Human languages fall into four groups: inflecting ones as in Anglo-American, positional as in Chinese, agglutinative as in Old Turkish, polysynthetic (sentence units) as in Eskimo — to which, of course, we now add alien structures as wildly odd and as nearly impossible for the human brain as non-repetitive or emergent Venerian. Luckily Martian is analogous to human speech forms. Basic Martian, the trade language, is positional and involves only simple concrete ideas — like the greeting: «I see you.» High Martian is polysynthetic and very stylized, with an expression for every nuance of their complex system of rewards and punishments, obligations and debts. It had been almost too much for Bonforte; Penny told me that he could read those arrays of dots they use for writing quite easily but of the spoken form of High Martian he could say only a few hundred sentences.
Brother, how I studied those few he had mastered!
The strain on Penny was even greater than it was on me. Both she and Dak spoke some Martian but the chore of coaching me fell on her as Dak had to spend most of his time in the control room; Jock's death had left him shorthanded. We dropped from two gravities to one for the last few million miles of the approach, during which time he never came below at all. I spent it learning the ritual I would have to know for the adoption ceremony, with Penny's help.
I had just completed running through the speech in which I was to accept membership in the Kkkah nest — a speech not unlike that, in spirit, with which an orthodox Jewish boy assumes the responsibilities of manhood, but as fixed, as invariable, as Hamlet's soliloquy. I had read it, complete with Bonforte's mispronunciations and facial tic; I finished and asked, «How was that?»
«That was quite good,» she answered seriously.
«Thanks, Curly Top.» It was a phrase I had lifted from the language — practice spools in Bonforte's files; it was what Bonforte called her when he was feeling mellow — and it was perfectly in character.
«Don't you dare call me that!»
I looked at her in honest amazement and answered, still in character, «Why, Penny my child!»
«Don't you call me that, either! You fake! You phony! You — actor!» She jumped up, ran as far as she could — which was only to the door — and stood there, faced away from me, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking with sobs.
I made a tremendous effort and lifted myself out of the character — pulled in my belly, let my own face come up, answered in my own voice. «Miss Russell!»
She stopped crying, whirled around, looked at me, and her jaw dropped. I added, still in my normal self, «Come back here and sit down.»
I thought she was going to refuse, then she seemed to think better of it, came slowly back and sat down, her hands in her lap but with her face that of a little girl who is «saving up more spit.»
I let her sit for a moment, then said quietly, «Yes, Miss Russell, I am an actor. Is that a reason for you to insult me?»
She simply looked stubborn.
«As an actor, I am here to do an actor's job. You know why. You know, too, that I was tricked into taking it — it is not a job I would have accepted with my eyes open, even in my wildest moments. I hate having to do it considerably more than you hate having me do it — for despite Captain Broadbent's cheerful assurances I am not at all sure that I will come out of it with my skin intact — and I'm awfully fond of my skin; it's the only one I have. I believe, too, that I know why you find it hard to accept me. But is that any reason for you to make my job harder than it has to be?»
She mumbled. I said sharply, «Speak up!»
«It's dishonest! It's indecent!»
I sighed. «It certainly is. More than that, it is impossible — without the wholehearted support of the other members of the cast. So let's call Captain Broadbent down here and tell him. Let's call it off.»
She jerked her face up and said, «Oh no! We can't do that.»
«Why can't we? A far better thing to drop it now than to present it and have it flop. I can't give a performance under these conditions. Let's admit it.»
«But — but — we've got to! It's necessary.»
'Why is it necessary, Miss Russell? Political reasons? I have not the slightest interest in politics — and I doubt if you have any really deep interest. So why must we do it?»
«Because — because he — » She stopped, unable to go on, strangled by sobs.
I got up, went over, and put a hand on her shoulder. «I know. Because if we don't, some thing that he has spent years building up will fall to pieces. Because he can't do it himself and his friends are trying to cover up and do it for him. Because his friends are loyal to him. Because you are loyal to him. Nevertheless, it hurts you to see someone else in the place that is rightfully his. Besides that, you are half out of your mind with grief and worry about him. Aren't you?»
«Yes.» I could barely hear it.
I took hold of her chin and tilted her face up. «I know why you find it so hard to have me here, in his place. You love him. But I'm doing the best job for him I know how.Confound it, woman! Do you have to make my job six times harder by treating me like dirt?»
She looked shocked. For a moment I thought she was going to slap me. Then she said brokenly, «I am sorry. I am very sorry. I won't let it happen again.»
I let go her chin and said briskly, «Then let's get back to work.»
She did not move. «Can you forgive me?»
«Huh? There's nothing to forgive, Penny. You were acting up because you love him and you were worried. Now let's get to work. I've got to be letter perfect — and it's only hours away.» I dropped at once back into the role.
She picked up a spool and started the projector again. I watched him through it once, then did the acceptance speech with the sound cut out but stereo on, matching my voice — his voice, I mean — to the moving image. She watched me, looking from the image back to my face with a dazed look on her own. We finished and I switched it off myself. «How was that?»
«That was perfect!»
I smiled his smile. «Thanks, Curly Top.»
«Not at all — 'Mr. Bonforte.'»
Two hours later we made rendezvous with the Go For Broke.
Dak brought Roger Clifton and Bill Corpsman to my cabin as soon as the Go For Broke had transferred them. I knew them from pictures. I stood up and said, «Hello, Rog. Glad to see you, Bill.» My voice was warm but casual; on the level at which these people operated, a hasty trip to Earth and back was simply a few days' separation and nothing more. I limped over and offered my hand. The ship was at the moment under low boost as it adjusted to a much tighter orbit than the Go For Broke had been riding in.
Clifton threw me a quick glance, then played up. He took his cigar out of his mouth, shook hands, and said quietly, «Glad to see you back, Chief.» He was a small man, bald-headed and middle-aged, and looked like a lawyer and a good poker player.
«Anything special while I was away?»
«No. Just routine. I gave Penny the file.»
«Good.» I turned to Bill Corpsman, again offered my hand.
He did not take it. Instead he put his fists on his hips, looked up at me, and whistled. «Amazing! I really do believe we stand a chance of getting away with it.» He looked me up and down, then said, «Turn around, Smythe. Move around. I want to see you walk.»
I found that I was actually feeling the annoyance that Bonforte would have felt at such uncalled-for impertinence, and, of course, it showed in my face. Dak touched Corpsman's sleeve and said quickly, «Knock it off, Bill. You remember what we agreed?»
«Chicken tracks!» Corpsman answered. «This room is soundproof. I just want to make sure he is up to it. Smythe, how's your Martian? Can you spiel it?»