Native Tongue (2 page)

It was awkward, and Thomas briefly considered asking James Nathan to drop out; but they’d waked him up for this, and he hadn’t been happy about it. He’d been up all the previous night and well past breakfast time interpreting in one of the Third Colony crises of which there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply, and he’d been obviously exhausted. Now they had him awake, it would be less than tactful to suggest that he go back to bed, sorry to bother you but we thought we needed you at the time. . . . No. It wouldn’t do, and he let it pass. If he had to vote double, so be it; they’d all survive. And their meetings were always small at Chornyak Household lately, except for the Semi-Annuals that were on permanent schedule and for which everyone kept a free day on his calendar. The way the government was pushing into space these days, and every inch of the push to be negotiated with the whole apparatus of treaties and purchase agreements and establishment of formal relations, it was hard to find
any
linguist under the age of 60 with an hour to spare for household affairs.

He would settle for what he had, Thomas decided, and be grateful it wasn’t just himself and old Paul John and Aaron. They would have made a pitiful quorum, just the three of them at the table all by themselves. The table’s shape, the standard blunt-tipped A without a crossbar, was ideal for the Semi-Annuals; you could really pack the men in around it, and still have ample space for threedies and holograms in the solid area at the top of the A. But when you had only half a dozen, you either rattled around with each of you established at some arbitrary point to fill out the geometry or you huddled in a little knot at one end and felt dwarfed. Today they had opted for the rattling around. His father at his right hand, the comsets clear across the room out of the way of people’s heads, and the other four men laid out like the points of a compass. Silly ass procedure.

He got them through the first seven agenda items with dispatch, and no need for any tie-breaking. The one thing he’d been a little uncertain about, the contract for REM80-4-801, ran into no opposition at all. Sometimes there were advantages to a meeting with a substantial percentage of inexperienced junior participants. He’d had his arguments ready, just in case; but either none of the others saw the dangerous opening in subparagraph eleven or none of them cared enough about it to spend time arguing over it. The other items were routine . . . they went through the whole list in just over twelve minutes flat.

And now there was this last matter to be taken up. Cautiously. Thomas read it out for them, keeping his voice casual and adding no elaborations, and then he waited. As he’d expected, Aaron made a point of looking bored past all bearing; he had the Adiness Line’s skill with facial expression, plus the ease of long practice, and he managed to look excruciatingly uninterested.

“This matter is open for discussion,” Thomas said. “Comments?”

“Frankly, I don’t see any need for discussion,” observed Aaron at once. “We could have settled this whole thing by memo, to my way of thinking, and god knows I’ve better things to do with my time. As do we all, Thomas—I’m sure I’m not the only one strangling in federal deadlines.”

Thomas wasn’t ready to say anything yet; he raised his eyebrows just the precise fraction indicated, rubbed his chin gently with one hand, and waited some more—and Aaron spoke again.

“I’m willing to accept the fact that you had to add this to a formal agenda; you’ve convinced me of that,” he said. “And we’ve done it. It’s on there, a matter of record. For all the curious world to see and applaud. And that’s quite enough time wasted. I move we vote, and be done with it.”

“With no discussion at all?” Thomas asked mildly.

Aaron shrugged.

“What’s to discuss?”

That brought Paul John into it; he was old enough to find the arrogance of this particular son-in-law less than amusing, and too old to be impressed by either his brilliance with language or his astonishing good looks.

“You might find out, if you’d let somebody else talk,” said the old man. “Why don’t you try it and see?”

Thomas moved quickly, not interested in seeing Aaron and Paul John started on one of the sparring sessions they both took such delight in. That
would
be a waste of time. “Aaron,” he said, “this meeting is not entirely window-dressing.”

“No. We had to discuss those contracts. And vote on them.”

“Nor is this last item window-dressing,” Thomas insisted. “There is a reason, a very good reason that has nothing to do with just putting it on record, for us to give it our consideration. Because we do feel—and, I might add, we are obligated to feel—more than just a ceremonial regard for the woman in question.”

“And I would remind you that in purely economic terms the woman is fully entitled to that regard,” Kenneth put in from the far end of the table, right leg of the A. He was nervous, and he
hadn’t the skill to hide it in either voice or body-parl, but he was determined. “Nazareth Chornyak has borne nine healthy infants to this Line,” he said. “That’s nine Alien languages added to the assets of this Household. It’s not as if she were an untried girl.”

Thomas saw Aaron allow the barest sign of contempt, the most carefully measured flicker of disdain, to move over his face; then it was replaced with a false and cloying kindness that would also be attached to whatever he was about to say. It wasn’t a fair contest in any way; poor Kenneth, straight from the public and brought into Chornyak Household with the public’s bottomless ignorance of all linguistic skills . . . and Aaron William Adiness, son of Adiness Household, second only to the Chornyak Line in the linguist dynasties. Kenneth was a duck in a barrel, and Aaron enjoyed duck-shooting too much to let it pass.

“At times, Kenneth,” he said sympathetically, “it is overpoweringly obvious that you were not born a linguist. . . . You don’t learn, do you?”

Kenneth flushed, and Thomas felt sorry for him, but he didn’t interfere. In some ways Aaron was right—Kenneth didn’t learn. For example, he hadn’t yet learned that time spent playing Aaron’s little games was time spent feeding Aaron’s giant ego, and therefore time wasted. Kenneth fell for it, every time.

“It isn’t the woman,” Aaron said pleasantly, “who adds the Alien languages to the Household assets. It is the MAN. The
man
goes to the trouble of impregnating the woman—who is then coddled and waited upon and indulged sickeningly, to ensure the welfare of his child. To attribute any credit to the woman who plays the role of a receptacle is primitive romanticism, Kenneth, and entirely unscientific. Re-read your biology texts.”

RE-read. Presupposed, Kenneth had read them already and learned nothing from the experience. Neat. And typical of Aaron Adiness.

Kenneth sputtered, and flushed darker.

“Damn it, Aaron—”

Aaron went sailing on in the conversational stream; Kenneth was scarcely there at all, except as the recipient of his compassionate instruction. “And you would do well to remember that if it weren’t for the intervention of men only females could ever be born. The human race would degenerate into a species composed entirely of genetically inferior organisms. You might want to think that over, Kenneth. It might be well to keep those very basic facts in mind, as an antidote to . . . sentimental tendencies.”

And then he leaned back and blew a superb row of smoke
rings toward the ceiling, and he smiled and said, “Let us not confuse the pot with the potter, dear brother.”

At the other leg of the table, Jason chuckled in appreciation of the tired joke. Thomas was disappointed. Later he might have a few words to say to his son about cheering on the one who held the gun when the target was a duck sitting in a barrel. He was a good deal more satisfied with what happened next, when the reproof came from the comset screen where James Nathan’s face was wavering and flickering against the fluctuations of the household power mains.

“Damn all, Adiness,” said this other, more capable son, “the only reason we aren’t through with this and able to get to those deadlines you were so worried about five minutes ago—and the only reason
I
am not back in my bed, where I certainly ought to be—is because of your love affair with your mouth. None of us, and that includes Kenneth, who has my apology for your bad manners, needs an idiot recitation of information known to every normal human being by the age of three. Now I’m going to take it for granted that you’re through, Aaron . . . and I suggest you
be
through.”

Aaron nodded, all courtesy and aplomb, smiling easily, and Thomas knew he considered the rebuke well worth the pleasure he’d had toying with Kenneth, né Williams. Aaron had never considered Kenneth’s input of fresh genes sufficient justification for his presence. He’d opposed taking the fellow into the house as husband for Mary Sarah in the first place, and he’d made no secret of the fact that his opinion was unchanged, even after seven years. Kenneth, he was fond of remarking, was “positively girlish.” Not in Kenneth’s hearing, of course, but always where the insult would be sure to get back to his brother-in-law rather promptly.

“Nazareth is barren now,” said Jason, aware that he’d been the only one to laugh at Aaron’s quip and anxious to demonstrate that there was more to him than that. “She’s nearly forty years old, and she was no beauty even when she was young. What earthly need has she got for
breasts?
It’s absurd. It’s a non-issue. It wasn’t worth five minutes, much less a meeting. I agree with Aaron—I move we end this discussion, vote, and adjourn.”

“And do what? Let her die?”

Paul John cleared his throat, and the senior men looked politely at the ceiling. They were going to have to spend more time with Kenneth, that was obvious. Perhaps a few words to Mary Sarah . . .

“Christ, Kenneth, that’s a stupid thing to say!” That was
Jason, feeling his oats. “There’s plenty of money in the women’s Individual Medical Accounts to cover all the treatment Nazareth needs. Who said anything about letting her die? We don’t let women die, you moron—do you believe everything you read in the news about linguists?
Still?
”

Thomas sighed then, loud enough to be heard, and caught a sharp glance from Aaron. Aaron would be thinking that he was tired this morning. Tired, and—to the well trained eye—on a thin edge of strain. Aaron would be thinking it was high time Thomas stepped down and passed the running of this Household on to someone younger and more able, preferably Thomas Blair 2nd because Aaron knew he’d be able to push him around. Thomas smiled at Aaron, acknowledging the thought, and let his eyes speak for him—it’ll be many a long year yet before I turn chornyak Household over to anybody, you conceited bastard—and then he raised one hand to end the argument between Kenneth and Jason.

“See here—” Kenneth began, before Thomas cut him off.

“Linguists do not say ‘see here,’ Kenneth. Nor do they say ‘Look here’ or ‘Listen here’ or ‘Get this.’ Please try for a less biased manner of expression.” Thomas was a patient man, and he intended to keep trying with this stubborn and impetuous youngster. He’d seen far rougher diamonds in his time—and the four children Kenneth had sired for them so far were superb specimens.

Kenneth obviously didn’t understand what difference his choice of sensory predicates made here in the bowels of the great house, miles from any member of the public who might risk contamination from his flaws of phrasing, but he had learned manners enough to keep his opinions to himself. (He couldn’t keep it off his face, of course, but he didn’t know that, and they had no reason to tell him.) He nodded his apology, and started over.

“Perceive this,” he said carefully. “There is also plenty of money in the women’s IMAs to pay for the breast regeneration. I keep the accounts, remember? I’m in a position to know what there is and what there isn’t money for. It’s a piddling sum of money . . . only a cell or two to be implanted, and some rudimentary stimulation to initiate the regeneration of the glands.
That
is elementary biology—and elementary accounting! It’s about the price of a wrist computer, as a matter of fact, and we’ve bought forty of those this year. How do we explain that we’re unwilling to authorize that small a sum for the benefit of someone who’s been so efficient and so sturdy and so productive a ‘receptacle’? I’m well aware I wasn’t born a linguist—even
without Aaron’s constant reminders—but I am a member of this Household now, I am entitled to be heard, I am
not
ignorant, and I tell you that I am uncomfortable with this decision.”

“Kenneth,” said Thomas, and the kindness in his voice was genuine, “we value the compassion and the quality of empathy that you bring to us. I want you to know that. We sorely need such input. We spend so much of our time sharing the worldviews of beings who are not human that we are far too likely to become a little other than human ourselves. We need someone like you to remind us of that, from time to time.”

“Then, why—”

“Because whatever we can afford in the way of actual monies, actual total numbers of credits expended, we cannot afford to spend them on sentimental gestures. And I’m sorry if it distresses you, Kenneth, but that’s all it would be. We all regret that, but it remains true. The rule which says NO LINGUIST SPENDS ONE CENT THAT THE PUBLIC MIGHT VIEW AS CONSPICUOUS CONSUMPTION holds here, as it holds for every Household of the Lines, with absolute rigor.”

“But—”

“You know very well, Kenneth, because you come from the public—and unlike Aaron, I don’t consider that a deficit—you know that no member of the public would indulge a middle-aged and barren woman in the manner that you are proposing. Do you want us to be the Household responsible for another round of anti-linguist riots, son? For the sake of one foolish woman, already overindulged her whole life long and now making the usual feminine mountain out of a pair of thoroughly worn out mole hills? Surely you don’t want that, Kenneth, however sympathetic you may be toward Nazareth’s demands.”