"Well ... I suppose it would be foolish to stop now. I don't have
enough material yet to prepare a verbal message, and they seem to be
understanding this one anyway. On the other hand ... they might not
like this. It shows us helping them to rebuild a city, and giving them
weapons." He lit a cigarette and hit the button again. "They might
wonder what we want in return."
Gordon put down his coffee and scratched his chin. "Well, I don't think
we ought to revise our plans now, Stuart. I think they'd be glad to
offer us a base, in return for protection. We might as well go ahead."
* * * * *
The linguist nodded. The minutes passed as he continued the series of
pictures. After a while he opened his mouth to say something, but was
interrupted by a gabble of sounds from the pickup unit. The natives
were pointing upward and discussing something. Pilot lights on the
cephaloid hookup showed that the material was being received, passed
back and forth for analysis, and stored away. Stuart threw in a key
word now and then to identify the picture being shown.
"It's clear that they understand," he whispered. "Now for the clincher.
We help them fight off the Invaders. I hope they don't get the idea
that our presence would make another Invader attack more likely."
He continued to push the stud every twenty or thirty seconds, lips
moving as he counted. When the counter showed the end of the sequence
approaching, he nodded in satisfaction. The natives were still talking
to each other. "Good thing we've got these cephaloids," Stuart
whispered. "An electronic analyzer could never sort out the three
voices. Nor could any linguist alive, for that matter."
Once again he paused, finger hovering. "This is where we show them
pictures of a blast-rifle, how to use it, and so on--and then the
magic box opens and we give them one." His whisper was faint, and he
swallowed. "Should I go ahead?" He seemed to be asking himself.
Gordon studied him a few seconds. "Play it your own way, Stuart. The
risk is yours, so the decision ought to be."
The linguist put out his cigarette with trembling fingers. "Yes.... I
realize that I talked you into letting me go ahead with my own plan.
But ... you see ... well, I've never done anything especially brave or
dangerous, as all you fellows have. The plan _might_ be made to work
out without my actually going down there in person. I've been wondering
what you would say if I ... backed out."
The chief got up and clapped him on the back, awkwardly. "Why, not a
thing, Stuart. Wouldn't say a word. A man's personal project is his
own, in this kind of business. Long as it doesn't affect the welfare of
anyone else, he can volunteer for, or refuse, any job."
Stuart smiled slowly and sat up straight. "Then I'll go ahead. I just
wanted to be sure I could have backed out if I'd wanted to. If I do
something worthwhile, I want it to be without compulsion." He punched
the sequence button vigorously, while the chief stared at him with
amused respect. He grinned back at Gordon. "Sit down, Captain, and keep
an eye on the natives."
Gordon sat, applying his attention to the scene on the ground. "Think
they'll get this part?"
"They certainly ought to. I even made a sketch of a native destroying
a hell-cat with my new gun." After a few minutes of attentive study by
the three natives, the series was finished. The language expert reached
over and depressed a different stud without hesitation. "There it is. A
nice little blast-rifle, practically new!"
The screen showed the front of a box falling open under the sequence
machine. The three Azurans raised their heads and stared. Then they
looked up at the sky, and back at the box. Their conversation was
excited, not at all hushed.
Finally the leader sent the third native around in a flanking move,
equipped with the crossbow. When the new position had been taken up,
the three studied the situation and seemed to discuss its various
aspects. Suddenly, while the flanker held a bead on the machine, the
one who had been in the lead stood up and advanced warily toward the
proffered gun. He studied it at close range, after looking over the
scene carefully.
Abruptly he laid down his spear and seized the blast-rifle. He remained
crouching, obviously waiting for something to happen. When nothing did,
he straightened up and began to examine the weapon. He turned to the
last picture, still showing on the machine, and carefully conformed his
tentacles around the gunstock as indicated. Then he looked about, as if
seeking a target.
A large, brilliant blue tree about twenty meters away seemed to be his
choice. He spent a moment getting the sights lined up and then pulled
the trigger.
* * * * *
The entire lower half of the tree disappeared in a tremendous explosion
of steam and splinters. The upper part of it came smashing down, as did
great sections of others directly behind the target.
The stunned native staggered to his feet, still clutching the gun, and
cooed at it lovingly. His two companions came running up, whistling
and gabbling with excitement. They were allowed to take the gun up on
the hill and try it out--at more distant targets. Several trees and a
good-sized rock disappeared with a noisy violence that was obviously
satisfactory.
The leader remained with the picture machine and began to examine it.
He jumped, startled, when Stuart flipped one more sketch into view.
It showed the little scout ship about to land. After the native had
studied it a while, Stuart gave him the last one. This was a sketch of
the linguist himself, stepping out of the scout ship and greeting a
waiting Azuran.
The reaction to this was immediate and positive. Shrill commands sent
the smaller native into ambush in the shrubbery; the other came running
down the hill, handed over the gun, and fled to the cave. The leader,
still watching the sky, squatted down to wait, rifle beside him. After
a moment he took something out of his knapsack and apparently began to
munch on it. Twice he snatched up the gun and sighted through it, as
though practising.
Stuart frowned at the screen. "They seem to understand I'm about to
visit them, but they're not convinced they can trust visitors. No
reason why they should be, I suppose." He disconnected the pickup unit
from the cephaloid circuit.
Gordon cocked his head to one side reflectively. "Well, I don't think
the situation is too bad. You've seen how cautious they are ... they
must have been very badly scared when their cities were destroyed.
Perfectly natural. It's also evident they're not fundamentally warlike;
their behavior shows an absence of military background. Even a couple
of traders noticed that, by the way, over on the other side of the
planet last year."
The linguist shook his head reprovingly. "Let's avoid semantic
confusions when we can, Gordon. Their behavior does not fit in with
_your_ notion of military background. We have no right to say what it
connotes _in their culture_."
The captain acknowledged the reasonableness of this statement with
a smile and left him to the solitude he needed. He began the task
of receiving the material the cephaids had assimilated, feeding in
associations of "probable general context" with the natives' comments
regarding each picture. He laughed to himself as he realized that a
certain amount of projection of his own notions was inevitable.
Such was the tremendous power of the cephaloids, and the delicate,
almost intuitive skill of his handling, that the major part of the
analysis was complete in little more than an hour. He switched the
controls to "Translate, Univ. Sp. to Other." Indicator needles shifted
and steadied as the surface potentials readjusted in the semi-living
colloids.
Then, before proceeding further, he asked the captain to join him
again. When Gordon was seated, the expert smiled wryly at him. "This
is usually considered very poor procedure, but there's only one word
I can be fairly sure of as a check on this thing. It seems reasonable
that, when the middle native exclaimed 'Aru!', he meant 'Good'!!
That was when we destroyed the attacking ship, if you remember ... a
little fiction which I shall have to explain to them later." Into the
microphone he said, in Universal Speech, "Good. That is good."
"Aru. Aru naa lo," replied the loudspeaker.
Stuart, though he relaxed a little then, lost no time. It took him only
a few minutes to memorize several phrases which the jelly-and-silver
translator gave him. By the time Brettner had the little scout ship
warmed up for him, Stuart was prepared to tell the natives, "Peace! I
come in peace. Your people and my people have the same enemy. Therefore
let us be friends and work together. We shall give you large and strong
weapons."
He turned to leave the lab, but stopped to squint once more at the
screen. Only the native with the gun was visible, still grimly waiting.
The linguist finished buckling on his gear with nervous fingers. "They
look awfully well-disciplined to me," he murmured to himself. "Wish
I felt a little more nonchalant about this!" He clumped down the
passageway to Number Three Lock, where he met Brettner climbing out of
the scout ship.
Brettner slapped him on the back, saying, "She's all wound up. Good
luck, chum. Keep away from the girlies, hear?" From the control
room, Rogers shouted gaily, "Send us a postcard, laddie. One of them
Venus-type!" The two scouts guffawed heartily. Gordon looked out and
waved at him.
The linguist climbed into the control seat, laughing in spite of
himself. He waved at Brettner, shut the inner door, and opened the
outer. A monitor light showed green. "Ready," he told the intercom. He
was surprised at how steady his voice and hands were.
"Cast off!" came Gordon's voice.