Sam checked his universal translator to see if it was working properly. The device was the absolute cutting edge of linguistic technology. It automatically translated hundreds of languages into standard Glax, providing flawless two-way translations of human languages into Glax, with only a single exposure to a native speaker, with amazing ease. Ahbbbb had managed to obtain one for him at considerable cost, a price he was quite willing to pay back out of his earnings as negotiator. If this job went well he’d only owe her another two million before it would be entirely his.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to work at all that well with the few aliens he’d encountered. While the translations were somewhat understandable, they tended to sound like pidgin Glax. Still, it was a wonderful device, without which he would be unable to function.
Even though both of the translator’s arms were stiff, which meant that it was drawing power from the local phloomb generator, no sound was coming through his earpiece. He gave the translator a sharp thump, hoping to jiggle something inside. He cranked the volume control as far as it would go, for the Scrofulosan was obviously trying to communicate with him and he could hear nothing.
S-sssss- ssss-ss. Ss’s ssss s! hissed one of the Phlegmatians who was staring at him from a nearby wall; “Help not. Here is Odor-eaters,” the translator blurted too loudly, nearly deafening Sam. Sam puzzled at his erstwhile crewmate’s words for a few seconds before it dawned on him that these Scrofulosans must communicate by smell—that was why the station reeked to high heaven! The pervasive smell must be their equivalent of a crowd’s hubbub!
The Scrofulosan apparently had given up on getting a response and motioned with one of its eight limbs for Sam to follow. He picked up his kit, flicked his inadequate tongue at the still-staring Phlegmatian, and followed his alien escort.
Moments later, Sam was aboard a shuttle headed for the surface of Scrofulous Five. The small shuttle was crammed to capacity with Scrofulosans who apparently took no notice of who was crawling over whom, or whose foot was in which eye. Sam tried to hold his breath the entire trip. The shuttle was even more malodorous than the station.
Scrofulous Five turned out to be a fetid and overheated planet redolent of swamp gas and other scents the human nose had not evolved to endure. But there was little time to study the depressingly foggy view from the landing grid as his escort whisked him into a tunnel that led to an underground warren. Along the way they passed an endless stream of other Scrofulosans, crawling over one another as they scurried on their busy errands. Sam hadn’t seen so much frenetic activity since he kicked an anthill.
Eventually Sam’s escort led him into a chamber where they joined a larger group. There were at least a dozen of them. The Scrofulosans’ bodies were so alike that Sam could discern not a hairsbreadth of difference between them.
In their midst stood an assembly of tubes and pipes, canisters and tanks, switches and valves that looked like a not-so-miniature, haphazardly-constructed chemical factory. Hanging from one arm of the complicated device was an earpiece similar to the one on his translator.
A small creature hopped around the device like a cricket on speed, its appendages flicking switches, turning knobs, adjusting valves, and, in general, looking like a one-alien-band. Clii—ccc-kkk, clickedy-click, it chirped as Sam’s translator converted it to Glax. “About time got you hire, mud-per-son. Attend the high gloss.”
“I don’t understand,” Sam replied as his translator produced a series of loud clicks. The tiny creature jerked back and covered the two white patches on its abdomen with its forelimbs.
CLIII-CCK CLICK! the little creature screamed. “SHOUT NOT! Poor soundings wring pleasure from my life.”
Sam surmised that the white patches must be thoracic tympunums, the creature’s equivalent of ears. Before he could react, the cricket scurried over and snatched Sam’s translator from his shoulder, yanking the earpiece so hard that Sam felt his ear had been detached.
“Hey, watch that!” Sam yelled as the creature opened the translator’s casing and stared inside.
Click? Cliiicccckkk, click-clickedy! the little alien said, and threw Sam’s translator onto the ground. It bounced with the sickening sound of broken glass and shattered metal as Sam looked on with horror—that was two million down the tubes! How would he ever replace it? He bent to scrape together the pieces as the tiny alien hopped behind the strange machine. It emerged a moment later with a small silver box no larger than Sam’s hand. With a twist of the leads the cricket attached Sam’s earpiece to the device and handed it back. Click, click, clickedy, the alien began. Click…
Carefully Sam put the earpiece into his ear and heard the translation; “… most disgusting piece of Pequodista crap I’ve ever seen. Why are you using such a museum piece anyway, Earth-thing? Damn thing only handles the audio languages, and only a few hundred of those! Really good for nothing, a child’s toy! Is Earth that poor that they have to buy translators that are a Glizzatina a dozen?” A Glizzatina was the lowest denomination of the Galactic currency, whose face value was actually less than the value of the metal used to coin it.
“It’s the best I thought I could get,” he stammered, and heard his translator chirp a softer response than before. Had Ahbbbb’s translator really been that worthless?
“Now you are in much better voice,” the little alien replied. “More melodic, anyway. Keep the device, Earth-thing; I’d rather not hear the noise that crude monstrosity you brought with you produced. And don’t worry about the price, I’ll scrape the Scrofulosans’ or the Mephitisites’ accounts for it.”
Sam was amazed at the quality of the new translations and wondered at the honesty of his agent in naming the outlandish price for the worthless “piece of Pequodista crap.” Perhaps he should not be so trusting of her in the future? “Thanks,” he said.
That done, he pointed at the strange machine in the center of the chamber. “Now, what is this thing?” he asked, “and who are you?”
Cliiii-ck! Clickedy, click… the alien responded quickly as it leaped to adjust a valve on the strange device. “Name’s Sslowa—senior Rix engineer! I’m with the Scrofulous Five engineering group. We were instructed to build this scent translator for you, since you were reported to have a rather inadequate nose. It converts the pheromonic essences of the Scrofulosans’ and the Mephitisites’ languages to sounds that you can hear.”
Sam warily considered the machine for a moment, taking in the tanks that must contain the bases for the scents, the tubes, nozzles, and various appliances in between. He tentatively placed the machine’s earpiece into his other ear as another noisome assault of essence-du-sewer washed over him.
A string of tinny words in clear, standard Glax came from the translator; “Ugly, evil-smelling, deaf-beast from Earth, the rightful owners of Scrofulous welcome you to the beauty and wonders of their city.”
“And the same to you,” Sam replied and watched in amazement as the scent translator belched out an aroma of onions and gasoline toward the assembled Scrofulosans.
“I am Chlorine/blend-of-sage, your guide, deaf-beast,” the alien who apparently had been his escort wafted. “It is my duty to assist you, to help you in any way in your masterful undertaking.”
Sam pointed at the machine. “I guess that I have to use this, er, thing to translate all of the time.” He wondered how he would lug the huge thing around. A quick heft indicated that it must weigh at least thirty kilos, and probably a top-heavy thirty at that. He searched for a set of handholds or straps, but found none. Maybe he could have the Rix engineer—what was its name, Sslowa?—install some?