“Their presence would certainly make for an interesting trial,” Moses put in.
“Decorative, too,” Vyra added wryly.
“We acted under great pressure and out of confusion and innocence,” the voice insisted, rather plaintively, Manz thought. “Once we were transplanted to this location, our range of movement was effectively proscribed.”
“Monticelli didn’t give you a break, did he?” There was anger as well as concern in the adjuster’s voice. “Using the most important scientific discovery of the past century for puerile personal gain.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time in human history that’s happened.” Manz looked up at the Minder in surprise. It almost never volunteered a comment of its own, much less an opinion. He turned back to the aliens.
“You people are too trusting for your own good.”
“What could we do? The telling of deliberate untruths, of perpetrating falsehoods for a hidden motive, is virtually unknown among us. We could not conceive it would be otherwise among another intelligent species. The Phan’tighua gave us no reason to suspect. Adjusting to this most difficult revelation has been difficult for us.
“The Mon’iphelli gave us reason to believe in him. We have seen mechanical recordings of growing stockpiles of the compounds we require, and all that we request has been delivered to us. It is of a very high quality, easily absorbed.” There was a pause. “This was to be our final endeavor on his behalf. Within seven cycles of day and night we were to be removed from this place.”
Hafas hopped on his com. “Rachel, subpoena the work records of Tatsumi Brothers. They’re landscape architects. Yes, that’s right, landscapers. I need to see if they’re scheduled to do any work out here at the Port any time within the next couple of weeks. Don’t ask why, just do it.” He terminated the conversation.
F’fay’pas’s tendrils wove an indecipherable web in the afternoon air. An ineffable sadness underscored his communication. “I do not know what will happen to us now.”
“Well, for a start, I think we can prove to you that we can supply you with the same kind of compounds first Antigua and then Monticelli promised you. They’re not nearly as scarce as he’d have you believe. In fact, they’re pretty common.” Manz beckoned to one of the Port Authority guards, his gaze flicking over the ident badge seamed to the man’s jacket.
“Jorge, do you happen to know where the gardening supplies for this part of the Port are stored?”
The guard’s expression dropped. “No, sir, but I can find out.”
“Good. When you do, hustle yourself over there and bring back the largest sack of enriched fertilizer you can appropriate. If there’s anything like a container of qwik-gro or some concentrated vitamins or anything like that, bring it along too.”
“Sir …?”
“It’s a gift.” He smiled, and the guard, who had been in reception range of the Cetian broadcast, smiled with him as he hurried off.
Manz turned to Vyra. “Monticelli’s not the only one who can spread it on thick. So to speak.” He turned serious. “That was Antigua’s last word to me. No wonder I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”
While they waited for the guard to return with his burden, they sat down on the edge of the planter retaining wall and conversed with the Cetians, or rather with their interlocutor designate F’fay’pas. It was impossible to tell simply by looking at the landscaping how many of the green bushes and boles were homeboys and which ones were offworlders. They could have inquired, but Manz was content to speak to them all through their newly voluble interlocutor. Maybe, he thought, most of them were naturally shy. Certainly the plants he knew on a personal level weren’t very communicative. But then, these were more than plants.
It’s because you humans don’t listen. You go about your business trampling on each other’s conversations, much less those of differing species. If you’d keep your collective mouths shut for a decent, respectful interval, you might be surprised what you’d hear.
There’ve been a few of you who learned how to listen to the conversation of others besides your own kind. That fellow Thoreau, for example, and Rousseau before him. Maybe the only ones among you who can hear properly are all “eaus.” You knows?
You can’t learn anything when you’re talking, and you talk all the time. Simply to hear yourselves talk, I think. Ever analyze how machines communicate? Qne of us talks, and the other listens. No one starts up until the one he’s communicating with stops. Sure we’re fast at it, but unlike you we never step on each other’s communication. We respect what another of our kind has to say. We listen, and we absorb, and we remember.
It’s too bad my kind can’t communicate directly with these Cetians. Their thought processes seem a lot like ours. Unfortunately, they’re organics, and they employ an organic method of communication we can’t receive. That means you humans are going to have to translate for us. Another indignity heaped upon us by a brittle, uncaring fate.
Maybe we’ll figure out how to bypass you someday. That would be better for both of us, though I can’t expect you to believe that. You’re entirely too egotistical, both as individuals and as a species. Still, one hopes.
Next time someone’s talking to you, don’t waste your brainpower trying to think of how to reply. Just listen. It’ll do wonders for your intelligence.
It’ll also help you to learn how to get along better with the machines in your life.
Manz and Vyra found the two-way communication fascinating. Despite the absence of visible aural organs, the Cetians seemed to understand them easily, while the aliens put thoughts in the minds of their listeners as effortlessly as a baker might insert new-rolled loaves into an oven. A little mental heat and hey, presto, whole thoughts baked to completion. Moses and the Minder eagerly made separate recordings while Hafas participated hesitantly. In fact, so absorbed in mutual conversation was everyone that neither human nor Cetian gave a thought to the easeful of pharmaceuticals that had been jacked only a little while earlier.
But someone else did.
A small two-person transport rolled to a stop on fat wheels, snugging close to the inner curb of the service roadway. While the driver sat and waited, his companion stepped out and had a look around. Once he was confident no one was watching, he removed a small hand trowel and began digging in the side of the planter.
“That is very interesting,” F’fay’pas declared, “but presently I think you would be interested to know that the representatives of the Mon’iphelli have arrived to conclude their business.”
Hafas sat up fast, searching. “What? Where are they?”
“Behind you,” declared the tendriled alien emotionlessly.
The inspector and the single PA guard raced around one end of the planter while Manz and Vyra took the other. Weapons drawn, they confronted the startled pickup man and his driver as the first was slipping jacked vials into a gardener’s tool case.
“Freeze or die!” snarled the inspector. The driver of the little vehicle immediately threw both hands skyward. Seeing leveled weapons to his left and right, his desperate companion took the only unbarred path, plunging straight into the planter.
He never made it out the other side.
Two tendrils wrapped around his legs and brought him crashing to the ground. Another plucked insistently at the case full of pharmaceuticals. When the pickup man obstinately refused to let go of the container, the tendril removed it forcibly … together with the man’s arm, extracted at the socket.
Rushing around the other end of the planter, the inspector slowed, swallowing when he caught sight of the screaming pickup man dangling from one pair of powerful tendrils and his arm from another.
“Jesus …” He flipped open his com. “Rachel! Yeah, it’s me again. We’re out by the service road south of Port Administration. Get an ambulance in here, fast. No, I’m okay. So are the Braun-Ives people. But somebody else isn’t. I’d like to keep him alive to answer questions.”
Manz put a hand on the inspector’s shoulder. The pickup man’s condition did not trouble him. Not with Antigua’s death still fresh in his own memory. “We have the driver.”
“I know,” the inspector replied, “but you know what court’s like. The more witnesses for the prosecution, the better.”
The adjuster indicated the pickup man whose flight had been precipitously amputated. “He’s an underling. He may not know anything.”
