainly is.
—You could follow me. He got up. —Or enjoy the pleasant day.
I followed him closely down the narrow street. If he got in a crowd I’d lose him for sure. I couldn’t tell an estrus-four female from a neuter, not having sonar (they tell each other apart by sensing body cavities, very romantic).
We went through the center of town, where the well and the market square were. A dozen !tang bargained over food, craft items, or abstractions. They were the most mercantile race on the planet, although they had sidestepped the idea of money in favor of labor equivalence: for those two ugly fish I will trade you an original sonnet about your daughter and three vile limericks for your next affinity-group meeting. Four limericks, tops.
We went into a large white building that might have been City Hall. It was evidently guarded, at least symbolically, since two !tang stood by the door with their arms exposed.
It was a single large room similar to a Terran mosque, with a regular pattern of square columns holding up the ceiling. The columns supported shelves in neat squares, up to about two meters; on the shelves were neat stacks of accordion-style books. Although the ceiling had inset squares of glass that gave adequate light, there was a strong smell of burnt fish oil, which meant the building was used at night. (We had introduced them to electricity, but they used it only for heavy machinery and toys.)
The !tang led me to the farthest corner, where a large haystack was bent over a book, scribbling. They had to read or write with their heads a few centimeters from the book, since their light-eyes were only good for close- work.
—It has happened as you foretold, Uncle. Not too amazing a prophecy, as I’d sent a messenger over yesterday.
Uncle waved his nose in my direction. —Are you the same one who came in four days ago?
—No. I have never been to this place. I am Ricardo Navarro, from the Starlodge tribe.
—I grovel in embarrassment. Truly it is difficult to tell one human from another. To my poor eyes you look exactly like Peter Lafitte.
(Peter Rabbit is bald and ugly, with terrible ears. I have long curly hair with only a trace of gray, and women have called me attractive.) —Please do not be embarrassed. This is often true when different peoples meet. Did my brother say what tribe he represented?
—I die. O my hair falls out and my flesh rots and my bones are cracked by the hungry ta!a’an. He drops me behind him all around the forest and nothing will grow where his excrement from my marrow falls. As the years pass the forest dies from the poison of my remains. The soil washes to the sea and poisons the fish, and all die. O the embarrassment.
—He didn’t say?
—He did but said not to tell you.
That was that. —Did he by some chance say he was interested in the small morsel of land I mentioned to you by courier long ago?
—No, he was not interested in the land.
—Can you tell me what he was interested in?
—He was interested in buying the land.
Verbs. —May I ask a potentially embarrassing question?
He exposed his arms. —We are businessmen.
—What were the terms of his offer?
—I die. I breathe in and breathe in and cannot exhale. I explode all over my friends. They forget my name and pretend it is dung. They wash off in the square and the well becomes polluted. All die. O the embarrassment.
—He said not to tell me?
—That’s right.
—Did you agree to sell him the land?
—That is a difficult question to answer.
—Let me rephrase the question: is it possible you might sell the land to my tribe?
—It is possible, if you offer better terms. But only possible, in any case.
—This is embarrassing. I, uh, die and, um, the last breath from my lungs is a terrible acid. It melts the seaward wall of the city and a hurricane comes and washes it away. All die. O the embarrassment.
—You’re much better at it than he was.
—Thank you. But may I ask you to amplify the possibility?
—Certainly. Land is not a fish or an elevator. Land is something that keeps you from falling all the way down. It gives the sea a shore and makes the air stop. Do you understand?
—So far. Please continue.
—Land is time, but not in a mercantile sense. I can say “In return for the time it takes me to decide which one of you is the guilty party, you must give me so-and-so.” But how can I say “In return for the land I am standing on you must give me this-and-that?” Nobody can step off the time, you see, but I can step off the land, and then what is it? Does it even exist? In a mercantile sense? These questions and corollaries to them have been occupying some of our finest minds ever since your courier came long ago.
—May I make a suggestion?
—Please do. Anything might help.
—Why not just sell it to the tribe that offers you the most?
—No, you don’t see. Forgive me, you Terrans are very simpleminded people, for all your marvelous Otis elevators and starships (this does not embarrass me to say because it is meant to help you understand yourself; if you were !tang you would have to pay for it). You see, there are three mercantile classes. Things and services may be of no worth, of measurable worth, or of infinite worth. Land has never been classified before, and it may belong in any of the categories.
—But Uncle! The Lafitte and I have offered to buy the land. Surely that eliminates the first class.
—O you poor Terran. I would hate to see you try to buy a fish. You must think of all the implications.
—I die. I, uh, have a terrible fever in my head and it gets hotter and hotter until my head is on fire, a forge, a star. I set the world on fire and everybody dies. O the embarrassment. What implications?
—Here is the simplest. If the land has finite value, when at best all it does is keep things from falling all the way down, how much is air worth? Air is necessary for life, and it make fires burn. If you pay for land do you think we should let you have air for free?
—An interesting point, I said, thinking fast and !tangly. —But you have answered it yourself. Since air is necessary for life, it is of infinite value, and not one breath can be paid for
