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.
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
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
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
back a tall jug of water. Mrs. Pink slowly and carefully emptied the salt fromher hand into the water and then upended the shaker. She stirred the waterwith a branch someone snatched from a bush. After the salt was dissolved, allthe Linjeni around them lined up with cupped h
ands. Each received—as though itwere a sacrament—a handful of salt water. And they all, quickly, not to lose adrop, lifted the handful of water to their faces and inhaled, breathingdeeply, 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 Linjenicrowded around, each eager to press a soft forefinger to Serena's cheek, athank-you gesture Splinter was picking up already.
When the crowd melted into the shadows again, Mrs. Pink sat down, fondlingthe salt shaker.
"Salt," said Serena, indicating the shaker.
"Shreeprill," said Mrs. Pink.
"Shreeprill?" said Serena, her stumbling tongue robbing the word of itsliquidness. Mrs. Pink nodded.
"Shreeprill good?" asked Serena, groping for an explanation for the justfinished scene.
"Shreeprill good," said Mrs. Pink. "No shreeprill, no Linjeni baby.Doovie—Doovie—" she hesitated, groping. "One Doovie—no baby." She shook herhead, unable to bridge the gap.
Serena groped after an idea she had almost caught from Mrs. Pink. Shepulled 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. Noshreeprill, 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 gohome?"
"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 triedto smile. Mrs. Pink looked over at Splinter and Doovie who were happilysampling everything in the picnic basket. Mrs. Pink relaxed, and then shesaid, "No more Linjeni." She gestured toward the crowded landing field."Linjeni." She pressed her hands, palm to palm, her shoulders sagging. "Nomore Linjeni."
Serena sat dazed, thinking what this would mean to Earth's High Command. Nomore Linjeni of the terrible, devastating weapons. No more than those that hadlanded—no waiting alien world ready to send reinforcements when these shipswere gone. When these were gone—no more Linjeni. All that Earth had to do nowwas 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 whowere 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 andthe war will end. But how? she cried out to herself. By wiping them out orgiving them a home? Which? Which?
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Kill, kill, kill grated her feet across the graveled patio edge. Kill the
aliens—no common ground—not human —all our hallowed dead.
But 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! 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 close 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 wordsup 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 goon.
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 hertorment flared brightly again and she slept.
Next 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 a-miliar with cake."
Serena laughed. "A certain little Splinter is a-miliar 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
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
even her own eyes, her resolution would waver and dissolve. She stood, hand onknob, watching the clock inch around until an interminable fifteen minutes hadpassed—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 conferencewing 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 herskirt, smoothed her hair, dredged a smile up from some hidden source ofstrength, and tiptoed out into the hall.
She felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by the instant u
nwinkingattention of the guards. She gestured silence with a finger to her lips andtiptoed up to them.
"Hello, Turner. Hi, Franiveri," she whispered.
The two exchanged looks and Turner said hoarsely, "You aren't supposed tobe here, ma'am. Better go."
"I know I'm not," she said, looking guilty—with no effort at all. "ButTurner, I—I just want to see a Linjeni." She hurried on before Turner's openmouth could form a word. "Oh, I've seen pictures of them, but I'd like awfullyto see a real one. Can't I have even one little peek?" She slipped closer tothe 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 anyway."
Quicker than thought, Serena jerked the door open and darted in, pushingthe little button and slamming the door to with what seemed to her a thunderthat vibrated through the whole building. Breathlessly, afraid to think, shesped through the anteroom and into the conference room. She came to a scaredskidding stop, her hands tight on the back of a chair, every eye in the roomon 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 downagain, hastily.
Serena circled the table, refusing to meet the eyes that bored intoher—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 harshlyunfamiliar with the weight of his position. She pressed her hands to thepolished table and leaned forward hastily.
"You're going to quit, aren't you? You're giving up!" The translators bentto their mikes and their lips moved to hers. "What have you been talking aboutall this time? Guns? Battles? Casualty lists?We'll-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 athigh level conference tables. All I know is that I've been teaching Mrs. Pinkto knit, and how to cut a lemon pie . . ." she could see the bewilderedinterpreters thumbing their manuals ". . . and already I know why they're hereand what they want!" Pursing her lips, she half-whistled, half-trilled in herhalting Linjeni, "Doovie baby. No more Linjeni babies!"
The Anything Box Page 4