Struck by the notion that perhaps during the last three centuries the old Earth-language had been dropped in favor of some other lingo, Bidworthy asked, “Can you understand me?”
“Can any person understand another?” inquired the farmer, with clear diction. He turned to resume his task.
Bidworthy was afflicted with a moment of confusion. Recovering, he informed hurriedly, “His Excellency, the Earth Ambassador, wishes to speak with you at once.”
“So?” The other eyed him speculatively. “How come that he is excellent?”
“He is a person of considerable importance,” said Bidworthy, unable to decide whether the other was being funny at his expense or alternatively was what is known as a character. A good many of these isolated planet-scratchers liked to think of themselves as characters.
“Of considerable importance,” echoed the farmer, narrowing his eyes at the horizon. He appeared to be trying to grasp an alien concept. After a while, he inquired, “What will happen to your home world when this person dies?”
“Nothing,” Bidworthy admitted.
“It will roll on as usual?”
“Of course.”
“Then,” declared the farmer, flatly, “he cannot be important.” With that, his little engine went chuff-chuff and the wheels rolled forward and the plow plowed.
Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, Bidworthy spent half a minute gathering oxygen before, he said, in hoarse tones, “I cannot return without at least a message for His Excellency.”
“Indeed?” The other was incredulous. “What is to stop you?” Then, noting the alarming increase in Bidworthy’s color, he added with compassion, “Oh, well, you may tell him that I said”—he paused while he thought it over—“God bless you and good-by!”
Sergeant Major Bidworthy was a powerful man who weighed two-twenty pounds, had hopped around the cosmos for twenty years, and feared nothing. He had never been known to permit the shiver of one hair—but he was trembling all over by the time he got back to the ship.
His Excellency fastened a cold eye upon him and demanded, “Well?”
“He won’t come.” Bidworthy’s veins stood out on his forehead. “And, sir, if only I could have him in my field company for a few months I’d straighten him up and teach him to move at the double.”
“I don’t doubt that, sergeant major,” soothed His Excellency. He continued in a whispered aside to Colonel Shelton. “He’s a good fellow but no diplomat. Too abrupt and harsh voiced. Better go yourself and fetch that farmer. We can’t sit here forever waiting to find out where to begin.”
“Very well, your excellency.” Colonel Shelton trudged across the fields, caught up with the plow. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “Good morning, my man!”
Stopping his plow, the farmer sighed as if it were another of those days one has sometimes. His eyes were dark-brown, almost black, as they looked at the other.
“What makes you think I’m your man?” he inquired.
“It is a figure of speech,” explained Shelton. He could see what was wrong now. Bidworthy had fallen foul of an irascible type. Two dogs snarling at one another, Shelton went on, “I was only trying to be courteous.”
“Well,” meditated the farmer, “I reckon that’s something worth trying for.”
Pinking a little, Shelton continued with determination. “I am commanded to request the pleasure of your company at the ship.”
“Think they’ll get any pleasure out of my company?” asked the other, disconcertingly bland.
“I’m sure of it,” said Shelton.
“You’re a liar,” said the farmer.
His color deepening, Colonel Shelton snapped, “I do not permit people to call me a liar.”
“You’ve just permitted it,” the other pointed out.
Letting it pass, Shelton insisted, “Are you coming to the ship or are you not?”
“I am not.”
“Why not?”
“Myob!” said the farmer.
“What was that?”
“Myob!” he repeated. It smacked of a mild insult.
Colonel Shelton went back.
He told the ambassador, “That fellow is one of these too-clever types. All I could get out of him at the finish was ‘myob,’ whatever that means.”
“Local slang,” chipped in Captain Grayder. “An awful lot of it develops over three or four centuries. I’ve come across one or two worlds where there’s been so much of it that one almost had to learn a new language.”
“He understood your speech?” asked the ambassador, looking at Shelton.
“Yes, your excellency. And his own is quite good. But he won’t come away from his plowing.” He reflected briefly, then suggested, “If it were left to me, I’d bring him in by force, under an armed escort.”
“That would encourage him to give essential information,” commented the ambassador, with open sarcasm. He patted his stomach, smoothed his jacket, glanced down at his glossy shoes. “Nothing for it but to go speak to him myself.”
Colonel Shelton was shocked. “Your excellency, you can’t do that!”
