Hal Clement - Fossil

“Of course.”

“Some of the less usefully employed, to put it kindly, make a sport of finding excited or stressed beings and trying to read them in as much detail as possible. I gather they try to describe the emotions competitively, later, and I’ve heard that some of them try to recreate the feelings for themselves; but it’s hard to get a Naxian to talk about that. I only heard that much when I finally got very annoyed with one who wouldn’t get out of the way when I was preparing to launch. Apparently I frightened it/ him, thereby arousing gratitude in several others.”

Hugh was very thoughtful as they left their winged friend, Janice even more so. Neither felt sure how closely the Habra version of Naxian amusement matched that mentioned by Barrar, but there could easily be a connection.

After walking for a while through the maze of the port — in spite of the minimal Habras use for streets, their most recent settlements on the cold side of the Iris had made some concession to the presence of wingless aliens — Hugh asked slowly, with his translator off, “How do you feel about being used?”

Janice looked surprised, but followed his example with her own instrument before answering. “I don’t suppose I’d like it, except when it’s mutual, of course.”

Her husband shrugged impatiently. “I don’t mean that. Do you remember when S’Nash confessed to Rek about ‘using’ him, at that meeting it/he’d called with us and the robot?”

“Of course. I wondered then why it/he admitted it in front of us. Some of the things said during the apology I thought must be aimed at us, but I couldn’t see any way to make sure.”

“Neither could I. When S’Nash first asked us to that meeting it/he said something about making it look normal. I pointed out that we ski for fun, and Rekchellet flies for fun, but I didn’t know what Naxians did which would make good cover — well, I didn’t say it just that way, but you don’t always pick your words carefully talking with Naxians; they know what you mean most of the time anyway, from the feelings that go along with the words. Right?”

“Supposedly,” Janice answered carefully. “I’ve wondered for years — and I don’t mean Habra years — how that sense of theirs works, and I’m sure it must have limits.”

“They’re not supposed to be able to read thoughts.”

“No. On the other hand, no rational beings would want it generally known if they could.” The woman was still coding slowly, as though her ideas were far ahead of her words and only a fraction of her mind were back keeping her sentences coherent.

“You think they can?”

“No. I’m almost sure they can’t. I’ve been trying to figure out how they do it for a long, long time, and I’ve set up situations where a Naxian would be put in an awkward position unless it could get my real thoughts, and they’ve always fallen into the trap.”

“Have you ever set one of your traps so the Naxian would be badly hurt or killed?” “No. Of course not.”

“Then you can’t be sure. They’d certainly go a long way to keep a secret like that. Risking ridicule or even pain would mean nothing. You or I could put up with it as long as we thought it was important. We have to credit them with as much guts as we have. As far as ridicule goes their own people would know the truth, and they wouldn’t care about our ridicule.”

“True.” Janice thought for a moment. “I still don’t think they’re really mind readers, but I admit my reason’s a bit circular. I’ve been incubating a theory, and it doesn’t lead that way, and good deal has happened lately to support it, including what Bill said a few minutes ago.”

“What’s your idea?”

“I suspect that they sort of muscle read. That they perceive the tiniest motions and twitches and physical reactions in the people they see, and that some aspect of their nervous systems — some built-in wiring we’ll be a very long time understanding because we don’t have it — gives them a special facility in associating those reactions with fear or anger or libido or the feeling that goes with knowing you’ve just told a lie. Remember S’Nash’s pattern-spotting out on the road?”

“But the reactions would be different for different species, and the Naxians can…”

“I know they can. I’d bet they have to learn. I’m postulating something we can’t imagine in detail for the same reason we can’t imagine a dog’s universe of odor, except that I think the difference with the Naxians is more in processing than in perception. It fits with S’Nash’s remark that Samians were a particular challenge — remember?” Hugh nodded.

“Look, you can learn fantastic, detailed things if you start early enough,” she went on. “You know your own language, which is complex enough. You can distinguish my voice from my sister’s, which is fantastic. The average human being can identify hundreds of people by face; with the right cultural start they apply the same ability to identifying tracks of people or animals they’re following — without conscious analysis, they dismiss the part of the landscape which is undisturbed and notice what has been upset in some way practically invisible to others. I’m not saying it very well, but…”

“But you’re using extremely good analogies. All right, it’s at least testable. You think what Bill said about Snoop-players fits in?”

“Yes, especially with the idea that it’s something they can learn, and improve with practice.”

“I like it. It fits my thoughts, too.”

“What part of them?”

“My question of a few minutes ago: How do you like being used?”

“But you wouldn’t say a Naxian was using you as long as it/he just read your emotions! That wouldn’t be any worse than,” she smiled, rather impishly, “girl-watching, would it?”

Hugh let only a flicker of her smile cross his own face.

“No,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t mind, as long as it stays a — well, a spectator sport. If I ever had reason to suppose I were being manipulated to cause me to have special emotions, or if I got the idea that I had even the most remote resemblance to a gladiator in an arena, I would certainly feel differently.”

“Of course you would. So would I. But no one’s pushing us around. Who could?”

“I don’t know, and hate to sound paranoid. I just can’t help wondering whether everyone associated with us who has caused us anxiety, worry, fear, or their opposites in the last few Habra years, let’s say, has been acting with complete, comprehensible common sense? That they’re not being pushed around?”

“But we can’t expect them to! They’re not all Erthumoi…”

“And only we have common sense?”

“Don’t be silly. You know what I mean. Each race has different ideas of what makes for common sense.”

“Or ethics? Down at the life-risking level?” Janice was silent. So was her husband, for a time, but before they reached the aircraft he keyed out one more notion, or part of one.

“I was wondering how Shefcheeshee got his harness tangled in that thruster. I wish I’d examined it more closely, and not just worked them apart.” Janice said nothing.

Finding the Cephallonian through the Guild office was not too difficult, but starting a conversation once he was found was another matter. The Cedars had worked with Cephallonians before and liked them — Janice, of course, liked everybody. It is, however, awkward to talk to someone from even a very low flying aircraft when the party is swimming, and apparently totally absorbed in doing gymnastics with the wave patterns of a singularly chaotic ocean dotted with ice floes. It is worse when the floes are punctuated by city-sized bergs and a conscientious autopilot insists on moving the aircraft tens of meters with very little warning.