Analog SFF, April 2010 (15 page)

When Roger reached the counter, the Chuff in charge looked at him for a moment, and then the Chuff's eyes flickered just the way the sign had. Roger drew back. With its glowing eyes, the Chuff looked like something out of a horror movie. Then the Chuff's eyes went dark and after a few seconds he or she said something in a booming monotone. But the background noise was too high to hear anything distinctly. Roger wouldn't have thought speech was possible at all in that din. Setting down his luggage, Roger held forward his pass card and, hoping in Chuff it wasn't an obscene gesture or something, gave an “I don't understand” spread of the hands.

The Chuff took the pass card, inserted it into a reader, and then made what
was
an obscene gesture in Terran. Roger flushed, then forced a smile as he realized the gesture might just mean, “wait.” The Chuff looked away and upward, and following the gaze, Roger saw what looked like a ceiling mounted convex mirror. In it he saw the reflected image of the Chuff, whose eyes had begun to flash again.

Almost immediately, another Chuff, smaller and very energetic, ran up to Roger and handed him a book-sized package. There was writing on it—Terran writing—from Duncan. Ripping open the package, Roger found a note and a headset.
A Nrrilgan translator!
Quickly, he slipped the cushions over his ears and pulled down the microphone, turning on the unit. Abruptly, the horrendous background noise ceased—but not completely.
Noise-canceling earphones. Thank you, Duncan!
Now he heard only something like a single blurred tone, textured and rich with harmonics—like the constant drone of a bagpipe.
Duncan would like that—the dour Scot.
Roger estimated the range to be between a 98hz G and A or maybe A-sharp. Roger scrunched his nose in puzzlement and turned to Duncan's note for enlightenment. But as he began to unfold the paper, he was distracted by the Chuff pass card official.

"Are you going,” said the Chuff, “to visit the Big Building for Between the Stars Buying and Selling?"

"What?” said Roger, startled. “Um. Yes. I think so."

"Sweet!” The Chuff handed back Roger's pass card. “Have lots of fun on our nice planet!"

Roger, now able to communicate, had questions. But before he could frame one, the Chuff said, “Pretty please go ahead through the door to the big room where people wait—so the people behind you can get their turn."

"Yes, of course,” said Roger. “But do you know if Mr. Duncan Frye is here in the terminal? He's the Anglo-Terran trade commissioner and was going to—"

From behind, came a voice. “You are making everyone wait, poopyhead. Move!"

Poopyhead?
Roger stuffed the note in his jacket pocket, picked up his travel bag and bassoon case, and hurried forward toward the door.

Walking through into the waiting room, Roger saw seats that could accommodate Terrans. In one of them, Duncan lounged. As Roger approached, the man rolled languidly to his feet.

Roger saw Duncan move his lips. But from the earphones, he heard only a beep. He'd used Nrrilgan translators enough to know it meant Duncan wasn't speaking recognizable Chuff.
Damn!
Roger set down his luggage, then reached to his microphone boom and pushed it up, switching off the translator. He winced under the returning din.
Maybe if we shout, we can hear each other.

Duncan leaned forward and moved the microphone boom on Roger's headset halfway down. Roger sighed in relief as the gentle bagpipe drone returned.

"This way,” said Duncan, “the translator is off, but the noise canceling stays on.” He smiled. “So, Roger, my boy. Welcome to Choff—planet of perpetual noise.” He looked down at Roger's luggage. “Oh dear. You brought your bassoon."

Roger shrugged.

"Well, if you'd planned to serenade the Chuff,” said Duncan with some annoyance in his voice, “I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Their hearing range is very narrow—the only way they're able to survive with the full-spectrum thunder noise on this planet."

"Then I assume Chuff all sound the same,” said Roger, keen to impress with his deductive abilities. “All basses—no tenors, no sopranos."

"Exactly."

"How boring,” said Roger.

"Perhaps.” Duncan urged Roger toward the door. “But the Chuff are very civilized. They have taxicabs. I have one waiting.” He pointed upward.

Roger picked up his luggage and followed Duncan to a staircase with steps a little too far apart and high for human comfort.

"We're the guests of honor at an art show,” Duncan called over his shoulder. “And we must not be late.” He glanced up at the sky. “Not that you can tell, but it's already dawn."

"It looks like rain."

"It always looks like rain here,” said Duncan with a sigh, “at least in this region of the planet. Goes with the constant thunder, I suppose."

"I wonder how anything grows here without sunlight.” Then Duncan's words registered. “Dawn? Did you say there's an art show at
dawn?"

"The Chuff are a refined species.” Duncan nodded, as if to himself. “Even in the early morning,” he added softly, “unfortunately."

Roger laughed. “Refined? The Chuff on line behind me called me poopyhead."

"Yes. I've noticed that."

"Excuse me?"

"Not your head,” said Duncan with a chuckle. “I mean that the Nrrilgan translators convert Chuff into Terran . . . well, baby talk."

They clambered into the taxi. Duncan pulled down his microphone and gave directions to the driver, then raised it again and turned to Roger. “I'd almost think the Nrrilgan language team had a strange sense of humor. The translators for Chuff are, after all, only alpha-test units."

The cab rose smoothly into the air.

"Maybe it's an artifact,” said Roger. “ I mean the translators convert from Chuff to Nrrilgan, and then from Nrrilgan to English. A lot can happen."

"Haven't seen this in any of the other Nrrilgan language translators."

"Well, alpha-test or not,” said Roger, “the Nrrilgan are not noted for a sense of humor—especially about their translators.” He bit his lip. “Why baby talk, I wonder."

"Baby talk or kid talk.” Duncan shrugged. “Don't know why. You're the cultural liaison. You tell me."

Roger made a noncommittal grunt. Duncan had often made a point of telling him that cultural liaisons were only minimally useful in trade negotiations, and he didn't want to give the man a chance to tell him so again. He'd worked with Duncan before, and every time he had to prove himself anew.

Roger turned away and glanced out the window. “Big city."

"The capital,” said Duncan.

Roger nodded. It
did
look the work of a civilized culture: an abundance of what looked like parks, no mechanized surface transport—walkways rather than roadways. Yet it was bustling—clearly a center of commerce.

Roger glanced back at Duncan. “What do art shows have to do with negotiating a lutetium contract?"

"Well,” said Duncan, “it seems they won't trade with us unless they actually like us—are
simpatico
with us.” He threw a glance upward, toward the gray dreariness of the Choff sky. “Or unless we can convince them that there is some product of Earth that they absolutely can't live without.” He smiled, sweetly. “And, of course, that's why you are here."

"I guess we can't sell them music players, can we?"

"This is serious,” said Duncan.

Roger nodded. “Art show,” he said, more to himself than to Duncan. “I guess that makes sense. With their limited range of hearing, I'd assume the visual arts would play a disproportionately large part in their culture. Who knows? Maybe we could sell them art reproductions?"

"Who knows?"

As Roger and Duncan walked into the art reception, a Chuff ran up to them. “Hi, Duncan,” he said. “Oh, man, it's nice to see you again.” Then the Chuff turned to Roger. “Hi. My ear-name is Fwem. I'm the just-for-now explainer for how we Chuff do things."

Duncan made a momentary adjustment to Roger's microphone boom. “That means Acting Cultural liaison, as far as I can make out.” Duncan gave a tolerant smile. “Your counterpart."

Roger wondered how Duncan could tell the Chuff apart.
I guess diplomats have to be good at that kind of stuff.

"If you have questions,” said Fwem, “just ask me. I know stuff."

"Thank you. And my name's Roger."

"You can eat and drink,” said Fwem. “The cook says he thinks everything is safe for Terrans."

"I'm . . . I'm not very hungry,” said Roger.

"Okay,” said Fwem, turning away. “Well, bye-bye, then. Have fun."

Roger, following Fwem with his eyes, widened his gaze to take in the reception as a whole. The gathering looked like just about any haute culture reception on Earth—if that look was suitably blurred by alcohol. Unnatural looking people in unnatural looking clothes milled about, snagged hors d'oeuvres and drinks from passing trays, and occasionally looked at things hung on the walls.

As he wandered, Roger's attention was drawn to two Chuff glaring at each other, their eyes flashing. By their bearing, Roger could tell they were important personages. One of them caught Roger staring at him, and he stared back with flickering eyes. After a couple of seconds, he pointed to the other Chuff and said, “He started it. He said my review was stinky."

"No I didn't,” said the other.
"You
started it. You said my story was really dumb and yucky. You're just mean."

The first Chuff drew himself to his full height.
"You're
mean!” he said. “And you started it. Just because I loved that picture, you had to hate it."

"Liar!"

"Stinky face!"

Just then, a Chuff came by carrying a tray of finger food. “Eat some of these,” he said to the two angry Chuff. “They'll make your tummies happy."

Roger threw a “help me” glance to his boss halfway across the room. Duncan came over. “We're going to look at some of the pretty pictures,” he said, dragging Roger off toward a wall.

"They are a childlike people,” said Duncan.

"I wonder,” said Roger. “Can they really be childish and sophisticated at the same time?” He stared up at a painting that seemed to be just a featureless rectangle painted in some dull, uniform color.

"Apparently.” Duncan peered in at the painting. “Can you see
anything
in this painting?” he said with an all but imperceptible shake of his head. “Or for that matter, in any of the paintings?"

"I'm surmising the hues are mostly in the ultraviolet."

"Indeed,” said Duncan, coolly. “I wonder if that explains Terran modern art as well."

A Chuff meandered up to them. “Do you like this painting?” he asked.

"It's . . . interesting,” said Duncan.

"Yes,” said Roger. “Very . . . interesting."

"Oh, goody,” said the Chuff. “I'm happy you think so.” He wandered away.

"I wonder,” said Roger. “Are they really childlike, or is it just an artifact of the translators?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe we think of them as children because of the translator baby talk,” said Roger. “And maybe they think of us the same way for the same reason."

Duncan gave a mirthless chuckle. “An interstellar trade summit with toddlers doing the translations. God, I hope not."

Roger looked away at a Chuff. “Boy, I wish I knew what those flickering eyes were all about."

"The instructions with the translator say voice is the primary mode of information transfer and the eyes are the secondary method.” Duncan nodded across the room. “It looks as if the just-for-now explainer is coming our way—to explain something, perhaps."

"Good,” said Roger with a smile. “I could do with some explanations."

Fwem approached. “Because you are our important guests,” he said, “it is time for you to paint a picture now."

"Excuse me?” said Duncan.

The Chuff put one trisectioned arm closely around Duncan's shoulder and another around Roger's. “Come on.” He maneuvered the Terrans toward a large canvas, as featureless as were most of the others. A crowd awaited them. Another Chuff stepped forward and, with a show of ceremony, held forth a small, rectangular box, opened it, and presented Duncan with something like a thick artist's brush, but with sliders on it. Fwem sidled up and explained that the sliders controlled the brush-tip thickness, and selected the colors.

"Thank you,” said Duncan to the Chuff holding the box, “but my associate here is the artist.” He handed the brush to Roger.

"What? Me?” said Roger as Duncan forced the brush into his hand. “I haven't any idea how—"

"Paint!” said Duncan.

"Okay, okay.” Roger regarded the brush. One of the sliders clearly indicated hue. Next to that slider was a band of color starting at green and merging to blue and then dark blue. Most of the slider seemed to be black. “Must be ultraviolet,” said Roger. “This confirms it: most of their vision has to be in the UV.”
Well, that rules out our selling them vid-players.

Roger looked up. The Chuff were staring at him with expressions that seemed to be eager anticipation.

"Paint,” said Duncan, this time softly but with a sense of urgency.

"Why?"

"To understand us,” said Fwem, “you have to understand our—beep!"

Damn translators!
Roger smiled sweetly. “I should very much like to,” he said. Then he made a few pseudo-random movements of the sliders and, at the lower left corner of the screen, made a kid's simple drawing of a bunny rabbit in deep blue.

"Sweet!” said a Chuff.

"Pretty!” said another.

"Do more!” said yet another.

Roger exchanged a glance with Duncan and then, with a flourish and the brush set wide, he made a bold, diagonal blue gash of color across the canvas.

Gasps came from the assembled Chuff, and one of them said “Aw, man!"

Roger smiled to himself and raised his arm for another stroke of artistry. But before the brush contacted the canvas, Fwem grabbed his wrist.

"No!” cried Fwem. “You have made doo-doo on the painting of one of our best and most expensive picture-painters. Pretty please don't paint any more."

"What? Wait a minute. I didn't know.” Roger glanced to Duncan for moral support but didn't receive any. “I mean, I just thought—"