"And then this so-called biological survey of yours," Kielland
continued, warming to his subject. "From a scientific man, it's a prize.
Anatomical description: limited because of absence of autopsy specimens.
Apparently have endoskeleton, but organization of the internal organs
remains obscure. Thought to be mammalianoid--there's a fence-sitter for
you--but can't be certain of this because no young have been observed,
nor any females in gestation. Extremely gregarious, curious, playful,
irresponsible, etc., etc., etc. Habitat under natural conditions:
uncertain. Diet: uncertain. Social organization: uncertain." Kielland
threw down the paper with a snort. "In short, the only thing we're
certain of is that they're here. Very helpful. Especially when every
dime we have in this project depends on our teaching them how to count
to three without help."
Dr. Tarnier spread his hands again. "Mr. Kielland, I'm a mere mortal. In
order to measure something, it has to stay the same long enough to get
it measured. In order to describe something, it has to hold still long
enough to be observed. In order to form a logical opinion of a
creature's mental capacity, it has to demonstrate some perceptible
mental capacity to start with. You can't get very far studying a
creature's habitat and social structure when most of its habitating goes
on under twenty feet of mud."
"How about the language?"
"We get by with squeaks and whistles and sign language. A sort of
pidgin-Venusian. They use a very complex system among themselves." The
doctor paused, uncertainly. "Anyway, it's hard to get too tough with the
Pups," he burst out finally. "They really seem to try hard--when they
can just manage to keep their minds to it."
"Just stupid, carefree, happy-go-lucky kids, eh?"
Dr. Tarnier shrugged.
"Go away," said Kielland in disgust, and turned back to the reports with
a sour taste in his mouth.
Later he called the Installation Comptroller. "What do you pay Mud-pups
for their work?" he wanted to know.
"Nothing," said the Comptroller.
"_Nothing!_"
"We have nothing they can use. What would you give them--United Nations
coin? They'd just try to eat it."
"How about something they _can_ eat, then?"
"Everything we feed them they throw right back up. Planetary
incompatibility."
"But there must be _something_ you can use for wages," Kielland
protested. "Something they want, something they'll work hard for."
"Well, they liked tobacco and pipes all right--but it interfered with
their oxygen storage so they couldn't dive. That ruled out tobacco and
pipes. They liked Turkish towels, too, but they spent all their time
parading up and down in them and slaying the ladies and wouldn't work at
all. That ruled out Turkish towels. They don't seem to care too much
whether they're paid or not, though--as long as we're decent to them.
They seem to like us, in a stupid sort of way."
"Just loving, affectionate, happy-go-lucky kids. I know. Go away."
Kielland growled and turned back to the reports ... except that there
weren't any more reports that he hadn't read a dozen times or more.
Nothing that made sense, nothing that offered a lead. Millions of Piper
dollars sunk into this project, and every one of them sitting there
blinking at him expectantly.
For the first time he wondered if there really _was_ any solution to the
problem. Stumbling blocks had been met and removed before--that was
Kielland's job, and he knew how to do it. But stupidity could be a
stumbling block that was all but insurmountable.
Yet he couldn't throw off the nagging conviction that something more
subtle than stupidity was involved....
Then Simpson came in, cursing and sputtering and bellowing for Louie.
Louie came, and Simpson started dictating a message for relay to the
transport ship. "Special order, rush, repeat, rush," Simpson grated.
"For immediate delivery Piper Venusian Installation--one Piper
Axis-Traction Dredge, previous specifications applicable--"