is better than being ignored. "I'm lost," he said meekly.
"Why didn't you stay where you were?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to—I'm sorry, noble sir—and there wasn't any washroom."
"Oh. But there is, right across from your bunkie."
"Noble sir, I did not know."
"Mmm . . . I suppose you didn't. I'm not 'noble sir'; I'm First Assistant Power Boss—see that you remember it. Come along." He grabbed Thorby by an arm, hurried him back through the maze, stopped in the same tunnel that had stumped Thorby, ran his hand down a seam in the metal. "Here's your bunkie." The panel slid aside.
The man turned, did the same on the other side. "Here's the starboard bachelors' washroom." The man advised him scornfully when Thorby was confused by strange fixtures, then chaperoned him back to his room. "Now stay here. Your meals will be fetched."
"First Assistant Power Boss, sir?"
"Eh?"
"Could I speak with Captain Krausa?"
The man looked astonished. "Do you think the Skipper has nothing better to do than talk to you?"
"But—"
The man had left; Thorby was talking to a steel panel.
Food appeared eventually, served by a youngster who behaved as if he were placing a tray in an empty room. More food appeared later and the first tray was removed. Thorby almost managed to be noticed; he hung onto the first tray and spoke to the boy in Interlingua. He detected a flicker of understanding, but he was answered by one short word. The word was "Fraki!" and Thorby did not recognize it . . . but he could recognize the contempt with which it was uttered. A fraki is a small, shapeless, semi-saurian scavenger of Alpha Centauri Prime III, one of the first worlds populated by men. It is ugly, almost mindless, and has disgusting habits. Its flesh can be eaten only by a starving man. Its skin is unpleasant to touch and leaves a foul odor.
But "fraki" means more than this. It means a groundhog, an earthcrawler, a dirt dweller, one who never goes into space, not of our tribe, not human, a goy, an auslander, a savage, beneath contempt. In Old Terran cultures almost every animal name has been used as an insult: pig, dog, sow, cow, shark, louse, skunk, worm—the list is endless. No such idiom carries more insult than "fraki."
Fortunately all Thorby got was the fact that the youngster did not care for him . . . which he knew.
Presently Thorby became sleepy. But, although he had mastered the gesture by which doors were opened, he still could not find any combination of swipes, scratches, punches, or other actions which would open the bed; he spent that night on the floorplates. His breakfast appeared next morning but he was unable to detain the person serving it, even to be insulted again. He did encounter other boys and young men in the washroom across the corridor; while he was still ignored, he learned one thing by watching—he could wash his clothing there. A gadget would accept a garment, hold it a few minutes, spew it forth dry and fresh. He was so delighted that he laundered his new finery three times that day. Besides, he had nothing else to do. He again slept on the floor that night.
He was squatting in his bunkie, feeling a great aching loneliness for Pop and wishing that he had never left Jubbul, when someone scratched at his door. "May I come in?" a voice inquired in careful, badly-accented Sargonese.
"Come in!" Thorby answered eagerly and jumped up to open the door. He found himself facing a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face. "Welcome," he said in Sargonese, and stood aside.
"I thank you for your gracious—" she stumbled and said quickly, "Do you speak Interlingua?"
"Certainly, madam."
She muttered in System English, "Thank goodness for that—I've run out of Sargonese," then went on in Interlingua, "Then we will speak it, if you don't mind."
"As you wish, madam," Thorby answered in the same language, then added in System English, "unless you would rather use another language."
She looked startled. "How many languages do you
"Why didn't you stay where you were?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to—I'm sorry, noble sir—and there wasn't any washroom."
"Oh. But there is, right across from your bunkie."
"Noble sir, I did not know."
"Mmm . . . I suppose you didn't. I'm not 'noble sir'; I'm First Assistant Power Boss—see that you remember it. Come along." He grabbed Thorby by an arm, hurried him back through the maze, stopped in the same tunnel that had stumped Thorby, ran his hand down a seam in the metal. "Here's your bunkie." The panel slid aside.
The man turned, did the same on the other side. "Here's the starboard bachelors' washroom." The man advised him scornfully when Thorby was confused by strange fixtures, then chaperoned him back to his room. "Now stay here. Your meals will be fetched."
"First Assistant Power Boss, sir?"
"Eh?"
"Could I speak with Captain Krausa?"
The man looked astonished. "Do you think the Skipper has nothing better to do than talk to you?"
"But—"
The man had left; Thorby was talking to a steel panel.
Food appeared eventually, served by a youngster who behaved as if he were placing a tray in an empty room. More food appeared later and the first tray was removed. Thorby almost managed to be noticed; he hung onto the first tray and spoke to the boy in Interlingua. He detected a flicker of understanding, but he was answered by one short word. The word was "Fraki!" and Thorby did not recognize it . . . but he could recognize the contempt with which it was uttered. A fraki is a small, shapeless, semi-saurian scavenger of Alpha Centauri Prime III, one of the first worlds populated by men. It is ugly, almost mindless, and has disgusting habits. Its flesh can be eaten only by a starving man. Its skin is unpleasant to touch and leaves a foul odor.
But "fraki" means more than this. It means a groundhog, an earthcrawler, a dirt dweller, one who never goes into space, not of our tribe, not human, a goy, an auslander, a savage, beneath contempt. In Old Terran cultures almost every animal name has been used as an insult: pig, dog, sow, cow, shark, louse, skunk, worm—the list is endless. No such idiom carries more insult than "fraki."
Fortunately all Thorby got was the fact that the youngster did not care for him . . . which he knew.
Presently Thorby became sleepy. But, although he had mastered the gesture by which doors were opened, he still could not find any combination of swipes, scratches, punches, or other actions which would open the bed; he spent that night on the floorplates. His breakfast appeared next morning but he was unable to detain the person serving it, even to be insulted again. He did encounter other boys and young men in the washroom across the corridor; while he was still ignored, he learned one thing by watching—he could wash his clothing there. A gadget would accept a garment, hold it a few minutes, spew it forth dry and fresh. He was so delighted that he laundered his new finery three times that day. Besides, he had nothing else to do. He again slept on the floor that night.
He was squatting in his bunkie, feeling a great aching loneliness for Pop and wishing that he had never left Jubbul, when someone scratched at his door. "May I come in?" a voice inquired in careful, badly-accented Sargonese.
"Come in!" Thorby answered eagerly and jumped up to open the door. He found himself facing a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face. "Welcome," he said in Sargonese, and stood aside.
"I thank you for your gracious—" she stumbled and said quickly, "Do you speak Interlingua?"
"Certainly, madam."
She muttered in System English, "Thank goodness for that—I've run out of Sargonese," then went on in Interlingua, "Then we will speak it, if you don't mind."
"As you wish, madam," Thorby answered in the same language, then added in System English, "unless you would rather use another language."
She looked startled. "How many languages do you
Similar Books
