Robinson Crusoe ... Gulliver ... Paul
Bunyan; the story of their adventures
is nothing compared to the Saga of Mitkey.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mitkey, the mouse, wasn't Mitkey then.
He was just another mouse, who lived behind the floorboards and plaster
of the house of the great Herr Professor Oberburger, formerly of
Vienna and Heidelberg; then a refugee from the excessive admiration of
more powerful of his fellow-countrymen. The excessive admiration had
concerned, not Herr Oberburger himself, but a certain gas which had
been a by-product of an unsuccessful rocket fuel--which might have been
a highly-successful something else.
If, of course, the Professor had given them the correct formula. Which
he--Well, anyway, the Professor had made good his escape and now lived
in a house in Connecticut. And so did Mitkey.
A small gray mouse, and a small gray man. Nothing unusual about either
of them. Particularly there was nothing unusual about Mitkey; he had a
family and he liked cheese and if there were Rotarians among mice, he
would have been a Rotarian.
The Herr Professor, of course, had his mild eccentricities. A
confirmed bachelor, he had no one to talk to except himself, but he
considered himself an excellent conversationalist and held constant
verbal communion with himself while he worked. That fact, it turned
out later, was important, because Mitkey had excellent ears and heard
those night-long soliloquies. He didn't understand them, of course. If
he thought about them at all, he merely thought of the Professor as a
large and noisy super-mouse who squeaked over-much.
"Und now," he would say to himself, "ve vill see vether this eggshaust
tube vas broperly machined. It should fidt vithin vun vun-hundredth
thousandth uf an indtch. Ahhh, it iss berfect. Und now--"
Night after night, day after day, month after month. The gleaming thing
grew, and the gleam in Herr Oberburger's eyes grew apace.
It was about three and a half feet long, with weirdly shaped vanes, and
it rested on a temporary framework on a table in the center of the room
that served the Herr Professor for all purposes. The house in which he
and Mitkey lived was a four room structure, but the Professor hadn't
yet found it out, seemingly. Originally, he had planned to use the big
room as a laboratory only, but he found it more convenient to sleep on
a cot in one corner of it, when he slept at all, and to do the little
cooking he did over the same gas burner over which he melted down
golden grains of TNT into a dangerous soup which he salted and peppered
with strange condiments, but did not eat.
"Und now I shall bour it into tubes, und see vether vun tube adjacendt
to another eggsplodes der secondt tube vhen der virst tube iss--"
That was the night Mitkey almost decided to move himself and his family
to a more stable abode, one that did not rock and sway and try to turn
handsprings on its foundations. But Mitkey didn't move after all,
because there were compensations. New mouse-holes all over, and--joy of
joy!--a big crack in the back of the refrigerator where the Professor
kept, among other things, food.
Of course the tubes had been not larger than capillary size, or the
house would not have remained around the mouse-holes. And of course
Mitkey could not guess what was coming nor understand the Herr
Professor's brand of English (nor any other brand of English, for that
matter) or he would not have let even a crack in the refrigerator tempt
him.
The Professor was jubilant that morning.
"Der fuel, idt vorks! Der secondt tube, idt did not eggsplode. Und der
virst, in _seggtions_, as I had eggspectedt! Und it is more bowerful;
there will be blenty of room for der combartment--"
Ah, yes, the compartment. That was where Mitkey came in, although even
the Professor didn't know it yet. In fact the Professor didn't even
know that Mitkey existed.
"Und now," he was saying to his favorite listener, "idt is budt a
madter of combining der fuel tubes so they work in obbosite bairs. Und
then--"
That was the moment when the Herr Professor's eyes first fell on
Mitkey. Rather, they fell upon a pair of gray whiskers and a black,
shiny little nose protruding from a hole in the baseboards.
"Vell!" he said, "vot haff ve here! Mitkey Mouse himself! Mitkey, how
vould you like to go for a ride, negst veek? Ve shall see."
* * * * *
That is how it came about that the next time the Professor sent into
town for supplies, his order included a mousetrap--not one of the
vicious kind that kills, but one of the wire-cage kind. And it had not
been set, with cheese, for more than ten minutes before Mitkey's sharp
little nose had smelled out that cheese and he had followed his nose
into captivity.
Not, however, an unpleasant captivity. Mitkey was an honored guest. The
cage reposed now on the table at which the Professor did most of his
work, and cheese in indigestion-giving abundance was pushed through the
bars, and the Professor didn't talk to himself any more.
"You see, Mitkey, I vas going to sendt to der laboratory in Hardtford
for a vhite mouse, budt vhy should I, mit you here? I am sure you are
more soundt und healthy und able to vithstand a long chourney than
those laboratory mices. No? Ah, you viggle your viskers und that means
yes, no? Und being used to living in dargk holes, you should suffer
less than they from glaustrophobia, no?"
And Mitkey grew fat and happy and forgot all about trying to get out of
the cage. I fear that he even forgot about the family he had abandoned,
but he knew, if he knew anything, that he need not worry about them in
the slightest. At least not until and unless the Professor discovered
and repaired the hole in the refrigerator. And the Professor's mind was
most emphatically not on refrigerators.
"Und so, Mitkey, ve shall place this vane so--it iss only of assistance
in der landing, in an atmosphere. It und these vill bring you down
safely und slowly enough that der shock-absorbers in der movable
combartment vill keep you from bumping your head too hard, I think." Of
course, Mitkey missed the ominous note to that "I think" qualification
because he missed all the rest of it. He did not, as has been
explained, speak English. Not then.
But Herr Oberburger talked to him just the same. He showed him
pictures. "Did you effer see der Mouse you vas named after, Mitkey?
Vhat? No? Loogk, this is der original Mitkey Mouse, by Valt Dissney.
Budt I think you are cuter, Mitkey."
Probably the Professor was a bit crazy to talk that way to a little
gray mouse. In fact, he must have been crazy to make a rocket that
worked. For the odd thing was that the Herr Professor was not really
an inventor. There was, as he carefully explained to Mitkey, not one
single thing about that rocket that was _new_. The Herr Professor was a
technician; he could take other people's ideas and make them work. His
only real invention--the rocket fuel that wasn't one--had been turned
over to the United States Government and had proved to be something
already known and discarded because it was too expensive for practical
use.
* * * * *
As he explained very carefully to Mitkey, "It iss burely a matter of
absolute accuracy and mathematical correctness, Mitkey. Idt iss all
here--ve merely combine--and ve achieff vhat, Mitkey?
"Eggscape velocity, Mitkey! Chust barely, it adds up to eggscape
velocity. Maybe. There are yet unknown facgtors, Mitkey, in der ubper
atmosphere, der troposphere, der stratosphere. Ve think ve know
eggsactly how mudch air there iss to calculate resistance against, but
are ve absolutely sure? No, Mitkey, ve are not. Ve haff not been there.
Und der marchin iss so narrow that so mudch as an air current might
affect idt."
But Mitkey cared not a whit. In the shadow of the tapering
aluminum-alloy cylinder he waxed fat and happy.
"Der tag, Mitkey, der tag! Und I shall not lie to you, Mitkey. I shall
not giff you valse assurances. You go on a dancherous chourney, mein
little friendt.
"A vifty-vifty chance ve giff you, Mitkey. Not der moon or bust, but
der moon _und_ bust, or else maybe safely back to earth. You see,
my boor little Mitkey, der moon iss not made of green cheese und if
it were, you vould not live to eat it because there iss not enough
atmosphere to bring you down safely und vith your viskers still on.
[Illustration: "NOT DER MOON OR BUST, BUT DER MOON UND BUST!"]
"Und vhy then, you may vell ask, do I send you? Because der rocket
may not attain eggscape velocity. Und in that case, it iss still an
eggsperiment, budt a different vun. Der rocket, if it goes not to der
moon, falls back on der earth, no? Und in that case certain instruments
shall giff us further information than ve haff yet about things up
there in space. Und you shall giff us information, by vether or not you
are yet alife, vether der shock absorbers und vanes are sufficient in
an earth-equivalent atmosphere. You see?
"Then ladter, vhen ve send rockets to Venus maybe vhere an atmosphere
eggsists, ve shall haff data to calculate the needed size of vanes und
shock-absorbers, no? Und in either case, und vether or not you return,
Mitkey, you shall be vamous! You shall be der virst liffing greature to
go oudt beyond der stratosphere of der earth, out into space.
"Mitkey, you shall be der Star-Mouse! I enfy you, Mitkey, und I only
vish I vere your size, so I could go, too."
Der tag, and the door to the compartment. "Gootbye, little Mitkey
Mouse." Darkness. Silence. Noise!
"Der rocket--if it goes not to der moon--falls back on der earth, no?"
That was what the Herr Professor thought. But the best-laid plans of
mice and men gang aft agley. Even star-mice.
All because of Prxl.
* * * * *
The Herr Professor found himself very lonely. After having had Mitkey
to talk to, soliloquies were somehow empty and adequate.
There may be some who say that the company of a small gray mouse is a
poor substitute for a wife; but others may disagree. And, anyway, the
Professor had never had a wife, and he _had_ a mouse to talk to, so
he missed one and, if he missed the other, he didn't know it.
During the long night after the launching of the rocket, he had been
very busy with his telescope, a sweet little eight-inch reflector,
checking its course as it gathered momentum. The exhaust explosions
made a tiny fluctuating point of light that was possible to follow, if
one knew where to look.
But the following day there seemed to be nothing to do, and he was too
excited to sleep, although he tried. So he compromised by doing a spot
of housekeeping, cleaning the pots and pans. It was while he was so
engaged that he heard a series of frantic little squeaks and discovered
that another small gray mouse, with shorter whiskers and a shorter tail
than Mitkey, had walked into the wire-cage mousetrap.
"Vell, vell," said the Professor, "vot haff ve here? Minnie? Iss it
Minnie come to look for her Mitkey?"
The Professor was not a biologist, but he happened to be right.
It _was_ Minnie. Rather, it was Mitkey's mate, so the name was
appropriate. What strange vagary of mind had induced her to walk into
an unbaited trap, the Professor neither knew nor cared, but he was
delighted. He promptly remedied the lack of bait by pushing a sizable
piece of cheese through the bars.
Thus it was that Minnie came to fill the place of her far-traveling
spouse as repository for the Professor's confidences. Whether she
worried about her family or not there is no way of knowing, but
she need not have done so. They were now large enough to fend for
themselves, particularly in a house that offered abundant cover and
easy access to the refrigerator.
"Ah, und now it iss dargk enough, Minnie, that ve can loogk for that
husband of yours. His viery trail across the sky. True, Minnie, it
iss a very small viery trail und der astronomers vill not notice it,
because they do not know vhere to loogk. But ve do.
"He iss going to be a very vamous mouse, Minnie, this Mitkey of ours,
vhen ve tell der vorld about him und about mein rocket. You see, Minnie
ve haff not told them yet. Ve shall vait und giff der gomplete story
all at vunce. By dawn of tomorrow ve'll--
"Ah, there he iss, Minnie! Vaint, but there. I'd hold you up to der
scope und let you loogk, but it vould not be vocused right for your
eyes, und I do not know how to--
"Almost vun hundred thousand miles, Minnie, und still agcelerating, but
not for much longer. Our Mitkey iss on schedule; in fagt he iss going
vaster than ve had vigured, no? It iss sure now that he vill eggscape
the gravitation of der earth, und fall upon der moon!"
Of course, it was purely coincidental that Minnie squeaked.
"Ah, yess, Minnie, little Minnie. I know, I know. Ve shall neffer see
our Mitkey again, und I almost vish our eggsperiment hadt vailed. Budt
there are gompensations, Minnie. He shall be der most vamous of all
mices. Der Star-Mouse! Virst liffing greature effer to go beyond der
gravitational bull of earth!"
The night was long. Occasionally high clouds obscured vision.
"Minnie, I shall make you more gomfortable than in that so-small vire
cage. You vould like to seem to be vree, vould you not, vithout bars,
like der animals at modern zoos, vith moats insteadt?"
* * * * *
And so, to fill in an hour when a cloud obscured the sky, the Herr
Professor made Minnie her new home. It was the end of a wooden crate,
about half an inch thick and a foot square, laid flat on the table,
and with no visible barrier around it.
But he covered the top with metal foil at the edges, and he placed the
board on another larger board which also had a strip of metal foil
surrounding the island of Minnie's home. And wires from the two areas
of metal foil to opposite terminals of a small transformer which he
placed near by.
"Und now, Minnie, I shall blace you on your island, vhich shall be
liberally supplied mitt cheese und vater, und you shall vind it iss
an eggcelent blace to liff. But you vill get a mild shock or two vhen
you try to step off der edge of der island. It vill not hurt much, but
you vill not like it, und after a few tries you vill learn not to try
again, no? Und--"
And night again.
Minnie happy on her island, her lesson well learned. She would no
longer so much as step on the inner strip of metal foil. It was a
mouse-paradise of an island, though. There was a cliff of cheese bigger
than Minnie herself. It kept her busy. Mouse and cheese; soon one would
be a transmutation of the other.
But Professor Oberburger wasn't thinking about that. The Professor
was worried. When he had calculated and re-calculated and aimed his
eight-inch reflector through the hole in the roof and turned out the
lights--
Yes, there _are_ advantages to being a bachelor after all. If one wants
a hole in the roof, one simply knocks a hole in the roof and there is
nobody to tell one that one is crazy. If winter comes, or if it rains,
one can always call a carpenter or use a tarpaulin.
But the faint trail of light wasn't there. The Professor frowned
and re-calculated and re-re-calculated and shifted his telescope
three-tenths of a minute and still the rocket wasn't there.
"Minnie, something iss wrong. Either der tubes haff stopped viring,
or--"
Or the rocket was no longer traversing a straight line relative to its
point of departure. By straight, of course, is meant parabollically
curved relative to everything other than velocity.
So the Herr Professor did the only thing remaining for him to do, and
began to search, with the telescope, in widening circles. It was two
hours before he found it, five degrees off course already and veering
more and more into a--Well, there was only one thing you could call it.
A tailspin.
The darned thing was going in circles, circles which appeared to
constitute an orbit about something that couldn't possibly be there.
Then narrowing into a concentric spiral.
Then--out. Gone. Darkness. No rocket flares.
The Professor's face was pale as he turned to Minnie.
"It iss _imbossible_, Minnie. Mein own eyes, but it could not be.
Even if vun side stopped viring, it could not haff gone into such
sudden circles." His pencil verified a suspicion. "Und, Minnie, it
decellerated vaster than bossible. Even mitt _no_ tubes viring, its
momentum vould haff been more--"
The rest of the night--telescope and calculus--yielded no clue. That
is, no believable clue. Some force not inherent in the rocket itself,
and not accountable by gravitation--even of a hypothetical body--had
acted.
"Mein poor Mitkey."
[Illustration: "POOR MITKEY"]
The gray, inscrutable dawn. "Mein Minnie, it vill haff to be a secret.
Ve dare not bublish vhat ve saw, for it vould not be believed. I am not
sure I believe it myself, Minnie. Berhaps because I vas offertired
vrom not sleeping, I chust imachined that I saw--"
Later. "But, Minnie, ve shall hope. Vun hundred vifty thousand miles
out, it vas. It vill fall back upon der earth. But I gannot tell vhere!
I thought that if it did, I vould be able to galculate its course,
und--But after those goncentric cirgles--Minnie, not even _Einstein_
could galculate vhere it vill land. Not effen _me_. All ve can do iss
hope that ve shall hear of vhere it falls."
Cloudy day. Black night jealous of its mysteries.
"Minnie, our poor Mitkey. There iss _nothing_ could have gauzed--"
But something had.
Prxl.
Prxl is an asteroid. It isn't called that by earthly astronomers,
because--for excellent reasons--they have not discovered it. So we
will call it by the nearest possible transliteration of the name its
inhabitants use. Yes, it's inhabited.
Come to think of it, Professor Oberburger's attempt to send a rocket to
the moon had some strange results. Or rather, Prxl did.
You wouldn't think that an asteroid could reform a drunk, would you?
But one Charles Winslow, a besotted citizen of Bridgeport, Connecticut,
never took a drink when--right on Grove Street--a mouse asked him the
road to Hartford. The mouse was wearing bright red pants and vivid
yellow gloves--
But that was fifteen months after the Professor lost his rocket. We'd
better start over again.
* * * * *
Prxl is an asteroid. One of those despised celestial bodies which
terrestrial astronomers call vermin of the sky, because the darned
things leave trails across the plates that clutter up the more
important observations of novae and nebulae. Fifty thousand fleas on
the dark dog of night.
Tiny things, most of them. Astronomers have been discovering recently
that some of them come close to Earth. Amazingly close. There
was excitement in 1932 when Amor came within ten million miles;
astronomically, a mere mashie shot. Then Apollo cut that almost in
half, and in 1936 Adonis came within less than one and a half million
miles.
In 1937, Hermes, less than half a million but the astronomers got
really excited when they calculated its orbit and found that the little
mile-long asteroid _can_ come within a mere 220,000 miles, closer than
Earth's own moon.
Some day they may be still more excited, if and when they spot the
3/8-mile asteroid Prxl, that obstacle of space, making a transit across
the moon and discover that it frequently comes within a mere hundred
thousand miles of our rapidly whirling world.
Only in event of a transit will they ever discover it, though, for
Prxl does not reflect light. It hasn't, anyway, for several million
years since its inhabitants coated it with a black, light-absorbing
pigment derived from its interior. Monumental task, painting a world,
for creatures half an inch tall. But worth it, at the time. When they'd
shifted its orbit, they were safe from their enemies. There were giants
in those days--eight-inch tall marauding pirates from Diemos. Got to
Earth a couple of times too, before they faded out of the picture.
Pleasant little giants who killed because they enjoyed it. Records
in now-buried cities on Diemos might explain what happened to the
dinosaurs. And why the promising Cro-Magnons disappeared at the height
of their promise only a cosmic few minutes after the dinosaurs went
west.
But Prxl survived. Tiny world no longer reflecting the sun's rays, lost
to the cosmic killers when its orbit was shifted.
Prxl. Still civilized, with a civilization millions of years old.
Its coat of blackness preserved and renewed regularly, more through
tradition than fear of enemies in these later degenerate days. Mighty
but stagnant civilization, standing still on a world that whizzes like
a bullet.
And Mitkey Mouse.
* * * * *
Klarloth, head scientist of a race of scientists, tapped his assistant
Bemj on what would have been Bemj's shoulder if he had had one. "Look,"
he said, "what approaches Prxl. Obviously artificial propulsion."
Bemj looked into the wall-plate and then directed a thought-wave at the
mechanism that jumped the magnification of a thousand-fold through an
alteration of the electronic field.
The image leaped, blurred, then steadied. "Fabricated," said Bemj.
"Extremely crude, I must say. Primitive explosive-powered rocket. Wait,
I'll check where it came from."
He took the readings from the dials about the viewplate, and hurled
them as thoughts against the psychocoil of the computer, then waited
while that most complicated of machines digested all the factors and
prepared the answer. Then, eagerly, he slid his mind into rapport with
its projector. Klarloth likewise listened in to the silent broadcast.
Exact point on Earth and exact time of departure. Untranslatable
expression of curve of trajectory, and point on that curve where
deflected by gravitational pull of Prxl. The destination--or rather
the original intended destination--of the rocket was obvious, Earth's
moon. Time and place of arrival on Prxl if present course of rocket was
unchanged.
"Earth," said Klarloth meditatively. "They were a long way from rocket
travel the last time we checked them. Some sort of a crusade, or battle
of beliefs, going on, wasn't there?"
Bemj nodded. "Catapults. Bows and arrows. They've taken a long stride
since, even if this is only an early experimental thing of a rocket.
Shall we destroy it before it gets here?"
Klarloth shook his head thoughtfully. "Let's look it over. May save us
a trip to Earth; we can judge their present state of development pretty
well from the rocket itself."
"But then we'll have to--"
"Of course. Call the Station. Tell them to train their
attracto-repulsors on it and to swing it into a temporary orbit until
they prepare a landing-cradle. And not forget to damp out the explosive
before they bring it down."
"Temporary force-field around point of landing--in case?"
"Naturally."
So despite the almost complete absence of atmosphere in which the vanes
could have functioned, the rocket came down safely and so softly that
Mitkey, in the dark compartment, knew only that the awful noise had
stopped.
Mitkey felt better. He ate some more of the cheese with which the
compartment was liberally provided. Then he resumed trying to gnaw a
hole in the inch-thick wood with which the compartment was lined. That
wooden lining was a kind thought of the Herr Professor for Mitkey's
mental well-being. He knew that trying to gnaw his way out would give
Mitkey something to do en route which would keep him from getting the
screaming meamies. The idea had worked; being busy, Mitkey hadn't
suffered mentally from his dark confinement. And now that things were
quiet, he chewed away more industriously and more happily than ever,
sublimely unaware that when he got through the wood, he'd find only
metal which he couldn't chew. But better people than Mitkey have found
things they couldn't chew.
Meanwhile, Klarloth and Bemj and several thousand other Prxlians
stood gazing up at the huge rocket which, even lying on its side,
towered high over their heads. Some of the younger ones, forgetting
the invisible field of force, walked too close and came back, ruefully
rubbing bumped heads.
Klarloth himself was at the psychograph.
"There _is_ life inside the rocket," he told Bemj. "But the impressions
are confused. One creature, but I cannot follow its thought processes.
At the moment it seems to be doing something with its teeth."
"It could not be an Earthling, one of the dominant race. One of them is
much larger than this huge rocket. Gigantic creatures. Perhaps, unable
to construct a rocket large enough to hold one of themselves, they sent
an experimental creature, such as our wooraths."
"I believe you've guessed right, Bemj. Well, when we have explored its
mind thoroughly, we may still learn enough to save us a check-up trip
to Earth. I am going to open the door."
"But air--creatures of Earth would need a heavy, almost a dense
atmosphere. It could not live."
"We retain the force-field, of course. It will keep the air in.
Obviously there is a source of supply of air within the rocket or the
creature would not have survived the trip."
Klarloth operated controls, and the force-field itself put forth
invisible pseudo-pods and turned the outer screw-door, then reached
within and unlatched the inner door to the compartment itself.
* * * * *
All Prxl watched breathlessly as a monstrous gray head pushed out of
the huge aperture yawning overhead. Thick whiskers, each as long as the
body of a Prxlian--
Mitkey jumped down, and took a forward step that bumped his black
nose hard--into something that wasn't there. He squeaked, and jumped
backwards against the rocket.
There was disgust in Bemj's face as he looked up at the monster.
"Obviously much less intelligent than a woorath. Might just as well
turn on the ray."
"Not at all," interrupted Klarloth. "You forget certain very obvious
facts. The creature is unintelligent, of course, but the subconscious
of every animal holds in itself every memory, every impression, every
sense-image, to which it has ever been subjected. If this creature
has ever heard the speech of the Earthlings, or seen any of their
works--besides this rocket--every word and every picture is indellibly
graven. You see now what I mean?"
"Naturally. How stupid of me, Klarloth. Well, one thing is obvious from
the rocket itself: we have nothing to fear from the science of Earth
for at least a few millenia. So there is no hurry, which is fortunate.
For to send back the creature's memory to the time of its birth, and to
follow each sensory impression in the psychograph will require--well, a
time at least equivalent to the age of the creature, whatever that is,
plus the time necessary for us to interpret and assimilate each."
"But that will not be necessary, Bemj."
"No? Oh, you mean the X-19 waves?"
"Exactly. Focused upon this creature's brain-center, they can, without
disturbing his memories, be so delicately adjusted as to increase his
intelligence--now probably about .0001 in the scale--to the point
where he is a reasoning creature. Almost automatically, during the
process, he will assimilate his own memories, and understand them just
as he would if he had been intelligent at the time he received those
impressions.
"See, Bemj? He will automatically sort out irrelevant data, and will be
able to answer our questions."
"But would you make him as intelligent as--?"
"As we? No, the X-19 waves would not work so far. I would say to
about .2 on the scale. That, judging from the rocket coupled with what
we remember of Earthlings from our last trip there, is about their
present place on the intelligence scale."
"Ummm, yes. At that level, he would comprehend his experiences on Earth
just sufficiently that he would not be dangerous to us, too. Equal to
an intelligent Earthling. Just about right for our purpose. Then, shall
we teach him our language?"
"Wait," said Klarloth. He studied the psychograph closely for a while.
"No, I do not think so. He will have a language of his own. I see in
his subconscious, memories of many long conversations. Strangely, they
all seem to be monologues by one person. But he will have a language--a
simple one. It would take him a long time, even under treatment, to
grasp the concepts of our own method of communication. But we can learn
his, while he is under the X-19 machine, in a few minutes."
"Does he understand, now, any of that language?"
Klarloth studied the psychograph again. "No, I do not believe he--Wait,
there is one word that seems to mean something to him. The word
'Mitkey.' It seems to be his name, and I believe that, from hearing it
many times, he vaguely associates it with himself."
"And quarters for him--with air-locks and such?"
"Of course. Order them built."
V
To say it was a strange experience for Mitkey is understatement.
Knowledge is a strange thing, even when it is acquired gradually. To
have it thrust upon one--
And there were little things that had to be straightened out. Like the
matter of vocal chords. His weren't adapted to the language he now
found he knew. Bemj fixed that; you would hardly call it an operation
because Mitkey--even with his new awareness--didn't know what was going
on, and he was wide awake at the time. And they didn't explain to
Mitkey about the J-dimension with which one can get at the inwardness
of things without penetrating the outside.
They figured things like that weren't in Mitkey's line, and anyway they
were more interested in learning from him than teaching him. Bemj and
Klarloth, and a dozen others deemed worthy of the privilege. If one of
them wasn't talking to him, another was.
Their questioning helped his own growing understanding. He would not,
usually, know that he knew the answer to a question until it was asked.
Then he'd piece together, without knowing just how he did it (any more
than you or I know _how_ we know things) and give them the answer.