* * * * *
"Look, Mr. Kramer," I said, "there are scores of Indian languages.
Nobody in history, red man or white, could ever speak all of them.
Fortunately most Indians belonged to one of several great families,
and the language of each family was close enough for the tribes in
that family to understand each other. I can handle the language of the
Algonquin like a native, being part Potawatomi myself. I can get by in
the tongue of the Iroquois, the Caddoan, the Siouan, and the
Muskhogean. The Dene and Uto-Aztecan would give me considerable
trouble, while the Penutian would be just about a blank."
I stopped there, and shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't mean to turn this into
a lecture."
Kramer's weathered face stayed expressionless. "Are you familiar with
the customs of Indians of, say, two hundred years ago?"
"With their customs, clothing, religions, food, taboos, cultures,
weapons, or anything else you can think of."
Franklin McClave, the Secretary of War, cut in on us at this point. "I
think, Bob," he said to Kramer, "that Mr. Quinlan qualifies for the
job." His glance turned to me. "I'd like for you to meet a man waiting
in the next room, Quinlan. I want you to hear his story, talk to him,
ask him questions, then give us your opinion of the results. Do you
mind?"