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Misunderstanding Twelve
by Carl Frederick
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Science Fiction

Copyright ©2004 by Carl Frederick

First published in Analog Magazine, April 2004

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Roger zoomed his Gyroscooter through the streets of Free-trade City. But even just standing on the scooter took considerable effort in the 1.2 Earth-norm gravity and the chill winds of Delva in summer. Still, it would be worth it if he could finally impress his boss.

At an intersection, he stopped to make way for a clear-domed State touring-vehicle. Roger bristled as the Delvan lounging in the back seat looked down his nose at him—down his long pig-like snout—and give a condescending nod as if he owned the galaxy. But then, the Delvans practically did own the galaxy. Delva monopolized interstellar trade, leaving only crumbs for other planetary civilizations. And even those meager contracts had to be negotiated in Free-trade City.

When the touring-vehicle had passed, Roger gunned his scooter. Just ahead, he could see the Nril Trade Embassy. It was almost as small as the Terran facility. But then again, Earth was new to the Oxygen-breathers Trade Federation.

Roger pulled into the parking area of the Nriln complex, stasis-locked his scooter and, feeling far older than his twenty-seven years, trudged toward the door.

Inside, as the door whooshed shut behind him, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled the sweet air. The Nriln preferred an even higher oxygen-level than did humans.

Roger switched on his translator. All trade operatives in the city had received one as a ‘Welcome to Delva’ gift. But the translators were unpredictable. Internally, they used Delvan as an intermediary language. With such a huge number of languages in the galaxy, it was the only way that every language could convert to every other. But it made for some awkward translations.

Roger walked up to a Nriln sitting behind the reception desk.

The Nriln were humanoid, roughly human in size, had two eyestalks and two six-fingered hands. They had a mouth for eating, breathing, and talking. In addition, they had four small noses. These noses had vocal cords and could each produce a variety of simple tones. Just an hour ago, Roger had discovered why those noses made the Delvan-translators unreliable.

“State your language,” said the Nriln, pressing the ‘Identify Language’ button on its translator.

“AngloTerran."

“I bid you no welcome,” said the Nriln accompanied by a slew of nose tones.

“Thank you.” Roger didn't take offense. He understood the translator's shortcomings. “Could you speak your written language, please?"

“Yes, Of course I could."

Roger rolled his eyes. “Then do it. Please speak the written language."

The Nriln snapped back in its chair, its eyestalks quivering. Then it seemed to relax. “Our spoken language is ugly and capable of no subtlety,” said the Nriln. “We are maximally contemptuous of it."

“Please."

The Nriln swiveled its eyestalks in a furtive scan around the entrance hall and then repointed them at Roger. “It is maximally rude of you to ask,” said the Nriln, very softly and with subdued nose-tones. “But since you are obviously an alien with knowledge zero of our ways, I shall speak the written language."

“Thank you,” said Roger. “I'm from The Terran Unified Trade Embassy. I'm the AngloTerran Junior Cultural Liaison."

“Whom are you here to see?"

“Duncan Frye, the AngloTerran Trade Commissioner."

“Maximally unfeasible,” said the Nriln. “We would have to hold him down. And it would take a lot of oil."

“What?"

“Is it an Earth ritual of some sort?” The Nriln crossed its eyestalks.

Sheesh. Roger threw a glance at the ceiling. Damned Delvan-translators. He tried to look the Nriln directly in the eyes, but the creature's independently-moving eyestalks made that difficult. Roger spoke slowly. “I've come to see the AngloTerran Trade Commissioner, Mr. Frye. He's here negotiating for the purchase of Yttrium from Nril."

“Excuse the misunderstanding.” The Nriln consulted a computer monitor, then pointed down a hallway. “They are in not-particularly-grand conference-room number one four."

“Thank you."

Roger hurried down the hallway, counting doors as he went. They were each dual-labeled in what appeared to be Nriln and Delvan, but Roger could read neither language. He tried the fourteenth door, but the room was empty. Then he had an idea. The Nriln had six fingers per hand so their number system was probably base-twelve. Fourteen base-twelve would be sixteen base-ten. Roger went two doors further and then heard Duncan's frustrated voice coming from within.

“No, no. A mining-ship is not another kind of partnership. Please. Try to understand."

Roger tapped on the door and walked in. He saw Duncan sitting at one side of a rectangular conference table and two Nriln sitting opposite. As he entered, Duncan looked over at him and the Nriln moved their eyestalks further apart. Roger gave the ‘time out’ sign and padded up to Duncan. “Excuse the interruption, sir, but I've just learned something about the Nriln language—something that might make the negotiation go more smoothly."

“Oh?” said Duncan, raising his eyebrows. He looked every bit the career diplomat: early fifties, immaculately attired, manicured fingernails although God knows where he found a manicurist on Delva. And he seemed a man very comfortable with his job.

“I've been info-diving the computer,” said Roger. “And I've found out why it's so hard to understand spoken Nriln."

Duncan turned to the Nriln. “I'm sorry for the interruption, but my young colleague has just informed me of something that requires my immediate attention. Might I beg a short recess?"

The Nriln agreed and the Terrans went out to the hall for a talk.

* * * *

“So Nriln is tonal,” said Duncan, lounging against the wall of the corridor. “Many languages are tonal."

“Not exactly tonal,” said Roger, trying not to sound as if he were lecturing. “More like polyphonic. The Nriln language uses functionals. A single word is used for a concept and its opposite."

“That's it?” said Duncan. “It seems a small thing compared to say, Trelgvar, for instance, where the noun forms depend on the weather."

“Yeah, I know,” said Roger. “But in Nriln, next to an adjective, they put a number from zero to twelve to give the meaning."

“I'm not sure I understand. And why does it matter? The Delvan-translators should take care of it. I don't think this has any—"

“No, wait,” said Roger. “Let's invent a word. Badgood. Badgood zero would mean very very bad, badgood twelve would mean very very good, and badgood seven would mean so-so in the bad-good domain."

“But I still don't see—"

“That's for the written language. But in speech, especially the flowery speech of politicians and diplomats, they leave out the numbers."

“That's ridiculous,” said Duncan. “How could they understand each other?"

“It's the tones.” Roger tapped his nose. “They indicate emotional content. But the Nriln often use tones for numerical information as well.” Roger shrugged. “I'm not even sure they know they're doing it."

“Ah.” Duncan nodded in comprehension. “It's like the grand-opera you're always singing around the office."

“Well, yes, sort of.” Roger laughed. “Grand-opera where the orchestra is made up of badly-tuned bagpipes."

Duncan glowered.

“Ur,” said Roger. “Duncan Frye is a Scottish name, isn't it?"

“Yesssss."

“Sorry.” Roger bit his lower lip. “About the bagpipe comment, I mean,” he added, quickly. “But anyway, now we know why it's so hard to understand spoken Nriln. The translators don't interpret the tones."

“Couldn't we just ask them to speak their written language?"

“I don't think so,” said Roger. “I've learned that it's very rude to ask that."

“Yes, they do seem exceptionally touchy about their language.” Duncan rubbed his forehead. “Even more so than the French. But please tell me you have a solution? I'd like to get this Yttrium contract negotiated."

“Well, as you say, I'm a grand-opera fan. With a little effort, I should be able to give you a rough idea of the missing functional-numbers."

Duncan blew out a breath. “Are you sure? Max is a very high-level official—shipped in just for this negotiation."

“I'm pretty confident.” Roger wrinkled his nose. “Max? You said the Nriln's name is Max?"

“More like Magszh. But I just call him Max. I don't think he notices.” Duncan straightened his tie. “All right. We'll give your idea a try. Let's go in and negotiate. Oh, and the other Nriln is named Vurzh. He's the senior trade Kurzsher."

“Kurzsher?

“I don't know what it means.” Duncan shrugged. “I expected you to know."

* * * *

Back in the conference room, Duncan made introductions. Then Max stood and began to sing.

Roger shot Duncan a quizzical look.

“It's a welcoming speech, I think,” Duncan whispered. “Scared the hell out of me the first time I heard it."

“And, I imagine,” said Roger, “that the Delvan-translators are useless."

“Totally."

Roger leaned back in his chair and tried to look intelligent and comprehending. It was a skill he'd picked up in graduate school.

When Max had finished singing, he drooped his eyestalks for a moment. It seemed something like a bow.

Max sat and as he did, Roger jumped to his feet.

“What are you doing?” said Duncan, softly.

“I'm going to sing."

“You're what?"

“Tit for tat,” said Roger. “He sang. Now I'll sing."

“I'm not entirely sure this is a good idea."

“We don't understand them,” said Roger. “We should at least give them the chance not to understand us.” He bowed toward the two Nriln. “They say that music is the universal language."

“We'll see.” Duncan shrugged. “You're the cultural expert."

Roger took a breath and then started singing. Largo al factotum della citta. La la la la la la la la! He looked over at the Nriln. He knew he was having an impact; they had crossed their eyestalks. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro. Figaro! Now they were talking to each other and gesticulating at him. Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro su, Figaro giu, Figaro su, Figaro giu. Roger was pleased with himself. He'd never sung this aria so well, and never to an audience. Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo; Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo; a te fortuna, a te fortuna, a te fortuna non manchera. The Nriln had uncrossed their eyestalks and were staring straight at him. Della citta, della citta, Della citta! La la la la la la la la la!

Roger bowed again. The Nriln began walking toward him.

He turned to Duncan. “I think I impressed them."

“You impressed them, alright,” said Duncan. “They probably think you're out of your mind."

The Nriln stopped in front of Roger. “That was certainly the worst oratory we've ever heard,” said Max in a scream of nose-tones.

“I thought as much,” said Duncan.

Roger's face clouded, but then brightened. “Wait,” he said. “It's the nose tones. He means that it was the best oratory they've ever heard. I'm sure of it. And ‘oratory’ can mean ‘singing', I think."

Roger beamed at Max. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. I used to sing in college, you know."

“Please come with us,” said Max. “We will send someone down to attend to you."

“I think he really did mean ‘worst',” said Duncan as an aside.

Max swiveled his eyestalks to Duncan. “You come too—to calm your colleague."

“I'm calm,” said Roger.

“Come.” Vurzh put an arm around Roger's shoulder and urged him toward the door.

“I'm calm,” Roger shouted.

“I can not believe this,” said Max. “At a trade negotiation, this Terran comes in and maximally ridicules our language by engaging in an oratory of nonsense words."

“Ridicule? No.” Roger tried to escape Vurzh's hold, but the Nriln's grip was solid. “And they weren't nonsense words. It was a language called Italian."

“Italian?” said Max. “I have never heard of the planet Italia.” He wriggled his eyestalks in derision. “And what kind of a word is lalalalalalalalala?"

“Italian is a Terran language, I think,” said Vurzh.

“What. Another one?"

“Yes,” said Roger. “Earth has lots of languages, but—"

“And lalalalalalalalala?” said Max, not even bothering to cross his eyestalks.

“Well, yes,” said Roger. “I admit that was a nonsense word but—"

“Deranged,” said Max.

“No doubt,” said Vurzh. “We must bring them down to the contemplation-room, and then see if Ingvrau is in the building."

“Agreed.” Max turned his stalks toward Roger. “You are an alien, so we make allowances. But if you were a young Nriln, you would be beaten for committing crimes against language."

“That is,” said Vurzh, “if you were judged sane."

* * * *

“Why couldn't your hobby be stamp-collecting or something?” said Duncan. He paced back and forth in the small room. “But no. You had to be a singer."

“Sorry,” said Roger. “I really thought it was a good idea."

“Good idea, indeed.” Duncan tried the door. It was locked.

The room had a couch and a few overstuffed chairs that could accommodate either Humans or Nriln. The floor was springy and soft, rather like a plush carpet, and the walls had the same bouncy consistency. Diffuse whiteness radiated from the surface of the high ceiling, casting light without shadows against the furniture and the pale blue walls.

“Contemplation room?” said Roger, as he glanced around the enclosure. “Jeez! It's more like a padded cell."

“No kidding,” said Duncan. “I have no idea what the Nriln do with nut-cases."

“What do you mean, ‘nut cases'? It's just a simple misunderstanding.” Roger ran his hand over the soft wall. “Hmm. This stuff is a pretty good sound absorber.” He turned to Duncan. “In any case, our embassy will straighten it out."

“I wouldn't be so sure.” Duncan shook his head. “Technically, we're on Nriln soil; we're subject to their laws."

Just then, the door opened and a plumpish Nriln walked in. “Hello,” he said. “They told me you show only minimal plus one signs of violence.” He spoke with a low, steady, calming drone of nose-tones. “My name is Ingvrau."

“You're a psychiatrist, aren't you?” said Roger.

“Why do you say that?” Ingvrau plopped down on a chair. “Why do you think I'm a psychiatrist? And does that disturb you?"

* * * *

After Dr. Ingvrau's visit, Roger felt better. “I like this Ingvrau,” he said. “He talks very quietly and speaks the written language—and his nose-tones are rather pleasant."

“Probably trying not to rile his patients,” said Duncan, recumbent on a couch.

Roger sat on the edge of one of the chairs, his chin cupped in his hands. He glanced over at the door. “Anyway, I think he believed me when I explained it was just a simple misunderstanding."

“Let's hope."

There came a noise at the door. Roger sprang to his feet as Ingvrau walked in. Duncan swung up to a sitting position.

“All is forgiven,” said Ingvrau with a pleasant wave of his eyestalks. “Magszh and Vurzh cordially invite you to return to the negotiations."

“Very good,” said Duncan as he rolled to his feet. “Let's go.” He cast a sideways glance to Roger. “And no more singing, please."

“No, sir,” said Roger. “No more singing."

At the door of the conference room, Ingvrau took his leave. “It has been a maximum minus two pleasure meeting you.” He widened his eyestalks, then narrowed them again, turned, and walked off.

“Very expressive, those eyestalks,” said Duncan, watching Ingvrau disappear down the hallway.

“Yeah. It's odd though,” said Roger. “I've never seen Nriln use hand or arm gestures."

Duncan reached for the door lever. “Let's go in. But be careful."

Max and Vurzh stood as Duncan and Roger entered the room.

“It is bad having you back with us,” said Max.

“Yes,” said Vurzh. “I trust you are feeling worse, now."

Roger smiled. Damn Delvan-translators.

“Thank you,” said Duncan. He walked to his seat at the table and sat.

Roger followed, but before sitting, he waved at the Nriln, bringing his hand to his forehead in the manner of a salute.

Both Nriln jumped up.

“Again, he insults us,” said Max, his eyestalks quivering.

“Maximally unbelievable.” Vurzh's nose-tones were soft to the point of silence.

“I too am maximally stunned,” said Max, his nose-tones also barely audible.

* * * *

“We could have done these negotiations by phone,” said Duncan. Again, he paced the small room. “But no. You had to insist I do them in person."

Roger, wide-eyed and confused, leaned against the spongy wall of the room. “What happened?"

“Apparently,” said Duncan, “your little military salute didn't go over particularly well. Probably an obscene gesture or something."

“Jeez.” Roger leaned his head against the wall.

A few minutes later, Max and Vurzh entered the room. Vurzh carried a long, thin case.

“Look,” said Roger. “I can explain. I just meant—"

“Be maximally quiet,” said Vurzh, his nose-tones still subdued. He opened the case. In it were two black rods, each about three feet long and a half-inch in diameter. “Choose one,” said Vurzh. “Magszh will take the other."

“Wait,” said Roger. “This is just a misunderstanding. I only—"

“Choose!"

Roger lifted a rod from the case. It was lighter than it looked and had a whippy flexibility. Max took out the other rod made a few passes in the air with it.

Roger looked across at Duncan. “Do you have any idea what's going on?"

“I think you've been challenged to a duel."

“What!"

“We go now to prepare the hitting room,” said Vurzh. “We will come back for you soon.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait,” shouted Roger. “Please. Could you have Ingvrau sent down here?"

“As you wish,” said Vurzh.

“It is your right,” said Max.

The two Nriln left and Roger heard the click of the door-lock.

Duncan stretched out on the couch. “Interesting. It's sort of like one of those comic operas you like so much.” He gave a short chuckle. “I wonder if their nose-singing causes their histrionic behavior, or if the behavior is at the root of the singing."

Roger, standing in the middle of the room, stared down at the rod he held. “This isn't funny,” he said. “Getting hit with this thing could really hurt."

“I think that's the general idea."

Roger threw down the rod. It bounced on the springy carpeting. “Well, I'm not playing this game. I'll refuse the challenge."

“Do you think you can get away with that?"

“How the hell should I know?"

“Well,” said Duncan. “You are the Cultural Liaison. You should know these things."

“Junior Cultural Liaison,” said Roger. “And I've only been on Nril for a few Earth-days. I can't be expected to know everything yet.” He stalked over to a chair, sat, and sulked. Things were going dreadfully; he'd twice fouled up a delicate trade negotiation, he shown himself ill prepared for his job, and now he'd just been very rude to his boss. For an instant, Roger wished he were a little kid; then at least, he could cry.

* * * *

Roger was sulking still, when Ingvrau entered the room.

“I hear that you have done it again,” said Ingvrau as he walked up to Roger's chair. “You have favored Magzh with the maximally unspeakable gesture.” Ingvrau spoke with heavy nose-tones, apparently too distraught to speak the written language. “I am beginning to doubt your sanity.” Ingvrau made an eyestalk gesture that Roger didn't comprehend. “I should not have said that about your sanity.” Ingvrau's tones subsided. “It was maximally minus two unprofessional of me."

Roger stood and, making sure his hands were safely in his pockets, tried to speak slowly and rationally. “I'm sorry. The gesture was a mistake. I didn't know it was obscene."

“How could you not know? You are a trade negotiator. You should be at least ten familiar with our culture."

“Ha,” said Duncan from the couch.

Roger shot a glance at him, then appealed to Ingvrau. “Please,” he said. “I don't want to duel. I refuse to accept Max's challenge."

“You must. Otherwise, they will just hold you down and beat you with the stick.” Ingvrau quizzically crossed his eyestalks. “I do assume your species feels pain when beaten. Yes?"

Duncan walked over. “It really was just an innocent mistake,” he said. “Could you perhaps go to Max and offer him our sincere apology? I don't really think there is a need for violence."

Ingvrau didn't answer, but his nose-tones sounded ominous.

“Please,” said Duncan. “For the sake of interstellar understanding as well as commerce."

Ingvrau emitted a warbling set of tones. “Yes. Very well. I will eleven attempt to explain your actions to Magszh.” He walked to the door. “It may take me so-so in the long-short time domain."

* * * *

When next Ingvrau came to the room, Max, still carrying his stick, walked in behind him. He came up to Roger. “The hitting room is ready."

“What?” Roger looked over at Ingvrau.

The Nriln psychiatrist gave a stalk gesture that Roger now recognized as a shrug. “It is out of my hands,” said Ingvrau. “The duel must go on, I maximally fear. One offense, Magszh could overlook, but not two.” Ingvrau shrugged again. “Two strikes and you are out as you AngloTerrans say."

“That's three strikes,” said Roger.

“Really?” said Ingvrau. “How maximally minus one permissive of you."

Duncan, standing off to the side, furrowed his brow and then walked up beside Roger. “Excuse me,” he said, looking at Ingvrau. “How did you know about our sayings? The Delvan-translators certainly didn't tell you that."

“It is our specialty,” said Ingvrau. “Cultural studies. In fact, the Delvan-translators, as you call them, were developed by us Nril. We just licensed—"

“Stop,” said Max, in a rising flurry of tones. “That is secret. Our contract with the Delvans forbids you from talking about this.” He lowered his eyestalks so they flopped down over his face.

“But that doesn't make sense,” said Roger. “The translators all use Delvan, not Nriln as an intermediate language."

Max ignored him. “I have maximally failed in my obligation,” he said to Ingvrau. “I zero know what to do. We are in breach of contract. The Delvans could sue us and get ownership of the technology.” He walked to a far chair and plopped down. Ingvrau went over and appeared to be comforting him.

Duncan turned to Roger. “It does make sense,” he said. “I'd bet the Delvans negotiated an exclusive contract and demanded that Delvan be the intermediary language.” Duncan shook his head. “Damned clever, these Delvans."

“I don't understand."

“Look,” said Duncan. “Everything is translated to Delvan, and then from Delvan to the target language.” Duncan raised a finger. “Except for Delvan."

“I still don't get it."

“With no intermediary language the translation is smooth. Everyone feels it's easy to deal with the Delvans. It's like the Delvans speak a similar language."

Roger thought about it for a moment. “And that must be why the Delvans pretty much give away the translators” He shook his head in wonderment. “There's no competition in translators, and the Delvans can just go and gobble up all the good interstellar trade deals."

“I think,” said Duncan, “that there's more in play for us here than just a Yttrium contract. I've got to verify this.” He walked over to the Nriln. Roger followed.

Duncan glared down at Max. “If it's your technology, then why isn't Nriln the intermediate language?"

Max didn't answer, and Ingvrau turned his eyestalks to stare at his feet.

“Come on,” said Duncan. “You might as well tell us. The cat's out of the bag, now."

Ingvrau looked up, his eyestalks crossed in puzzlement. “It is?” he said. “What bag?"

“And what is a cat?” said Max, his stalks similarly crossed.

Roger laughed. “It's an AngloTerran saying. It means you have nothing more to lose by telling us."

Max turned his stalks toward Ingvrau “Counsel me, Ingvrau. What should I do?"

“We might as well tell them.” Ingvrau cast a glance at Duncan. “Then we can plead that they keep the secret."

“It is our only choice,” said Max. He stood and tromped to the door. “But first I will bring Nriln translators down here for our guests. There is no need for them to put up with those vishnel zhorghanor Delvan devices anymore.” Max opened the door, then swiveled his eyestalks around to look at Roger and Duncan. “I will be back maximally minus three soon.” He sped out the door.

Roger, Duncan and Ingvrau stood staring awkwardly at each other. Without Max, there really wasn't much to talk about.

“Um. Interesting weather we're having here on Delva,” said Roger.

“It is so-so in the cold-hot domain,” said Ingvrau, “for this time of year."

“That's interesting,” said Duncan, his voice showing an extreme lack of interest.

Max burst back into the room. In his six-fingered hands, he held what looked like two Delvan-translators. “Turn off those zhorghanor Delvan disasters.” Max handed the AngloTerans each a translator. “Ours,” he said, “but in Delvan-translator cases."

While Max walked over to a chair, Duncan and Roger switched them on and popped the buds into their ears.

“I've preset them to AngloTerran,” said Max. “I'm inclined to think you'll find the translations quite acceptable now."

“I say, chaps,” said Ingvrau, This is indeed rather better, yes?"

“Yes,” said Roger, softly, dazed by Ingvrau's new accent.

“Yes, indeed,” said Duncan.

“Very good, then.” Max sat and indicated the others do the same. “Now, I expect, we can hold a reasonable conversation. It's much better without those damn blasted Delvan atrocities."

Roger and Duncan nodded.

“To answer your question.” said Max, “The Delvans demanded of us that their language be used as the intermediate language for the translators."

“But,” said Roger, “why didn't you make translators interpret nose-tones? It's your language, after all."

“We didn't think it appropriate to have the emotional content of our words translated,” said Max. “And in any case, the Delvans didn't particularly desire it either."

“No,” said Roger. “I mean the leaving out of the numeric adjective modifiers."

“We do that, do we?” said Ingvrau.

“Hmm. Perhaps we do, at times,” said Max. “I hadn't really thought about it."

Duncan laughed. “But still, you spoke to us using those tones that we couldn't understand."

“Dear boy,” said Ingvrau. “We weren't about to let the Delvans tell us how to speak our language."

“I'm surprised you had anything to do with them at all,” said Roger.

“The Delvans are superb traders and are good at packaging.” Max dropped his eyestalks. His distress was easy to see. “And they negotiate fiercely.” He sighed. “I'm exceedingly worried. Our home planet can scarcely afford the loss of the Delvan contract monies, not to mention the penalty we're subject to for revealing the secret."

Roger was struck with an idea. He started to raise his hand but stopped in time. “But interstellar law always allows you to confide in your lawyers."

Duncan looked at him, quizzically.

“I'm sorry, old chap,” said Ingvrau. “But I'm not entirely sure what you're driving at."

“There's nothing that says your contract lawyers must be Nriln,” said Roger. He glanced over at Duncan and saw the light of comprehension in his expression—and also a look of admiring approval. Roger smiled.

“My colleague is correct,” said Duncan. “And while your planetary specialty is Cultural Studies, ours is litigation.” He straightened his tie. “I, by the way, happen to be a contract lawyer—an AngloTerran requirement for a trade ambassador. I offer my services."

“Except,” said Roger, “there's that little matter of the duel. I hope my apology will suffice and you'll forgo the bashing with sticks.” Listening to himself speak, Roger felt embarrassed. He had affected the English accent that the Nriln had chosen for their translators.

Max, ignoring Roger, kept his eyes on Duncan. “Do you really think you can find us a, shall we say, loophole in the Delvan contract?"

“Most likely,” said Duncan. “How soon could I have an English language translation of it?"

“Immediately.” Max spoke into his wrist-communicator, then looked up. “Done. It's waiting for us in the conference room."

“That was quick,” said Roger.

“It's rather our specialty,” said Max. “Oh. And apology accepted. I withdraw my challenge to a duel.” He narrowed his eyestalks and peered at Roger. “Friends, yes?"

“Yes,” said Roger.

* * * *

In the conference room, Duncan pored over the contract. Vurzh and Ingvrau sat at the table across from Duncan while Max and Roger peered over Duncan's shoulder.

“What do you think?” said Roger.

“It says the Nriln can't license or sell the technology to any other culture and there's a non-compete clause; The Nriln can't build and sell translators.” Duncan pushed away the contract and sighed. “It looks pretty solid."

“Oh dear,” said Max. “We were afraid of that."

“Wait!” Roger bounded to his feet. “Listen. Is there any reason the Nriln couldn't just give the technology away? To us, for example."

Duncan laughed. “Well, yes. I guess they could do that. But other than for spite, I can't see why they'd want to."

“Nor can I,” said Max. “As enjoyable as it might be, old chap, we do indeed need the revenue."

“Oh, I don't know,” said Roger. “Maybe you might just do it to say ‘thank you’ to a group that contracts to buy all the Yttrium you can produce—at a sale price of say, twenty times the going market rate."

“Roger,” said Duncan. “You're good at this."

Roger, warmed by the rare complement, smiled, and then continued. “And of course we might get you a research grant to create translators for all languages without having to use an intermediary language—especially Delvan."

“Jolly good show,” said Max. “But is this in your power to deliver?"

Roger turned to his colleague.

“Yes,” said Duncan. “My government has granted me wide powers in matters of trade.” He smiled. “But do you have the authority."

“Quite,” said Max.

“Fine.” Duncan leaned back in his chair. “Let's draw up an agreement."

“One moment,” said Vurzh. “This seems a trifle dodgy to me—a bit of a sticky wicket, if you know what I mean."

“What?” said Roger.

“I'm not sure I do know what you mean,” said Duncan.

“I was just wondering,” said Vurzh. “Would this scheme hold up under the scrutiny of the Panstellar Trade Court?"

“Oh, I think so.” Duncan shrugged. “The Delvans will appeal of course, and the litigation and counter litigation could go on for generations. But by then, it won't matter.” He smiled. “But if the court rules against us, then we'll appeal."

Max narrowed his stalks. “Splendid. I'm quite satisfied. Let's do indeed draw up our little agreement."

“But first.” Vurzh stood and stepped back from the table. “As it is our tradition, we must first sing some oratory."

Max and Ingvrau moved to stand beside Vurzh, and the three of them began their rite of custom.

Even though, using the Nriln translators, Roger understood the commentary, he still grimaced. With all the shrieking and squealing, it sounded like a bagpipe band had fallen into a cement mixer. He opened his mouth to speak, but Duncan kicked his ankle.

“Don't say it,” said Duncan, softly. “Don't say a word. And for God sake's, keep your hands in your pockets.” Then he added, “And good work, by the way."

END