1
The
Thwurbullerian’s Tale
The third
moon of Pkqwrd was possibly the most boring place in the Known Universe, as the
long-necked, hirsute six-legged being leaning on the bar at the
Thwurbullerian’s side had just courteously explained. He was—the Thwurbullerian
was almost sure the being was a “he,” the females tended to be larger—he was a
xathpyroid, but the Thwurbullerian was both large-minded enough and experienced
enough in the ways of the worlds of the two galaxies not to hold that against
him. It was almost sure he’d been testing its shield, but as it was pretty
confident that not much less than the probe of a Space Patrol Captain could get
past it, it wasn’t too worried: the xathpyroid’s mind-powers were nothing like
as strong as the probe of a Space Patrol Captain. Or at least—the
Thwurbullerian took another look—not in their present under-exercised state. It
had a feeling he might have noticed it looking, however, so it politely stopped
and offered the being another basin of qwlot.
“On me,” he
said quickly. Well, he wasn’t all bad, for a xathpyroid, not to be
anything-ist.
The
Thwurbullerian having accepted graciously, BrTl called for another basin of
qwlot for himself and another IG barrel of Rwthwarian ale for it. Just as well
it wasn't drinking qwlot, he didn't have the igs to pay for a barrel and the
ship’s credit couldn’t stand it. It thanked him, waggling its frontal lobes
politely, and he bared his teeth cautiously at it.
“I see,” it
said politely in response to this gesture: “your crew are Yufwrs.”
“Uh—no,” he
admitted. “Close. My Captain’s a mammalian.”
Not Friyrian?—Not Friyrian —Not
Friyrian?—Not Friyrian? Almost deafened by
the horrified emanations from around the bar, not to say from over the other
side of the room—who in the Asteroids of Hhum was that being that was
eavesdropping over there?—BrTl shook his head slightly. Only slightly: it was a
gesture understood by most sentient beings of the Federated Worlds of the Two Galaxies,
but that didn’t mean that all bar ceilings were built to take it when the being
making it was a xathpyroid. “No: humanoid.”
“I see,”
said the Thwurbullerian with a polite waggle of its frontal lobes.
BrTl could
see it didn’t. “They do that teeth-baring,” he explained. “Like Yufwrs.”
And Friyrians? went the shuddering
emanations, who was that being over
there?
Unlike Friyrians, he broadcast clearly
and all the emanations abruptly stopped.
“Sure you
won’t have a drop of qwlot in that ale?” he asked, cheering up amazingly.
“No, thanks,
Lieutenant: not suited to the metabolism,” it said sadly. “Have you ever been
to Hoollmabaria?”
“Um… no.”
“That’s very
boring, too. Unless you’re a dust-mite.”
“I see: a
dust world, is it?”
“Yes. As flat
as this moon,” it reported sadly. “I’m from Luqulla, myself, as you can
probably see from the veins on my frontal lobes.”
“Of course,”
he lied quickly. One Thwurbullerian looked pretty much like another
Thwurbullerian, varying only in size from huge to outsize, most other sentient
beings were pretty generally agreed, but of course it would have been very rude
to imply that.
“We have
lovely hills and valleys there. And beautiful stretches of inland fresh water,”
it said wistfully.
BrTl was
speaking Intergalactic, he generally did when he was flat-worlding, it saved
bother, but he wasn’t too sure the Thwurbullerian was. “Lakes?” he said
cautiously.
“What? Yes,
lakes. Sorry, did I say beautiful stretches of inland fresh water? We call them
that in my home district.”
Ah! Now they
were cooking with blobs! “We’ve got a dialect word for them, too,” he said
happily, “especially when they’re rather small and round and a beautiful shade
of nwhortlp.”
“Jade
green?” it ventured.
“Almost,” conceded
BrTl kindly.
“Ours are
pale mauve,” it said sadly. “They reflect the sky, of course.”
“So do
ours,” he agreed sadly. “So do ours…”
A mournful,
homesick silence pervaded their area of the extensive Level Pink o-breather spaceport
bar of the third moon of Pkqwrd…
“No, well,
this moon is not exciting, in fact the expression ‘an FW dump’ would not be
inappropriate,” said the Thwurbullerian briskly, pulling itself
together—fortunately spaceport bars licensed by the Intergalactic Spaceport Licensing
Authority were built of tempered xrillion—“but I have to admit, this bar isn’t
bad at all!”
“No. Every o-breather
being on the third moon comes here, sooner or later. And some only come here, of course!” The
xathpyroid expression of amusement wouldn’t be appropriate, spacious though
this ISLA bar was, so he gave a slight hoot on two notes down his noses, it was
recognised as amusement by many— Not this being, it was emanating alarm and the
servo-mech in charge of the bar had come up silently and was pointing a small
let’s-hope-that’s-not-a-probe at him.
“Um, sorry;
I was trying to express mild amusement.”
It’s all right, that’s not a probe, the
Thwurbullerian replied. Aloud it said with a polite waggle of the frontal
lobes: “Of course, Lieutenant.”
It might not
be a probe but on principle BrTl gave the servo-mech a look of dislike and it
slid silently away again. “Thank the Federation I’m just passing through,” he
admitted.
“Yes, it’s a
convenient place to transfer for many worlds,” it said sadly. “Many worlds.”
“Been stuck
here before, have you?” deduced BrTl, not even having to read it.
“Innumerable
times. It always seems like a lifetime,” said the Thwurbullerian sadly.
Er—yes. Did
they regenerate or not?
No, it sent mournfully. It’s Orpetularians you’re thinking of. We
don’t divide.
“Nor do we,”
said BrTl politely aloud. This sort of polite conversation wasn’t exactly him. Well, amongst xathpyroid cognates
it was different, of course, but even amongst other spacers he didn’t
generally— Put it like this, most Thwurbullerians were very polite beings, a lot
of them went in for the Diplomatic Service, that sort of space garbage, and you
didn’t want to hurt their feelings by being coarse. Added to which there were
rumours extant in cruder sorts of bar than this nicely maintained ISLA one that
just occasionally, if one really got on the wrong side, so to speak, of a
Thwurbullerian, they tended to sit on you.
“At home,”
it said, with a strong waggle of its frontal lobes, “if we’re waiting for a
bubble-train we sit round and tell stories.” It looked at him mildly—not that
that meant anything much: they usually looked mild, they were big enough not to
have to bother not to—but he thought he caught an emanation of hopefulness as
well.
At this the
pink-crested Nblyterian at BrTl’s other side looked round and said: “Do you? So
do we! And when we’re camping in the wilderness, that sort of thing!”
The two
large beings propped on the higher section of the bar looked down kindly at the
Nblyterian and the hairy one said: “I'm not quite sure what this ‘untamed
nature with many plants and feral beings’ stuff is, but xathpyroids tell
stories when a clutch of cognates get together over a few basins of qwlot of an
evening. Well, not so much cognates from the same culture-pod, that’s more
pulling the neck-hair and, uh, copious drinking, but when it’s cognates from
different culture-pods—definitely.”
“Well, fancy
that!” said the Thwurbullerian brightly. “It just shows there’s nothing new in
the Known Universe! What about when you’re waiting for a bubble-train?”
They must have really rotten public
transport on Luqulla. Though, true, public transport on most worlds tended to
be that way. “No; we tend to, uh,” he glanced warily at its large, virtually
shapeless physique—“give up waiting and lope, instead.”
“You would
do,” it conceded, looking enviously at his six legs.
“Couldn't
you whistle up an untranslatable noise?” asked the Nblyterian—BrTl wasn’t sure
whether the being was a “he” or a “she” but he was now sure s/he was rather
drunk, that pink stuff in her/s S/IG shot glass wasn’t the “Refreshing
Gorbachian Plum Juice” the bar was super-optimistically advertising, it was
fermented laa. Guaranteed to send the average sentient metabolism into orbit
within two Standard Intergalactic seconds of its passing the gullet.
“No, we
don't have those,” he said briefly, not bothering to ask what they were.
“Oh, no!” s/he
said, giggling—he thought s/he must be a mammalian, because his Captain also
giggled when rather drunk. “You wouldn’t do! They’re native to Nblyteria!”
Quite. “Have
another fermented laa,” said BrTl generously. “In fact why not be really adventurous
and top it up with a shot of Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice?”
Sue enough,
the Nblyterian collapsed in helpless giggles, so his guess had been right, the
being must be mammalian. He still couldn’t tell if s/he was male or female,
though.
Both? ventured the Thwurbullerian.
No! he replied crossly, forgetting his
manners.
“Yes!” hooted
the Nblyterian helplessly. “Sorry,” s/he said, straightening and blowing her/s
one nose—ooh, his Captain did that, too! “We are both. I’m in my female stage at
the moment.” She waved at her short, not to be anything-ist, person. “Tall,
see?”
The two
large beings looked down kindly at her and lied kindly: “Yes. Of course.”
“I’m
blndrabllindrD w blndreL,” she said, baring her teeth at them. “Call me
blndreL.”
“I’m BrTl,”
explained BrTl, politely baring his teeth back. “Call me BrTl. You, too,
Thwurbullerian.”
The Thwurbullerian
didn’t have the physiology for teeth-baring, in fact it didn’t have teeth, so
it just waggled its frontal lobes at each of them in turn and said: “Good to
meet you, blndreL. I’d be happy to call you BrTl, BrTl. We don’t have personal
or group appellations: I’m Forty-Four from Untranslatable Shade of Mauve
Sector. If you’d like to, you could both call me Forty-Four.”
“Would you be happy with that?” asked blndreL.
“Very
happy,” it said, emanating happiness.
“Good! We
will then, Forty-Four, won’t we, BrTl?”
BrTl began
to nod, it was a gesture his Captain often used, but stopped in time. It was
generally considered impolite in the worlds of the two galaxies to make
gestures which moved that much air. “Yes, I’d like to, Forty-Four. There’s a
corner-looking corner free over there with a Nblyterian-sized table quite handy
to it: shall we take our drinks over there?”
“Yes, let’s;
and perhaps these Feeny-Argyllians would care to join us?” said blndreL kindly
in response to the eager emanations from her other side.
“Yes,
please!” chorused the slender quadrupedal beings. “I’m One, and I’m Two,” they
said.
They always
were, but Forty-Four, BrTl and blndreL acknowledged the introduction politely
and introduced themselves. And after One and Two had explained that this yellow
Flppu was theirs but it wouldn’t be a nuisance, and its name was
S-Fl’Chuyilleea, they all went over there.
A certain
amount of confusion then ensued, only partly because both of the paired beings
attempted to sit on the one chair, and rather more because their Flppu ordered
a fermented nnru juice from the servo-mech while they were sorting themselves
out, but eventually all beings had an appropriate vessel in their appendages.
And the Thwurbullerian began happily: “Well, shall I beg— Oh,” it said,
swivelling the frontal lobes: “would that be your Captain, BrTl?”
BrTl peered.
Small, not to be anything-ist, bipedal, wearing Durocloth coveralls… “I haven’t
seen her for a while,” he apologised. “Um, she’s not due yet. –Been called up
for a bit of Wavey-Spacey duty,” he explained to those of the company whom he
hadn't already told. “Um, it does look like her… Is it a humanoid?”
“Yes,” said
blndreL and Forty-Four definitely.
“Yes!”
squeaked the Flppu.
BrTl peered…
“She is a
female,” said blndreL helpfully.
“Is she? I
mean, so she is. Um, no, her head-fur isn’t that colour.” He peered… Is that you?
No!
came the laughing reply.
Jumping ten
IG fluh, he muttered: “Uh—no. Not her.”
“They do all
look alike,” said One and Two kindly. “Not to be anything-ist!” they chorused.
“Yeah,” he
muttered. “It’s been a while. And the light in this bar isn’t adjusted to my
retinal range.”
“Try
blinking!” gasped blndreL, collapsing in giggles.
“Shut up,”
he said, giving up on the polite stuff for the nonce.
“Ooh, are
you wearing shades, Lieutenant BrTl?” gasped the yellow Flppu.
“All
s-beings will shut up,” he said
evilly through the crunchers, giving up on the polite thing entirely.
A horrified
silence prevailed in their secluded corner-like corner.
“Um, sorry,”
he muttered.
“No, it was
tactless of it,” said One and Two severely. “You’re very tactless,
S-Fl’Chuyilleea!”
“They all
are,” admitted BrTl with a sigh. “Ooh, sorry!” he gasped as the spherical fluffy
yellow Flppu, unrestrained by the yellow rein which neither of the paired
beings, it now appeared, had been bothering to hold, shot up into the
somewhat-less-than-IG-normal grav of the third moon of Pkqwrd. Their group
watched numbly as it floated across to the bar counter and bobbed gently just
above the head of the female mammalian humanoid who had just come in and who
wasn't BrTl’s Captain. And as she grabbed the trailing lead and hoiked it down.
“Good
evening,” she said politely, coming over to them. “I think this Flppu belongs
to you?”
“It’s
afternoon, IG time, isn’t it?” said BrTl in confusion, as the Feeny-Argyllians
chorused thanks.
Yes, replied his chrono-blob helpfully.
He ignored it: you had to do that or go stark, raving, plasmo-blasted— Huh?
Been on where?
“On
Gr’mmeaya,” she repeated, baring her teeth at him. Smiling, she sent.
Oh, yes! Thanks, he replied. “Gr’mmeaya?” he croaked.
“No beings
go there!” gasped blndreL in astonishment.
“Not many
off-worlders, no,” agreed the yellow-haired female mammalian humanoid. “It’s
evening, Gr’mmeayan time. What is the
IG time?” she asked BrTl.
Six hours point two three four, replied
his chrono-blob immediately.
“Sorry about
that,” he apologised. “More or less that—yes.”
“Good
afternoon, then,” she said primly.
Hah, hah, replied BrTl, sending really
quite a good simulacrum of the mammalian laugh.
She must’ve
got it because she grinned at him. BrTl thought he caught an emanation of
wistfulness as well, so he said: “Perhaps this female mammalian humanoid would
care to join us?”
No being
objected, but he wasn't quite sure if this was because they wanted the newcomer
to join them, or because none of them had crunchers like his and most of them
were considerably smaller, to be merely literalist, than him.
“Sit,” he
said hospitably to her. “What’ll it be? I’m buying anything within reason.”
“Not
fermented nnru juice,” explained the Flppu sadly.
The being
pulled up a chair suited to her physique and sat. The table fitted her quite
well, she wasn't much smaller than the Nblyterian. “I’d like to try a small
shot of fermented laa, please.”
“It isn’t
bad here,” said blndreL helpfully. “I’m blndrabllindrD w blndreL,” she said,
baring her t—smiling at the humanoid. “Call me blndreL.”
“Thanks,
blndreL, I will. I'm W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID
CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F.”
“Its all
right, we’re nothing to do with IG anything,” said BrTl kindly. “You don't have
to use your IG ID with us.”
“Oh, good: I
wasn’t too sure I had it right.”
He blinked
casually. “Yes, you did.”
Gulping
slightly, the humanoid said weakly: “Call me Dohra.”
“Patronymic,
right?” he remembered proudly.
“Um, no,”
she said, her cheeks taking on the fierce shade of pink that his Captain’s did
when she was about to haul off and kick an irreplaceable piece of equipment in
the guts—or when she was very embarrassed, come to think of it, only it was a
long time since that had happened. “Um, my personal name. W’t is my family
name. Um, I haven’t got a patronymic.”
Oh, well,
whatever blobbed you up. His impression that all humanoids had them was
obviously wrong. “Oh, right, I'll remember that,” he lied smoothly. “I’m BrTl.
Call me BrTl. And these are Forty-Four from Untranslatable Shade of Mauve
Sector, and One and Two.”
“Call me
One!”—“Call me Two!” they chorused.
Dohra was
emanating bewilderment so BrTl explained helpfully “Feeny-Argyllians. You’ve
met their Flppu. I forget its appellation, but never mind, it’s an s-being
anyway.”
“Mm,” she
said, looking sideways at the small servo-bracelet round one of its flexible
appendages.
“My masters
are an excellent master!” it squeaked, bobbing slightly.
“Yes. I
wouldn’t bob, if I was you, in this grav, S-Fl’Chuyilleea,” advised the
Nblyterian.
“I see, this
humanoid once wore a bracelet herself,” discovered BrTl with interest.
Dohra was
again that glowing shade of pink. “Um—yes!” she gasped. “Not for long!”
“It’s quite
all right, we don’t need to know,” said the Thwurbullerian kindly, directing a
mildly repressive emanation at BrTl. If it hadn’t been such a large being he
would have pretended he hadn’t noticed it, it was so mild. “Delighted to meet
you, Dohra. Please call me Forty-Four.”
“Thank you,
Forty-Four,” said Dohra in a small voice, looking up at its fawnish bulk in
awe.
“See the
frontal lobes?” said BrTl helpfully.
“Mm,” she
murmured.
“Those mean
it’s from Luqulla,” he explained.
Dohra nodded
humbly.
“I’m a
Thwurbullerian,” it explained kindly.
“I see!” she gasped.
Oops. “Yes,
well, fermented laa, was it, Dohra?” said BrTl quickly, sending for a
servo-mech.
“Um, just a
minute. Have you had it before, Dohra?” interposed blndreL. She sounded rather
like an elderly cognate of BrTl’s known to the members of his culture-pod as
Bossy Elderly Cognate BrFv, and he eyed her warily.
“No!” she
gulped, once again that glowing pink
shade. –It was a great pity: humanoids would be so much more, call it visually
acceptable, not to be anything-ist, mused BrTl, if only their cheeks would turn
a lovely shade of green…
“Have
something else, Dohra,” he said quickly.
“The
Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice is most refreshing!” squeaked the Flppu.
“Intergalactic space muck,” explained BrTl firmly. “You don’t want it.”
The
servo-mech was displaying the drinks menu. Emanating offence, it reported: Our Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice is made
from fresh, ripe Gorbachian plums.
“Yes, and
only slightly vacuum-frozen in the interval. Not to mention in the hold of a Bhylloblaster
for seven megazillion light-years,”
noted BrTl instantly. “And stop that emanating at once, or I’ll remind you that
there’s no IG law against crushing a servo-mech in one’s cr—” He didn’t bother
to go on, it had stopped.
“It is
probably the property of this nice bar,” the Feeny-Argyllians reminded him on a
dubious note.
Well, that
proved they weren’t wearing shades, didn’t it? The thing was quite clearly
marked “Property of The Intergalactic Spaceport Licensing Authority. SM/PK0704.
IG Issue No. 549Z,634,578,921,744-B631.”
“No, it’s
the property of ISLA, though granted the bar is, too. But don’t let’s get into
that. What about Rwthwarian ale, Dohra?”
“It’s nice
with a drop of iirouelli’i juice,” said the Flppu helpfully.
“No JUICE!”
shouted its paired masters immediately, so it must have tried that one on
before.
“Fermented,”
said BrTl heavily to Dohra’s puzzled emanations. “You don’t know much about
drinks, do you?”
“No,” she
admitted humbly.
“Is
Rwthwarian ale suited to the humanoid metabolism?” Forty-Four asked the
servo-mech briskly. It might have produced a string of lies, only BrTl could
see that what Forty-Four was looking at wasn’t actually the menu and what it
was listening to wasn’t actually what the thing was saying, so that was all
right. “Yes, you’ll like it,” it assured Dohra.
Meekly Dohra
agreed to Rwthwarian ale. It wasn't unpleasant, but— Well, the only thing BrTl
could think of that you could possibly compare it to was the liquid left in the
bucket when you’d eaten the nymbo cheese, mixed with a small portion of,
talking of plums, Gorbachian river water—he had no idea what was in it but it
didn’t taste of water, it tasted of… Itself. Bother. No, well, metallic probably
put it as well as anything. Yes, Rwthwarian ale was as like to anything in the
Known Universe as slightly metallic nymbo—No, weak slightly metallic nymbo cheese water.
“What did
you have to drink on Gr’mmeaya?” asked blndreL.
“Um, not
much. Water, mainly. Um, Gr’mmeayan milk, sometimes. It’s a bit like grqwaries’
milk but it doesn’t come from a big bird,”—here the larger members of her
audience looked at her kindly—“it comes from a mammalian quadruped. Um, they
farm them like grqwaries,” she explained. “They eat grass and grain.”
“Oh,” they
all said understandingly, those whose physiology permitted of the gesture also
nodding understandingly. The fluffy round Flppu had to bob understandingly but
fortunately its owners were now grasping the two ends of its double rein, so it
didn't bob off.
“It is
drinking Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice,” discovered Dohra limply as the
Flppu siphoned it up through its phthyffia straw.
“Yes: no
sense of humour,” groaned BrTl. “Try the ale.”
Obediently she tried the ale.
“Is it
anything like Bluellian ale?” asked the Nblyterian into the resultant silence.
“Um, I’ve
never had that.”
“My Captain
drinks that. Well, when forced: she’s a Bluellian,” explained BrTl.
“I see. Um,
actually, this reminds me of nymbo cheese,” said Dohra limply. “Only not sweet.
–It’s nice, though!” she added quickly.
The company
appeared to be satisfied with this, or at least no being was emanating any
other emanations and, calling casually for a small dish of jing-jing nuts,
which fortunately the servo-mech interpreted in Thwurbullerian terms, and which
even more fortunately Forty-Four itself insisted on paying for, the
Thwurbullerian began happily: “Well, shall I begin my story?”
“No, wait!”
hissed blndreL. “Something’s happening over there!”
So it was.
Their group watched avidly as a scarred DorAvenian in half-armour attacked a
Bdeeg in tattered Pilot’s Number Ones with most of the insignia removed and as,
predictably, half a dozen Space Patrollers lumbered in, blasters at the ready,
overpowered the struggling pair and bore them off.
“That was
good,” admitted blndreL with a deep sigh.
“Yeah,”
conceded BrTl. “Wonder what it was all about?”
“Couldn’t
you pick it up?” asked the Feeny-Argyllians in mild surprise. “It was clear to
me!”
“Go on,
then,” he said tolerantly, not bothering to say he hadn’t tried that hard.
“The
DorAvenian was accusing the Bdeeg of stealing an item of food off its plate.”
“A steak,”
said Dohra helpfully.
“Oh, was that it? My translator wasn’t
picking much up,” he admitted. “Whistles and grunts, really. Um, are Bdeegs
meat-eaters, though?”
“No, that’s
what makes it so silly!” chorused the paired ones happily.
“Right:
goddit.”
“The
DorAvenian was threatening to look up the whistle,” explained Forty-Four with
distaste.
“Ugh!”
“Yes: no wonder the poor being bit him,” said
Dohra.
“Bdeegs
don’t—Never mind, think of it that way, Dohra. Well, I’d have said the scars on
that DorAvenian were a warning to any sensible being to steer clear of it, but
when did a Bdeeg have sense?” he said comfortably.
Agreeing
comfortably he was right, the company settled back to its drinks and nuts,
Dohra kindly agreeing with the Flppu that they tasted better when dipped in the
small dish of Feeny-Argyllian n’nk salt the servo-mech had provided for it and
its paired masters, and the Thwurbullerian began:
“They do it
with little tubes, you see.”
“Who? What?”
asked several beings involuntarily.
“I’m coming
to that,” it said on a pleased note. Several beings began to wonder: Was this
how Thwurbullerian stories went? and: How long did Thwurbullerians live for,
again? and: Just how slow was
Luqullan public transport? And like that.
And the
Thwurbullerian began again:
They do it
with little tubes, you see. Seventy-One from Different Untranslatable Shade of
Mauve Sector, with your permission I’ll call it Seventy-One, had never realised
that, when it set out on its endeavour to breed from them. For those of my
audience not acquainted with the term “breed” I will just explain that in the
case of certain beings, it’s a method of producing more beings of the same
kind, or more strictly of the same genome. To many Thwurbullerians, and indeed,
if I may say so, to many beings of the two galaxies, this of course is a
distasteful concept, not to be anything-ist, but Seventy-One had the true
pioneer spirit, doubtless derived from our valiant predecessors who founded the
beautiful mauve world which we modern ones know as Luqulla, many megazillion IG
years ago.
The
endeavour of the valiant Seventy-One was the more complicated in that more than
one member of the species is needed for the breeding process to take place.—Something
like the better-known process used by the Yufwrs, with which many beings from
the two galaxies will be familiar.—Seventy-One had failed for what in our
Thwurbullerian terms was some considerable time to make any progress with its
valiant endeavour, even though it had done the requisite Third School Bio
course, graduating with the highest honours from the extremely well thought of
New Rthfrdian Correspondence Third School. It was only after a chance encounter
with another Bio student in an establishment not unlike the one in which we are
currently taking our ease that Seventy-One realised its mistake: its specimens
had the wrong little tubes!
Several IG
years passed and the valiant Seventy-One had failed to track down any more
specimens for its gallant endeavour. Should it give it up? Its affines urged it
to—in particular one known to Seventy-One’s affinity group as “Bossy Elderly
Affine Thirty-Two from Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector.” But was
defeatism a characteristic of the Thwurbullerian nature? No! Not of that of the
valiant Seventy-One, certainly. Doggedly it persisted…
Several more
IG years passed fruitlessly. Then at last Seventy-One made a break-through! A
distant affine serving a tour of duty on Gall’ay’a reported that many specimens
were available there, to beings possessed of the requisite number of igs and
ready to offer suitable conditions. Immediately the valiant Seventy-One shipped
aboard a tramp Bhylloblaster bound for the Fourteenth IG Sector. After a wait
of only six IG months it was able to take ship as a supernumerary on a rather
cramped Space Fleet Exploration vessel. But what did cramped conditions matter
to a Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector affine in quest of its
long-sought goal? The vessel dropped it off at sp-Or D’tenmy III in the Five
Hundred and Eighty-Ninth Sector. From there it was less than a zillion light-years
to its destination!
“I’ve been
to sp-Or D’tenmy III,” noted BrTl at this point. “Well, trans-shipped there.
It’s about five times IG-normal grav.”
“Yes, very
comfortable indeed,” agreed the Thwurbullerian placidly. “Just as well, because
Seventy-One had rather a longish wait there. –That n’nk salt looks delicious
with the jing-jing nuts: I wonder if I should try it?”
“No!” hissed
Dohra in horror, leaning forward urgently as the being’s large appendage
hovered over the salt. “Don’t, Forty-Four! I don’t know how I know it,” she
said, going very pink, “but it wouldn't suit your metabolism.”
“Really? Oh,
nor it would,” it realised. “You should have been a Full Surgeon!”
True, there
were beings in the two galaxies to whom the remark would pass as a compliment.
BrTl eyed her warily. She appeared to be one of them, phew! Given that blaster
on her mammalian hip. “I’d adjust my FW pack if I were you, Forty-Four,” he
noted. “Any tendency, however slight, in the direction of, um, Special Offer,
and they do tend to, um, nod off, so to speak.”
The
Thwurbullerian fiddled with its FW pack. “You’re right,” it said placidly.
“What’s in
the salt, anyway?” asked blndreL. “It tastes lovely!”
Emanating
immense gratification, the Feeny-Argyllians chorused: “Ground ur-ur flowers!”
“Ground
ur-ur flowers!” explained the yellow Flppu.
BrTl’s mouth
sagged open but no sound came out of it. Ground
ur-ur flowers? The plasmo-blasted things were one of the dearest
commodities in the Known Uni— Oh.
I’m paying—I’m paying!
“Thanks, One
and Two,” he croaked. “Terribly generous of you.”
“Try some!”
they urged.
Unless
flower things were actual poison, to him they usually tasted like nothing.
Well, mixture of grass—even if it was green, no xathpyroid would want to eat
the stuff—and nothing. Surreptitiously he adjusted his FW pack. He took a nut
and dipped it in the salt. Ugh, salty!
“Um, yes.
Deliciously salty.”
“Better for
you than nymbo cheese,” noted Dohra with a twinkle in her round mammalian eye.
“It’s very
dear here,” warned the Nblyterian.
“I know,” he
groaned. “Just wishing.”
Allow
me!—Allow me! “Allow me!” chorused One
and Two.
“Um, no,
really,” he said weakly. “It’d give me a sugar high, and solid though this
lovely bar is, I can assure you you don’t want that. Thanks all the same.”
“Fried
grqwary wings?” offered the Flppu unexpectedly, was the plasmo-blasted being
reading him?
“No!” it
squeaked to the emanations. “This humble s-being once knew a xathpyroid who
cared for them— Much, much smaller than your magnificent self, Great Master
BrTl!” it squeaked anxiously.
“For
Federation’s sake! Don’t call me that, S-Fl’Chuyilleea!”
“It didn’t
learn it off me,” said its paired masters weakly. “It used to belong to a
Friyrian, though.”
“No wonder!
–You’re forgiven, S-Fl’Chuyilleea. I could just do with some delicious grqwary
wings. Or legs,” he allowed fairly.
After a
certain polite altercation over who would pay, which BrTl graciously allowed
the Feeny-Argyllians to win—well, they must be wealthy beings if they could
order up ground ur-ur flowers for a scattering of chance-encountered beings out
beyond the last black hole—the company settled back with fresh drinks, more
jing-jing nuts, and the best part of four adult grqwaries, each one of which
would have weighed considerably more than half of what Dohra did. Just a
snack—yes.
And the
Thwurbullerian continued:
Seventy-One
had a long wait on sp-Or D’tenmy III. However, this was not as tedious as it
might have been to some, since the planet has about five times IG-normal grav.
But it must be admitted there was very little for a Thwurbullerian to do there.
A generous trader captain offered it a lift to the fourth moon of Far Gertunny,
within relatively easy reach of Gall’ay’a. However, what was the likelihood of
managing to get a ride from there? It was an agonising decision. Eventually the
valiant Seventy-One decided to wait it out on sp-Or D’tenmy III. If the worst
came to the worst, it would take the passenger service to Little
Wincooffanellaway and pay the IG C&E transit charge to trans-ship to
Gall’ay’a. At least this would have the advantage of allowing it to spend a
night in comfort at the Wincooffanell City Astoria.
IG weeks
passed, then months… Would Seventy-One be the first Different Untranslatable
Shade of Mauve Sector affine to pay an IG C&E transit charge? How
humiliating! But that valiant Thwurbullerian would have suffered even that in
order to succeed in its mission.
But as it
turned out, this wasn’t necessary. A trader ship arrived with a holdful of
excellent dried mwopplell, headed for Gall’ay’a itself, and for only a very
moderate charge the generous captain allowed Seventy-One to ship aboard. Not
only that, the being allowed it to act as Ship’s Official Mwopplell Taster for
the duration of the voyage!
–At this stage perhaps I should pause to
explain to those not familiar with the commodity—currently quoted at zero point
seven eight one nine five igs per IG ton on the IG Commodities Exchange—that
dried mwopplell is a standard of the Thwurbullerian diet. Perhaps comparable
to, uh… dhish in the Pomorphy diet—currently quoted at zero point seven eight
one nine four igs per IG ton on the IG Commodities Exchange. Though of course
mwopplell isn’t a grain.
At last
Seventy-One was on Gall’ay’a within reach of its goal! Eagerly it headed for
the abode of its distant affine, naturally with a couple of tons of dried
mwopplell for it.
And soon an
excellent specimen was obtained—with, my audience will like to be assured, an
IG Vendor’s Guarantee of the right sort of little tubes—and Seventy-One
embarked on the long, long voyage home.
I shall
spare my audience the details of this journey, and of the many trials and
tribulations undergone by the gallant Seventy-One in accomplishing it. Suffice
it to say that no Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector affine has yet
paid an Intergalactic Customs and Excise transit charge!
The
Thwurbullerian paused in its narrative in pardonable triumph.
“Hurray!”
cried the Feeny-Argyllians, the humanoid and the Nblyterian.
“Hurray!”
echoed the Flppu.
“Thank you,”
said the Thwurbullerian modestly.
“Um, yes,
good on the being. Um, is that It?” croaked BrTl. Xathpyroid stories weren’t in
the least like that. All right, in the context of the Federated Worlds of the
Two Galaxies a whole affinity group’s having managed never to pay a
plasmo-blasted IG C&E transit charge was a triumph—but scarcely as heroic
as the Thwurbullerian seemed to believe, surely?
“No!” cried
Dohra. “It hasn’t finished yet! Please go on, Forty-Four!”
Emanating
smugness, the Thwurbullerian went on:
Home at
last! Eagerly the valiant Seventy-One introduced its new specimens to the
specimen habitat. Would they use their little tubes to breed? Seventy-One
watched keenly, not a muscle of its frontal lobes moving. Would they?
Several
Thwurbullerian weeks passed, and the brave pioneer maintained its watch. Food
and drink was being brought to it in relays by close affines and the affinity
group’s s-beings. By now several younger affines, less sceptical than their
elders, had joined in the watch.
More weeks
passed…
Then came a
tragic morning. One specimen was discovered not to be moving! Seventy-One
removed it carefully and examined it. No vital signs. It offered the specimen
food. No reaction. A younger affine ventured the opinion that it was merely
asleep but Seventy-One knew that their outer musculature moved when they slept,
rather in the manner of we Thwurbullerians ourselves, if such a concept could
be encompassed. There was no doubt that the specimen was dead. Nothing was
known of the specimens’ own funeral rites, if they had any, so it was
reverently launched to rest in the Thwurbullerian manner, with all due ceremonies
and rites pertaining to the Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector
affinity group.
Then the
watchers returned to their vigil…
Were they
perhaps offering the specimens the wrong food? Urgent dispatches passed to and
from the distant affine on Gall’ay’a. A hyper-hop delivery of Gall’ay’an
specimen food was made at great expense to the Different Untranslatable Shade
of Mauve Sector affinity group. But what did that signify? It had become a
matter of affinity group pride! Seventy-One’s specimens must breed!
At last came
the joyful day! Little tubes were observed to be in use! Seventy-One’s own
Grade-A, maxi-galaxy, super-deluxe recorder-blob, purchased on its numbering
day, was used to record the breeding.
But then
what? When would the new specimen arrive, and how? Younger affines eagerly
consulted the Intergalactic Encyclopaedia. But Seventy-One had done that many,
many IG years since. It knew that the very great deal of information in that
excellent facility could not be translated into meaningful concepts. And so it
proved: the younger Thwurbullerians blobbed off from the Encyclopaedia,
baffled.
“We shall
just have to wait, young affines of Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve
Sector affinity group,” said Seventy-One.
Many Thwurbullerian days passed. Alas, some of
the younger affines, it pains me to admit it, lost interest in the great
project. But Seventy-One remained constant to its watch.
And then it
happened! A new specimen was produced from one of the specimens that had used
the little tubes! Seventy-One was vindicated. They did do it with little tubes!
What a day
of rejoicing that was for the Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector
affinity group! Affines were admitted in small sub-groups to observe the
specimens with their new one. They kept it very close: the Encyclopaedia had
predicted that.
Hail to the
valiant Seventy-One from Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector! It had
remained constant in its purpose like a true Thwurbullerian, undeterred by long
waits in inhospitable transit lounges, unsuitable food obtained from public
facilities, long-drawn-out journeys on Bhylloblasters, cramped quarters on
smaller trading vessels, and the prospect of having to pay IG C&E transit
charges!
“Hurray!”
cried the Feeny-Argyllians, the humanoid, the Nblyterian, and the Flppu.
“Hurray!”
echoed BrTl quickly. This didn’t seem quite sufficient, so he added quickly:
“All hail to the valiant Seventy-One from Different Untranslatable Shade of
Mauve Sector!”
“It was a
lovely story,” said Dohra, blowing her nose and smiling mistily at the
Thwurbullerian. “It was so sad when the specimen died. I’m so glad it turned
out all right in the end.”
“Thank you,”
said Forty-Four, emanating immense gratification.
“Um, but if
I may ask,” fumbled BrTl, “what were they?”
“What?”
replied the Thwurbullerian mildly.
“The
specimens,” he croaked.
Immediately
the Feeny-Argyllians cried: “Whtyllian cats, of course!” and Dohra cried:
“Singing fish, of course!” and blndreL cried: “New Rthfrdian lemurs, of
course!” And slightly after the fair the Flppu cried: “Whtyllian cats, of
course!”
“They do it
with little tubes,” explained the Thwurbullerian kindly.
“Yuh—Uh—Which?” cried BrTl madly.
“Yes,” said
the Thwurbullerian smugly, adding: “Something untranslatable.”
“What was
that?” he croaked, shaking the wrist that bore the Special Offer piece of
recycled space junk that laughably called itself a translator.
Repeating kindly: “Something untranslatable,”
the Thwurbullerian rose slowly, with due precautions as to smaller beings, to
be merely literalist, that might be in the area. “It’s time for the hygiene
cabinets, after all that ale. Please excuse me.”
“Shall I
order you another round?” asked the Nblyterian.
“Thank you,
blndreL, please do.” Slowly it surged away.
In its wake
BrTl gave a baffled glare round the company. “Well, what were they?” he demanded crossly. “And nobody dare to say something
untranslatable!”
“BrTl, they
really were singing fish,” said Dohra, leaning forward to put a kind paw on his
right forearm. BrTl didn’t flinch: after IG years of travelling with a
humanoid, he knew their paws were often rather sticky and typically rather warm
to the touch: their body temperature was a few degrees above that of a
xathpyroid.
“Yes, that’s
right, they really were New Rthfrdian lemurs,” agreed the Nblyterian.
“Yes,
Whtyllian cats,” chorused One and Two.
“Of course,
magnificent Lieutenant!” squeaked the Flppu. “Whtyllian cats, and if Your
Eminence would graciously permit it, a very small order of nnr—”
“NO.” He
glared round the company, baffled. They seemed genuine… He took a closer look.
Great steaming piles of mok droppings, they were
genuine! Desperately he drained his qwlot. Immediately a servo-mech was at his
elbow. “Yes, I will have a nnru juice this time round,” he admitted.
The others
gave their orders and the thing slid off. The rest of them were chattering but
BrTl concentrated on making his mind perfectly, perfectly blank—so blank that
if a thought had been bounced off his shield it would have gone Ping!—and
waited.
“Ah!” he
said, seizing the nnru juice and downing it in one swallow. When your neck was
as long as his, this wasn’t hard. “Bring me another.”
“Should you,
BrTl?” squeaked Dohra.
“No!” said
the Nblyterian with a loud laugh. –At least she'd stopped sounding like Bossy
Elderly Cognate BrFv.
“Probably
not,” he admitted. “It may stave off complete insanity for another ten IG
minutes or so, though. Did any other being notice that the
Thwurbullerian—listen carefully, please—that the Thwurbullerian did not once say what those specimens
were?”
There was a
short silence.
“Um,
actually he’s right,” said Dohra. “I suppose it didn’t say it.”
“No, of
course not,” said the Nblyterian comfortably. “They’re like that.”
BrTl
breathed carefully and just managed to retain the shreds of his sanity. And not
to down the second basin of nnru juice in one swallow. He took a nut and dipped
it in the salt, he felt he needed it. “That apart, it wasn’t a bad story, I
suppose.”
“All their
stories are like that,” said the Nblyterian comfortably.
All Thwurbullerian stories are like that,
BrTl!
BrTl jumped
ten IG fluh. What are you doing here?
Listening to the story. May it join you?
He took a
deep breath. Yes, join us, Trff. It
already had, of course, having sensed his thought before he himself was aware
he’d formulated it.
“Hullo,” it
said. “It is Trff.”
“Hullo,
Trff,” said Dohra, smiling innocently at its small, spheroid, fluffy person.
“Are you another Flppu? What a pretty shade of green your fluff is.”
“This great
being is not a Flppu, Madam Dohra!” gasped S-Fl’Chuyilleea in horror.
“And I’m not
a ‘Madam’!” she said with a laugh. “May I ask what you are, then?”
“It is
Trff,” it said.
“Yes, we’ve
been through that,” said BrTl quickly.
“It’s a
Ju’ukrterian it-being,” explained the Feeny-Argyllians on a weak note.
“Yes,” said
blndreL very, very faintly.
“Yes,” said
BrTl airily, “actually it is. Haven’t any of you met one before? Fancy that. Its personal appellation—don’t
bother to remind me that that’s a misnomer, thanks,” he said to it, “is Slp-Og
V. Trff. Call it Trff. It’s our ship’s engineer,” he added carelessly.
The
Nblyterian choked and turned a very unusual shade of pale orange all over the
considerable amount of Nblyterian skin that was on show.
“We
believe,” said BrTl modestly, “that there’s only one of them in the Known
Universe.”
“It-beings?”
said Trff cautiously.
“No!” he
said quickly.—They were definitely not
going to go into that! Not in a bar on some primmo dump a megazillion glps
beyond Blerrinbrig’s System.—“One Ju’ukrterian it-being masquerading as a
ship’s engineer.”
“It is an engineer!” it objected with a
cross whistle.
“Literal-minded, like all engineers, I’m afraid,” said BrTl happily to
the company. “Well, if it may join us—”
“Of course!”
gasped the Nblyterian. The servo-mech was at her elbow, proffering a glass of
water. She gulped it down, and her normal shade of yellow-green—BrTl had
tentatively classed it as pale jmappl—returned. “We’d be honoured, Great
It-Being!”
“Call it Trff,”
it said, bobbing onto a humanoid-style chair next to Dohra’s.
“See it
doesn’t touch the fermented laa, Dohra: it’ll fall off that,” BrTl warned her.
Dohra by
this time was reduced to silence. She looked in horror from BrTl’s massive
brown bulk—well, the brown bits were him, the greyish-green bits were his
Durocloth coverall—to little Trff’s spherical pale green fluff. (A very
charming shade indeed, not quite nwhortlp, BrTl would have characterised it as
more vlohffert.) And back again.
“Its
tentacles are quite different from a Flppu’s flexible appendages, but many
beings make that mistake, W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID
CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F,” it said placidly.
“Um, yes!”
she gasped in horror, her hand going to her ID disc.
“The number
is also in your-its mind,” it said mildly. “Several times. Some of them are
wrong.”
“Yes!” she
gasped. “Um, call me Dohra!”
“So, you-it
likes singing fish, Dohra?” it said kindly.
“What? Yes!
Oh—the story! Yes. It was a lovely story,” she said, smiling at it. “You heard
it, did you?”
There was a
split IG microsecond’s pause. BrTl was tempted to close his eyes. You never
knew what it was going to come out with, especially if, as at the moment, it
was returning from a stint in space tinkering with the ships’ blobs a
megazillion glps from nowhere, to Zuittelfink’s Asteroid and gone, beyond the
last black— Huh?
“It picked
it up,” Trff was saying temperately. “It was a very Thwurbullerian story,” it
added, emanating agreement.
Dohra didn’t
seem to notice it hadn’t actually agreed that it had been a lovely story
and—BrTl took a closer look—in fact she hadn’t
noticed. Just as well: they definitely didn’t want to go into that with the
Ju’ukrterian mind involved, they’d be here until next Galaxy Day to the
forty-second power!
That doesn’t make sense, mathematically or
any other way, BrTl.
Figuratively it DOES! And you’re LATE,
where WERE you?
It sent him
the coordinates, what else.
Giving up
entirely, he sent for a servo-mech and let Trff let blndreL order it a large
laa shake, the menu’s claims on that one being apparently genuine, and a very
small fermented laa. Those who had never before met an it-being were rather
surprised at the way it siphoned the muck up when it came, but BrTl was past
caring. At least it had got here, apparently unprobed by any being and more
especially by any official being. Phew!
