Native Tongue (14 page)

“It sounds like a hard life for the children,” Michaela said.

“It is. It’s purely awful. Like being born in the damnfool army.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he pulled fretfully at his covers until she’d rearranged them to his satisfaction.

“It doesn’t sound easy for the adults, either,” she added, when she had him settled.

“Oh, phooey. They’re used to it. Time they’ve done nothing but work all the time for twenty years, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they got the chance to live any other way. Phooey.”

* * *

Most of the time he got a little agitated over a sentence or two in every paragraph, but he was really enjoying himself tremendously. She watched, and she’d take his pulse if he began to look flushed, while he roared at the top of his lungs about interfering damnfool women and their interfering damnfool nonsense, but she decided very quickly that Sharon Verdi was quite right. The old man’s body was worn out, to such an extent that he couldn’t get around anymore or do much for himself; but inside the frail assortment of muscles and bones and wrinkled flesh he was, as she’d said, fit as a racehorse. She did not need to worry about Stephan Verdi.

Only once had she seen him become so excited that she’d had to interfere and insist on a sedative. That was the day he got started talking about the Anti-Linguist Riots of 2130, with people throwing rocks at the children and setting fire to the linguists’ houses . . . That was when the families had made the shift from living in individual homes like everyone else and had set up the communal Households, where there would be security in numbers. And had earth-sheltered every one of them, not only for economy’s sake but also as a defense measure. So that each could be a kind of fortress on very short notice.

Talking of that, shouting that the linguists sacrificed their whole lives so the rest of the universe could live fat and lazy and at their ease, and shouting about ingratitude that would make the devil puke . . . the old man began to cry, and Michaela knew how that shamed him. A man, crying. Once Head of this Household, and crying. She’d stopped him gently, and soothed him into taking a glass of wine and a sedative, and she’d sat there beside him till he fell asleep. And since then, at the first sign that he was about to take up the subject of the riots, she headed him off expertly into a safer topic.

“You’re a good child,” he’d say to her from time to time.

“I’m glad you’re pleased with me, sir.”

“You’re the best listener that I
ever
knew!”

“My husband always used to say that,” she said demurely.

“Well, he was right, by damn. Does a man good to have somebody like you that can pay attention when he talks!”

“Mmhmmm.”

In many ways Michaela was sorry she had to kill him. He was a nice old man. For a linguist.

Chapter Seven

Let us consider James X, a typical 14-month-old infant of the Lines. Here is his daily schedule, for your examination . . . this is an infant, remember. A baby . . .

Note that this extraordinary schedule guarantees that the infant will have extensive exposure each day to two Alien
languages, to the primary native language of the Household (which will be English, French or Swahili) and to sign language. But this is by no means all. Great care is taken to see that the adults directing the exercise sessions speak some different Earth language to the children—in James’ particular case that morning session involves Japanese and the afternoon Hopi. That is, James X must deal with daily language input in at least six distinct languages—and the answer to your inevitable question is no . . . this does not cause James X any difficulty. Initially there may be a brief period of confusion and minimal delay in language development; however, by the age of five or six he will have native speaker fluency in all those various tongues.

Weekends will differ from the schedule above very little; there may be some sort of family outing, or a visit to a pediatrician, and on Sunday there will be an amazingly lengthy time spent in Family Chapel. These are very busy babies indeed.

(from a briefing for junior staff,

Department of Analysis & Translation)

Andrew St. Syrus had the languid good looks characteristic of his family. Skin so fair that ten minutes in the sun meant a burn, and hair the color of good English wheat. And he had a beautiful mouth. Like all the St. Syrus men, he grew a full mustache above it to serve as a counterweight of masculinity. And he had learned, painstakingly, in daily sessions supervised by other St. Syrus men, the repertoire of male body language that no St. Syrus man could afford to dispense with. Thomas Chornyak, now, if he lounged a bit in his chair you saw only a sturdy male bulk lounging in a chair; if Andrew took the same posture he appeared to be draped over the chair for the elegance of the effect, and it was fatal. Andrew sat up straight, and he kept his shoulders square, and he made damn sure every unit of his body-parl had an unambiguous message like a drone string on a dulcimer . . . I AM VERY MALE. It was a nuisance, and the Household was searching for at least two husbands from outside the Lines who could offer a substantial contribution of genes best described as hulking.

He arrived at Chornyak Household before breakfast, refused anything but a cup of strong black coffee, and went straight to Thomas’ office to tell him about the kidnapping.

“My God, Andrew,” Thomas said at once, both hands gripping his desk. “Jesus . . . that’s awful.”

“It’s not pleasant.”

“You’re sure it’s a kidnapping? Not just a mixup . . . one of those cases you read about once in a while where some woman takes home the wrong baby?”

“They’d have one extra at the hospital, if it were that.”

Thomas made a face, and apologized.

“It was a stupid question,” he said. “I’m shocked stupid, I’m afraid. Forgive me.”

“It’s understandable.”

“Not really, Andrew—but go on.”

“They think it must have happened sometime between midnight and the four o’clock feeding . . . that’s when they noticed that the baby was gone. Somebody just waltzed up to the night nurse with a fake note saying they wanted the child for Evoked Potentials, and she handed it over like a sack of groceries.”

“How could that happen? A baby is
not
a sack of groceries!”

“Well,” sighed Andrew, “the nurse on duty had no reason to be suspicious. Someone’s always coming after babies from the Lines for neurological testing—you know that. The man was dressed like a doctor, he acted like a doctor, the note was scrawled like a doctor’s usual bad excuse for handwriting. she had no way of knowing. Hell . . . nobody argues with a doctor, Thomas—you can’t blame the woman.”

“She should have checked.”

“Thomas. She’s a nurse. A woman. What do you expect?”

“I expect competence. We expect competence in the women of the Lines, Andrew.”

St. Syrus shrugged, carefully.

“Well,” he said, “it’s done. Never mind blaming the nurse at this point—it changes nothing. It’s done.”

“I’m sorry, Andrew,” said Thomas.

“I know you are, and I appreciate it.”

Andrew got up and walked back and forth as he talked, his hands clasped behind him. “We felt that the worst possible thing would be publicity . . . Considering the way people feel about us, they’d probably give the kidnapper board and room instead of turning him in. So we exerted a little pressure in the necessary places, and we’ve been promised that those media buzzards won’t be allowed one word, not even an announcement.”

“I see.”

Andrew looked at him, narrowing his eyes, and said, “You know, Thomas, that’s odd. They must be short-staffed, or
confused, missing an opportunity to sic the pack on us and keep the public mind off their own shenanigans. This one is tailor-made for the bastards—I can’t figure out why they’re passing it up.”

“Andrew, when have the actions of our illustrious government ever made sense?”

“Not lately.”

“I rather expect they’re concerned that people might get nervous about hospital security measures . . . copycat crimes, that sort of thing.”

“I suppose. Whatever it is, thank God for it.”

“Right you are, my friend. And I will tighten the screws a bit from this end, just to make sure that their motivation doesn’t slip somebody’s mind on its way up through the chain of command.”

“I was hoping you’d offer to do that, Thomas.”

“Certainly, man! Of course. You can put that out of your mind, at least. And what else can I do?”

“I don’t think there
is
anything else to do.”

“That’s not likely. There’s almost always something else to do—you just haven’t had time to consider the matter. How about my pressuring the police as well as the press?”

“I think the police are doing all that can be done,” said the other man, sitting down again. “They’ve no reason not to. It’s all just a job to them, no matter whose baby is involved. And perhaps it will be all right. I mean, perhaps they’ll find the scum who did this before he has a chance to harm the child.”

“Not yours, is it?” asked Thomas, looking politely away from him.

“No, thank heaven, it’s not. But it’s my brother’s, and it would have been his first child. You can imagine how he feels.”

“Yes.”

“As for the woman . . .” St. Syrus spread his hands wide in a gesture of complete hopelessness and stared eloquently at the ceiling.

“The mother’s taken it badly, I suppose.”

“Oh, my God . . . You’ve never perceived anything quite like it. The
lungs
on that woman! I’m surprised you can’t hear her all the way here, frankly. When I left, they were sedating her so the rest of the family wouldn’t have to suffer with her caterwauling. And the other women are not a whole lot better, I’m sorry to say—especially since they are all fully aware of the Lines’ policy about ransoms.”

“It has to be that way,” said Thomas gently. “If there was the slightest chance that the linguists would pay ransoms, none
of our children, or our women, would be safe. We don’t have any choice.”

“I know that. The women know that. But it doesn’t keep them from carrying on world without end about it.”

“In my experience, Andrew, you’ve got to give them something to keep them busy. Not makework, mind you, but something that will really occupy them.”

“For instance? There are nineteen adult women under my roof, and nearly that many adolescent females . . . and a miscellaneous assortment of girl children. It would take something like the excavation of a sewer system to use every spare moment of a gaggle that size.”

“What about their damnfool Encoding Project? What about their church duties? What about their ordinary obligations, for God’s sakes? How can they have spare time?”

“Thomas,” said Andrew wearily, “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I simply do not have the kind of control you have.”

“You haven’t been Head very long . . . it will come.”

“Perhaps. But at the moment, my women claim they can’t keep their mind on their hobby, and they’re so angry at the Almighty that they’re not speaking to Him. And so on. Drivel, endless drivel.”

“Double their schedules, Andrew. Give them some stuff to translate that there hasn’t been time for. Hell, make them clean the house. Buy them fruit to make jelly out of, if your orchards and storerooms are bare. There’s got to be something you can do with them, or they will literally drive you crazy. Women out of control are a curse—and if you don’t put a stop to it, you’ll regret it bitterly later on.”

“I regret it bitterly
now
. But this is not the moment for me to institute reforms, Thomas. Not in the middle of this mess.”

“It’s a hell of a thing,” said Thomas.

“Yes. And then some.” Andrew sank down in the chair, caught himself and straightened up again, and lit a cigarette.

“You didn’t have any warning, I don’t suppose. No threats. No stuff written on your walls. Obscene letters.”