Native Tongue

by Suzette Haden Elgin, Susan Squier

  “I was hoping you’d offer to do that, Thomas.”

  “Certainly, man! Of course. You can put that out of your mind, at least. And what else can I do?”

  “I don’t think there is anything else to do.”

  “That’s not likely. There’s almost always something else to do—you just haven’t had time to consider the matter. How about my pressuring the police as well as the press?”

  “I think the police are doing all that can be done,” said the other man, sitting down again. “They’ve no reason not to. It’s all just a job to them, no matter whose baby is involved. And perhaps it will be all right. I mean, perhaps they’ll find the scum who did this before he has a chance to harm the child.”

  “Not yours, is it?” asked Thomas, looking politely away from him.

  “No, thank heaven, it’s not. But it’s my brother’s, and it would have been his first child. You can imagine how he feels.”

  “Yes.”

  “As for the woman . . .” St. Syrus spread his hands wide in a gesture of complete hopelessness and stared eloquently at the ceiling.

  “The mother’s taken it badly, I suppose.”

  “Oh, my God . . . You’ve never perceived anything quite like it. The lungs on that woman! I’m surprised you can’t hear her all the way here, frankly. When I left, they were sedating her so the rest of the family wouldn’t have to suffer with her caterwauling. And the other women are not a whole lot better, I’m sorry to say—especially since they are all fully aware of the Lines’ policy about ransoms.”

  “It has to be that way,” said Thomas gently. “If there was the slightest chance that the linguists would pay ransoms, none of our children, or our women, would be safe. We don’t have any choice.”

  “I know that. The women know that. But it doesn’t keep them from carrying on world without end about it.”

  “In my experience, Andrew, you’ve got to give them something to keep them busy. Not makework, mind you, but something that will really occupy them.”

  “For instance? There are nineteen adult women under my roof, and nearly that many adolescent females . . . and a miscellaneous assortment of girl children. It would take something like the excavation of a sewer system to use every spare moment of a gaggle that size.”

  “What about their damnfool Encoding Project? What about their church duties? What about their ordinary obligations, for God’s sakes? How can they have spare time?”

  “Thomas,” said Andrew wearily, “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I simply do not have the kind of control you have.”

  “You haven’t been Head very long . . . it will come.”

  “Perhaps. But at the moment, my women claim they can’t keep their mind on their hobby, and they’re so angry at the Almighty that they’re not speaking to Him. And so on. Drivel, endless drivel.”

  “Double their schedules, Andrew. Give them some stuff to translate that there hasn’t been time for. Hell, make them clean the house. Buy them fruit to make jelly out of, if your orchards and storerooms are bare. There’s got to be something you can do with them, or they will literally drive you crazy. Women out of control are a curse—and if you don’t put a stop to it, you’ll regret it bitterly later on.”

  “I regret it bitterly now. But this is not the moment for me to institute reforms, Thomas. Not in the middle of this mess.”

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” said Thomas.

  “Yes. And then some.” Andrew sank down in the chair, caught himself and straightened up again, and lit a cigarette.

  “You didn’t have any warning, I don’t suppose. No threats. No stuff written on your walls. Obscene letters.”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  They sat silently, and Thomas concentrated on looking suitably distressed. Not that anyone in the Lines, or anywhere else, was ever going to suspect him of collusion with the government. The idea was so unthinkable that he could be certain it would go unthought. But the popular platitudes about it being impossible to lie to a linguist were based on a solid foundation. Even if you were also a linguist. He couldn’t afford to be careless; St. Syrus was inexperienced, but he was capable and intelligent and nobody’s fool.

  “Perceive this, Andrew,” he said finally. “I’m not going to just let this pass.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that we aren’t going to sit like sticks and let it go on without taking some action of our own. I’m going to put private investigators on it, St. Syrus. Today.”

  “Surely that’s not necessary!”

  “I think it is.”

  “But, Thomas—”

  “Andrew, this is a matter of principle. And of honor. The honor of the Lines. I want whoever is behind this to be shown, and I want the unenthusiastic law enforcement people to be shown, that we of the Lines don’t take kindly to having our women and children tampered with. It’s necessary to make that unambiguously clear, and without any delay that might confuse their little minds.”

  “It’ll cost the earth, Thomas,” said Andrew slowly. “Not that I mind the expense, but—”

  Thomas cut him short.

  “There are special funds,” he said. “Special funds set aside for unusual circumstances, when cost should not have to be considered. This qualifies as one of those circumstances. Think, Andrew—damn it, man, do you want word going out on the street that anybody who fancies it can go pick off a linguist infant from a maternity ward and we’ll just wring our hands and whimper in many tongues? We may be able to silence the media, but we sure as hell can’t silence the criminals.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Thomas. Hell . . . of course you’re right. It’s the sort of thing a criminal might do on a dare from his buddies, isn’t it? Jesus.”

  “Andrew,” said Thomas firmly, “you go home and tend to your affairs. Get all the women out on contracts if you can. Those that aren’t on duty even as informal backups, find something exhausting to keep them occupied. I’ll get things started here right now—first, I’ll lean on the press; second, I’ll hire the detectives. Leave it in my hands and go home.”

  Andrew St. Syrus stood up, stiffly. He was tired; he’d been up all night, and he had a full day ahead of him.

  “Thomas, I’m grateful,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to all of us, having this kind of support.”

  “Don’t mention it, Andrew. Kidnapping is a contemptible crime. Harming babies is barbarism. I’ll tolerate talk, Andrew, but I won’t have the families of the Lines actually harmed. I won’t stand for it. We won’t stand for it.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Of course. All that chaos and hysteria I’ve been listening to has addled my brains.”

  “Go home, Andrew. Stop thanking me, and stop agreeing with me, and go home—so that I can get this under way.”

  “Of course. Of course.” St. Syrus picked up his cigarettes and his flyer keys, and stood up. A back muscle he’d strained somehow jabbed at him, and he was careful not to wince. He stopped in the office door, holding it open, and drew a swift line in the air. PanSig for good-by. The necessary light touch.

  “Good-bye, Andrew,” said Thomas, and matched the PanSig unit politely.

  Andrew was interested in PanSig; it was almost a hobby with him. He’d even managed to add three very useful units to its painfully limited lexicon, all of them producible in body, color, and odor Modes—and to get them past the PanSig Division of D.A.T. That had been a good deal harder than working out the units in the first place. He was tempted, briefly, to do the V-unit that was PanSig Body Mode for “Thank you”; then he thought better of it, and went on into the hall, letting the door slide shut behind him. Thomas wouldn’t have found it either interesting or amusing.

  Chapter Eight

  Gentlemen, we know the set of beliefs that you have about the linguists—every new group of D.A.T. trainees arrives here with that same set.

  We will begin by telling you bluntly that most of those beliefs are in error. For example
: there is the firm public conviction that the linguists live in luxury, surrounded by the trappings of their vast wealth. Nothing could be less accurate, men; the linguists’ lifestyle has an austerity and frugality that I am absolutely certain not one of you would willingly endure. Only in the monasteries of the Roman Catholic Church could you find anything even remotely comparable as a standard of living—and if it were not for the advanced technology required by their duties as linguists, which does entail some expensive electronic equipment, a more apt comparison would be the communities of the American Amish and Mennonites. I am sure this surprises you—for excellent reasons which I am not at liberty to discuss at this time—but I give you my word it is true. And I hasten to add that the lifestyle is not imposed by any government authority.

  The women of the Lines are viewed by the public as almost obscenely extravagant. Gentlemen, allow me to enlighten you on this point, with just one typical fact about these alleged extravagances. An adult woman of the Lines is allowed to own only the following garments: two plain tunics; one simple dress for official functions; one tailored garment intended for wear in church and at work in government negotiations; two pairs of coveralls; a winter cape; a rain cape; two nightgowns; two pairs of shoes—which are clingsoles; and a set of minimal underclothing. Where I have specified two of any item, this means “one for warm weather, one for cold weather.” As for ornament, gentlemen—a linguist woman is allowed her wedding ring, a religious medallion or cross if she wants one, and her wrist computer. Nothing else is permitted, and no cosmetics of any kind.

  You might think for just a moment, gentlemen, how your own wives and daughters would react to that sort of restriction. I, for one, would be afraid to go home . . .

  (from a briefing for junior staff, D.A.T.)

  “No,” said Thomas, “I will not sympathize with you. Absolutely not.”

  “The compassionate linguist,” said Smith. “Always eager to help.”

  “No,” said Thomas evenly, “we have never claimed to be compassionate. There have been good reasons for that, which I do not propose to discuss with you—and if you choose to take that as meaning I won’t stoop to do so, that’s your privilege. My personal statement is that I don’t have time to waste in that fashion, and that I resent your taking up what time I do have with this nonsense.”

  “We regret that you find our efforts useless, Mr. Chornyak,” said the man bitterly. “We’re not lofty scientists here, moving through our days in the sublime pursuit of pure knowledge—we are ordinary men, doing ordinary jobs. One of those jobs, about which my personal statement is that I think it is both pathetic and stupid, is to serve as liaison between you and the government in situations which both you and the government prefer not to have the public know about. And which I assume you’d be distressed to have the rest of the linguists know about. . . . But I am ordered to do this; and I do it as well as I can.”

  Thomas knew the taste of failure, listening to this man who was, as he said, only trying to do an impossible job because it was what he was expected to do and had agreed to do. He was sharply aware that if his own father knew what was taking place here today he would condemn Thomas in terms that would not be pleasant or give quarter. Situations like this only made the breach between public and linguist wider and more poisonous, only played into the hands of those who gained by that breach . . . and he must find time, somehow, to mend some bridges and span the gap. If only he could be six people and be in as many places at one time. If only the government would listen to the linguists’ warnings that there was a limit to the number of Alien tongues it was possible for them to acquire and use on that government’s behalf—which would have meant curbing the dizzying rate of expansion into space and colonization. Curbing the public greed for more room, more opportunity, more new frontiers. . . .

  “Smith,” he said, trying not to think about it, “I have nothing but admiration for your devotion to your duty. That is not sarcasm, that is not empty politeness, it is simply the way I feel. You don’t have to explain your situation to me, I understand that it’s awkward and distasteful. But I can only repeat, man, that I told you. Didn’t I, Smith? I warned you, right here in this room, less than a month ago, and you would not listen. Isn’t that true?”

  “You warned us, yes.”

  “And what did I warn you of, Smith?”

  “That if we tried to Interface that baby it would die horribly, just like all the others. You warned us, and you were right; and you are entitled to whatever warped satisfaction that gives you, Chornyak.”

  Thomas sat back in the chair, his lips slightly parted, holding the government man with his eyes until the red flush had spread from Smith’s neck all the way to his forehead. They had not sent poor Jones into the arena this time, and it was just as well.

  “All right, all right!” Smith spat at him. “That was a shitty thing to say! And I retract it. I’m sorry.”

  Thomas let that hang in the air. He let his face and his body and his hands do the work for him, and he said not one word. Smith didn’t disappoint him.

  “It’s not the same thing,” the man said through his teeth, his hands fiddling aimlessly with a scrap of paper on the table before him, his shoulder hunching. “It’s not the same thing at all . . . it’s not like somebody’s kidnapped one of our kids and destroyed it that way. It’s very, very different. You Lingoes, you don’t have any feeling for your kids, you breed them like flyers come off assembly lines, they’re just products to you. Shit, I’ve heard you, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you, talking about it . . . You don’t say, ‘Hey, my kid won a prize at Homeroom today, we’re proud of him,’ naah . . . I’ve heard you! ‘That boy means two more Alien languages added to the inventories of Household So-and-So.’ ‘The girl has a certain value, she increases our assets by three little-known Earth languages in addition to the Alien language for which she has primary responsibility.’ JEEzus, you talk about your kids like they were stocks and bonds, or the effing corn crop . . . you don’t care about them! If you cared about them, I’d feel different about this, I’d feel sorry for your people, sorry about your kid, sure . . . but shit, Chornyak! They don’t mean anything to their own families—why should they mean anything to us?”

  Thomas considered it carefully, pleased to note that his earlier consciousness of guilt had completely disappeared, and decided that he could spare a few minutes. For the good of his battered spirit and this dolt’s soul. It had been a long day. He was, he decided, entitled.

  “Tell me, Smith,” he asked, “how’s your history?”

  “My what?”

  “How’s your background in history? The usual mass-ed courses? And surely a little something extra to prepare you for government service?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Do you remember, Smith, the sums of money poured into a cure for the epidemic of child abuse that swept this nation in the late 20th and early 21st centuries? Do you remember when it was not safe to put even the most hardened and streetwise criminal into a prison if his crime was child abuse, because the other inmates would kill him like a mad dog, and less gently?”

  “I read about it. Everybody knows about that.”

  “Yes. So they do. We’ve stamped out child abuse, haven’t we, Smith . . . at least we’ve stamped out its excesses and its obvious physical forms. We value our children now, we treasure them, because they are the future of the human race. We no longer leave the molding of their minds and their characters to the random attention of ignorant pseudo-teachers in a parody of education. We no longer leave their diets and their exercise and their medical care to whatever chance factors happen to come their way—our children are cared for now with the very best that this nation can provide, for their bodies and their minds and their spirits. And it makes no difference where they come from or who their parents are, they are all cared for that way. You are aware of all that, Smith.”

  “And damned proud of it. So what?”

  “Well . . . Smith
, do you consider yourself a man who is fond of children? In contrast to the linguists, for example, who see their offspring only as economic resources.”

  “You’re damn right! They’re human beings, they’re not effing investments!”

  “You love children, Smith?”

  “Yes, I love children! What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, then, Smith,” Thomas asked gently, “would you explain something to me? Would you explain to me why it is that the government has not moved to take the children of the linguists away from them? If, as you imply, we treat them coldly and callously, and exploit them—”

  “You do, dammit! You violate the child labor laws before the poor kids are even out of the cradle!”

  “Ah. . . . a forceful phrase. . . . And why is that allowed to go on, Smith? If you took your own child and put it to work in a cornfield from dawn to dark, as we linguists put our children to work in government affairs, the authorities would step in and take that child away from you for its own good, wouldn’t they?”

  Smith had seen what was coming, suddenly, too late, and he squirmed, and swallowed bile, and chewed on his lips.

  “But nobody moves to protect our children from abuse, Smith . . . why is that?”

  “Look—”

  “And when you did take a child from us, Smith, one of our abused children destined for a life of unremitting toil and unrelieved grim labor, why is it that you didn’t take that poor little creature for whom this government has such concern and consideration . . . and compassion, Smith, such compassion . . . and put it straight away in a good home with parents who would love it as it deserved to be loved? Would treat it as it deserved to be treated? You’re a compassionate man, who loves children; why was that infant taken to an Interface—which is precisely and exactly what would have happened to it if you’d left it in our care, except that we would not have killed it—and put to work at three and a half weeks of age?”

  “Oh, god. . . .” The words came choked from Smith’s throat, and they were forced past his lips like solid objects rather than a string of sounds.