everlengthening shaft of himself into the eyes of another Mr. Eumenes or Mr. Sphex or Dr. Vespa or whatever he called himself. He was in white and wore a stethoscope around his neck.
Beside him stood another of his own kind. This one wore lipstick and a nurse’s cap. She carried a tray on which were several containers. One container held a large and sharp scalpel. The other held an egg. It was about twice the size of a hen’s egg.
Jack saw all this just before the veil took on another shade of red and blurred completely his vision of the outside. But the final thickening did not keep him from seeing that Doctor Eumenes was staring down at him as if he were peering into a dusky burrow. And Jack could make out the eyes. They were large, much larger than they should have been at the speed with which Jack was receding. They were not the pale pink of an albino’s. They were black from corner to corner and built of a dozen or so hexagons whose edges caught the light.
They twinkled.
Like jewels.
Or the eyes of an enormous and evolved wasp.
LINGUA FRANCA
Mist removed two large coins from the blue money box on the counter and walked outside her shop. Closing the door, she reached for the ideograph placard which read, “Closed, but unlocked. Take what you need and leave your payment in the coin box.” The signboard in place, she stuffed the “D” volume of her inter-planetary Webster’s Dictionary into her quilted backpack, strapped it on her back and walked into the dusty bustle of the open-air market.
The market still basked in the heat although First Dusk had already come and Second Dusk had begun rolling across the sky. Using her marriage scarf to shield her face from the dusty streets, Mist headed towards the fruit stands where the Federation-approved traders sold exotic foods gathered from across the galaxy.
In the distance, near an Ormat tree, four Federation off-worlders with ear-caps on their heads talked among themselves. One man carried something long and metallic on his shoulders. Another had a metallic box with a glass tube on one side. The only woman among them was looking through a metallic tube at the reddening sky. For several seconds, Mist studied the movement of their lips but could decipher nothing.
The purple warning lights of the market flashed: three slow blinks, then two long ones. Mist felt a cold chill run down her back. A dread unsettled her mind and she glanced nervously at the Town Square stage. Two women with children strapped in chest-sacks raced past her.
I’m getting old, Mist thought as they rushed past. Fifty. Even with children on their chests, they fly past me. But age comes to all of us. The Creator was hard on me. But, at last, I had my child. Only one. And at forty, when most women are past their prime. That child though is a true blessing. Worth a million others. Flowers-in-the-Sun has extended my youth. Before her birth, I was a “ghost,”—a childless woman.
Two more women raced past Mist. She caught a bit of their signed conversation. Their hands spoke of the cutting, about mouth-speech. To her left, two young mothers with small children strapped to their chests were also signing about the implanted children and the encroachment of the mouth-speaking Federation.
“These Earthers are not like the other off-worlders,” one woman signed. “They do not accept us as they find us. Look at them. Not content with fixing our ‘problem,’ now they say they’re ‘fixing’ our air. As if anything was ever wrong with our air. Why do the elders allow it?”
The other pointed in the direction of the Town Square stage and signed, “Today and tomorrow a News Carrier will bring us troubling stories about these meddlers.”
Mist looked up at the Wallaou tree where the nearest lights were strung. The pattern of the warning lights had changed. Now three slow flashes followed one long beam. The News Carrier was already here and would begin soon.
I’m not too old to keep up with news, Mist thought. But Flowers-in-the-Sun has looked sad lately. News will have to wait. Some little surprise from the fruit stand will cheer her up.
When she stopped at the fruit stand of her favorite vendor, something orange caught her eye. The name of the fruit was written in the three regional ideographic dialects in addition to the lingua franca of the Federation: the English language. The “English” letters O-R-A-N-G-E- took up more space than all the ideographs combined.
“Brother,” she addressed the old vendor, “the Earthers actually named a fruit after its color?”
The gray-haired old man whose name was Smoothed Stone smiled back.
“Try it, Sister,” he signed. “It’s good. Your Sweet One has a sweet tooth. She might like it.”
Mist smiled. “Yes, Flowers-in-the-Sun does like these foreign sweets.”
“Only three coins each. Not a lot to pay for fruit from the far side of the universe.”
“She’s probably home from school by now, being spoiled by Ion’s unmarried sisters, or by his brothers’ wives,” Mist answered with fake petulance. “From the day of her birth, Flowers-in-the-Sun has been the family favorite. The girl is too spoiled. Why should I spoil her even more by bringing her expensive foreign fruits?”
Smoothed Stone smiled. “Perhaps because she expects it. And because she still plays and jokes with her elders.”
Mist raised her right eyebrow and clasped her hands in front of her mouth. The old man raised his clasped hands to his mouth too but signed nothing. The old man obviously knew about recent events in her mother-in-law’s house where all the children, except Flowers-in-the-Sun, had been given the ear and throat implants. Lately, her implanted nieces and nephews had stopped signing. Now all they did was mouth-talk among themselves, indulging in “sounds” which the rest of us could neither hear nor understand.
Mist made a quick mental assessment of all the servants in her mother-in-law’s household and tried to figure out which was the old man’s liaison. She would have liked to know. An ally—even a servant- was always helpful. She would also have liked to gossip with him about the situation at home. But Ion’s family was extensive and prominent. To sign the family’s dirty laundry in public would not help her already troubled reputation. Nevertheless Mist knew she had an ally and that the old man understood her.
She picked up two oranges and tried to fit them both in her back-pack. But the dictionary filled the bag and only a small space remained. Mist was not about to be seen walking through the town square carrying something in her hand, like those women one couldn’t converse with in the streets because they had no servants to carry their ling-carts on shopping days. “I’ll take this fruit with a color as a name,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll get another.”
“The fruit is segmented,” he signed, as if reading her mind. “It will serve many.” Then he smiled and stretched out his hand for the payment.
Mist felt around in her dress pocket. Then she winked and smiling, gave Smoothed Stone two small coins instead of the three he had asked for.
Smoothed Stone took the coins and smiled conspiratorially. “You always were a girl with an eye for a bargain, Sister.”
Mist shrugged. “I might be married to someone outside the trader caste but I haven’t lost my skills.”
When
