“I’ll discuss the question with your superiors,” Hauksberg said. “But gentlemen, this is s’posed to be a social evenin’. Forget business and have another drink or ten, eh?”
His gossip from Terra was scandalous and comical. “Darling,” Persis said, “you mustn’t cynicize our guest of honor. Let’s go talk more politely, Ensign.”
“W-w-with joy, Donna.”
The suite was interior, but a viewscreen gave on the scene outside. Snowfall had stopped; mountaintops lay gaunt and white beneath the moons. Persis shivered. “What a dreadful place. I pray we can bring you home soon.”
He was emboldened to say, “I never expected a, uh, highborn and, uh, lovely lady to come this long, dull, dangerous way.”
She laughed. “I highborn? But thanks. You’re sweet.” Her lashes fluttered. “If I can help my lord by traveling with him … how could I refuse? He’s working for Terra. So are you. So should I. All of us together, wouldn’t that be best?” She laughed again. “I’m sorry to be the only girl here. Would your officers mind if we danced a little?”
He went back to quarters with his head afloat. Nonetheless, next day he gave Jan van Zuyl a good bottle’s worth.
At the center of a soundproofed room, whose fluoros glared with Saxo light, the Siravo floated in a vitryl tank surrounded by machines.
He was big, 210 centimeters in length and thick of body. His skin was glabrous, deep blue on the back, paler greenish blue on the stomach, opalescent on the gillcovers. In shape he suggested a cross between dolphin, seal, and man. But the flukes, and the two flippers near his middle, were marvels of musculature with some prehensile capability. A fleshy dorsal fin grew above. Not far behind the head were two short, strong arms; except for vestigial webs, the hands were startlingly humanlike. The head was big and golden of eyes, blunt of snout, with quivering cilia flanking a mouth that had lips.
Abrams, Hauksberg, and Flandry entered. (“You come too,” the commander had said to the ensign. “You’re in this thing ass deep.”) The four marines on guard presented arms. The technicians straightened from their instruments.
“At ease,” Abrams said. “Freely translated: get the hell back to work. How’s she coming, Leong?”
“Encouraging, sir,” the scientific chief answered. “Computation from neurological and encéphalographie data shows he can definitely stand at least a half-intensity hypnoprobing without high probability of permanent lesion. We expect to have apparatus modified for underwater use in another couple of days.”
Hauksberg went to the tank. The swimmer moved toward him. Look met look; those were beautiful eyes in there. Hauksberg was flushing as he turned about. “Do you mean to torture that bein’?” he demanded.
“A light hypnoprobing isn’t painful, my lord,” Abrams said.
“You know what I mean. Psychological torture. ‘Specially when he’s in the hands of utter aliens. Ever occur to you to talk with him?”
“That’s easy? My lord, the Kursovikians have tried for centuries. Our only advantages over them are that we have a developed theory of linguistics, and vocalizers to reproduce his kind of sounds more accurately. From the Tigeries and xenological records we have a trifle of his language. But only a trifle. The early expeditions investigated this race more thoroughly in the Kimraig area, where the Merseians are now, no doubt for just that reason. The cultural patterns of Charlie here are completely unknown to us. And he hasn’t been exactly cooperative.”
“Would you be, in his place?”
“Hope not. But my lord, we’re in a hurry too. His people may be planning a massive operation, like against settlements in the Chain. Or he may up and die on us. We think he has an adequate diet and such, but how can we be certain?” Hauksberg scowled. “You’ll destroy any chance of gettin’ his cooperation, let alone his trust.”
“For negotiation purposes? So what have we lost? But we won’t necessarily alienate him forever. We don’t know his psyche. He may well figure ruthlessness is in the day’s work. God knows Tigeries in small boats get short shrift from any Seatrolls they meet. And—” The great blue shape glided off to the end of the tank—”he looks pretty, but he is no kin of you or me or the landfolk.”