Native Tongue (28 page)

When Lanky Pugh complained that he didn’t understand, Chornyak put it into words of one syllable for them. Say a human being sees the sun come up, and wants to express that perception to another human being. The shape he gives that expression, in sound or any other mode, is a lexicalization. Human beings can presumably either find a lexicalization or coin one for any human experience, or any humanoid experience. But whatever these children were perceiving and experiencing, they either had no lexicalizations available to them for those perceptions
and experiences, or they were using a mode of lexicalization that was literally impossible for human beings to recognize.

“Such as?” Dolbe had asked.

“Hell,
I
don’t know. How do you expect me to give you, in words, an example of a perception for which there
are
no words? I could give you a rather strained analogy.”

“Please do.”

“Say they were communicating quite normally in English, but made sounds at frequencies the human ear is incapable of hearing . . . that wouldn’t be precisely English, Dolbe, but let it go at that. Or say that whatever physical means they were employing to produce the words of American Sign Language were carried out at a speed so fast that the human eye was incapable of seeing it happen. That’s not
it
, Dolbe—it’s quite a different matter, because those would be approximately physiological problems—but perhaps it will serve as an analogy. The effects would presumably be the same.”

“It’s not a physiological problem, then. Or a technological one. There’s not some gadget we could build?”

“I don’t think so,” Chornyak had said. “I’m sorry.”

Dolbe had no intention of trying to explain that to Taylor Dorcas, not now, not ever. He very much doubted there was anything to it, anyway; the damned Lingoe godfather had been putting them on, he thought, or had just been carried away with the novelty of it all and spouting off the top of his head. But even if it was 100 percent correct, he intended to keep it strictly to himself and the three techs. He knew Chornyak wouldn’t be talking about it.

Showard, sentimental as always, even about tubies, had asked the linguist if there was anything at all they could do to help the kids.

“I know what I would do,” he’d answered. Without hesitation.

“What?”

“I’d just spread those kids around among as many native speakers of as many different Earth and Alien languages as could possibly be arranged.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Chornyak had said patiently, “it just might be possible that some language exists that does have lexicalizations these kids could make use of. Maybe not—but it’s conceivable. It’s probably the only thing there
is
to do.”

And he’d had the damn gall to offer to take the whole eleven with him, back to the linguist Households, and see what he could do!

“You are aware,” he’d said, “that we have the widest variety of native speakers of languages, both Terran and offworld, that exists anywhere. We’re equipped to try the strategy I suggested, on the children’s behalf. You’re not. I suggest you let us have them.”

The arrogance of the man . . . remembering, Dolbe felt his stomach churn. As if, just because business matters forced them to interact with the linguists, they would have turned innocent children over to them—even tubies! What did he think they were, anyway?

“No,” he repeated, watching Dorcas, “we have nothing to suggest. Give them the same care you’d give any children. Good food. Plenty of exercise, etc. Have them watch the mass-eds. Put them in Homeroom, come the proper age. Etc., etc. And see what happens. And if anything
does
happen, notify me at once.”

“All right, Dolbe, all right. If that’s all you know.”

“That’s all I know.”

“Arnold?”

“What?”

“Are the kids unhappy?”

“Do they look unhappy?”

“No . . . they don’t look anything at all.”

“Well, then. Why borrow trouble? May I have them taken up to the roof, now?”

“Sure. Go ahead . . . we’ve both got other things to do.”

Dolbe called his minions to gather up the silent children and cart them back out again. As a concession to Taylor Dorcas, who’d been very civilized about it all, considering, he was careful to send the minions down back halls and direct them to isolated elevators. He could afford to be magnanimous, now. Now that he was getting the eerie little monsters off his hands at last.

Michaela Landry had shown a decent sorrow, shed a decent tear or two, when Great-grandfather Verdi went a tad prematurely to his heavenly reward. Next she had picked off an aged and decrepit uncle at Belview Household, where it had been a little more risky because there were only a few dozen people instead of the average hundred that lived in a Lingoe den. She had felt obliged after that to wait out the natural death of another old man, at Hashihawa Household, in order to avoid suspicion.

And now she was job hunting again, armed with references from three different Lines. The position they’d contacted her about, at Chornyak Household, sounded like a murderer’s most
beloved fantasy. Forty-three linguist women, all under one roof, and without any men to guard them! Where she could take them one at a time, with great care! Michaela felt this might be a project to fill all the rest of her years . . . after all, every one of those women was expected to die sooner or later, and in many cases sooner. She could make a leisurely life’s work out of them, and perhaps grow old there herself, without ever having to search for another place.

The description given to her by the State Supervisor of Nurses had been short and to the point.

“This Barren House place has only female residents, and only twenty-three in need of nursing. None, as I understand it, requires anything elaborate. The patients are old and can’t tend to themselves adequately. And they have the usual list of problems that old ladies are so fond of—arthritis, diabetes, migraines, that kind of thing. But nobody is really ill. Until now the other women in the place have apparently shared the nursing duties among them, but the employer says that there have come to be so many patients that they can’t manage that way any longer. Which is not surprising, in view of the fact that all of them are Lingoes, and not proper women at all.”

He had looked at her suspiciously, since she seemed to have an unusual tolerance for patients from the Lines; but she’d made him a brief speech detailing the revulsion she felt for linguists that had set his mind at rest.

“I understand your feelings, Mrs. Landry,” he’d said approvingly. “I might say I share them. But why the devil do you keep taking nursing jobs with them, feeling like you do?”

“Because they pay extremely well, sir,” she said. “I’m getting some of the people’s money back, Supervisor.”

He clucked approvingly and reached over to pat her knee, the slimy old pervert, and went on to tell her the usual details about her living quarters and her salary and her days off.

“Are you sure you’re interested?” he asked, when he got to the end of his spiel. “I’m not certain this job qualifies for your campaign to get back some of the ill-gotten gains from these parasites . . . 200 credits a month plus room and board? That’s not really very much, to look after 23 women . . . although there
is
the fact that none of them are very sick. How do you feel about it?”

Michaela cocked her head coyly, and let the lovely corners of her mouth curl for him. Her thick lashes came down, rose, fell again, and she looked at him from under their fringes.

“I will only be
starting
at that salary, Supervisor,” she said sweetly.

He grinned at her.

“Saucy little piece, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

This time he didn’t just pat her knee, his hand slid a good two inches up her thigh. Michaela managed to move away from him, but she did it in such a way that he was able to believe she had enjoyed his touch and given it up only out of modesty, and he looked absurdly pleased with himself.

“Opportunity for advancement there, eh?” he asked her, the silly grin still on his silly face. His silly flushed face.

“Oh yes, Supervisor. I’m sure there is.”

“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing . . . a woman of experience like you.”

“I rather expect I do, Supervisor.” She looked at him sideways, and caught her breath just a little. “And
you
know a woman of experience when you see one, don’t you, sir?”

“Oh, I’ve been around, Mrs. Landry!” he snickered. “You bet your sweet little . . . toes . . . I’ve been around!
Oh
yes, little Widow Landry, I certainly have!”

He hadn’t been. She could tell by looking at him. If he’d taken a woman to bed more than three times in his whole life, she was a Senator. Thirty-five if he was a day, and she’d wager she knew how he spent his time. He’d have three inflatables at home, carefully rolled up in their waterproof cases: one blonde, one brunette, one redhead. And she’d bet one of them had his mother’s face painted on her. Only a man of his type would even consider spending a lifetime supervising women.
Nurses
.

“Oh, and Mrs. Landry . . .”

“Sir?”

“I thought it might interest you to know that Thomas Blair Chornyak asked for you specifically. That is, the Lingoe who called on his behalf did. It seems that he recognized your name on the job-wanted notice . . . claims to have seen you once, as a matter of fact.”

“Really?” Michaela was astonished. “Where could he have seen me, Supervisor?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sugar. Perhaps he was visiting one of the places where you’ve been working.”

“Perhaps . . . but you’d think I’d remember.”

She would have. The top linguist of all linguists? The most responsible of all linguists, and the pinnacle of prey for her? She would not have forgotten.

But the Supervisor didn’t see it that way.

“Why on earth would you remember?” he chided her. “What conceivable reasons would your employers have had for telling you he was there? Goodness . . . let’s remember our position in life, shall we? Thomas Blair Chornyak, may he rot in hell and all his relatives with him, is a
very
important man.”

“Yes, Supervisor,” said Michaela, blushing skillfully and allowing a small tear of dismay to appear at the corner of one eye. Which earned her a good deal more patting and exploring, in the guise of comforting the poor little thing. She hoped
he
would rot in hell, and was only sorry she wouldn’t have an opportunity to help him on his way. But she kept the expression of vapid awe on her face, and used her eyelashes to good effect, until he was sufficiently agitated so that he had to let her alone or risk making some move that would be genuinely indiscreet.

Breathing hard, the supervisor moved away from her and fussed with a stack of papers on his desk, while Michaela watched him and waited. She was accustomed to wasting her time while men dawdled; her training at the Marital Academy had included the most detailed instruction in that so essential womanly skill. And finally, he told her that everything was in order and wished her good luck.

“And if you should ever need me . . .” he finished, giving her what he no doubt thought was a significant look.

That would be the day. If she ever needed him, she would kill
her
self.

“Thank you, Supervisor,” said Michaela. “You’ve been so very kind. I’ll go now, and leave you to your work.”

He gave her permission to leave, and she thanked him again. And as she passed him on her way to the door, the appointment card for her interview at Chornyak Household safely in her pocket, she gave a slow and luxurious roll of her handsome hips in his direction.

With any luck at all, she’d have made him wet his pants.

Chapter Fifteen

The decision to marry a woman who has been properly trained for wifery need not be cold-bloodedly commercial. True . . . the procedure of reviewing threedy tapes of our clients, examining their genetic and personal files, interviewing those women who seem most promising, etc., is reminiscent of the personnel office rather than the romantic idyll. We agree, and we agree that the American man has no wish to proceed in that fashion. Furthermore, it is not necessary. There is no reason why a man cannot see to it that the woman he has chosen as his bride—in the
traditional
manner—is then enrolled at one of the seven fine marital academies whose graduates are accepted by this agency. In this way he can have the best of both worlds . . . the tender joy of young love, the ecstasy of finding and choosing the girl of his dreams,
and
the satisfaction of knowing that he will have a wife who is worthy of the role.

We suggest that you consider the alternative carefully, before deciding that good luck will see you through—and save you our modest fees. Do you really want to begin married life with an untrained woman whose only skill at wifery is the haphazard result of a few mass-ed courses and the confused efforts of her female relatives? Do you really want to risk your career and your home and your comfort to the fumbling trial-and-error techniques of an untutored girl? Do you truly believe that any degree of natural beauty of face and figure can compensate for a constant succession of social embarrassments and personal disappointments? (If you are a father, is that what you want for your sons?)