The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (89 page)

Deirut tensed, lifted the Borgen.

The natives ignored him to concentrate on the object in the one creature's hands.

“What's doing?” Deirut asked. He felt tense, uneasy. This wasn't going at all the way the books said it should.

The five straightened suddenly and without a backward look, returned to their steam wagon and climbed into the cab.

What test did I fail?
Deirut wondered.

Silence settled over the scene.

In the course of becoming a D-ship pilot, Deirut had gained fame for a certain pungency of speech. He paused a moment to practice some of his more famed selections, then took stock of his situation—standing here exposed at the foot of the ship while the unpredictable natives remained in their steam wagon. He clambered back through the port, sealed it, and jacked into the local computer outlet for a heart-to-heart conference.

“The buzzing item was likely a timepiece,” the computer said. “The creature in possession of it was approximately two millimeters taller than his tallest companion. There are indications this one is the leader of the group.”

“Leader schmeader,” Deirut said. “What's this toogayala they keep yelling?”

From long association with Deirut, the computer had adopted a response pattern to meet the rhetorical question or the question for which there obviously was no answer. “Tut, tut,” it said.

“You sound like my old Aunt Martha,” Deirut said. “They screamed that toogayala. It's obviously important.”

“When they noted your hand, that is when they raised their voices to the highest decibel level thus far recorded here,” the computer said.

“But why?”

“Possible answer,” the computer said. “You have five fingers.”

“Five,” Deirut said. “Five … five … five…”

“We detect only five heavenly bodies here,” the computer said. “You have noted that the skies are otherwise devoid of stars. The rapid companion is overhead right now, you know.”

“Five,” Deirut said.

“This planet,” the computer said, “the three hot gaseous and plasma bodies and the other companion to this planet's sun.”

Deirut looked at his hand, flexed the fingers.

“They may think you are a deity,” the computer said. “They have six fingers; you have five.”

“Empty skies except for three suns,” Deirut said.

“Do not forget this planet and the other companion,” the computer said;

Deirut thought about living on such a planet—no banks of stars across the heavens … all that hidden behind the enclosing hydrogen cloud.

He began to tremble unaccountably with an attack of the
push.

“What'll it take to fix the nose of the ship?” Deirut asked. He tried to still his trembling.

“A sophisticated machine shop and the work of electronics technicians of at least grade five. The repair data is available in my banks.”

“What're they doing in that machine?” Deirut demanded. “Why don't they talk?”

“Tut, tut,” the computer said.

Thirty-eight minutes later, the natives again emerged from their steam wagon, took up stations standing at the edge of the charred ground.

Deirut repeated his precautionary measures, went out to join them. He moved slowly, warily, the Borgen ready in his left hand.

The five awaited him this time without retreating. They appeared more relaxed, chattering in low voices among themselves, watching him with those stalked eyes. The word sounds remained pure gibberish to Deirut, but he had the lingua pack trained on them and knew the computer would have the language in a matter of time.

Deirut stopped about eight paces from the natives, said: “Glad to see you, boys. Have a nice nap in your car?”

The tallest one nodded, said: “What's doing?”

Deirut gaped, speechless.

A native on the left said: “Let's hope you have a good metal-working industry, friends. Otherwise, I'm going to be an extremely unhappy visitor.”

The tallest one said: “Glad to see you, boys. Have a nice nap in your car?”

“They're mimicking me!” Deirut gasped.

“Confirmed,” the computer said.

Deirut overcame an urge to laugh, said: “You're the crummiest looking herd of no-good animals I ever saw. It's a wonder your mothers could stand the sight of you.”

The tall native repeated it for him without an error.

“Reference to mothers cannot be accepted at this time,” the computer said. “Local propagation customs unknown. There are indications these may be part vegetable—part animal.”

“Oh, shut up,” Deirut said.

“Oh, shut up,” said a native on his left.

“Suggest silence on your part,” the computer said. “They are displaying signs of trying to break down your language. Better we get their language, reveal less of ourselves.”

Deirut saw the wisdom in it, spoke subvocally for the speaker in his throat: “You're so right.”

He clamped his lips into a thin line, stared at the natives. Silence dragged on and on.

Presently, the tall one said: “Augroop somilican.”

“Toogayala,” said the one on the left.

“Cardinal number,” the computer said. “Probable position five. Hold up your five fingers and say toogayala.”

Deirut obeyed.

“Toogayala, toogayala,” the natives agreed. One detached himself, went to the steam wagon and returned with a black metal figurine about half a meter tall, extended it toward Deirut.

Cautiously, Deirut moved forward, accepted the thing. It felt heavy and cold in his hand. It was a beautifully stylized figure of one of the natives, the eye stalks drooping into inverted U-shapes, mouth open.

Deirut brought out his contact kit, pressed it against the metal. The kit went “ping” as it took a sample.

The natives stared at him.

“Iron-magnesium-nickel alloy,” the computer said. “Figure achieved by casting. Approximate age of figure twenty-five million standard years.”

Deirut felt his throat go dry. He spoke subvocally: “That can't be!”

“Dating accurate to plus or minus six thousand years,” the computer said. “You will note the figures carved on the casting. The inverted U on the chest is probably the figure five. Beneath that is writing. Pattern too consistent for different interpretation.”

“Civilization for twenty-five million years,” Deirut said.

“Plus or minus six thousand years,” the computer said.

Again, Deirut felt a surge of the
push,
fought it down. He wanted to return to the crippled ship, flee this place in spite of the dangers. His knees shook.

The native who had given him the figurine, stepped forward, reclaimed it. “Toogayala,” the native said. It pointed to the inverted U on the figure and then to the symbol on its own chest.

“But they only have a steam engine,” Deirut protested.

“Very sophisticated steam engines,” the computer said. “Cannon is retractable, gyroscopically mounted, self-tracking.”

“They can fix the ship!” Deirut said.

“If they will,” the computer said.

The tall native stepped forward now, touched a finger to the lingua pack, said: “s'Chareecha” with a falling inflection. Deirut watched the hand carefully. It was six-fingered, definitely, the skin a mauve-blue. The fingers were horn-tipped and double-knuckled.

“Try ung-ung,” the computer suggested.

“Ung-ung,” Deirut said.

The tall one jumped backward and all five sent their eye stalks peering toward the sky. They set up an excited chattering among themselves in which Deirut caught several repeated sounds: “Yaubron … s'Chareecha … Autoga … Sreese-sreese…”

“We have an approximation for entry now,” the computer said. “The tall one is called Autoga. Address him by name.”

“Autoga,” Deirut said.

The tall one turned, tipped his eye stalks toward Deirut.

“Say
Ai-Yaubron ung sreese s'Chareecha,
” the computer said.

Deirut obeyed.

The natives faced each other, returned their attention to Deirut. Presently, they began grunting almost uncontrollably. Autoga sat down on the ground, pounded it with his hands, all the while keeping up the grunting.

“What the devil?” Deirut said.

“They're laughing,” the computer said. “Go sit beside Autoga.”

“On the ground?” Deirut asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it safe?”

“Of course.”

“Why're they laughing?”

“They're laughing at themselves. You tricked them, made them jump. This is definitely laughter.”

Hesitantly, Deirut moved to Autoga's side, sat down.

Autoga stopped grunting, put a hand on Deirut's shoulder, spoke to his companions. With a millisecond delay, the computer began translating: “This god-self-creation is a good Joe, boys. His accent is lousy, but he has a sense of humor.”

“Are you sure of that translation?” Deirut asked.

“Reasonably so,” the computer said. “Without greater morphological grounding, a cultural investigation in depth and series comparisons of vocal evolution, you get only a gross literal approximation, of course. We'll refine it while we go along. We're ready to put your subvocals through the lingua pack.”

“Let's talk,” Deirut said.

Out of the lingua pack on his chest came a series of sounds approximating “Ai-ing-eeya.”

Computer translation of Autoga's reply was: “That's a good idea. It's open sky.”

Deirut shook his head. It didn't sound right. Open sky?

“Sorry we damaged your vehicle,” Autoga said. “We thought you were one of our youths playing with danger.”

Deirut swallowed. “You thought my ship … you people can make ships of this kind?”

“Oh, we made a few about ten million
klurch
ago,” Autoga said.

“It was at least fifteen million
klurch,
” said the wrinkle-faced native on Deirut's left.

“Now, Choon, there you go exaggerating again,” Autoga said. He looked at Deirut. “You'll have to forgive Choon. He wants everything to be bigger, better and greater than it is.”

“What's a klurch?” Deirut asked.

The computer answered for his ears alone: “Probable answer—the local year, about one and one-third standards.”

“I'm glad you decided to be peaceful,” Deirut said.

The lingua pack rendered this into a variety of sounds and the natives stared at Deirut's chest.

“He is speaking from his chest,” Choon said.

Autoga looked up at the ship. “There are more of you?”

“Don't answer that,” the computer said. “Suggest the ship is a source of mystical powers.”

Deirut digested this, shook his head. Stupid computer! “These are sharp cookies,” he said speaking aloud.

“What a delightful arrangement of noises,” Autoga said. “Do it again.”

“You thought I was one of your youths,” Deirut said. “Now who do you think I am?”

The lingua pack remained silent. His ear speaker said: “Suggest that question not be asked.”

“Ask it!” Deirut said.

A gabble of sound came from the lingua pack.

“We debated that during the presence of s'Chareecha,” Autoga said. “We hid in the purple darkness, you understand, because we have no wish to seed under the influence of s'Chareecha. A majority among us decided you are the personification of our design for a deity. I dissented. My thought is that you are an unknown, although I grant you temporarily the majority title.”

Deirut wet his lips with his tongue.

“He has five fingers,” Choon said.

“This was the argument you used to convince Tura and Lecky,” Autoga said. “This argument still doesn't answer Spispi's objection that the five fingers could be the product of genetic manipulation or that plus amputation.”

“But the eyes,” Choon said. “Who could conceive of such eyes? Not in our wildest imaginations…”

“Perhaps you offend our visitor,” Autoga said. He glanced at Deirut, the stalked eyes bending outward quizzically.

“And the articulation of the legs and arms,” one of the other natives ventured.

“You're repeating old arguments, Tura,” Autoga said.

Deirut suddenly had a picture of himself as he must appear to these natives. Their eyes had obvious advantages over his. He had seen them look behind themselves without turning their heads. The double thumb arrangement looked useful. They must think one thumb an odd limitation. He began to chuckle.

“What is this noise?” Autoga asked.

“I'm laughing,” Deirut said.

“I will render that: ‘I'm laughing at myself,'” the computer said. Sounds issued from the lingua pack.

“A person who can laugh at himself has taken a major step toward the highest civilization,” Autoga said. “No offense intended.”

“The theories of Picheck that the concerted wish for a deity must produce same are here demonstrated,” Choon said. “It's not quite the shape of entity I had envisioned, however, but we…”

“Why don't we inquire?” Autoga asked and turned to Deirut. “Are you a deity?”

“I'm a mortal human being, nothing more,” Deirut said.

The lingua pack remained silent.

“Translate that!” Deirut blared.

The computer spoke for him alone: “The experience, training and memory banks available suggest that it would be safer for you to pose as a deity. Their natural awe would enable you to…”

“We're not going to fool these characters for five minutes,” Deirut said. “They've built spaceships. They have advanced electronic techniques. You heard their radio. They've had a civilization for more than twenty-five million years.” He paused. “Haven't they?”

“Definitely. The cast figure was an advanced form and technique.”