Hugh expected them to turn away again after a moment, to avoid betraying themselves, but Janice had a different picture. A clearer one, she thought. Yes, they had sensed her feeling of triumph; no, they didn’t — they couldn’t, surely — realize its cause. She basked happily in the glow that any scientist feels when an infant hypothesis, nurtured lovingly for weeks and fed carefully with observations, speaks its first words — makes one of its earliest predictions. She knew, of course, that the feeling couldn’t last long; theories this young were usually far too tender. It would be hurt by something very soon, and need help. Still, the gold-brown Naxian optics remained fixed on her, and she could enjoy that while it lasted.
That wasn’t long. The glow vanished as it occurred to her to wonder what they might do to convince her they had only emotion sensing powers, and were not mind readers….
It had been wonderful while it lasted, but she was back on the ground. She glanced once more at the watchers. Their eyes were still on her. Maybe they were reading her thoughts — no. She brought herself up sharply. That may not be impossible, but don’t worry about it; just file it as something to devise a test for at some handier time.
Shefcheeshee was still speaking. Ged Barrar was still listening. The subject was now more speculative, on why no fossils recognizable as azide-chemistry organisms had been found at the sea bottom. Hugh muttered his own notion, expressed earlier by Bill and, apparently, already widely held.
“Because the ocean is loaded with azide-using scavengers who evolved here, and can take care of the remains before they get to the bottom!”
Barrar heard, and thought for a moment.
“But why wouldn’t there be other scavengers, too?”
“I’d guess its non-azide life is all descended from things the Habras’ ancestors brought with them, deliberately or otherwise, when they arrived, and that there hasn’t been time since then for evolution to till very many niches. You ought to consult McEachern or an educated Habra on that.”
“All the Habras seem to be able to talk about that sort of thing, whether they’re farmers or submarine operators or chemists or…”
“I know. It’s interesting. Maybe you should do your article on Habra sociology.”
“You’re laughing at me.” Hugh glanced outside without answering. Naxian attention seemed to be fading. There were now only three of them near the booth, and these seemed to be concerned with a nearby Crotonite as Shefcheeshee casually dismissed the idea that Habranhans might be descended from the mysterious Seventh Race.
“But don’t let that keep you from star travel,” he went on. “You can be a Seventh Race yourselves, or an Eighth if you consider that number taken. There are wonders beyond your atmosphere rivaling those under your sea. You have the knowledge, or most of it; what you lack, we who already enjoy the sights and adventures both of worlds like your own and worlds marvelously different can gladly supply. You can…”
Hugh looked outside again; the question of Habras joining the star-faring races was one on which many Crotonites felt strongly, some on one side and some on the other. Maybe this one was reacting, and the Naxians were enjoying the display.
But the Crotonite unceremoniously spread his wings and departed before either of the Erthumoi could decide whether the Naxians were watching him especially or not. Also, there was no way Hugh could infer either from their own motions or those of the watching Naxians that the Habras were responding at all intensely to the Cephallonian’s appeal. Shefcheeshee finished a few minutes later with a summary which told the Erthumoi nothing that they hadn’t heard from him before and must have left Barrar deeply disappointed. Hugh and Janice rose and started to leave the booth.
Two things delayed them, one sight and one sound.
Hugh’s eye for the first lime really caught the ice which formed the floor of the small chamber, and perceived that it was covered with a pattern of cuplike dents like those S’Nash had pointed out on the road east of Pitville. They did not form any sort of regular trail, however, and this time the reason was obvious enough. They had been made by Barrar’s walker, and his motions in the booth had been irregular. Even Hugh could see them without trouble, since there were no interfering marks.
Before he could comment or explain to Janice, much less confront the Samian, a sound took his attention. Barrar had opened the door, and auditory patterns from outside were reaching his translator again. Some of the loudest were far enough above background to let the equipment separate and interpret them.
“Where have you been, master? Did you hope to find inspiration here? This swimmer doesn’t even rouse Crotonites any more.”
The tone was Naxian. The words had certainly not been addressed to Hugh. Suddenly, however, as one of the nearby serpentlike forms moved and left the one beyond it recognizable as S’Nash, another pattern flowed together in his mind. The words combined with memories to make sense, and the sense was promptly supported.
S’Nash had turned toward the newcomer who had plainly been addressing it/him; now it/he swerved to face Hugh again, hesitated, then finished the turn, with a simultaneous gesture of one of his handlers apparently intended for the other Naxian. The words to Hugh were the same as long before, but this time no effort was made to cut off the sentence.
“Good for you!” That was all; the two wriggled away together. It was for once enough, at least for Janice.
Barrar admitted the details on their way back to the aircraft. He had been tied much more closely with Ennissee’s project than he had admitted earlier. He had helped convey the frozen Habra body from flyer to truck, since the Crotonite had not been strong enough to do the job alone and his Erthumoi were at the “dig.” He had then been carried back by the Crotonite in the Pitville aircraft Ged had been regularly and surreptitiously providing, but only to the outskirts of Pitville, to minimize the time he would have to account for; Spreadsheet-Thinker was not as casual an administrator as Ged had implied when claiming to have all routines worked out. The truck had come to Pitville on its own autodriver, starting enough later to hide any obvious connections, while Ennissee had taken his borrowed flier back to the Cold Pole dig to work out, presumably, the rest of his plans. Ged still disclaimed any closer involvement in these than he had admitted already. The Erthumoi kept their remaining doubts tactfully to themselves.
They still felt quite uncertain. The picture was fuzzy, but there seemed no way to clarify it without interviewing Ennissee, and neither one particularly wanted to do that. Rekchellet would, no doubt, come through in that direction, and neither wanted to spoil either his fun or his results.
More of the picture, however, came from S’Nash after they were back in Pitville, the Samian safely occupied in his office, and the Naxian verbally cornered in Hugh’s office.
“Emotions are fun,” it/he said quite directly. “I almost told you about that long ago when you asked what we do for amusement. A little later I thought you’d about figured it out, but then decided you’d simply spotted the trick Rek and I were playing.
“A lot of people enjoy watching fear or surprise or similar excitement — the obvious stuff. More cultured and artistic ones try to read and grasp really subtle emotions such as those accompanying^ — oh, the realization that one’s reasoning or inspiration has been correct, or the glow of perceiving how both parties have profited from a deal.”
“And you’re one of the latter, of course?” Janice asked.