"We call it 'Uru' for the same reason you call yours 'Kobai'," she
said. "It makes the sound 'Uru' ad nauseum."
She stared at her own sketch thoughtfully, calling up the memory image
of the Galactic as she did so. Squat, about five feet ten inches in
height, with the short bowed legs of a swimmer. Rippling muscles sent
corded lines under the black leotards. The arms were articulated like
a human's, but they were more graceful in movement. The skin was pale
green, the neck thick and short. The wide mouth was almost lipless,
the nose a mere blunt horn. The eyes were large and spaced wide with
nictating lids. No hair, but a high crowned ridge from the center of
the forehead swept back across the head.
"I knew a Hawaiian distance swimmer once who looked much like these
Galactics," said Ohashi. He wet his lips with his tongue. "You know,
today we had a Buddhist monk from Java at our meeting with Kobai."
"I fail to see the association between a distance swimmer and a monk,"
said Goré.
"You told us you drew a blank today," said Zakheim.
"The monk tried no conversing," said Ohashi. "He refused because that
would be a form of Earthly striving unthinkable for a Buddhist. He
merely came and observed."
Francine leaned forward. "Yes?" She found an odd excitement in the way
Ohashi was forcing himself to casualness.
"The monk's reaction was curious," said Ohashi. "He refused to speak
for several hours afterward. Then he said that these Galactics must be
very holy people."
"Holy!" Zakheim's voice was edged with bitter irony.
"We are approaching this the wrong way," said Francine. She felt let
down, spoke with a conscious effort. "Our access to these Galactics is
limited by the space they've opened to us within their vessel."
"What is in the rest of the ship?" asked Zakheim.
"Rewards, perhaps," said Goré.
"Or weapons to demolish us!" snapped Zakheim.
"The pattern of the sessions is wrong, too," said Francine.
Ohashi nodded. "Twelve hours a day is not enough," he said. "We should
have them under constant observation."
"I didn't mean that," said Francine. "They probably need rest just as
we do. No. I meant the absolute control our team leaders--unimaginative
men like Langsmith--have over the way we use our time in those rooms.
For instance, what would happen if we tried to break down the force
wall or whatever it is that keeps us from actually touching these
creatures? What would happen if we brought in dogs to check how
_animals_ would react to them?" She reached in her briefcase, brought
out a small flat recorder, and adjusted it for playback. "Listen to
this."
* * * * *
There was a fluid burst of sound: "Pau'timónsh'uego' ikloprépre 'sauta'
urusa'a'a ..." and a long pause followed by: "tu'kimóomo 'urulig
'lurulil 'oog 'shuquetoé ..." pause "sum 'a 'suma 'a 'uru 't 'shóap!'"
Francine stopped the playback.
"Did you record that today?" asked Ohashi.
"Yes. It was using that odd illustration board with the moving
pictures--weird flowers and weirder animals."
"We've seen them," muttered Zakheim.
"And those chopping movements of its hands," said Francine. "The
swaying body, the undulations, the facial contortions." She shook her
head. "It's almost like a bizarre dance."
"What are you driving at?" asked Ohashi.
"I've been wondering what would happen if we had a leading
choreographer compose a dance to those sounds, and if we put it on
for...."
"Faaa!" snorted Zakheim.
"All right," said Francine. "But we should be using some kind of
random stimulation pattern on these Galactics. Why don't we bring in a
nightclub singer? Or a circus barker? Or a magician? Or...."
"We tried a full-blown schizoid," said Goré.
Zakheim grunted. "And you got exactly what such tactics deserve: your
schizoid sat there and played with his fingers for an hour!"
"The idea of using artists from the entertainment world intrigues me,"
said Ohashi. "Some _No_ dancers, perhaps." He nodded. "I'd never
thought about it. But art is, after all, a form of communication."
"So is the croaking of a frog in a swamp," said Zakheim.
"Did you ever hear about the Paradox Frog?" asked Francine.
"Is this one of your strange jokes?" asked Zakheim.
"Of course not. The Paradox Frog is a very real creature. It lives
on the island of Trinidad. It's a very small frog, but it has the
opposable thumb on a five-fingered hand, and it...."
"Just like our visitors," said Zakheim.
"Yes. And it uses its hand just like we do--to grasp things, to pick up
food, to stuff its mouth, to...."
"To make bombs?" asked Zakheim.
Francine shrugged, turned away. She felt hurt.
"My people believe these Galactics are putting on an elaborate sham,"
said Zakheim. "We think they are stalling while they secretly study us
in preparation for invasion!"
Goré said: "So?" His narrow shoulders came up in a Gallic shrug that
said as plainly as words: "_Even if this is true, what is there for us
to do?_"
Francine turned to Ohashi. "What's the favorite theory current with
your team?" Her voice sounded bitter, but she was unable to soften the
tone.
"We are working on the assumption that this is a language of
one-syllable root, as in Chinese," said Ohashi.
"But what of the vowel harmony?" protested Goré. "Surely that must mean
the harmonious vowels are all in the same words."
Ohashi adjusted the set of his glasses. "Who knows?" he asked.
"Certainly, the back vowels and front vowels come together many times,
but...." He shrugged, shook his head.
"What's happening with the group that's working on the historical
analogy?" asked Goré. "You were going to find out, Ohashi."
"They are working on the assumption that all primitive sounds are
consonants with non-fixed vowels ... foot-stampers for dancing, you
know. Their current guess is that the galactics are missionaries, their
language a religious language."
"What results?" asked Zakheim.
"None."
Zakheim nodded. "To be expected." He glanced at Francine. "I beg the
forgiveness of the Mrs. Doctor Millar?"
She looked up, startled from a daydreaming speculation about the
Galactic language and dancing. "Me? Good heavens, why?"
"I have been short-tempered today," said Zakheim. He glanced at
his wristwatch. "I'm very sorry. I've been worried about another
appointment."
He heaved his bulk out of the chair, took up his briefcase. "And it is
time for me to be leaving. You forgive me?"
"Of course, Zak."