The People Trap

by Sheckley, Robert;

  “Yeah?” said the bartender.

  “Yeah, really,” Jackson said. “I had this big business deal on, see, and then at the last minute they asked to trombramcthulanchieririn the usual manner.”

  He watched the bartender’s face carefully. A faint expression of puzzlement crossed the man’s stolid features.

  “So why didn’t you?” the bartender.

  “You mean you would have?”

  “Sure I would have. Hell, it’s the standard cathanpriptiaia, ain’t it?”

  “Course it is,” one of the loungers at the bar said. “Unless, of course, you suspected they was trying to numniscaterate.”

  “No, I don’t think they were trying anything like that,” Jackson said in a flat low, lifeless voice. He paid for his drink and started to leave.

  “Hey,” the bartender called after him, “you sure they wasn’t noniskakkekaki?”

  “You never know,” Jackson said, walking slump-shouldered into the street.

  Jackson trusted his instincts, both with languages and with people. His instincts told him now that the Naians were straight and were not practicing an elaborate deception on him. Erum had not been inventing new words for the sake of willful confusion. He had been really speaking the Hon language as he knew it.

  But if that were true, then Na was a very strange language. In fact, it was downright eccentric. And its implications were not merely curious. They were disastrous.

  5.

  That evening Jackson went back to work. He discovered a further class of exceptions which he had not known or even suspected. That was a group of twenty-nine multivalued potentiators. These words, meaningless in themselves, acted to elicit a complicated and discordant series of shadings from other words. Their particular type of potentiation varied according to their position in the sentence.

  Thus, when Erum had asked him “to trombramcthulanchierir in the usual manner,” he had merely wanted Jackson to make an obligatory ritual obeisance. This consisted of clasping his hands behind his neck and rocking back on his heels. He was required to perform this action with an expression of definite yet modest pleasure, in accordance with the totality of the situation, and also in accord with the state of his stomach and nerves and with his religion and ethical code, and bearing in mind minor temperamental differences due to fluctuations in heat and humidity, and not forgetting the virtues of patience, similitude, and forgiveness.

  It was all quite understandable. And all completely contradictory to everything Jackson had previously learned about Hon.

  It was more than contradictory, it was unthinkable, impossible, and entirely out of order. It was as if, having discovered palm trees in frigid Antarctica, he had further found that the fruit of these trees was not coconuts, but muscatel grapes.

  It couldn’t be—but it was.

  Jackson did what was required of him. When he had finished trombramcthulanchieriring in the usual manner, he had only to get through the official ceremony and the several small requirements after it.

  Erum assured him that it was all quite simple, but Jackson suspected that he might somehow have difficulties.

  So, in preparation, he put in three days of hard work acquiring a real mastery of the twenty-nine exceptional potentiators, together with their most common positions and their potentiating effect in each of these positions. He finished, bone-weary and with his irritability index risen to 97.3620 on the Grafheimer scale. An impartial observer might have noticed an ominous gleam in his china-blue eyes.

  Jackson had had it. He was sick of the Hon language and of all things Naian. He had the vertiginous feeling that the more he learned, the less he knew. It was downright perverse.

  “Hokay,” Jackson said, to himself and to the universe at large. “I have learned the Naian language, and I have learned a set of completely inexplicable exceptions, and I have also learned a further and even more contradictory set of exceptions to the exceptions.”

  Jackson paused and in a very low voice said: “I have learned an exceptional number of exceptions. Indeed, an impartial observer might think that this language is composed of nothing but exceptions.”

  “But that, “he continued, “is damned well impossible, unthinkable, and unacceptable. A language is by God and by definition systematic, which means it’s gotta follow some kind of rules. Otherwise, nobody can’t understand nobody. That’s the way it works and that’s the way it’s gotta be. And if anyone thinks they can horse around linguistic-wise with Fred C. Jackson—”

  Here Jackson paused and drew the blaster from his holster. He checked the charge, snapped off the safety, and replaced the weapon.

  “Just better no one give old Jackson no more double-talking,” old Jackson muttered. “Because the next alien who tries it is going to get a three-inch circle drilled through his lousy cheating guts.”

  So saying, Jackson marched back to the city. He was feeling decidedly lightheaded, but absolutely determined. His job was to steal this planet out from under its inhabitants in a legal manner, and in order to do that he had to make sense out of their language. Therefore, in one way or another, he was going to make sense. Either that, or he was going to make some corpses.

  At this point, he didn’t much care which.

  Erum was in his office, waiting for him. With him were the mayor, the president of the City Council, the borough president, two aldermen and the director of the Board of Estimates. All of them were smiling—affably, albeit nervously. Strong spirits were present on a sideboard, and there was a subdued air of fellowship in the room.

  All in all, it looked as if Jackson were being welcomed as a new and highly respected property owner, an adornment to Fakka. Aliens took it that way sometimes: made the best of a bad bargain by trying to ingratiate themselves with the Inevitable Earthman.

  “Mun,” said Erum, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

  “Same to you, kid,” Jackson said. He had no idea what the word meant. Nor did he care. He had plenty of other Naian words to choose among, and he had the determination to force matters to a conclusion.

  “Mun!”said the mayor.

  “Thanks, pop,” said Jackson.

  “Mun!” declared the other officials.

  “Glad you boys feel that way,” said Jackson. He turned to Erum. “Well, let’s get it over with, okay?”

  “Mun-mun-mun, “Erum replied. “Mun, mun-mun.”

  Jackson stared at him for several seconds. Then he said, in a low, controlled voice, “Erum, baby, just exactly what are you trying to say to me?”

  “Mun, mun, mun, “Erum stated firmly. “Mun, mun mun mun. Mun mun.” He paused, and in a somewhat nervous voice asked the mayor: “Mun, mun?”

  “Mun,…mun mun,” the mayor replied firmly, and the other officials nodded. They all turned to Jackson.

  “Mun, mun-mun?” Erum asked him, tremulously, but with dignity.

  Jackson was numbed speechless. His face turned a choleric red and a large blue vein started to pulse in his neck. But he managed to speak slowly, calmly, and with infinite menace.

  “Just what, “he said, “do you lousy third-rate yokels think you’re pulling?”

  “Mun-mun?” the mayor asked Erum.

  “Mun-mun, mun-mun-mun, “Erum replied quickly, making a gesture of incomprehension.

  “You better talk sense,” Jackson said. His voice was still low, but the vein in his neck writhed like a firehose under pressure.

  “Mun!”one of the aldermen said quickly to the borough president.

  “Mun mun-mun mun?” the borough president answered piteously, his voice breaking on the last word.

  “So you won’t talk sense, huh?”

  “Mun! Mun-mun!” the mayor cried, his face gone ashen with fright.

  The others looked and saw Jackson’s hand clearing the blaster and taking aim at Erum’s chest.

  “Quit horsing around!” Jackson commanded. The vein in his neck pulsed like a python in travail.

  “Mun-mun-mun!” Erum pleaded, dr
opping to his knees.

  “Mun-mun-mun!” the mayor shrieked, rolling his eyes and fainting.

  “You get it now,” Jackson said to Erum. His finger whitened on the trigger.

  Erum, his teeth chattering, managed to gasp out a strangled “Mun -mun, mun?” But then his nerves gave way and he waited for death with jaw agape and eyes unfocused.

  Jackson took up the last fraction of slack in the trigger. Then, abrupdy, he let up and shoved the blaster back in its holster.

  “Mun, mun!” Erum managed to say.

  “Shaddap,” Jackson said. He stepped back and glared at the cringing Naian officials.

  He would have dearly loved to blast them all. But he couldn’t do it. Jackson had to come to a belated acknowledgement of unacceptable reality.

  His impeccable linguist’s ear had heard, and his polyglot brain had analyzed. Dismayingly, he had realized that the Naians were not trying to put anything over on him. They were speaking not nonsense, but a true language.

  This language was made up at present of the single sound “mun.” This sound could carry an extensive repertoire of meanings through variations in pitch and pattern, changes in stress and quantity, alteration of rhythm and repetition, and through accompanying gestures and facial expressions.

  A language consisting of infinite variations on a single word! Jackson didn’t want to believe it, but he was too good a linguist to doubt the evidence of his own trained senses.

  He could leam this language, of course,

  But by the time he had learned it, what would it have changed into?

  Jackson sighed and rubbed his face wearily. In a sense it was inevitable. All languages change. But on Earth and the few dozen worlds she had contacted, the languages changed with relative slowness.

  On Na, the rate of change was faster. Quite a bit faster.

  The Na language changed as fashions change on Earth, only faster. It changed as prices change or as the weather changes. It changed endlessly and incessantly, in accordance with unknown rules and invisible principles. It changed its form as an avalanche changes its shape. Compared with it, English was like a glacier.

  The Na language was, truly and monstrously, a simulacrum of Heraclitus’ river. You cannot step into the same river twice, said Heraclitus; for other waters are forever flowing on.

  Concerning the language of the Na, this was simply and literally true.

  That made it bad enough. But even worse was the fact that an observer like Jackson could never hope to fix or isolate even one term out of the dynamic shifting network of terms that composed the Na language. For the observer’s action would be gross enough by itself to disrupt and alter the system, causing it to change unpredictably. And so, if the term were isolated, its relationship to the other terms in the system would necessarily be destroyed, and the term itself, by definition, would be false.

  By the fact of its change, the language was rendered impervious to codification and control. Through indeterminacy, the Na tongue resisted all attempts to conquer it. And Jackson had gone from Heraclitus to Heisenberg without touching second base. He was dazed and dazzled, and he looked upon the officials with something approaching awe.

  “You’ve done it, boys,” he told them. “You’ve beaten the system. Old Earth could swallow you and never notice the difference; you couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But the folks back home like their legalism, and our law says that we must be in a state of communication as a prior condition to any transaction.”

  “Mun?” Erum asked politely.

  “So I guess that means I leave you folks alone,” Jackson said. “At least, I do as long as they keep that law on the books. But what the hell, a reprieve is the best anyone can ask for. Eh?”

  “Mun mun, “ the mayor said hesitantly.

  “I’ll be getting along now,” Jackson said. “Fair’s fair…But if I ever find out that you Naians were putting one over on me—”

  He left the sentence unfinished. Without another word, Jackson turned and went back to his ship.

  In half an hour he was spaceworthy, and fifteen minutes after that he was under way.

  6.

  In Emm’s office, the officials watched while Jackson’s spaceship glowed like a comet in the dark afternoon sky. It dwindled to a brilliant needlepoint, and then vanished into the vastness of space.

  The officials were silent for a moment; then they turned and looked at each other. Suddenly, spontaneously, they burst into laughter. Harder and harder they laughed, clutching their sides while tears rolled down their cheeks.

  The mayor was the first to check the hysteria. Getting a grip on himself he said, “Mun, mun, mun-mun.”

  This thought instandy sobered the others. Their mirth died away. Uneasily they contemplated the distant unfriendly sky, and they thought back over their recent adventures.

  At last young Erum asked, “Mun-mun? Mun-mun?”

  Several of the officials smiled at the naivete of the question. And yet, none could answer that simple yet crucial demand. Why indeed? Did anyone dare hazard even a guess?

  It was a perplexity leaving in doubt not only the future but the past as well. And, if a real answer were unthinkable, then no answer at all was surely insupportable.

  The silence grew, and Erum’s young mouth twisted downwards in premature cynicism. He said quite harshly, “Mun! Mun-mun! Mun?”

  His shocking words were no more than the hasty cruelty of the young; but such a statement could not go unchallenged And the venerable first alderman stepped forward to essay a reply.

  “Mun mun, mun-mun,” the old man said, with disarming simplicity. “Mun mun mun-mun? Mun mun-mun-mun. Mun mun mun; mun mun mun; mun mun. Mun, mun mun mun—mun mun mun. Mun-mun? Mun mun mun mun!”

  This straightforward declaration of faith pierced Erum to the core of his being. Tears sprang unanticipated to his eyes. All postures forgotten, he turned to the sky, clenched his fist and shouted “Mun! Mun! Mun-mun!”

  Smiling serenely, the old alderman murmured, “Mun-mun-mun; mun, mun-mun.”

  This was, ironically enough, the marvelous and frightening truth of the situation. Perhaps it was just as well that the others did not hear.

  RESTRICTED AREA

  “Nice-looking place, isn’t it, Captain?” Simmons asked with elaborate casualness, looking through the port. “Rather a paradise.” He yawned.

  “You can’t go out yet,” Captain Kilpepper said, noting the biologist’s immediate disappointed expression.

  “But, Captain—”

  “No.” Kilpepper looked out of the port at the rolling meadow of grass. Sprinkled with red flowers, it appeared as luscious as it had two days ago when they had landed. To the right of the meadow was a brown forest shot through with yellow and orange blossoms. To the left was a row of hills, colored in contrasting shades of blue-green. A waterfall tumbled down one of the hills.

  Trees, flowers, all that sort of thing. The place was undeniably pretty, and it was for that reason that Kilpepper distrusted it. Experience with two wives and five new ships had taught him that a lovely exterior can conceal almost anything. And fifteen years in space had added lines to his forehead and gray to his hair, but hadn’t given him any reason for altering his conviction.

  “Here are the reports, sir,” Mate Morena said, handing him a sheaf of papers. Morena had a petulant expression on his broad, rugged face. Behind the door, Kilpepper could hear shuffling feet and whispering voices. He knew it was the crew, assembled to hear what he would say this time.

  They wanted outside, but bad.

  Kilpepper skimmed the reports. They were the same as the last four groups. Atmosphere breathable and free of dangerous microorganisms, bacteria count nil, radargraph all clear. Some form of animal life in the nearby forest, but no energy manifestations. Detection of a large metallic mass, possibly an iron-rich mountain, several miles south. Noted for further investigation.

  “That’s fine,” Kilpepper said unhappily. The reports vaguely annoyed him. He
knew from past experience that there was usually something wrong with every planet. It paid to find it at the start, before costly accidents resulted.

  “Can we go out, sir?” Morena asked, his short body stiffly erect. Kilpepper could almost feel the crewmen behind the door holding their breath.

  “I don’t know,” Kilpepper said. He scratched his head, trying to think of some good reason for refusing again. There must be something wrong.

  “All right,” he said at last. “Post a full guard for the time being. Let four men out. No one goes beyond twenty-five feet of the ship.” He had to let them go. After sixteen months in the hot, cramped spaceship, he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he didn’t.

  “Yes sir!” Mate Morena said, and dashed out of the door.

  “I suppose that means the scientific team can go out,” Simmons said, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  “Sure,” Kilpepper said wearily. “I’ll go with you. After all, this expedition is expendable.”

  The air of the unnamed planet was fragrant after the musty, recirculated air of the ship. The breeze from the mountains was light and steady and refreshing.

  Captain Kilpepper sniffed appreciatively, arms folded across his chest. The four crewmen were walking around, stretching their legs and breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air. The scientific team was standing together, wondering where to begin. Simmons bent down and plucked a spear of grass.

  “Funny-looking stuff,” he said, holding it up to the sunlight.

  “Why?” Captain Kilpepper asked, walking over.

  “Look at it.” The thin biologist held it higher. “Perfectly smooth. Doesn’t show any sign of cell formation. Let me see—” He bent over a red blossom.

  “Hey! We got visitors!” A crewman named Flynn was the first to spot the natives. They came out of the forest and trotted across the meadow to the ship.

  Captain Kilpepper glanced at the ship. The gunners were ready and alert. He touched his sidearm for reassurance, and waited.

  “Oh, brother,” Aramic murmured. As ship’s linguist, he eyed the advancing natives with intense professional interest. The rest of the men just stared.