Hal Clement - Natives of Space

Kirk finally accepted the inevitable, and permitted Talker to run the conversation in his own fashion, hoping to get a few words of his own into the discussion when the herald’s “urgent business” was completed. Talker had kept the man ignorant of Boss’ attitude, justly fearing detrimental effects on Kirk’s willingness to cooperate.

The attempts at explanation, however, seemed as futile as the first words had been. Talker’s premonition of the futility of drawings and diagrams was amply justified; not only were the conventions used in drawing by the engineers of his people utterly different from those of Earth, but it is far from certain that the atoms and molecules the aliens tried to draw were the same objects that a terrestrial chemist would have envisioned. It must be remembered that the “atoms” of physics and of chemistry, used by members of the same race, differ to an embarrassing extent; those conceived in the minds of Talker’s people would have been simply unrecognizable, even had Kirk possessed any knowledge of chemistry.

The supply of the requisite arsenic was completely exhausted, so that no samples were available; in any case, Kirk’s lack of chemical knowledge would undoubtedly have rendered then valueless.

“There is no use in trying to make your needs known in this manner,” the human being finally stated. “The only way in which I am at all likely to hit upon the proper word is for you to describe the more common characteristics of the substance, and the uses to which you put it. Your pictures convey no meaning.”

“But what characteristics are you likely to recognize?” asked Talker, on the paper. “My engineers have been striving to do that very thing, since we started.”

“They have sought to describe its chemical nature,” responded Kirk. “That means nothing to me in any case, for I am not a chemist. What I must know are things like the appearance of the stuff, the appearance of the things that can be made from it, and the reasons you need it so badly. You have not told me enough about yourselves; if I met a party of my own kind stranded on an uninhabited land, I would naturally know many of the things of which they might stand in need, but there is no such guide for me in this case. Tell me why you are here, on a world for which you are so obviously unfitted; tell me why you left your own world, and why you cannot leave this one. Such things will guide me, as could nothing else you might do.”

“You are probably right, man. My captain forbade me to divulge such knowledge to you, but I see no other way to make clear our need.”

“Why should the commander forbid my learning of you?” asked Kirk. “I see no harm which could result; and I have certainly been frank enough with you and your people. Mothman, I have considered you as being friendly, without seeking evidence of the fact; but I think it would be well for you to tell me much about yourselves, and tell it quickly, before any more efforts are made to supply your wants.”

Kirk’s voice had suddenly grown hard and toneless, though the aliens could neither appreciate nor interpret the fact. It had come as an abrupt shock to the man, the idea that the helpless-seeming creatures before him could have any motive that might augur ill to humanity, and with it came a realization of the delicacy and importance of his own position. Were these beings using him as a tool, to obtain knowledge of humanity’s weaknesses, and to supply themselves with means to assault the race? Unbelievable as it may seem, the thought of such a possibility had not entered his head until that moment; and with its entrance, a new man looked forth at the aliens from Kirk’s eyes — a man in whom the last trace of credulity had suddenly vanished, who had lost the simple curiosity that motivated the student of a few minutes before, a man possessed and driven by a suspicion of something which he himself could not fully imagine. The doubts that had failed to appear until now were making up for lost time, and were reinforced by the uncomfortable emotion that accompanies the realization that, through no act or idea of one’s own, one has barely been diverted from the commission of a fatal blunder.

Talker realized his own error before the Earthman had finished speaking, and wasted no time in endeavoring to repair it. His ignorance of human psychology was an almost insuperable obstacle in this attempt.

“We need the substance which I am trying to describe, far more urgently than we can say,” he wrote. “It was the commander’s idea, and my own, that it would be a fatal waste of time to allow the conversation to move to other topics, which I can well understand must interest you greatly.

Had we learned where it might be found, there would have been no objection to answering any questions you might ask, while we were obtaining it; but we cannot remain here very long, in any case. You must have noticed — indeed your words have shown that you have noticed — how uncomfortable we are on this planet.

Nearly half of us, now, are disabled from fractured limbs and strained tendons, fighting your terrible gravity; we live at all only through the use of a drug, and too much of that will eventually prove as dangerous as the condition it is meant to counteract.”

“Is your vessel disabled, then?” asked Kirk.

“No, there is no mechanical trouble, and its power is drawn from the matter around it in space.

We could travel indefinitely. However, before we dare return to a region where our enemies may locate us, we need a large store of — the material we seek.”

“Have you no friends in that neighborhood, to whom you could have fled, instead of making such a long voyage to this solar system?”

“The voyage was not long — perhaps four hundred of your days. Our ship is powerful, and we used full acceleration until your Sun showed its nearness by increasing rapidly in brilliance. We would have risked — did risk, since we had no idea of the distance — a much longer flight, to get away from that system. We had a ruler, but the captain decided we would do better on our own, and now there is no armed vessel within the orbit of the outermost planet that would not fire on us at sight.”

“It would seem that you lack ammunition, then, and possibly weapons.” Kirk proceeded to make clear the difference in meaning between the words, using his rifle as an example.

“Weapons we have; it is the ammunition we lack,” affirmed Talker. “I see how your rifle works; ours are similar, throwing a projectile by means of explosives. We have already manufactured the explosives from organic materials we found here; but the element we use in our projectiles is lacking.”

“It would, I suppose, be a metal, such as that from which my bullets, or possibly the gun, are made,” decided Kirk. “I know where these substances may be found, but you have not yet convinced me that my people can trust you with them. Why, if you are an outlaw in your own system as you claim, do you wish to return at all? You could not, so far as I can see, hope for security there, even with weapons at your disposal.”

“I do not understand your question,” was the reply. “Where else would we go? And what do you mean by `security’? Our lot would be better than before, for we would not have to render up the greater portion of what we obtain to our ruler — we can keep it ourselves. There are many uninhabited portions of our world where we can make a base and live in ease.”

“Something tells me that your way of life is different from ours,” remarked Kirk dryly. “What is the metal you seek?” He wanted to know this for the sake of the knowledge; he had as yet no intention of helping the mothmen to obtain the substance. He wished that Talker’s pencil could convey some idea of what the herald was really thinking. Writing, by one who barely knows a language, is not an extraordinarily efficient method of conveying emotions. “If you will show me one of your weapons, it may help,” the man added as an afterthought.