“All right; let’s go meet them.” The querulous, uncertain note was gone from Meillard’s voice; he knew what to do and how to do it.
Gofredo called to the Marines to stand fast. Then they were advancing to meet the natives, and when they were twenty feet apart, both groups halted. The horn stopped blowing. The one in the yellow robe lifted his staff and said something that sounded like, “Tweedle-eedle-oodly-eenk.”
The horn, he saw, was made of strips of leather, wound spirally and coated with some kind of varnish. Everything these people had was carefully and finely made. An old culture, but a static one. Probably tradition-bound as all get-out.
Meillard was raising his hands; solemnly he addressed the natives:
“ ’Twas brillig and the slithy toves were whooping it up in the Malemute Saloon, and the kid that handled the music box did gyre and gimble in the wabe, and back of the bar in a solo game all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgabe the lady that’s known as Lou.”
That was supposed to show them that we, too, have a spoken language, to prove that their language and ours were mutually incomprehensible, and to demonstrate the need for devising a means of communication. At least that was what the book said. It demonstrated nothing of the sort to this crowd. It scared them. The dignitary with the staff twittered excitedly. One of his companions agreed with him at length. Another started to reach for his knife, then remembered his manners. The bellowsman pumped a few blasts on the horn.
“What do you think of the language?” he asked Lillian.
“They all sound that bad, when you first hear them. Give them a few seconds, and then we’ll have Phase Two.”
When the gibbering and skreeking began to fall off, she stepped forward. Lillian was, herself, a good test of how human aliens were; this gang weren’t human enough to whistle at her. She touched herself on the breast. “Me,” she said.
The natives seemed shocked. She repeated the gesture and the word, then turned and addressed Paul Meillard. “You.”
“Me,” Meillard said, pointing to himself. Then he said, “You,” to Luis Gofredo. It went around the contact team; when it came to him, he returned it to point of origin.
“I don’t think they get it at all,” he added in a whisper.
“They ought to,” Lillian said. “Every language has a word for self and a word for person-addressed.”
“Well, look at them,” Karl Dorver invited. “Six different opinions about what we mean, and now the band’s starting an argument of their own.”
“Phase Two-A,” Lillian said firmly, stepping forward. She pointed to herself. “Me—Lillian Ransby. Lillian Ransby—me name. You—name?”
“Bwoooo!” the spokesman screamed in horror, clutching his staff as though to shield it from profanation. The others howled like a hound-pack at a full moon, except one of the short-tunic boys, who was slapping himself on the head with both hands and yodeling. The horn-crew hastily swung their piece around at the Terrans, pumping frantically.
“What do you suppose I said?” Lillian asked.
“Oh, something like, ‘Curse your gods, death to your king, and spit in your mother’s face,’ I suppose.”
“Let me try it,” Gofredo said.
The little Marine major went through the same routine. At his first word, the uproar stopped; before he was through, the natives’ faces were sagging and crumbling into expressions of utter and heartbroken grief.
“It’s not as bad as all that, is it?” he said. “You try it, Mark.”
“Me. … Mark. … Howell. …” They looked bewildered.
“Let’s try objects, and playacting,” Lillian suggested. “They’re farmers; they ought to have a word for water.”
They spent almost an hour at it. They poured out two gallons of water, pretended to be thirsty, gave each other drinks. The natives simply couldn’t agree on the word, in their own language, for water. That or else they missed the point of the whole act. They tried fire, next. The efficiency of a steel hatchet was impressive, and so was the sudden flame of a pocket-lighter, but no word for fire emerged, either.
“Ah, to Niflheim with it!” Luis Gofredo cried in exasperation. “We’re getting nowhere at five times light speed. Give them their presents and send them home, Paul.”
“Sheath-knives; they’ll have to be shown how sharp they are,” he suggested. “Red bandannas. And costume jewelry.”
“How about something to eat, Bennet?” Meillard asked Fayon.
“Extee Three, and C-H trade candy,” Fayon said. Field Ration, Extraterrestrial Service, Type Three, could be eaten by anything with a carbon-hydrogen metabolism, and so could the trade candy. “Nothing else, though, till we have some idea what goes on inside them.”
Dorver thought the six members of the delegation would be persons of special consequence, and should have something extra. That was probably so. Dorver was as quick to pick up clues to an alien social order as he was, himself, to deduce a culture pattern from a few artifacts. He and Lillian went back to the landing craft to collect the presents.
Everybody, horn-detail, armed guard and all, got one ten-inch bowie knife and sheath, a red bandanna neckcloth, and a piece of flashy junk jewelry. The (town council? prominent citizens? or what?) also received a colored table-spread apiece; these were draped over their shoulders and fastened with two-inch plastic pins advertising the candidacy of somebody for President of the Federation Member Republic of Venus a couple of elections ago. They all looked woebegone about it; that would be their expression of joy. Different type nerves and different facial musculature, Fayon thought. As soon as they sampled the Extee Three and candy, they looked crushed under all the sorrows of the galaxy.
By pantomime and pointing to the sun, Meillard managed to inform them that the next day, when the sun was in the same position, the Terrans would visit their village, bringing more gifts. The natives were quite agreeable, but Meillard was disgruntled that he had to use sign-talk. The natives started off toward the village on the mound, munching Extee Three and
