“How goes the study of Interlingua?” she asked in English.
“
“
“I wish to hell you people had stuck to English, instead of dreaming up this new international language.”
She sank down in a seat and let her hands flop limply over the chair arms. “Nonsense, Jule. Interlingua is a scientific language. It works. Take spelling and pronunciation. They are absolutely phonetic and there are only five vowel sounds, where most of the old languages have twenty or more. Each letter has one sound only, and a sound is always indicated by the same letter. English was a bastard language—goodness knows how anyone ever learned it, including me. Take the word
“Or take this sentence: ‘There are three ways of spelling
Julian had to laugh. “I admit we had some lulus.”
Edith continued, “And take grammar and syntax. Interlingua is so ingeniously devised that in place of the usual maze of rules occupying a sizable volume on grammar, we have only sixteen short rules, which may be written comfortably on a single sheet of notepaper.”
“The vocabulary is so damned extensive…”
“That’s due to the many new words that have come into the language, but in actuality the rules are such that we cover several times the wordage you do in a given area. For example, we carry the principle of affixes through to its logical conclusion. In English you often form the feminine of a noun by adding e-s-s: author-authoress, lion- lioness. Often, but by no means always. You are not allowed to say bull-bulless or hero-heroess. In Interlingua, the feminine ending may be added to any noun, and so throughout the language there is no exception to any rule and no limit to its applicability.”
“As you say, as you say…” Julian sighed. “At any rate, I’m plodding away. At this late date in life, it’s a little difficult to get back into studying.”
She frowned at his notepad and stylo. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Taking notes as I go along. I’ve always been a great note-taker when I study.”
“So am I, but the days when Abe Lincoln made his notes on a wooden shovel with a piece of charcoal have passed.”
He looked at her, not failing to note all over again the blue eyes, the classical nose, the well-formed mouth, the golden hair cut boy-fashion. It was a healthy face, bright and open—projecting honesty, sincerity. She had told him that she had never worn any sort of cosmetic; it hadn’t hurt her complexion any. He refused to let his eyes drop to her figure. He had long since been brought to the belief that her body was the most sexually attractive that he had ever seen, and he didn’t wish to tantalize himself further. When he had mentioned marriage, she had pointed out, without cruelty, how impossible a permanent relationship between them would be: she, and her father and mother, had been selected to deal with this man from a third of a century past; to be brutally frank, they had learned to speak in what amounted to baby talk in order to communicate with him.
Now he asked, “What do you mean? This stylo isn’t exactly a piece of charcoal. So far as I understand, it’s sort of a combination pencil and pen, except you don’t use either lead or ink, and it evidently lasts forever.”
“The equivalent of lead or ink is in the
He kept his eyes on her, wearily waiting for more. An hour didn’t go by in the company of any of the Leetes but that they came up with something that floored him.
She said, “There, next to you, is the voco-typer. I thought father explained it to you.”
“Briefly. You talk into it and it types up what you say.”
“There’s more to it. I’m continually surprised, Jule, at your lack of knowledge of what was developing back in the 1960s and ’70s, right under your nose. Most of what we have now in technological developments go back to your era, though I acknowledge it takes time—less so now than before—to bring a new breakthrough into widespread use. For instance, the basic facts of nuclear fission were known at least a decade before Einstein wrote President Roosevelt that an atomic bomb was possible:”
“What in the dickens has this to do with my taking notes with my stylo?” Julian asked.
“I was leading up to the fact that even in your day, the voco-typer, the computer data banks, and the computer translators were already in embryo.”
“Go on.”
She indicated the voco-typer that sat to one side of him on the desk. “They’ve all been amalgamated. You speak your notes into the voco-typer. It is connected to the data banks; your notes are recorded and you can check back on them any time you wish. And, if you desired, you could record your notes in English now, and, after your Interlingua becomes more fluent, have your notes played back to you in that language—or any other language, for that matter.”
“You mean that anyone at all can put anything he wants into the International Data Banks?”
“Of course. No problem. You see, all you could possibly write in your whole lifetime can be recorded on a disk no larger than your little fingernail, and about as thick.”
“Well, how long do they keep the record?”
“Forever. Fifty years from now, you might have some reason to check back on some of the notes you take today. They’ll be on file. Then there are other aspects. Suppose, a century or two from now, some biographer wishes to check back on your notes in order to do your life. There they are. Can you imagine how some historian in your time would have loved to have the notes of, say, Thomas Jefferson—made while he was composing the Declaration of Independence? I suggest that you have Information send you its material on filing and cross references. Speeds things up so that you’ll be able to check back more easily.”
Julian said indignantly, “Just one minute. Suppose there’s something in my notes I don’t want some goddamned biographer to see?”
“Don’t be silly. Anything of yours in the data banks can be wiped any time you wish. Your notes don’t have to remain if you don’t want them there. Or you can simply make a requirement that they are available to no one but you until such and such a date—or never.”
“Suppose I’m out somewhere without a voco-typer handy?”
“Then simply record your material by voice into your transceiver, ordering that it be put into the data banks in print.”
He shook his head. “Every day, I realize all over again how much there is for me to learn. Why, it’ll take me the better part of my life to reach the point you’re at now. How about a drink, Edie?”
“I’ll get it,” she offered, rising. She headed to the auto-bar. “Scotch for you, I suppose?”
There was a distressed look in her eyes when she handed him his whisky. “I don’t know what to say, Jule. I heard father tell you about the so-called knowledge explosion the other day, but I wonder if you completely followed through on the ramifications.”
“You mean that quote from Dr. Robert Oppenheimer that human knowledge is doubling every eight years?”
She nodded. “You see, he made that statement about 1955. So let’s take the year 1940 as the takeoff point. In the following eight years, various major breakthroughs were made, including nuclear fission, the first space ship, the German V-2, the first practical radar, and, in medicine, penicillin and the sulfas. Between 1948 and 1956 came additional breakthroughs: the conquest of polio, the modern computer, the first Sputnik in space, transistors. By this time, doubling each eight years, human knowledge was four times what it had been in 1940. Between 1956 and 1964, organ transplants; man went into space, following his history-long companion, the dog. Lasers and masers made their appearance, the supersonic aircraft, and nuclear fision, and human knowledge was eight times what it was in 1940. By 1972 it was sixteen times, we were on the moon, constructing space platforms, and relaying communications from scores of artificial satellites. Among other achievements, for the first time a living man—you —was put into artificial hibernation, to be awakened thirty-three years in the future.”
