word; we have none for it … and nobody but his mother can stand being near him.”
“Like me,” Lillian said. “Now I understand. Just think of the most revolting thing that could be done to you physically; that’s what I do to them every time I speak. And I always thought I had a nice voice,” she added, pathetically.
“You have, for Terrans,” Ayesha said. “For Svants, you’ll just have to change it.”
“But how—?”
“Use an analyzer; train it. That was why I took up sonics, in the first place. I had a voice like a crow with a sore throat, but by practicing with an analyzer, an hour a day, I gave myself an entirely different voice in a couple of months. Just try to get some pump-sound frequencies into it, like Luis.’ ”
“But why? I’m no use here. I’m a linguist, and these people haven’t any language that I could ever learn, and they couldn’t even learn ours. They couldn’t learn to make sounds, as sounds.”
“You’ve been doing very good work with Mom on those ideographs,” Meillard said. “Keep it up till you’ve taught her the Lingua Terra Basic vocabulary, and with her help we can train a few more. They can be our interpreters; we can write what we want them to say to the others. It’ll be clumsy, but it will work, and it’s about the only thing I can think of that will.”
“And it will improve in time,” Ayesha added. “And we can make vocoders and visibilizers. Paul, you have authority to requisition personnel from the ship’s company. Draft me; I’ll stay here and work on it.”
The rumpus in the village plaza was getting worse. The Lord Mayor and his adherents were being outshouted by the opposition.
“Better do something about that in a hurry, Paul, if you don’t want a lot of Svants shot,” Gofredo said. “Give that another half hour and we’ll have visitors, with bows and spears.”
“Ayesha, you have a recording of the pump,” Meillard said. “Load a record-player onto a jeep and fly over the village and play it for them. Do it right away. Anna, get Mom in here. We want to get her to tell that gang that from now on, at noon and for a couple of hours after sunset, when the work’s done, there will be free public pump-concerts, over the village plaza.”
Ayesha and her warrant-officer helper and a Marine lieutenant went out hastily. Everybody else faced the screen to watch. In fifteen minutes, an airjeep was coming in on the village. As it circled low, a new sound, the steady thugg-thugg, thugg-thugg of the pump, began.
The yelling and twittering and the blaring of the peace-horn died out almost at once. As the jeep circled down to housetop level, the two contending faction-clumps broke apart; their component individuals moved into the center of the plaza and squatted, staring up, letting the delicious waves of sound caress them.
“Do we have to send a detail in a jeep to do that twice a day?” Gofredo asked. “We keep a snooper over the village; fit it with a loudspeaker and a timer; it can give them their thugg-thugg, on schedule, automatically.”
“We might give the Lord Mayor a recording and a player and let him decide when the people ought to listen—if that’s the word—to it,” Dorver said. “Then it would be something of their own.”
“No!” He spoke so vehemently that the others started. “You know what would happen? Nobody would be able to turn it off; they’d all be hypnotized, or doped, or whatever it is. They’d just sit in a circle around it till they starved to death, and when the power-unit gave out, the record-player would be surrounded by a ring of skeletons. We’ll just have to keep on playing it for them ourselves. Terrans’ Burden.”
“That’ll give us a sanction over them,” Gofredo observed. “Extra thugg-thugg if they’re very good; shut it off on them if they act nasty. And find out what Lillian has in her voice that the rest of us don’t have, and make a good loud recording of that, and stash it away along with the rest of the heavy-weapons ammunition. You know, you’re not going to have any trouble at all, when we go down-country to talk to the king or whatever. This is better than firewater ever was.”
“We must never misuse our advantage, Luis,” Meillard said seriously. “We must use it only for their good.”
He really meant it. Only—You had to know some general history to study technological history, and it seemed to him that that pious assertion had been made a few times before. Some of the others who had made it had really meant it, too, but that had made little difference in the long run.
Fayon and Anna were talking enthusiastically about the work ahead of them.
“I don’t know where your subject ends and mine begins,” Anna was saying. “We’ll just have to handle it between us. What are we going to call it? We certainly can’t call it hearing.”
“Nonauditory sonic sense is the only thing I can think of,” Fayon said. “And that’s such a clumsy term.”
“Mark; you thought of it first,” Anna said. “What do you think?”
“Nonauditory sonic sense. It isn’t any worse than Domesticated Type C, and that got cut down to size. Naudsonce.”
A Slave Is a Slave
Jurgen, Prince Trevannion, accepted the coffee cup and lifted it to his lips, then lowered it. These Navy robots always poured coffee too hot; spacemen must have collapsium-lined throats. With the other hand, he punched a button on the robot’s keyboard and received a lighted cigarette; turning, he placed the cup on the command-desk in front of him and looked about. The tension was relaxing in Battle-Control, the purposeful pandemonium of the last three hours dying rapidly. Officers of both sexes, in red and blue and yellow and green coveralls, were rising from seats, leaving their stations, gathering in groups. Laughter, a trifle loud; he realized, suddenly, that they had
