Native Tongue

Chapter Seven

Andrew St. Syrus had the languid good looks characteristic of his family. Skin so fair that ten minutes in the sun meant a burn, and hair the color of good English wheat. And he had a beautiful mouth. Like all the St. Syrus men, he grew a full mustache above it to serve as a counterweight of masculinity. And he had learned, painstakingly, in daily sessions supervised by other St. Syrus men, the repertoire of male body language that no St. Syrus man could afford to dispense with. Thomas Chornyak, now, if he lounged a bit in his chair you saw only a sturdy male bulk lounging in a chair; if Andrew took the same posture he appeared to be draped over the chair for the elegance of the effect, and it was fatal. Andrew sat up straight, and he kept his shoulders square, and he made damn sure every unit of his body-parl had an unambiguous message like a drone string on a dulcimer… I AM VERY MALE. It was a nuisance, and the Household was searching for at least two husbands from outside the Lines who could offer a substantial contribution of genes best described as hulking.

He arrived at Chornyak Household before breakfast, refused anything but a cup of strong black coffee, and went straight to Thomas’ office to tell him about the kidnapping.

“My God, Andrew,” Thomas said at once, both hands gripping his desk. “Jesus… that’s awful.”

“It’s not pleasant.”

“You’re sure it’s a kidnapping? Not just a mixup… one of those cases you read about once in a while where some woman takes home the wrong baby?”

“They’d have one extra at the hospital, if it were that.”

Thomas made a face, and apologized.

“It was a stupid question,” he said. “I’m shocked stupid, I’m afraid. Forgive me.”

“It’s understandable.”

“Not really, Andrew — but go on.”

“They think it must have happened sometime between midnight and the four o’clock feeding… that’s when they noticed that the baby was gone. Somebody just waltzed up to the night nurse with a fake note saying they wanted the child for Evoked Potentials, and she handed it over like a sack of groceries.”

“How could that happen? A baby is not a sack of groceries!”

“Well,” sighed Andrew, “the nurse on duty had no reason to be suspicious. Someone’s always coming after babies from the Lines for neurological testing — you know that. The man was dressed like a doctor, he acted like a doctor, the note was scrawled like a doctor’s usual bad excuse for handwriting. she had no way of knowing. Hell… nobody argues with a doctor, Thomas — you can’t blame the woman.”

“She should have checked.”

“Thomas. She’s a nurse. A woman. What do you expect?”

“I expect competence. We expect competence in the women of the Lines, Andrew.”

St. Syrus shrugged, carefully.

“Well,” he said, “it’s done. Never mind blaming the nurse at this point — it changes nothing. It’s done.”

“I’m sorry, Andrew,” said Thomas.

“I know you are, and I appreciate it.”

Andrew got up and walked back and forth as he talked, his hands clasped behind him. “We felt that the worst possible thing would be publicity… Considering the way people feel about us, they’d probably give the kidnapper board and room instead of turning him in. So we exerted a little pressure in the necessary places, and we’ve been promised that those media buzzards won’t be allowed one word, not even an announcement.”

“I see.”

Andrew looked at him, narrowing his eyes, and said, “You know, Thomas, that’s odd. They must be short-staffed, or confused, missing an opportunity to sic the pack on us and keep the public mind off their own shenanigans. This one is tailor-made for the bastards — I can’t figure out why they’re passing it up.”

“Andrew, when have the actions of our illustrious government ever made sense?”

“Not lately.”

“I rather expect they’re concerned that people might get nervous about hospital security measures… copycat crimes, that sort of thing.”

“I suppose. Whatever it is, thank God for it.”

“Right you are, my friend. And I will tighten the screws a bit from this end, just to make sure that their motivation doesn’t slip somebody’s mind on its way up through the chain of command.”

“I was hoping you’d offer to do that, Thomas.”

“Certainly, man! Of course. You can put that out of your mind, at least. And what else can I do?”

“I don’t think there is anything else to do.”

“That’s not likely. There’s almost always something else to do — you just haven’t had time to consider the matter. How about my pressuring the police as well as the press?”

“I think the police are doing all that can be done,” said the other man, sitting down again. “They’ve no reason not to. It’s all just a job to them, no matter whose baby is involved. And perhaps it will be all right. I mean, perhaps they’ll find the scum who did this before he has a chance to harm the child.”

“Not yours, is it?” asked Thomas, looking politely away from him.

“No, thank heaven, it’s not. But it’s my brother’s, and it would have been his first child. You can imagine how he feels.”

“Yes.”

“As for the woman…” St. Syrus spread his hands wide in a gesture of complete hopelessness and stared eloquently at the ceiling.

“The mother’s taken it badly, I suppose.”

“Oh, my God… You’ve never perceived anything quite like it. The lungs on that woman! I’m surprised you can’t hear her all the way here, frankly. When I left, they were sedating her so the rest of the family wouldn’t have to suffer with her caterwauling. And the other women are not a whole lot better, I’m sorry to say — especially since they are all fully aware of the Lines’ policy about ransoms.”

“It has to be that way,” said Thomas gently. “If there was the slightest chance that the linguists would pay ransoms, none of our children, or our women, would be safe. We don’t have any choice.”

“I know that. The women know that. But it doesn’t keep them from carrying on world without end about it.”

“In my experience, Andrew, you’ve got to give them something to keep them busy. Not makework, mind you, but something that will really occupy them.”

“For instance? There are nineteen adult women under my roof, and nearly that many adolescent females… and a miscellaneous assortment of girl children. It would take something like the excavation of a sewer system to use every spare moment of a gaggle that size.”

“What about their damnfool Encoding Project? What about their church duties? What about their ordinary obligations, for God’s sakes? How can they have spare time?”

“Thomas,” said Andrew wearily, “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I simply do not have the kind of control you have.”

“You haven’t been Head very long… it will come.”

“Perhaps. But at the moment, my women claim they can’t keep their mind on their hobby, and they’re so angry at the Almighty that they’re not speaking to Him. And so on. Drivel, endless drivel.”

“Double their schedules, Andrew. Give them some stuff to translate that there hasn’t been time for. Hell, make them clean the house. Buy them fruit to make jelly out of, if your orchards and storerooms are bare. There’s got to be something you can do with them, or they will literally drive you crazy. Women out of control are a curse — and if you don’t put a stop to it, you’ll regret it bitterly later on.”

“I regret it bitterly now. But this is not the moment for me to institute reforms, Thomas. Not in the middle of this mess.”

“It’s a hell of a thing,” said Thomas.

“Yes. And then some.” Andrew sank down in the chair, caught himself and straightened up again, and lit a cigarette.

“You didn’t have any warning, I don’t suppose. No threats. No stuff written on your walls. Obscene letters.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

They sat silently, and Thomas concentrated on looking suitably distressed. Not that anyone in the Lines, or anywhere else, was ever going to suspect him of collusion with the government. The idea was so unthinkable that he could be certain it would go unthought. But the popular platitudes about it being impossible to lie to a linguist were based on a solid foundation. Even if you were also a linguist. He couldn’t afford to be careless; St. Syrus was inexperienced, but he was capable and intelligent and nobody’s fool.

“Perceive this, Andrew,” he said finally. “I’m not going to just let this pass.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that we aren’t going to sit like sticks and let it go on without taking some action of our own. I’m going to put private investigators on it, St. Syrus. Today.”

“Surely that’s not necessary!”

“I think it is.”

“But, Thomas — ”

“Andrew, this is a matter of principle. And of honor. The honor of the Lines. I want whoever is behind this to be shown, and I want the unenthusiastic law enforcement people to be shown, that we of the Lines don’t take kindly to having our women and children tampered with. It’s necessary to make that unambiguously clear, and without any delay that might confuse their little minds.”

“It’ll cost the earth, Thomas,” said Andrew slowly. “Not that I mind the expense, but — ”

Thomas cut him short.

“There are special funds,” he said. “Special funds set aside for unusual circumstances, when cost should not have to be considered. This qualifies as one of those circumstances. Think, Andrew — damn it, man, do you want word going out on the street that anybody who fancies it can go pick off a linguist infant from a maternity ward and we’ll just wring our hands and whimper in many tongues? We may be able to silence the media, but we sure as hell can’t silence the criminals.”

“Maybe you’re right, Thomas. Hell… of course you’re right. It’s the sort of thing a criminal might do on a dare from his buddies, isn’t it? Jesus.”

“Andrew,” said Thomas firmly, “you go home and tend to your affairs. Get all the women out on contracts if you can. Those that aren’t on duty even as informal backups, find something exhausting to keep them occupied. I’ll get things started here right now — first, I’ll lean on the press; second, I’ll hire the detectives. Leave it in my hands and go home.”

Andrew St. Syrus stood up, stiffly. He was tired; he’d been up all night, and he had a full day ahead of him.

“Thomas, I’m grateful,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to all of us, having this kind of support.”

“Don’t mention it, Andrew. Kidnapping is a contemptible crime. Harming babies is barbarism. I’ll tolerate talk, Andrew, but I won’t have the families of the Lines actually harmed. I won’t stand for it. We won’t stand for it.”

“You’re absolutely right. Of course. All that chaos and hysteria I’ve been listening to has addled my brains.”

“Go home, Andrew. Stop thanking me, and stop agreeing with me, and go home — so that I can get this under way.”

“Of course. Of course.” St. Syrus picked up his cigarettes and his flyer keys, and stood up. A back muscle he’d strained somehow jabbed at him, and he was careful not to wince. He stopped in the office door, holding it open, and drew a swift line in the air. PanSig for good-by. The necessary light touch.

“Good-bye, Andrew,” said Thomas, and matched the PanSig unit politely.

Andrew was interested in PanSig; it was almost a hobby with him. He’d even managed to add three very useful units to its painfully limited lexicon, all of them producible in body, color, and odor Modes — and to get them past the PanSig Division of D.A.T. That had been a good deal harder than working out the units in the first place. He was tempted, briefly, to do the V-unit that was PanSig Body Mode for “Thank you”; then he thought better of it, and went on into the hall, letting the door slide shut behind him. Thomas wouldn’t have found it either interesting or amusing.