Native Tongue (18 page)

“Thomas, I told you. Severe pain—abdomen and legs. Vomiting that just goes on and on.”

“We have painkillers in the house; give her some. We have drugs to stop the vomiting, give her those. If she’s no better in the morning, by all means take her to the doctor.”

Rachel drew a long breath, and clasped her hands behind her back. He knew what that meant; it meant that she had started to set her arms akimbo and her hands on her hips and then thought better of it.

“Thomas,” she said, “Nazareth has to be at the International Labor Office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. She’s interpreter for the new labor treaty negotiations on seldron. And that treaty’s crucial . . . seldron imports are down 39 percent from last year, and there’s no other source. Do you know what the situation would be in the comset industry if we lost our seldron trade contract over a labor dispute? And are you aware of the credits this Household has tied up in seldron stocks?”

“What backup has she got?” Thomas demanded, alert now—this changed things a great deal, as Rachel knew very well. It was typical of her to take fifteen minutes getting to the point, typical and infuriating. “Who’s available?”

“There’s no one to take over for her. The only other native speaker of REM34 we have is four years old—not nearly old enough. Aquina Chronyak does informal backup, but she’s not fluent; she couldn’t handle even trivial negotiations, and these aren’t trivial. And besides that, she’s booked.”

“This is a definite oversight,” said Thomas coldly. “We can’t have this sort of thing.”

Rachel sighed. “Thomas,” she said, staring at his chest. “I have told you again and again. We can only spread the language coverage just so far. Even if every one of us knew fifty languages with flawless native skill, we couldn’t be in more than one place at a time. And we women cannot produce children any faster, or in any greater quantity, than we are doing already—if you have complaints, you men might turn your attention to that problem.”

Thomas was suddenly very much aware that he and Rachel had been standing there in the middle of the house wrangling for a good five minutes, and that the wrangle was on the verge of escalating into a scene. The quiet that surrounded them told him careful attention was being paid to their every word, and he
cursed himself silently for not taking Rachel straight to their room the moment he saw that she was upset—heaven knew he should have sense enough by now to know that was required.

“Rachel,” he said quickly, “you’re very tired.”

“Yes, I am. And very worried.”

He took her by one elbow and began moving her firmly down the stairs toward a decent privacy, talking calmly as they went. “I don’t think that either the fatigue or your worry is the result of one child who’s either eaten something she shouldn’t have or has some minor vi-bug bothering her. And I also do not think that it comes from your own work—as I recall, you’ve had only three days’ interpreting in the past five. I think you’ve been wearing yourself out with that nonsense at Barren House.”

He felt her stiffen, and he kept her moving right along.

“I mean what I say, now,” he continued. “I understand that you women have a good time—” he paused to usher her through a door and close it behind them “—playing with your language. For the women at Barren House who have no family responsibilities I think it makes an excellent hobby. It’s perfectly reasonable that women would want an artificial language of their own for a pastime, and I’ve never tried to keep you from participating. But you, Rachel, cannot really
spare
time right now for a hobby, no matter how fashionable. And I won’t have you wearing yourself out at Langlish meetings and coming home so badtempered and nervous that it’s impossible to get along with you. Is that clear, Rachel?”

“Yes, Thomas. It’s clear.” The lines bit deep in her face, and she was so taut that if he’d touched her she would have quivered like a bowstring. He ignored that, as was suitable.

“Now, I am not concerned personally about this illness of Nazareth’s,” he went on. “She gets excellent medical care. Whatever this is, I’m sure you’ve blown it up completely out of proportion. But I
am
concerned—very concerned—about the negotiations at the ILO. And I expect Nazareth to be there, and to be in a condition that allows her to carry on her duties with her usual efficiency. For that reason, Rachel, and for that reason only, I’m willing to compromise.”

“In what way?”

“I’ll authorize a contact with the hospital’s Emergency Room computers, to be paid from Household accounts because it’s a business expense—you needn’t put it on the women’s medical accounts. If the ER-comps think a doctor is necessary, I’ll authorize that as well—but not a house call. You can take her
to
the doctors, if that actually appears to be necessary.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Rachel would have turned to leave him then, but he reached out and stopped her, feeling the jerk of her shoulder under his hand with annoyance. Too tightly strung, much too wound up . . . one more thing for him to see to if he could ever get a moment’s spare time.

“Rachel,” he said sternly, “I don’t want any repetition of this.”

“Thomas—”

“I suggest you make a few entries, Rachel. Nazareth is to go to bed one hour earlier; if that crowds her schedule, she’ll just have to give up her evening freetime. I want her diet run through the computers in complete detail, and anything at all that isn’t being provided in proper amounts I want straightened out. I don’t want her allowed to skip any of the manual labor sessions—and I’d add swimming. See that she does twenty laps daily, unless you have permission from me for her to skip them. And don’t come asking me to excuse her because she’s having menstrual cramps, I won’t have that sort of foolishness. Increase the vitamins she’s getting, and if—as I expect—no doctor is needed tonight, you get her in for a complete checkup just as soon as she’s free tomorrow.”

“Before or after she swims the twenty laps, Thomas?”

If Thomas had been many husbands, he would have slapped her face, then. She knew that; and she stood before him as insolent as he’d ever seen her, holding her head tilted and ready to his hand, inviting the blow.

“Get to your daughter,” he said quietly. “I am disgusted with you.”

She went away without a word, leaving him with his heart pounding in his ears, taking slow deep breaths to calm himself. Thank God those last few sentences had been spoken in this room, and not as an entertainment for the Household. And he was quite preprared for the polite knock at the door that came almost immediately—that would be his brother Adam, come to presume on being only two years Thomas’ junior and offer him advice.

“Yes, Adam?”

“She’s a bit above herself, Tom.”

“Penetrating observation on your part.”

“Now, Thomas . . . sarcasm isn’t going to improve the situation.”

Thomas waited. You never had to wait long with Adam, who loved the sound of his own voice.

“I’m not sure I’d be either willing or able to tolerate such behavior from a woman.” Adam said judiciously. “And I’m not sure it’s a good idea, although your patience is admirable. You either keep a woman under tight rein, or she gets beyond you, and then it’s Barren House time. Not that I mean to tell you what to do, of course, Thomas.”

“My apologies for the commotion,” Thomas said. “Sorry it disturbed you.”

“Oh, well.” Adam shrugged, being magnanimous. “You know how women are when they’ve got a sick kid . . . they lose what little sense they started with. Rachel’s been roaring around here for the past hour as if Nazareth was on the point of death . . . she’s worn herself out. I hope you’ve put an end to her hysterics, Thomas—that would let us all get some sleep.”

Thomas nodded, keeping himself on the tight rein that Adam was recommending for the females. Ignoring the implication that because he couldn’t keep his wife in order the entire Household was being disturbed and kept from its rest. As though every bedroom in this house were not completely soundproof . . . Rachel could have played a fife and drum up and down the halls, and not one soul would have had his sleep disturbed.

He knew what was behind Adam’s behavior, and why Adam could never let an opportunity like this pass. It was not because he was an interfering pest, poor sod—it was because he was afflicted with a wife so vindictive and so melodramatic that no one could tolerate her company, and he had absolutely no control over her at all except the law. Which left him with an irresistible drive to control other men’s women, just to prove that he did know how it was done. His control of numbers was not sufficient consolation for the way that Gillian humiliated him at every turn.

“Come take a look at something I stumbled over today, Thomas,” the man was saying. “Have a glass of wine with me . . . get your mind off the fool woman.”

“Thanks, Adam, I appreciate it, but I can’t spare the time. I was behind before I got here, and now I’ll be half the night catching up.”

“You’re sure? Hell . . . ten minutes, one glass of wine . . . it’d do you good, Tom.”

He shook his head firmly, and Adam gave it up and wandered off to hunt somebody else who’d help him stave off the inevitable confrontation with sweet Gillian. She’d be at him for hours about the unfavorable contrast between the courtesy Thomas showed Rachel and the discourtesy Adam showed
her
, blah blah shrieking blah. Poor Adam; he was a good man, steady and
reliable, but somewhere along the line he’d missed out on the essential ingredient for managing a woman: never, never for an instant, lose track of the knowledge that when you interact with a woman you interact with an organism that is essentially just a rather sophisticated child suffering from delusions of grandeur. Adam kept forgetting that, when Gillian went at him; he kept dealing with her as if she were a man, with a man’s rational mind and skills. Thomas didn’t think Gillian would be under the roof of his house much longer.

And then, because he at last had solitude, and silence, and peace, he put his brother’s domestic difficulties out of his mind along with his own very different ones and went to his office. He sat down at the comset and waited, with his eyes closed, until the appearance of composure had been replaced by the real thing. And before he turned his attention to the stack of contracts in his computer awaiting his review, he saw to one last chore.

“I realize it’s late,” he told the young man with the fretful face who answered his call to the ILO section chief’s residence. “And I am aware that calling your chief at home is not usual procedure.” And he smiled. “Would you get him for me, please, young man?”

The screen flickered; there was a brief pause; and then the face of the ILO chief appeared, a bit fuzzier than Thomas approved of when he had to use it as a data source. Rachel must have the Emergency Room computers locked in; that always meant transmission interference.

“Donald,” he said, fuzzy image or not, since it wasn’t going to get any better, “sorry to bother you at home.”

“Quite all right, Thomas,” said the other man, his face twisted diagonally across the screen. “What’s the problem?”

“You’ve got the delegation at eight tomorrow for those seldron labor dispute meetings, I understand, and one of my offspring’s handling the interpreting.”

“Fortunately,” said the image. “Last time they were here we had to make do with PanSig and somebody who couldn’t do much more than say howdeedo . . . some smartass from D.A.T. It wasn’t very successful. It was in fact damn near a disaster. I don’t want to hear, Thomas, that we’re up against that again tomorrow. Those Jeelods aren’t going to give us many more chances on this, they’re really furious. I don’t know exactly what kind of idiot misunderstanding is responsible this time, but I know we need somebody who really knows the language.”

“Well,” said Thomas, “we’ll do the best we can, of course.
But the youngster we’re sending you has come down with something suddenly—she’s not at all well.”

“Oh, God. That’s all we need. Thomas . . .”

“Now, I didn’t say she wouldn’t be there,” said Thomas. Remember, federal man, he was thinking, and remember good—without us you don’t do anything much. “I felt you should be warned that there is that possibility, just as a matter of professional courtesy. The doctor’s with her now.” A minor, but useful, modification of the facts.

“The doctor?” Donald Cregg was of course aware of what a medical house call, especially at night, meant. Even through the blur and the sputter, Thomas could see the worry on his face. “It’s serious, then.”

“Maybe not. You know how young girls are. Every twinge, they think they’re dying. It may be nothing at all. Nevertheless—just on the off-chance—I called to let you know you may be without an intrepreter tomorrow morning.”

“Damn it!”

“You could call D.A.T.,” Thomas needled him. “They’ve really been putting their backs into the federal language courses, I understand.”

“Sure . . . sure, Thomas. Come on, man—who else have you got for REM34 if the kid can’t make it?”

“Nobody. That’s one hell of a language.”

“Aren’t you linguists always spouting off about no language being harder than any other language?” the image demanded.

“No human language is harder than any other human language,” said Thomas. “Quite right. But Alien languages are something else again. All of them are hard, and some of them are harder than others. REM34 happens to be one of the hardest. We’ve got some people here good enough to translate written materials, but nobody who can interpret.”