Contraband From Otherspace

VIII

It was very quiet in the radio office of Rim Mamelute. Grimes and Sonya stood there, watching chubby little Bennett make the last connections to the black box that they had brought from the control room of the derelict. "Yes," the Electronic Radio Officer had told them, "it is a Signal Log, and it’s well shielded, so whatever records it may contain probably haven’t been wiped by radiation. Once I get it hooked up we’ll have the play-back."

And now it was hooked up. "Are you sure you won’t burn it out?" asked the Commodore, suddenly anxious.

"Almost sure, sir," answered Bennett cheerfully. "The thing is practically an exact copy of the Signal Logs that were in use in some ships of the Federation Survey Service all of fifty years ago. Before my time. Anyhow, my last employment before I came out to the Rim was in the Lyran Navy, and their wagons were all Survey Service cast-offs. In many of them the original communications gear was still in place, and still in working order. No, sir, this isn’t the first time that I’ve made one of these babies sing. Reminds me of when we picked up the wreck of the old Minstrel Boy; I was Chief Sparks of the Tara’s Hall at the time, and got the gen from her Signal Log that put us on the trail of Black Bart"—he added unnecessarily—"the pirate."

"I have heard of him," said Grimes coldly.

Sonya remarked, pointing towards the box, "But it doesn’t look old."

"No, Mrs. Grimes. It’s not old. Straight from the maker, I’d say. But there’s no maker’s name, which is odd…"

"Switch on, Mr. Bennett," ordered the Commodore.

Bennett switched on. The thing hummed quietly to itself, crackled briefly and thinly as the spool was rewound. It crackled again, more loudly, and the play-back began.

The voice that issued from the speaker spoke English—of a sort. But it was not human. It was a thin, high, alien squeaking—and yet, somehow, not alien enough. The consonants were ill-defined, and there was only one vowel sound.

"Eeveengeer tee Deestreeyeer. Eeveengeer tee Deestreeyeer. Heeve tee. Heeve tee!"

The voice that answered was not a very convincing imitation of that strange accent. "Deestreeyer tee Eeveenger. Reepeet, pleese. Reepeet…"

"A woman," whispered Sonya. "Human…"

"Heeve tee, Deestreeyeer. Heeve tee, eer wee eepeen feer!"

A pause, then the woman’s voice again, the imitation even less convincing, a certain desperation all too evident: "Deestreeyer tee Avenger. Deestreeyeer tee Eeveengeer… Eer Dreeve ceentreels eer eet eef eerdeer!"

Playing for time, thought Grimes. Playing for time, while clumsy hands fumble with unfamiliar armament. But they tried. They did their best…

"Dee!" screamed the inhuman voice. "Heemeen sceem, dee!"

"And that must have been it," muttered Grimes.

"It was," said Sonya flatly, and the almost inaudible whirring of what remained on the spool bore her out.

"That mistake she made," said Grimes softly, "is the clue. For Eeveengeer, read Avenger. For every E sound substitute the vowel that makes sense. But insofar as the written language is concerned, that fat I is really an E…"

"That seems to be the way of it," agreed Sonya.

" Die, " repeated the Commodore slowly. " Human scum, die! " He said, "Whoever those people are, they wouldn’t be at all nice to know."

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Sonya told him. "That we might get to know them. Whoever they are—and wherever, and whenever…"