Barry Longyear - Enemy Papers

The Drac orders the human, "Dasu!"

After some pushing and shoving, Davidge figures out that word’s meaning, and some others. In a matter of mere paragraphs, the human and the alien are both speaking pidgin versions of the other’s language, in addition to trying to survive.

What is going on here?

A couple of things, actually. First, it always bothers me when, in an sf film or story, beings who evolved on worlds thousands of light years away from Earth all speak English like Lawrence Olivier. I need to at least see a video of the 1944 version of Hamlet in the alien’s hip pocket before I’ll buy it

It all began, though, as it did for many of us, with that moment in the motion picture The Day the Earth Stood Still when the alien knows the crap is piling up and he’ll need some help. Klatu tells Patricia Neal that if anything happens to him to go to the supercop robot Gort and tell it "Klatu barada nicto. "See, if Gort isn’t told that, the robot will trash the planet. My entire generation memorized that line, "Klatu barada nicto," just in case.

Curiously enough, in the movie we are never told what this phrase means. Is it Klatu needs help? Klatu says cool it? Klatu is in deep caca? It seems a little short to be Klatu is in the Washington DC city slams and wants you to bust out his corpse and reanimate it. Nevertheless, we memorized the phrase, and at special moments we would recite it.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I’m going out, Dad."

"Out where?"

"Klatu barada nicto."

"Well, make sure you’re back by eleven."

A hint of another meaning to that enigmatic phrase came to me while writing two Alien Nation tie-in novels for Pocket. The Newcomers, of course, have a language of their own, and authors who contract to write in this universe are issued a "bible" which outlines the major characters in the series, contains synopses of the various TV episodes, and a "Tenctonese for Travelers" type of vocabulary.

A word now about credibility and the suspension of disbelief. I can’t speak for every author and reader, but for myself there is this unwritten contract between the reader and the writer. On the writer’s part, the author agrees to approach the tale by believing in it himself. This involves a pact I make with my imagination: whatever setting and characters I dream up actually exist somewhere in the universe. My job? To be faithful to that setting and those characters and to report to the reader as accurately as possible.

Now, to the Tenctonese language. When I first looked over the Alien Nation bible, I felt that the authors just might not be taking their task seriously. The Tenctonese word for booze, you see, is tanka. The word for brutality is poppy Cattle is moocow, ceremony is oscar, deep is peed, doctor is mare, filth is slum, good-bye is toucus, gun is shoota, investigate is snoop, level is strata, and network, believe it or not, is teeceefox. I have no first-hand knowledge of this, but in my mind I have a picture of a couple of scriptwriters full of themselves, pot, coke, and tanka brainstorming the Tenctonese language.

"Hey! Hey! Whaddabout this (hic). Moocow for cattle! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

"Wait a minute! Hee, hee. For investigate how 'bout snoop! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

"Hey, let’s throw the Fox network a goddamn bone! What about making the word for network teeceefox! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"

Getting back to Klatu’s enigmatic message to Gort, one of the results of this Alien Nation language jocularity is the Tenctonese name for the Newcomer male lead in the series, Detective George Francisco. According to the bible, his Tenctonese name is Nicto. This opens whole new meanings to the phrase Klatu barada nicto. It seems to be a declaration of teenage love. I have no doubt that future space explorers will find that declaration enclosed in a heart and carved into the bark of a butnut tree:

Klatu

barada

Nicto

There is a town in Maine named Biddeford. In seeking the origins of this town’s name, I ran across two possibilities: it’s either Algonquian for old woman crossing river (biddy + ford), or ancient Norse for I’m on my way to rehab (Betty + Ford).

I have also been a student of misunderstandings. The double and multiple meanings of words in most languages can lead to a host of interesting translation situation that I find very amusing. This bit of amusement led to the following piece, titled "Then Darkness Again." This work’s sole publication, before this appearance, was in my Science-Fiction Writer’s Workshop-I, in the chapter on "Fatal Flaws," as an example of what not to do. It’s a vignette written before I even knew what a vignette was.

Read quickly and keep forgiveness in your heart.

By

Accident

"This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point three. Anybody got their audios on out there?" Al Bragg released his mike key while the twenty seconds ticked off. More than a twenty-second lag between transmissions was a drag. Al checked his instruments and the screen depicting his place in relation to the galactic arm… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

Al adjusted the frequency and thumbed his mike. "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point four. Looking for chat-chat; anybody there?" Al looked at his screen and tried to pick out the Sol system by eye. The computer could have given him an automatic fix, but then that would give Al less to do; and Al was bored, not to mention homesick… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point five craving some communication." Al sighed, wishing he hadn’t cut across the void from the center to the arm. Nobody ever went this way. Three standard weeks from the candy bar quadrants and he hadn’t raised a peep… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"Bet the translator’s on the poopers again."

"Biggy Dippy on two-two-one point six looking for some tricks; let’s hear it out there."

Well, it was either go this way or go the long way around empty. Nuts. I could have found a load. Guess I just wanted to get home … eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"This is the Dipper on two-two-one point seven searching heaven for some talk-talk."

LADLE, THIS BEAR.

Al jumped, then smiled. Someone was out there, and the literal translations were half the fun of chatter and the game. "Bear, this is the Dipper. I haven’t raised a soul for a sun’s age. Where are you headed?"

ON TOP, LADLE. ONLY ONE. AND YOU?

"Negative, Big Bear. What is your destination?"

SORRY. THE CENTER. QUADRANT TWENTY AND FIVE. WANT THE GAME TO PLAY?

"You bet."

THAT AFFIRMATIVE? NO IS WAGER?

"Affirmative. Shall you start, or shall I?"

START.

"Hey, Big Bear, the translator’s not up to combined or absent personal pronouns. You or me?"

YOU.

"Okay." Al rubbed his chin. The trick was to be truthful without giving away the location. "My planet is beautiful."

MY PLANET IS UGLY.

Al frowned. He had gabbed with aliens from hunks of black ice that thought their own planets were beautiful while Earth was ugly. "Okay, Big Bear. The atmosphere is blue with white clouds of water vapor. It rains, making the surface rich with vegetation."

SKY BLUE A LITTLE. YELLOW FROM DUST. FEW CLOUDS. THE GROUND HARD AND DRY. RAINS LITTLE; GROWS LESS.

Al pursed his lips, then shook his head. "I can’t get it, Big Bear. You?"

NO.

"Want to try government?" Al smiled, hoping the Bear would fall for it. Populated desert planets—maybe twenty of them—and Al knew them all. A few hints on governmental structure would be all that was needed.