When she came back to bed, Thorn was awake, lying on his back, his elbows winging out.
“Awake?” she asked as she sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Yes.” His voice was tense as the twang of a wire. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said. “Both sides keep holding up neat little hoops of ideas, but no one is jumping through, either way. We want peace, but we can’t seem to convey anything to them. They want something, but they haven’t said what, as though to tell us would betray them irrevocably into our hands, but they won’t make peace unless they can get it. Where do we go from here?”
“If they’d just go away—” Rena swung her feet up onto the bed and clasped her slender ankles with both hands.
“That’s one thing we’ve established.” Thorn’s voice was bitter, “They won’t go. They’re here to stay—like it or not.”
“Thorn—” Rena spoke impulsively into the shadowy silence. “Why don’t we just make them welcome? Why can’t we just say, ‘Come on in!’ They’re travelers from afar. Can’t we be hospitable—”
“You talk as though the afar was just the next county—or state!” Thorn tossed impatiently on the pillow.
“Don’t tell me we’re back to that old equation—Stranger equals Enemy,” said Rena, her voice sharp with strain. “Can’t we assume they’re friendly? Go visit with them—talk with them casually—”
“Friendly!” Thorn shot upright from the tangled bedclothes. “Go visit! Talk!” His voice choked off. Then carefully calmly he went on. “Would you care to visit with the widows of our men who went to visit the friendly Linjeni? Whose ships dripped out of the sky without warning—”
“Theirs did, too.” Rena’s voice was small but stubborn. “With no more warning than we had. Who shot first? You must admit no one knows for sure.”
There was a tense silence; then Thorn lay down slowly, turned his back to Serena and spoke no more.
“Now I can’t ever tell,” mourned Serena into her crumpled pillow. “He’d die if he knew about the hole under the fence.”
In the days that followed, Serena went every afternoon with Splinter and the hole under the fence got larger and larger.
Doovie’s mother, whom Splinter called Mrs. Pink, was teaching Serena to embroider the rich materials like the length they had given her. In exchange, Serena was teaching Mrs. Pink how to knit. At least, she started to teach her. She got as far as purl and knit, decrease and increase, when Mrs. Pink took the work from her, and Serena sat widemouthed at the incredible speed and accuracy of Mrs. Pink’s furry fingers. She felt a little silly for having assumed that the Linjeni didn’t know about knitting. And yet, the other Linjeni crowded around and felt of the knitting and exclaimed over it in their soft, fluty voices as though they’d never seen any before. The little ball of wool Serena had brought was soon used up, but Mrs. Pink brought out hanks of heavy thread such as were split and used in their embroidery, and after a glance through Serena’s pattern book, settled down to knitting the shining brilliance of Linjeni thread.
Before long, smiles and gestures, laughter and whistling, were not enough. Serena sought out the available tapes—a scant handful—on Linjeni speech and learned them. They didn’t help much since the vocabulary wasn’t easily applied to the matters she wanted to discuss with Mrs. Pink and the others. But the day she voiced and whistled her first Linjeni sentence to Mrs. Pink, Mrs. Pink stumbled through her first English sentence. They laughed and whistled together and settled down to pointing and naming and guessing across areas of incommunication.
Serena felt guilty by the end of the week. She and Splinter were having so much fun and Thorn was wearier and wearier at each session’s end.
“They’re impossible,” he said bitterly, one night, crouched forward tensely on the edge of his easy chair. “We can’t pin them down to anything.”
“What do they want?” asked Serena. “Haven’t they said yet?”
“I shouldn’t talk—” Thorn sank back in his chair. “Oh what does it matter?” he asked wearily. “It’ll all come to nothing anyway!”
“Oh, no, Thorn!” cried Serena. “They’re reasonable human—” she broke off at Thorn’s surprised look. “Aren’t they?” she stammered. “Aren’t they?”
“Human? They’re uncommunicative, hostile aliens,” he said. “We talk ourselves blue in the face and they whistle at one another and say yes or no. Just that, flatly.”
“Do they understand—” began Serena.
“We have interpreters, such as they are. None too good, but all we have.”
“Well, what are they asking?” asked Serena.
Thorn laughed shortly. “So far as we’ve been able to ascertain, they just want all our oceans and the land contiguous thereto.”
“Oh, Thorn, they couldn’t be that unreasonable!”
“Well I’ll admit we aren’t even sure that’s what they mean, but they keep coming back to the subject of the oceans, except they whistle rejection when we ask them point-blank if it’s the oceans they want. There’s just no communication,” Thorn sighed heavily. “You don’t know them like we do, Rena.”
“No,” said Serena, miserably. “Not like you do.”
She took her disquiet, Splinter, and a picnic basket down the hill to the hole next day. Mrs. Pink had shared her lunch with them the day before, and now it was Serena’s turn. They sat on the grass together, Serena crowding back her unhappiness to laugh at Mrs. Pink and her first olive with the same friendly amusement Mrs. Pink had shown when Serena had bit down on her first pirwit and had been afraid to swallow it and ashamed to spit it out.
Splinter and Doovie were agreeing over a thick meringued lemon pie that was supposed to be dessert.
“Leave the pie alone, Splinter,” said Serena. “It’s to top off on,”
“We’re only tasting the fluffy stuff,” said Splinter, a blob of meringue on his upper lip bobbing as he spoke.
“Well, save your testing for later. Why don’t you get out the eggs. I’ll bet Doovie isn’t familiar with them either.”
Splinter rummaged in the basket, and Serena took out the huge camp salt shaker.
“Here they are, Mommie!” cried Splinter. “Lookit, Doovie, first you have to crack the shell—”
Serena began initiating Mrs. Pink into the mysteries of hard-boiled eggs and it was all very casual and matter of fact until she sprinkled the peeled egg with salt. Mrs. Pink held out her cupped hand and Serena sprinkled a little salt into it. Mrs. Pink tasted it.
She gave a low whistle of astonishment and tasted again. Then she reached tentatively for the shaker. Serena gave it to her, amused. Mrs. Pink shook more into her hand and peered through the holes in the cap of the shaker. Serena unscrewed the top and showed Mrs. Pink the salt inside it.
For a long minute Mrs. Pink stared at the white granules and then she whistled urgently, piercingly. Serena shrank back, bewildered, as every bush seemed to erupt Linjeni. They crowded around Mrs. Pink, staring into the shaker, jostling one another, whistling softly. One scurried away and brought back a tall jug of water. Mrs. Pink slowly and carefully emptied the salt from her hand into the water and then upended the shaked. She stirred the water with a branch someone snatched from a bush. After the salt was dissolved, all the Linjeni around them lined up with cupped hands. Each received—as though it were a sacrament—a handful of salt water. And they all, quickly, not to lose a drop, lifted the handful of water to their faces and inhaled, breathing deeply, deeply of the salty solution.
Mrs. Pink was last, and, as she raised her wet face from her cupped hands, the gratitude in her eyes almost made Serena cry. And the dozens of Linjeni crowded around, each eager to press a soft forefinger to Serena’s cheek, a thank-you gesture Splinter was picking up already.
When the crowd melted into the shadows again, Mrs. Pink sat down, fondling the salt shaker.
!‘SaIt,” said Serena, indicating the shaker.
“Shreeprill,” said Mrs. Pink.
“Shreepr
ill,” said Serena, her stumbling tongue robbing the word of its liquidness. Mrs. Pink nodded.
“Shreeprill good?” asked Serena, groping for an explanation for the just finished scene.
“Shreeprill good,” said Mrs. Pink. “No shreeprill, no Linjeni baby. Doovie—Doovie—” she hesitated, groping. “One Doovie—no baby.” She shook her head, unable to bridge the gap.
Serena groped after an idea she had almost caught from Mrs. Pink. She pulled up a handful of grass. “Grass,” she said. She pulled another handful. “More grass. More. More.” She added to the pile.
Mrs. Pink looked from the grass to Serena.
“No more Linjeni baby. Doovie—” She separated the grass into piles. “Baby, baby, baby—” she counted down to the last one, lingering tenderly over it. “Doovie.”
“Oh,” said Serena, “Doovie is the last Linjeni baby? No more?”
Mrs. Pink studied the words and then she nodded. “Yes,” yes! No more. No shreeprill, no baby.”
Serena felt a flutter of wonder. Maybe—maybe this is what the war was over. Maybe they just wanted salt. A world to them. Maybe—
“Salt, shreeprill,” she said. “More, more, more shreeprill, Linjeni go home?”
“More more more shreeprill, yes,” said Mrs. Pink. “Go home, no. No home. Home no good. No water, no shreeprill.”
“Oh,” said Serena. Then thoughtfully, “More Linjeni? More, more, more?”
Mrs. Pink looked at Serena and in the sudden silence the realization that they were, after all, members of enemy camps flared between them. Serena tried to smile. Mrs., Pink looked over at Splint®: and Doovie who were happily sampling everything in the picnic basket. Mrs. Pink relaxed, and then she said, “No more Linjeni” She gestured toward the crowded landing field “Linjeni.” She pressed her hands, palm to palm, her shoulder sagging. “No more linjeni.”
Serena sat dazed, thinking what this would mean to Earth’s High Command. No more Linjeni of the terrible, devastating weapons. No more than those that had landed—no waiting alien world ready to send reinforcements when these ships were gone. When these were gone—no more Linjeni. AH that Earth had to do now was wipe out these ships, taking the heavy losses that would be inevitable, and they would win the war—and wipe out a race.
The linjeni must have come seeking asylum—or demanding it. Neighbors who were afraid to ask—or hadn’t been given time to ask. How had the war started? Who fired upon whom? Did anyone know?
Serena took uncertainty home with her, along with the empty picnic basket. Tell, tell, tell, whispered her feet through the grass up the hill. Tell and the war will end. But how? she cried out to herself. By wiping them out or giving them a home? Which? Which?
Kill, kill, kill grated her feet across the graveled patio edge. Kill the aliens—no common ground—not human—all our hallowed dead.
Bui what about their hallowed dead? All falling, the flaming ships—the homeseekers—the dispossessed—the childless?
Serena settled Splinter with a new puzzle and a picture book and went into the bedroom. She sat on the bed and stared at herself in the mirror.
But give them salt water and they’ll increase—all our oceans, even if they said they didn’t want them. Increase and increase and take the world—push us out—trespass—oppress—
But their men—our men. They’ve been meeting for over a week and can’t agree. Of course they can’t I They’re afraid of betraying themselves to each other. Neither knows anything about the other, really. They aren’t trying to find out anything really important. I’ll bet not one of our men know the Linjeni can dose their noses and fold their ears. And not one of the linjeni knows we sprinkle their life on our food.
Serena had no idea how long she sat there, but Splinter finally found her and insisted on supper and then Serena, insisted on bed for him.
She was nearly mad with indecision when Thorn finally got home.
“Well,” he said, dropping wearily into his chair. “It’s almost over.”
“Over!” cried Serena, hope flaring, “Then you’ve reached—”
“Stalemate, impasse,” said Thorn heavily. “Our meeting tomorrow is the last. One final ‘no’ from each side and it’s over. Back to bloodletting.”
“Oh, Thorn, no!” Serena pressed her clenched fist to her mouth. “We can’t kill any more of them! It’s inhuman—it’s—”
“It’s self-defense,” Thorn’s voice was sharp with exasperated displeasure. “Please, not tonight, Rena. Spare me your idealistic ideas. Heaven knows we’re inexperienced enough in warlike negotiations without having to cope with suggestions that we make cute pets out of our enemies. We’re in a war and we’ve got it to win. Let the Linjeni get a wedge in and they’ll swarm the Earth like flies!”
“No, no!” whispered Serena, her own secret fears sending the tears flooding down her face. “They wouldn’t! They wouldn’t! Would they?”
Long after Thorn’s sleeping breath whispered in the darkness beside her, she lay awake, staring at the invisible ceiling. Carefully she put the words up before her on the slate of the darkness.
Tell—the war will end.
Either we will help the Linjeni—or wipe them out.
Don’t tell. The conference will break up. The war will go on.
We will have heavy losses—and wipe the linjeni out.
Mrs. Pink trusted me.
Splinter loves Doovie. Doovie loves him.
Then the little candle flame of prayer that had so nearly burned out in her torment flared brightly again and she slept
Nest morning she sent Splinter to play with Doovie. “Play by the goldfish pond,” she said. “I’ll be along soon.”
“Okay, Mommie,” said Splinter. “Will you bring some cake?” Slyly, “Doovie isn’t amiliar with cake.”
Serena laughed. “A certain little Splinter is amiliar with cake, though! You run along, greedy!” And she boosted him out of the door with a slap on the rear.
“ ’By, Mommie,” he called back.
“ ’By, dear. Be good.”
“I will.”
Serena watched until he disappeared down the slope of the hill, then she smoothed her hair and ran her tongue over her lips. She started for the bedroom, but turned suddenly and went to the front door. If she had to face even her own eyes, her resolution would waver and dissolve. She stood, hand on knob, watching the clock inch around until an interminable fifteen minutes had passed—Splinter safely gone—then, she snatched the door open and left.
Her smile took her out of the Quarters Area to the Administration Building. Her brisk assumption of authority and destination took her to the conference wing and there her courage failed her. She lurked out of sight of the guards, almost wringing her hands in indecision. Then she straightened the set of her skirt, smoothed her hair, dredged a smile up from some hidden source of strength, and tiptoed out into the hall.
She felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by the instant unwinking attention of the guards. She gestured silence with a finger to her lips and tiptoed up to them.
“Hello, Turner. Hi, Franiveri,” she whispered.
The two exchanged looks and Turner said hoarsely, “You aren’t supposed to be here, ma’am. Better go.”
“I know I’m not,” she said, looking guilty—with no effort at all. “But Turner, I—I just want to see a Linjeni.” She hurried on before Turner’s open mouth could form a word. “Oh, I’ve seen pictures of them, but I’d like awfully to see a real one. Can’t I have even one little peek?” She slipped closer to the door. “Look!” she cried softly, “It’s even ajar a little already!”
“Supposed to be,” rasped Turner. “Orders. But ma’am, we can’t—”
“Just one peek?” she pleaded, putting her thumb in the crack of the door. “I won’t make a sound.”
She coaxed the door open a little farther, her hand creeping inside, fumbling for the knob, the little button.
“But ma’am, you couldn’t see ’em from here a
nyway.” Quicker than thought, Serena jerked the door open and darted in, pushing the little button and slamming the door to with what seemed to her a thunder that vibrated through the whole building. Breathlessly, afraid to think, she sped through the anteroom and into the conference room. She came to a scared ski rifting stop, her hands tight on the back of a chair, every eye in the room on her. Thorn, almost unrecognizable in his armor of authority and severity, stood up abruptly.
“Serena!” he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. Then he sat down again, hastily.
Serena circled the table, refusing to meet the eyes that bored into her—blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, yellow eyes, green eyes, lavender eyes. She turned at the foot of the table and looked fearfully up the shining expanse.
“Gentlemen,” her voice was almost inaudible. She cleared her throat. “Gentlemen.” She saw General Worsham getting ready to speak—his face harshly unfamiliar with the weight of his position. She pressed her hands to the polished table and leaned forward hastily.
“You’re going to quit, aren’t you? You’re giving up!” The translators bent to their mikes and their lips moved to hers. “What have you been talking about all this time? Guns? Battles? Casualty lists? Well-do-this-to-you-if-you-do-that-to-us? I don’t know! . . .” she cried, shaking her head tightly, almost shuddering, “. . . I don’t know what goes on at high level conference tables. All I know is that I’ve been teaching Mrs. Pink to knit, and how to cut a lemon pie . . . she could see the bewildered interpreters thumbing their manuals, and already I know why they’re here and what they want!” Pursing her lips, she half-whistled, half-trilled in her halting Linjeni, “Doovie baby. No more Linjeni babies!”
One of the Linjeni started at Doovie’s name and stood up slowly, his lavender bulk towering over the table. Serena saw the interpreters thumbing frantically again. She knew they were looking for a translation of the Linjeni “baby.” Babies had no place in a military conference.
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