"How," he asked the empty room, "can a word mean grief and elation at
the same time?"
Jonathan sat for a few moments in silence, thinking back to the start
of the sessions with Easton. Ramirez and Stoughton had both agreed
with him that Easton's speech was phonemically identical to English.
Jonathan's trained ear remembered the pronunciation of "Freeble" in
the three different connotations and he forced himself to admit it was
the same on all three tapes in question.
Stuck again, he thought gloomily.
Good-by, vacation!
He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. It was like saying the
word "die" meant something happy and something sad at one and the
same, like saying--
Jonathan pursed his lips. Yes, it could be. If someone were in
terrible pain, death, while a thing of sorrow, could also mean release
from suffering and so become a thing of joy. Or it could mean sorrow
to one person and relief to another. In that case, what he was dealing
with here was not only--
The crash of the ball, as it sailed through the window behind his
desk, lifted Jonathan right from his chair. Furious, his elusive clue
shattered as surely as the pane of glass, he strode to the window.
"Richie!"
His son, almost hidden behind the lilac bush, did not answer.
"I see you!" Jonathan bellowed. "Come here!"
The bush stirred slightly and Richie peeped through the leaves. "Did
you call me, Daddy?" he asked politely.
Jonathan clamped his lips shut and pointed to the den. Richie tried a
smile as he sidled around the bush, around his father, and into the
house.
"My," he marveled, looking at the broken glass on the floor inside.
"My goodness!" He sat down in the leather chair to which Jonathan
motioned.
"Richie," said his father, when he could trust his voice again, "how
did it happen?"
His son's thin legs, brown and wiry, stuck out straight from the
depths of the chair. There was a long scratch on one calf and numerous
black-and-blue spots around both knees.
"I dunno," said Richie. He blinked his eyes, deeper blue than
Margery's, and reached up one hand to push away the mass of blond hair
tumbling over his forehead. He was obviously trying hard to pretend he
wasn't in the room at all.
* * * * *
Jonathan said, "Now, son, that is not a good answer. What were you
doing when the ball went through the window?"
"Watching," said Richie truthfully.
"How did it _go_ through the window?"
"Real fast."
Jonathan found his teeth were clamped. No wonder he couldn't decode
Easton's speech--he couldn't even talk with his own son!
"I mean," he explained, his patience wavering, "you threw the ball so
that it broke the window, didn't you?"
"I didn't mean it to," said Richie.
"All right. That's what I wanted to know." He started on a lecture
about respect for other people's property, while Richie sat and looked
blankly respectful. "And so," he heard himself conclude, "I hope we'll
be more careful in the future."
"Yes," said Richie.
A vague memory came to Jonathan and he sat and studied his son,
remembering him when he was younger and first starting to talk. He
recalled the time Richie, age three, had come bustling up to him.
"Vransh!" the child had pleaded, tugging at his father's hand.
Jonathan had gone outside with him to see a baby bird which had fallen
from its nest. "Vransh!" Richie had crowed, exhibiting his find.
"Vransh!"
"Do I get my spanking now?" asked Richie from the chair. His eyes
were wide and watchful.
Jonathan tore his mind from still another recollection: the old joke
about the man and woman who adopted a day-old French infant and then
studied French so they would be able to understand their child when he
began to talk. Maybe, thought Jonathan, it's no joke. Maybe there _is_
a language--
"Spanking?" he repeated absentmindedly. He took a fresh pencil and pad
of paper. "How would you like to help with something, Richie?"