Robert Silverberg - Invaders From Earth

“Meaning, presumably, that you suspect I’m going to learn the language, compile a dictionary of Ganny when I get back to Earth, and sell it for a fabulous sum to some as-yet-nonexistent competitor of the Extraterrestrial Development and Exploration Corporation, Ganymede Division? I assure you I’ve got no such sinister intentions. I’m just a hapless public relations man sent up here by his boss to get the feel of the territory.”

“I haven’t accused you of anything, Kennedy. But we have to take certain security precautions.”

“I understand that.”

“Good. In case you’re filing a report, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d omit any mention of this incident. As a favor to me.”

“I guess I can manage that little thing,” Kennedy said lightly.

He left Gunther soon after, feeling greatly perplexed. The outpost chief’s real motivation seemed utterly transparent. Gunther was not fearing the advent of a rival corporation; it took years of legal work and billions in capital to build an organization the size of ED E. No wildcat operation was going to send a ship to Ganymede to whisk mining rights out from under Gunther’s sharp nose, making use of a Ganny dictionary prepared for them by Kennedy.

No, there could be only one possible reason why Gunther had reacted so violently when Kennedy had displayed a seeming understanding of Ganny. Gunther was afraid that Kennedy would overhear something the Corporation was trying to keep secret.

And that something, Kennedy suspected, was the fact that the Ganymedeans were hostile to the idea of having Earthmen settle on their world, and far from being willing to negotiate for mining rights were anxiously demanding that Gunther and his men get off.

That had seemed to be the drift of the conversation Kennedy had witnessed. And if that was the case, he thought, then the only way the Corporation was going to get what it wanted on Ganymede would be by a virtual extermination of the Gannys. No mere United Nations “police action,” as Kennedy and the other agency men had been led to believe, but a full-scale bitter war of oppression.

Sure, they would rationalize it. The Gannys were a non-technological people who owned a vast horde of valuable radioactive ores and had no intentions of using them; for the public good of the solar system, then, these ores should be taken from them.

A cold thought struck him: any rationalization would come through the agency. Once it became apparent that the Gannys would have to be forcibly hurled to the side, his job would be to sell the people of Earth on the proposition that this was a necessary and cosmically wise action.

It was a nasty business, and he had been drawn into it deeper than he suspected. Oh, he had never thought it was a lily-white enterprise, but despite Marge’s quiet opposition and Spalding’s bitter outbursts he had gone along with the agency unthinkingly. The agency mask had been his defense: the unthinking reservation of judgement that allowed him to enter into a contract with little concern for the questions of values tangential to it.

Well, now he was seeing it clearly and first-hand. He returned to his room, planning to study the Ganny dictionary more intently. Next week when the aliens returned he had to know more of the true position of things.

But his door was ajar when he reached his room, and the light was on. There were no locks on the doors, but he had hardly expected someone to just walk in. He pushed open the door.

Engel was sitting on the edge of his bed waiting for him.

Kennedy waved cheerily to him. “I guess I owe you thanks. That could have been a nasty business with Gunther out there if you hadn’t said what you did.”

“Yes. Look here, Kennedy—I have to have that booklet back. Immediately. Where is it?”

“Back? Why?”

“Gunther would have me flayed if he knew I gave it to you. It was really unpardonable on my part—but you seemed so interested, and I was so anxious to have you see my work and be impressed by it.” The linguist flushed and looked at his shoes. “Where is it now?”

Kennedy circled behind Engel and drew the dog-eared pamphlet out from under the pillow. Engel reached for it, but Kennedy snatched it quickly away.

“Give that to me! Kennedy, don’t you undersand that Gunther absolutely would execute me if he knew you had that? It’s classified!”

“Why?”

“That doesn’t matter. Give it to me.”

Kennedy tucked it under his arm. “I don’t intend to. I want to study it some more. It’s a very ingenious work, Engel. I am impressed.”

“If you don’t give that to me,” Engel said slowly, “I’ll tell Gunther that you entered my quarters when I wasn’t there and stole it from me. I know how many copies there are supposed to be. But I don’t want to have to do that, so hand it over, will you?” The linguist nibbled at his lip and flicked a globule of sweat from his forehead.

The room was very quiet a moment. Kennedy tightened his grip on the booklet under his arm. Staring levelly at Engel, he said, “You don’t want to do that. I’ll make a deal with you: you let me keep the dictionary, and I’ll make sure Gunther never has occasion to find out you gave it to me. And I’ll return it when I leave Ganymede. Otherwise, you try to tell Gunther I stole the dictionary and I’ll tell him you gave it to me of your own free will, and then lied to him outside the dome just now to keep your own nose clean. It’ll be my word against yours, but you’ll be in a tough way trying to explain just why you took my part out there.”

Engel knotted his hands nervously together. “It won’t work. Gunther trusts me—”

“Like hell he does. Gunther doesn’t even trust himself. Let me keep the dictionary or I’ll go to Gunther right now and tell him the whole story.”

Scowling, Engel said, “Okay. The dictionary’s yours— but keep your mouth shut the next time you’re around any Gannys. If you stop to ask a local chief the time of day, Gunther’ll roast us both.”

“I’ll keep quiet next time,” Kennedy promised.

But as it developed, “next time” did not look like too probable an event.

Three days slipped by, in Kennedy’s second week on Ganymede. He spent much of his time studying Engel’s little handbook of the Ganny language, and repeated phrases and sentences to himself each night in a muttered whisper that once had his next-door neighbor banging on the partition and telling him to shut up and go to sleep.

He went on jeep trips over the Ganymedean terrain; it was nighttime on Ganymede now, and would be for four more Earth-days; Jupiter hung broodingly massive in the sky, blotting out the stars. Kennedy noticed that he instinctively avoided looking up at the great swollen planet in the sky; it was too sickeningly big, too awesome, for easy viewing.

Moons danced in the sky, swimming in and out of sight with dizzy unpredictability; now lo, now Europa, now far-off Callisto came whirling by, and their orbits were a computer’s nightmare. Kennedy was impressed.

The terrain was monotonous, though—endless bluish ice-fields unbroken by sign of life. Once Kennedy asked his companion if they could visit a Ganny village for a change, instead of merely rolling on over icy wastes.

“You’ll have to ask Gunther about that. I don’t have authority to take you there.”

Kennedy asked Gunther. Gunther scowled and said, “I’m afraid not. The Ganny villages are restricted areas for visitors to the outpost.”

“Why?”

“You don’t ask why around here, Kennedy. You’ve been very cooperative up to now. Don’t spoil it.”

With a brusque gesture Gunther dismissed him. Kennedy turned away, his mind full of unanswered questions.