Quickly he pulled out stops, trying for an approximation of the Cygnan voice. A touch of oboe. A flute.

A ba.s.soon with its wave frequency moved up to the treble range. A synthetic soprano voice saying "ah."

The preparation took him a few seconds. He glanced over his shoulder. How much time would they allow him? Not enough time to reprogram the little computer that was the heart of the Moog; that would take hours. But he didn't have to do anything very complicated to start with. He altered the tuning of the A to shift it slightly from concert pitch, and the Moog obligingly shifted the rest of the scale to go with it.

Then he lowered all the C sharps a trifle and retuned a couple of the notes he wouldn't be using for the demonstration, to provide the quarter-tone notes hewould need.

He turned. Triad was coming toward him, hissing. Her rasplike tongue flickered in and out. His time was up.

Jameson put his hands on the keyboard and said her name in perfect Cygnanese. With, he hoped, hardly a trace of an accent.

He worked on the Moog while the a.s.sistant brought in their lunch. He didn't care to think about the Cygnans' lunch except to note that it didn't seem to enjoy being eaten. His own lunch was another half-thawed block of food from his own ship's freezer-this time a pie-sized portion of mincemeat stuffing intended for Christmas dinner.

The Moog had two five-octave keyboards. He compressed them into a single compa.s.s of two and one half octaves composed of quarter-tones. It fit the Cygnan vocal range perfectly.

He fiddled individually with what seemed to be some of the more important tones in the Cygnan vocabulary-the off-key B flat in Tetrachord's name and the wrong-note bagpipe tone that finished off the octave, among others. But for most of it he simply had the computer chop up the normal equal-temperament octave into forty-eight pieces instead of twelve. He could retune other crucial notes one at a time as they came up while he was learning to talk Cygnan.

It took him another hour to alter the Moog's memory so that it would replay some of the standard Cygnan sequences at the touch of a b.u.t.ton-the interrogative trill and the cascade of minor thirds, and some of the turns and arabesques he'd been able to pin down so far. He had only to play them once through and tell the Moog to remember them. They were plugged into the bank of cheater b.u.t.tons that were meant for slipbeat rhythms and computer-generated contrapuntal voices.

When he'd finished, not even Johann Sebastian Bach could have played recognizable human music on the Moog. It was a Cygnan speech synthesizer now, with lots of unused learning capacity.

His accomplishment earned him a reprieve. It made Conversing a lot easier for the Cygnans, for one thing, and that rekindled their interest. They didn't have to stop to figure out what Jameson meant when he interpolated a broken chord, and they didn't have to repeat things for him endlessly; the Moog's play-along attachment taped them the first time, and the Cygnans could go about their business while Jameson devoted himself to memorizing word lists.

They didn't even make him return to his cage. Instead, they let him sleep in a small storage room adjacent to their office or workshop, or whatever it was, and work on his vocabulary while they were busy. During their frequent absences, he was allowed to wander through the workshop, as if he were a trusted pet. Among the looted human artifacts he found clothing and toilet articles, and soon he was able to get warm again and clean himself up. The ap.r.o.ned a.s.sistant brought him his meals at regular intervals: more frozen food from the freezer and, as time went on, unfamiliar stuff that the Cygnans evidently had learned to synthesize. Most of it was an unappetizing mush, but it didn't make him sick. At least he wouldn't starve when human supplies ran out.

To Jameson's immense relief, learning the Cygnan language turned out to be easy. The structure, such as it was, was positional. He was able to get along fairly well simply by piling words on top of one another, as you could do in Chinese.

He remembered something one of his language teachers on Earth had told him: Sophisticated languages tend to dispense with grammar. Languages of primitive cultures, like Eskimo or Hottentot, have far more complex a structure than highly evolved languages like English or Chinese. The Cygnans, who had been wandering through s.p.a.ce for untold millennia, must have a far older civilization than man.

Their language had been simplified. Given time, Jameson could have taught Mike Berry or any other competent amateur musician to play back Cygnan "words" by rote on the Moog's modified keyboard, or punch in his programmed phrases. But Mike didn't have absolute pitch, so he could never have understood the Cygnan's replies.

The Cygnan language was simple, all right. But n.o.body in the crew except Jameson could possibly have understood it.

Chapter 18.

"Is this a little Jameson?"

At least Jameson a.s.sumed the word was "little" or something close to it. It fit the context and contained, within a cloud of embellishments, the set of phonemes that denoted something that was small in size or a model for something larger.

"No," Jameson said, his fingers flashing over the keyboards of the Moog. "It is an animal."

He had gotten to that point of fluency where his fingers thought for him in Cygnanese. It must be the same, he imagined, for people who habitually communicated in deaf-and-dumb signals: language without vocalization, but language nevertheless.

"Yes, but is this the animal that(tootle-tootle-peep-peep-peep) Jamesons?"

His mind had automatically translated the piping sounds into idiomatic English-all but the (tootle-tootle-peep-peep-peep) . It sounded a little like the word for "produce" and a little like the word for "consume" and a little like the ideogram for putting together the parts of something. It was another of those Cygnan ambiguities that Jameson could never seem to get the hang of.

The animal in question was a small bedraggled kitten that crouched on one of the oval pads of Triad's desk, almost too weak to move and certainly too frightened to jump down. It was tiny and feather-light, with matted gray fur, and its ribs showed pitifully. It had s.p.u.n.k, though. It hissed at Jameson or the Cygnans when they got too close, showing a pink tongue and little needle teeth. Where the animal had come from was a mystery. Tetrachord and Triad had disappeared for about twelve hours and had returned in a state of high excitement, lugging triangular containers. The kitten came out of one of the containers.

"I do not understand," Jameson said cautiously. His fingers hammered away at the keys. "What is (tootle-tootle-peep-peep-peep) ?"

He hoped he'd got that right. Sometimes the tiniest transposition of a tone led to wild misunderstandings, which had caused his problem with the concept of many Jamesons. The Cygnans still vehemently denied that there was a cla.s.s of Jamesons, but they freely used the idea of a Jameson to refer to humans.

Jameson couldn't understand the distinction.

He received no reply. The Cygnans acted displeased with him. But all he'd done was repeat the word that Triad had used. Or had he? He felt like a small boy who has unwittingly used a dirty word.

He thought furiously. He didn't dare risk having the Cygnans break off the conversation, as they frequently did when things got difficult. What had Triad asked him? One component of the ideogram was "to consume." Was she asking him if kittens were parasitic on man? They were obviously too small to be predators.

He risked it. He pointed at the swollen parasite that swung between Triad's hind legs.

"Is this the animal that(tootle-tootle-peep-peep-peep) Triads?" he asked.

The reaction was swift and startling. Tetrachord untwined himself from his perch and made a savage rush at Jameson. Jameson shrank back, alarmed. These mock rushes seemed to be a Cygnan reflex to anything threatening-either physical or intellectual-but they were scary nevertheless. Tetrachord darted a long neck at Jameson, making hissing sounds. The spiked tongue flicked in his direction.

Triad's reaction was different. The smaller Cygnan shielded the parasite from view with two hands. The orange orifice at the end of the tail, which often revealed itself partially when the Cygnans were relaxed or doing something pleasurable like eating, closed itself up purse-tight. Triad a.s.sumed the posture which seemed to signify self-protection or embarra.s.sment.

Desperately Jameson a.s.sumed the submissive posture. It was the Cygnan form of apology. He turned his back to Tetrachord and crouched, holding himself perfectly still.

Mollified, Tetrachord returned to his perch. When Jameson thought it was safe he stood up again and went to the desk. He picked up the gray kitten. It vibrated against his chest, all skin and bones.

He walked over to the locker containing the supplies of human food that he'd scrounged from the Cygnans' loot. He rationed it out to himself whenever he needed a change from the synthetic mush the ap.r.o.ned a.s.sistant dished out to him.

He found a can of condensed milk and poured some of it in a bowl. He set the kitten down on the floor in front of it. The kitten began avidly to lap it up.

The two Cygnans watched with mounting interest. "The animal would not eat the human food we gave it," Triad reported. "It would only drink the water."

A few circ.u.mspect questions got Jameson the information that the kitten had refused offerings of rice and wingbean paste from the ship's stores. They hadn't tried giving it meat.

"How long," he asked carefully, "has it been since this animal has eaten?"

He got an answer that it was equal to the length of one of the Cygnans' active periods. It was the only unit of time he had succeeded in establishing so far. The kitten hadn't eaten for eight or nine days; that was the closest he could figure.

"Where did you find the animal?" he asked.

He wondered who in the crew had managed to smuggle a kitten aboard ship and keep it hidden for all those months. No-not a kitten. A mother cat. Pregnant. Wait a minute! What was the gestation period of a cat? Only a couple of months! That was impossible. The trip to Jupiter had taken five months, and the kitten couldn't be more than a few weeks old.

An awful suspicion began to dawn on Jameson.

Triad gestured toward the triangular containers. "We found the animal on your planet," the creature said.

Tetrachord and Triad were indulgent. They let Jameson hang around while they unpacked the containers, though they hissed at him if he got too close.

Soil samples in little transparent bags. A dead beetle. Some dessicated samples of vegetation that was indisputably terrestrial. To Jameson the stuff looked tropical. South America or Southeast Asia?

And-sinister import!-a preserved human hand and forearm with the shredded remnants of a cotton sleeve sticking to it. The kitten's owner?

They took out two more dead kittens and part of a third. The gray one had been the only one to survive the trip. Eight days, if he could believe the Cygnans.

Eight days from Earth! Was that possible?

Jameson didn't even have to do the arithmetic. This was a favorite s.p.a.ceman's pipe dream, one that came up during every bull session.

Halfway from Earth to Jupiter at a constant acceleration of one gravity. The second half of the trip at constant one gravity deceleration. Eight or nine days was about right. If he needed confirmation, the kitten was proof enough. He looked at it sitting next to the empty bowl, contentedly giving itself a wash.

Perhaps there had been water in the capsule it had traveled in-condensation or even a water supply.

But it couldn't have survived without food for much longer than that.

Brute force. Unlimited power. That's what it would take. Never mind about vectors or the finer points of s.p.a.ce navigation. But if those puny-looking Cygnan broomsticks could manage constant acceleration at one g, then certainly they could mail a package from Earth in eight days.

"Are there Cygnans on Earth now?" Jameson asked.

Tetrachord and Triad were preoccupied. Jameson had to ask several times before he got a reply.

"No. That is a wrong question. A Cygnan on Earth is a not-Cygnan, so that what you say has not-meaning." While Jameson wrestled with that, Tetrachord went on: "We have caused to be sent to Earth a (number?) of tweetle-tweetle-chirp-trill."

"What is atweetle-tweetle-chirp-trill? "

Impatiently, Tetrachord glided over to the queer console at the far wall, still clutching a soil-sample bag in one middle claw. The fingers of three hands blurred over the pearly k.n.o.bs and flicked over the rows of wires on their fretted necks. A picture formed on the three cl.u.s.tered circular screens-all the same picture, but with subtle differences. The Cygnans didn't use holo images. Their three eyes evidently focused separately on each of the three images and their brain translated them into a picture they could use.

Jameson concentrated on whatever picture seemed clearest at the moment. What he saw was a hangarlike interior occupied by a narrow flat-sided needle in the shape of an elongated pyramid. Twenty or thirty Cygnans were bustling around it, giving it scale. The object was about ten meters long, he guessed. Three flaring nozzles stuck out of the corners of the blunt end. The pointed end was broken away, and Cygnans were removing odd-shaped containers from the interior. All the Cygnans wore transparent protective suits.

A probe. An automated probe.

How the h.e.l.l had the Cygnans slipped their probes through Earth's radar defenses without precipitating a world war?

"How long have you been studying Earth?"

The answer was indefinite, as answers involving duration or measurement always were. Jameson gathered that it hadn't been for very long, though. Not until after the human ship had entered the Jovian system.

That was odd. They must have picked up radio signals from Earth and Mars long before they themselves went into orbit around Jupiter. And picked up the com laser flashes to the ship. It seemed to Jameson that when you had traveled more than ten thousand light-years, having a look at an indigenous intelligent life form would have a high degree of priority. But evidently the Cygnans had just now gotten around to being curious about people.

"Why are you studying us now?"

"You are too puny to interfere with our purpose. But the mother-within-herself is prudent."

More Cygnan gobbledegook. He'd run into the "mother-within-herself" reference before and had pinned down its literal meaning, if not its import. He wished he could pa.s.s on these clues to Janet Lemieux or someone else more qualified than he. But the thrust of Tetrachord's answer became clear when the Cygnan plucked some wires on the console and another scene took shape on the three circular screens.

They showed a film or a tape or a sound-picture of the Jupiter ship after it had been evacuated. Cygnan technicians had removed the protective blisters over the nuclear-missile racks. They were taking lots of pictures, or whatever happened when light from those glittering little boxes they carried bathed the missiles, but they weren't touching the launching racks. They acted somewhat skittish, and were staying well clear of them.

The Cygnans were miffed about the nuclear bombs, and Jameson couldn't blame them.

"We wish you no harm," Jameson said. "But humans also are prudent."

"Humans cannot harm us," Tetrachord said flatly.

His heart pounding, Jameson said, "What do you want with the Earth?"

"Want?" The two Cygnans tossed the word back and forth, like shrikes calling to each other in counterpoint. "The Earth is a wrong thing. It is not a thing that we want. We have no need to take it."

That took Jameson's breath away. Tetrachord hadn't used "take" in the sense of possessing something.

He had used the idiom for carrying something away.

Could he keep the Cygnans talking? They became bored easily. For the moment, they were intently watching the kitten. Its bath finished, it was clawing its way up his trouser leg. It settled in his lap, purring.

There was an excited chirping from the Cygnans. Desperately Jameson ran his fingers over the keyboards of the Moog.

"Why have you come here then?" he asked. "What do you want in this star system?"

The Cygnans seemed at a loss to reply to him. They went into a hand-holding huddle, fluting at each other for a long time. Finally Tetrachord went over to the console again. An outside view sprang to life on the triple viewscreens: the tremendous disk of the planet Jupiter, repeated three times.

Jupiter had changed. Jameson stared in wonder at its seething bulk. The bands and the Red Spot were completely gone. The process the aliens had started had advanced considerably since the last time he had seen the planet. The atmosphere had churned itself into a boiling porridge, a uniform dirty yellow in color.

It heaved violently, popping world-sized bubbles that burst through the surface and were sucked into the billowing chasm that divided the planet in half.

"This is what we want," Tetrachord cheeped at him. "We will take it with us."

Chapter 19.

Jameson sat there, too stunned to move. The kitten purred in his lap, its sharp little claws digging into him rhythmically. Over on the triple screens, Jupiter continued to boil away.

If you're going to steal a planet, he thought insanely,why settle for anything except the biggest?

Smash and run, with the brightest bauble the solar system has to offer!

Jupiter!

A mere bagatelle, ma.s.sing three times the rest of all the planets and moons in the solar system combined!

A giant among worlds-eleven times the diameter of Earth and more than three hundred times its weight.

A melon next to a grape! He supposed it was fortunate for the human race that the Cygnans thought big.

He patted the kitten absently. Under the soft fur it was all bones. The Cygnans were still watching him with their triangulated eyes. He flipped switches and pulled stops on the Moog. He was finally getting somewhere; every nuance had to be right.