The Spheres of Heaven

little, go. You, one, in. We stay.”

“Will the big little” — my God, they had him doing it now — “I hope that your leader sounds exactly the same as you do. Otherwise, the translator will have a hell of a time and may have to start from scratch.”

“You to the big little. Go now. Talk, listen.”

The black cane waved ominously, suggesting no room for discussion.

“All right, I’m going. See? I’m on my way.”

Friday walked forward, down an unlighted ramp and away from the bright beams of the searchlights. At once he found himself splashing along in a foot of water. He paused to close the visor of his suit — for all he knew his next step would drop him in over his head — and realized as he did so that this building was even worse than the one where he had awakened. It not only had standing water, it had no lights at all.

He stepped gingerly forward, stumbled on a down step, and almost fell.

He stood still. “This is ridiculous. I know you gooks understand about lights, so why the hell don’t you use them? It’s black as a witch’s ass in here.”

He was talking to himself, and he certainly didn’t expect an answer. But the room lightened as orange-red tubes lit up all along the side walls. Trills and chirps came from in front of him, and the translator said, “Light is provided. Say what is enough.”

“That’s fine.” Friday glanced at the bright lighting on the walls and at the structures like huge easels that stood beneath them, but most of his attention was focused on the small table a few meters in front of him. It was low, no more than knee-high, only a third the size of the one on which he had awakened. That seemed appropriate, because the Indigoan who sprawled on top of it was also a miniature version of the ones outside. He realized that the table, like the one in the chamber near the shore, was designed to accommodate Indigoan body structure. Five pairs of walking legs draped over the side, while the flat lower body sat comfortably on the hard table beneath. The small body, unlike those of the other Indigoans, wore clothing. The blue-black carapace was dressed in a glittering wraparound of orange-red, while the double pairs of pincers emerged from mitten-like sheaths of the same color.

It was a dumb question, but he had to ask it. He splashed forward until he was within a meter of the table. “Was it you who turned on the lights, and asked me what was enough?”

Miniature eyestalks waved up at him, and the topmost mouth opened. The translator said, “Who but I? No one else is here.”

“I don’t get it. I understand you, but the one who brought me here hardly made sense at all. I know that the translator improves as it hears more of a language, but it shouldn’t be this fast.”

A pincer claw pointed to the unit at Friday’s waist. “I s that the ‘translator’?”

“Sure. Do you also have such things?”

“We have … other ways. Better ways for translation, ways that do not allow mistakes. I think that we communicate, but I am not sure. As for understanding the one who brought you here, it cannot be expected.”

“Does it speak a different language?”

“It speaks no language, no true language. It is not a leader. It is a lower, a Level Three.”

“You mean, a sort of moron?”

“It is Level Three. A patroller, a guard, a worker.”

“I get it. I had the same sort of problem on my ship, workers who couldn’t grasp the big picture. I’m a leader, too.” He had missed with his earlier tries at first contact, but this looked like the right time for it. “Let me explain who I am, and why I am here. My name is Friday Indigo, and I have come to this world from another star system. I am the captain of a starship, the Mood Indigo , which is stranded near the shore not far from here. I am also the representative of all humans, and of all other intelligent species who are members of the Stellar Group. I would welcome the chance to compare your civilization with ours, and if possible to exchange elements of our technology.”

Even as he spoke, Friday wondered if he was being a trifle optimistic. The translator was working now — of course it hadn’t worked when he was talking to a half-wit minion, how could it? — but he was throwing at it some pretty high-level concepts.

For a few seconds he was afraid that he was right, and his speech had been too much for the translator. The little Indigoan in front of him — funny, when you saw a pint-sized one it looked like a cross between an Earth crab and a lobster — was waving its eyestalks in an excited way and whistling loudly. The translator whistled in sympathy, and finally said, “I question what was said to me. Repeat who you are, and what you are.”

“Sure. Let me try to keep it really simple. My name is Friday Indigo. I have come here from another star. I want to learn your technology, in exchange for giving you some of ours.”

It was hard to say it clearer than that, but the Indigoan leader seemed as agitated as ever.

“You are not from this world? You are not the dominant life-form and intelligence of this world?”

“I’m dominant and intelligent, sure I am. But you got it right, I’m not from this world. I came here from a world that orbits another star.” The oddity of the question finally got through to Friday. Why would somebody who was part of the dominant intelligent form of Limbo ask Friday if he was of the dominant form here? “Are you telling me that you’re not the leading life-form here, yourself?”

“Not from here, you are not from here. Where, if not from here?” The Indigoan was standing up, lifting itself from the table. It seemed awfully excited. “You will say all or die, as those died. You will say all, or you will join them.”

One pincer was now holding a small version of the familiar black cane, but that was not what gave Friday the chills. The cane was not pointing at him. It was directed toward the big wall panels that stood on each side of the room.

He wondered why he had not noticed them as he came in, then realized that once the lights came on he had been totally focused on the Indigoan leader. If he had observed on entry what he saw now, he would have run back outside and taken his chances with the line of guards.

On the easels hung four objects. They seemed oddly two-dimensional, but that was because they had been dried, carefully opened and dissected, and pinned flat.

Friday was staring at the desiccated remains of four bubble people.

21: REUNION

Bony had been very young when the quarantine was imposed, and in his childhood he had absorbed the widespread human bias against other members of the Stellar Group. Pipe-Rillas were hopeless cowards. Tinkers were unstable. Angels were enormously intelligent, but they were also obstinate, complaining, and inscrutable. It was an outrage that such flawed and inferior beings should control access to the stars, while denying it by quarantine to superior humans.

Perhaps; but when you were stranded on the seabed of an alien world with a major storm raging overhead, a limited air supply, and no idea what to do next, you became aware of other alien qualities.

Vow-of-Silence was crouching in the silt-filled water with the Angel cradled in two of her fore-limbs and an amorphous mass of Tinkers heaped by her side. As Bony and Liddy came up to her, the Pipe-Rilla bobbed her head toward the humans and said, “There is a slight difficulty. Although the Finder is no more than two or three kilometers away, the storm has so filled the water around us with suspended sediments that earlier sea-markers are invisible. Also, night approaches. We do not know in which direction we should proceed to reach our ship. Do you?”

For a coward the Pipe-Rilla sounded remarkably calm — much calmer than Bony felt. He looked at Liddy. She shrugged, and said to Vow-of-Silence, “I’m afraid we don’t.”

Bony felt like an idiot — setting a beacon for your return path should be second nature to anyone who