He decided to bull ahead.
“The subject of privacy and our human desire for it came up awhile back,” he said to ?1. He was finally getting used to the idea that if he thought of himself as speaking to ?1, that alien immediately realized he was being spoken to. How this understanding was managed, Jim did not have the slightest idea, but since it seemed to work there was no reason not to use it. Accordingly, he had fallen into the habit of doing so, to the extent that occasionally he forgot and thought at Mary, without remembering to specify that it was her he was addressing.
“Yes, I remember, of course,” said ?1.
“Tell me, would there be some way in which I could talk with Mary privately? That is, without at the same time talking to you and your ‘friends’. Maybe I’m not putting it clearly enough. What I’m trying to say is that I want to talk to Mary, now, and not have anyone else hear what we say.”
“If you like, of course,” said ?1, “none of us will listen. If you speak to Mary, alone, it becomes obvious to the rest of us that it would be very unkind—indeed, unthinkable—for one of us to listen.”
“Oh… good,” said Jim. “I’ll just keep in mind, then, that I’m talking to Mary alone, and you tell me that none of the rest of you will hear what we say?”
“Naturally,” said ?1.
“What is it, Jim?” asked Mary.
“Well, I… ” Jim, would have liked some reaction, some signal from ?1 and the rest in the comet tail, that they were really not listening to what he was about to say, but evidently that was so unnecessary that none of them, including ?1, thought to make it. It was rather like the finding that it was unnecessary to say “I’m through” when a speaker was finished talking and ready to listen to an answer.
“Well,” he said again. “About these worlds we’ve been looking at. They aren’t the paradise Raoul’s mind made them out to be, of course; but they could certainly be settled by humans, a few even without terraforming. But with the same kind of thinking, it’s easy to see that the Laagi could settle them just as well with about an equivalent amount of terraforming to make most of them habitable to their race.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Of course. What of it?”
“Why, it brings up a question of our responsibility toward claiming these worlds as soon as possible for our own race,” said Jim. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound pompous; but these are, literally, worlds that both we and the Laagi can use; and we’re presently on speaking terms with the race that controls them, even if they don’t have any use for them, themselves. The question is what should we do about it?”
“If you want my opinion,” said Mary, “I certainly think we ought to tell our present friends we badly need the worlds and we’d like to settle on them, and find out if our settling on them would disturb them. But that’s just my opinion. I’m going to leave all the dealing with ?1 and the rest up to you.”
“Me?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why me?”
“I’ll tell you why you. Jim, I’ve had time to do a lot of resting and a lot of thinking since we ended up in that Laagi hospital—”
“Yes, but what I’m talking about right now—”
“Let me finish. Be patient, it’ll all tie together when I’ve had my say. To begin with you were right. I’d been overworking.”
“Well…”
“More than that,” said Mary determinedly, “I’d lost my perspective. I’ve learned a lot from you and Squonk—yes, from Squonk, too. You were right when you compared me to him. Part of me was like him, and like the Laagi, in general. That’s why I did so much better a job of understanding them from the first than you did.”
Jim thought of saying something, then decided not to.
“You were right. I live to work, and they live to work; and I liked them for that. I admired them for that. And, toward the end, this started to affect my judgment. Unconsciously, I was out to prove that I and they were on the right track and all the rest of the human race was wrong. I began wanting to justify everything they did; and I began to anthropomorphize. I began to find human reasons and emotions in them that weren’t there, just to prove how right their way of life was.”
She paused.
“Do you remember that Laagi in the hospital who killed that squonk that was asking to be put back to work, when it wasn’t able to work and never would be again?” she asked. “Remember the Laagi made the sort of gestures for praising a squonk and giving it orders, then killed it at the very moment when it was being most happy over being sent back to work after all?”
“I remember,” said Jim.
“Well, when he killed that squonk, part of me was shocked beyond words, because he’d lied to the squonk by essentially promising it what it wanted while all the time he was planning to kill it. But at the same time another part of me was agreeing with him for putting out of the way a worker that wasn’t any use anymore. I missed the real meaning of what was going on in his mind. He killed the squonk not because it couldn’t work anymore, but because it was in misery for that reason; and he praised it and gave it a work order just before it died so it would be as happy as possible at the moment he ended its life. So that it died happy. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Jim. “Yes, in fact, that part I understood then, when it happened.”
“All right. I didn’t until later, when you told me our Squonk couldn’t live much longer and he’d be happiest hunting for that nonexistent key as long as he lived. It was then I faced up to the fact that I could approach an understanding of the Laagi and squonk reaction to work, but I’d never really understand it, even if I worked myself to death, trying. It’s a different order of things. So I saw my limits.”
“Limits got nothing to do with it,” said Jim. “You did a magnificent job there on the Laagi planet. I used to be amazed watching and listening and seeing how you put things together and understood them.”
“Limits have got everything to do with it. We’ve got to face the fact that each of us, individuals that we are, can have a particular knack or gift or ability for understanding a particular type of alien that other humans don’t have. I had it for the Laagi. You’ve got it for ?1 and his little friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I’m any better at it than you are…”
“Let’s not play polite games!” said Mary. “You’re better here, and you know it. I know it. I was the best one of the two of us to investigate the Laagi and you’re the best to investigate the… the mind-people. I don’t know why. Maybe the fact you’ve always been fascinated with space gives you something in common with them I don’t have; but I’ve been listening to you and watching you; and I’m the one who’s been amazed at how quickly my partner is picking up information—putting two and two together to get four where I can’t.”
“Hell!” said Jim.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m bowled over, if you want to know. I never thought… ” Jim ran out of words.
“You never thought to find me admitting somebody else was better at something than I was, let alone you being that person.”
“Er… yes.”
“Well, now you have. And now, let me tell you something more about talking to the mind-people about humans on these worlds of their territory. What I dictated to notes through you, back on the Laagi planet, were facts. I kept my conclusions to myself, partly because I wanted to sneer at you for not being able to make them for yourself. I’ve no direct evidence, but my own strong personal opinion is that the Laagi live on only one home world, too—just like we do.”
“You think so?” Jim waited for an explanation and when none was forthcoming, prodded for it. “Why?”
“For a number of reasons. We’re overpopulated on Earth to the breaking point. People are cheap. But it takes all our people, working like beavers, to keep enough manned fighting ships on the Frontier to match the Laagi there. All the evidence that I could glean seemed to add up that
the Laagi have fewer cities on a much less rich world than Earth—but their population per city is much, much higher than ours. And both they and the squonks have a work ethic we can’t match, plus not having the internal dissensions that still go on, even in our present-day United World, where no nation fights nation, or group fights group, anymore because the battle with the Laagi comes first. But in spite of this the battle on the Frontier hasn’t resulted in their winning, any more than it has in our winning. In short, the Laagi are only able to produce enough ships and personnel to match our production. One planet’s worth. So they need to expand to other planets as badly as we do; and in fact that’s why they’ve been hammering so hard in our direction after finding they couldn’t come down-galaxy this way, because of the mind-people.”
“Whoof!” said Jim, which in thought-language came out rather like an invisible exclamation mark.
“So, I suggest—I only suggest, mind you; the actual decision’s up to you—that if the mindpeople are willing to have these planets settled by us, we might even suggest that one or more of them be opened to the Laagi, too, provided we can reach an agreement with them. Then we could go back to the Laagi, and after we’d found out how to talk to them, tell them that through friendship with us, only, they had a chance to settle on the new worlds they’ve always wanted, down-galaxy. There’s no hurry about getting all this done. The worlds for the Laagi are going to have to be terraformed for them as much as most of the worlds we get are going to need to be fixed up for us, so we’ve got plenty of time to hammer out a way to talk to them. But if that idea works we’ll have peace with them, as well as new worlds for both our races. Plus, from our viewpoint, we’d have two other intelligent races as friends and neighbors in case we run into a really unfriendly one, later on.”
Jim thought about it.
“What about this business of ?1 and his friends finding it painful the way the Laagi can’t see or hear them?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mary cheerfully. “You’re the expert in this area. I’ll leave it to you to come up with an answer to that problem.”
“Thanks,” said Jim.
“You’re entirely welcome,” answered Mary. “Now, hadn’t we better be getting back into contact with ?1 and the others?”
“I guess we should.”
He paused for a second, puzzling over just how the getting back in contact should be accomplished. Finally he decided it couldn’t require much more than simply announcing that he and Mary were once more ready to engage in general conversation.
“?1,” he said (or thought), “are you there?”
“Of course,” said ?1. “Though I’m not sure I fully understand what you mean by ‘there.”’
“Neither do I,” said Jim. “So let’s not get into that. The point is, you’re close enough so that we can talk, now that Mary and I are through with our private conversation.”
“You have completed your private conversation? Excellent. We welcome you back into conversation with us. Happy! Happy!”
“We say ‘hurrah’—or at least, some of us say ‘hurrah!’”
“I fail to see the difference between that and ‘happy!’ However, if you wish—‘hurrah!’ “
“Come to think of it, I guess there isn’t any difference,” said Jim. “Happy! Happy!”
A general chorus of “Happies!” poured in on his mind.
“On this subject of ‘there,”’ said ?1, “you seem to relate it to being physically close enough so that speech is possible. But speech is possible at any distance in the universe. How otherwise could the large holes, and the congregations of large holes, be able to tell each other which way they were dancing?"
“Say that again?” asked Jim.
?1 good-naturedly said it again, word for word.
“To my way of thinking,” said Jim, “you seem to be confusing physics with communication.”
“But isn’t all dancing a form of communication?” said ?1. “Forgive me if my limited capacity to understand confuses this subject between us.”
“No, it’s not you.” Jim tried to think of ways of explaining what he meant. Then he thought of human dancing, real dancing, and he had to admit to himself that in essence, it was communication in a sense.
“But large holes have no minds,” he said. “Therefore they don’t communicate the way we do. If I understand what you mean by their dancing, it’s simply that they’re moving in response to the forces acting on them from the rest of the solid matter in the universe. All the other holes, I mean—from the very beginning when there was only one big hole that’s since broken up into all the other ones.”
“Was there only one big hole in the beginning? How interesting,” said ?1.
“Well, we think there was. You mean you people don’t know? I was under the impression you knew everything there was to know about the physical universe, holes and space and all.
“Oh, no!” said ?1. “We understand very little. That’s why we’re so eager to indulge in the pleasure of learning from you.”
“We’re—well, I’m complimented,” said Jim. “But I have to admit we don’t really know how the solid universe started, either. We only have theories—hypotheses—like the one I just told you.”
“A hypothesis, only?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m devastated. Nevermind, though. Perhaps it will prove to be a fact.”
“Yes,” said Jim, “and since we’re on the subject of facts, I meant to ask you about your stopping the Laagi—those you call our other friends—from coming down into your space, here?”
“You’ll remember I explained that,” said ?1. “They would not see or hear us; and, this being very painful, we told them not to come any farther.”
“You say it was painful,” Jim said. “Let me suggest another concept that might fit it better. ‘Uncomfortable’?”
“No,” said ?1, “that approaches the concept as we know it, but only partially, as your concept ‘painful’ approaches it only partially. Surely, you must know what we mean, though. Is it completely unknown to you and your friends, the effect of being not-seen and not-heard?”
“Well, yes and no,” said Jim. “It’s been used as a sort of punishment by social groups among us probably since we first began to band together in social groups. To be ignored and cut off from all communication is unpleasant for an individual. I think I know what you mean.”
“Yes,” said ?1, “to an extent I think you do know what we mean. We are extremely sensitive to that sort of unpleasantness, ourselves. It disturbs us all greatly when we must use it to discipline one of our own members.”
“You do that sort of thing to one of your own?”
“Alas,” said ?1. “Every people must have their rules.”
“What could one of you do to the others to require that kind of reaction?” asked Jim.
There was a momentary hesitation on ?1’s part.
“I don’t think it can be explained to you,” he said finally, “at your present stage of understanding of us.”
“I suppose,” said Jim.
He thought he could imagine what it must be like for one of these eagerly friendly little creatures to be suddenly treated by all the others as if he or she or it did not exist. “How long a session of that does it take to bring one of them back to proper behavior?”
“Oh, forever, of course,” said ?1. “Once we have ceased to see or hear them, they no longer exist for us. Even their memory is put away.”
Jim felt the mental equivalent of an unexpected chill on the back of his neck.
“You don’t mean you shut them out permanently?” he said. “What do they do? Where do they go?”
“Who knows?” said ?1. “Since they no longer exist, in fact, what does it matter? But you wished to talk to me about these friends of yours called Laagi?”
“Yes,” said Jim. He was still shaken by the idea of some living thing like ?1 being shut out from the society of its kind forever. There was
an indifference in the attitude of ?1 which reminded him forcibly, suddenly, of how alien the other mind he spoke to was.
“You see,” he went on, “like us the Laagi are holes who live on one of the larger holes called a planet; and you have planets in your space on which either they, or we, could live, after the world had been changed some physically—they and we would change a world to suit ourselves in different ways, you understand. So probably the reason they were headed this way was to find other worlds on which they could live.”
“You think so? How interesting! But it makes sense—being holes, all of you seem to prefer holes as environment. I should say, being physical beings, you seem to prefer physical environments. Did I get that right?”
“You did, indeed,” said Jim. “Now, the question I wanted to ask was whether, if they or we occupied the surface of some of these planets, that would bother you, in this not-seeing, not-hearing way.”
“I don’t know,” said ?1. “Possibly not… yes, we think possibly not, since they and you would be part of the holes, but of course, you do see and hear us, so the question doesn’t arise.”
“You’re seeing Mary and me out of our bodies—out of our personal holes—” said Jim. “The rest of our people are still in theirs. Maybe, as physical entities, they won’t be able to see or hear you either.”
“No, no!” said ?1: “Your own ability to see and hear us reached out through the hole where you were with your third friend who did not see or hear us. You radiated to us, and of course we radiated back. As you are, so must others like you be, I’m sure. If so, you wouldn’t bother us at all occupying any of the planets in this area of ours. But to answer your question, even your Laagi friends might not bother us once they were a part of a planet, since by definition, such a hole is outside our universe. But why do you ask me this?”