The Sirens of Space Read Online Free PDF

Terran
negotiators during their long sessions in seclusion together. He
supposed that the Terran government ordered its diplomats and
senior militiamen to trim their faces, so as not to frighten the
representatives of the Grand Alliance needlessly. After all, the
first sightings of the long-haired simians had driven the
Crutchtans to panic at the bloody First Encounter. The Terran
policy of cropping their fur was an act of profound civility for
which Zatar was grateful, even if his colleagues dismissed the
gesture as the product of his own imagination.
    Finally, the ambassador could stand the
silence no longer. Resolved to muddle through as best he could, he
swallowed his misgivings and began to speak, only to find the
venture cut short: the Terran, apparently just as impatient at the
long silence, blurted out the last sounds in the world that Zatar
expected to hear. His guest spoke tentatively, unsurely, and
indistinctly, but the message came through nonetheless.
    “ Friend,” it said; at least that was
what it sounded like. Zatar could not be sure, given the thick
accent and low-pitched growl of the Terran’s voice. Actually, it
sounded more like “ f’Rroinght ,” but the context was right, and
Zatar judged that it was as close as a Terran could come without
choking. What astounded him was that the Terran knew any Veshnan
words at all. Even Terra’s ambassadors seemed disinterested in
learning to speak for themselves, and Zatar had all but concluded
that Terrans had little interest in other languages. Choosing his
words slowly and carefully, Zatar forged ahead with his effort at
cross-cultural communication. But by now he was smiling so broadly
that he could only guess what he sounded like to the
Terran.
    “ Hearth our toward, is
hospitality ,” Zatar said in the Terran’s language,
repeating by rote one of the many greetings he had learned from the
language tapes. “Zatar of Ibleiman, the
emissary am I .” He approached the Terran, prepared to
clasp hands in the traditional Terran greeting. Zatar rather
enjoyed the quaint custom, though he could not fathom its
significance. He assumed it derived from the keen tactile sense
noted in proto-simians throughout the galaxy and was meant to
engender some sort of temporary bonding between the participants.
To his surprise, his guest smiled and bowed in the finest Veshnan
manner.
    “ Emissary
sir ,” the Terran replied in its own language.
“ Conferring is
contentment. ”
    “ Like health, conferring
of mine is joyful ,” Zatar responded, returning the
bow. To his horror, he realized that his memory was failing him and
he was running out of rote responses. Trying not to panic, he tried
to clear his mind by listening to the sands whipping against the
side of their dwelling. But the thought of the cold, pelting winds
merely made him shudder and seemed to keep the words from rising in
his brain. Finally, the distraction itself unclogged his mental
faculties, and another Terran phrase popped into his
head.
    “ Pray, your title what
grows, plus ?”
    Zatar winced; he knew that he had said it
wrong, but hoped he had come close enough for his guest to
understand. Talking in this strange tongue was quite exhilarating,
he realized, but it seemed that much of the excitement came from
never being quite sure what he was saying. As far as he could tell,
Terrans strung words together randomly, with no discernable
pattern, and in the past he often created confusion whenever he
tried to follow conventional rules of syntax. He sighed with relief
upon hearing a familiar voice come to his rescue.
    “ His name is Khu’ukh of Waashkho .”
    It was Munshi. She had changed into more
formal attire—a dark blue tunic and long, flowing gown—and her skin
no longer pulsed with the cold. The ambassador had rarely been
gladder to see anyone in his life.
    “ But you are doing so well,” she said,
obviously enjoying herself. “Please, do not stop on my
account.”
    Zatar was not