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"What the devil does that mean?" I said. "Tell them to loosen up and explain themselves." Mannion wrote out a straight query, and sent it. Again we waited for a reply. It came, in a long windy paragraph stating that the Mancji found electro-static baths amusing, and that "crystallization" had drained their tanks. They wanted a flow of electrons from us to replenish their supply.
So there was no ship; just a cluster of cells like a giant bee hive, and mixed up among the slugs, the damnedest collection of loot you can imagine. The odds and ends they'd stolen and tucked away in the hive during a couple hundred years of camp-following. "The patrols brought a couple of cells alongside, and Mannion went out to try to establish contact.
Does that sound like your torpedo?" It was Mannion. "That's it, Mannion," I said. "Can you make anything of it?" "No, sir," he answered. "I'm taping it, so I can go to work on it." Mannion was our language and code man. I hoped he was good. "What does it sound like," I asked. "Tune me in." After a moment a high hum came from the speaker.
Mannion and Kirschenbaum looked at each other, then finished their near-coffee hurriedly and left. I hoped their version of the incident would help deflate Kramer's standing among the malcontents. I left the wardroom and took the lift up to the bridge and checked with Clay and his survey team. "I think I've spotted a slight perturbation in Delta 3, Captain," Clay said.
I asked. Joyce shook his head. "Nothing, Captain. I've checked the whole spectrum, and this is all I get. It's coming in on about a dozen different frequencies; no FM." "Any progress, Mannion?" I said. He took off his headset. "It's the same thing, repeated over and over, just a short phrase. I'd have better luck if they'd vary it a little." "Try sending," I said.
We had been at General Quarters for twenty-one hours when the wall annunciator hummed. "Captain, this is Mannion. I've busted it...." "I'll be right there," I said, and left at a run. Mannion was writing as I entered ComSection. He stopped his recorder and offered me a sheet. "This is what I've got so far, Captain," he said.
"I don't know what kind of talking oysters you're trafficking with, but I'd laugh like hell if they vaporized your precious tub as soon as they're through with you." He walked out. Mannion called in again from ComSection. "Here's their last, Captain," he said. "They say we're lucky they had a good supply of this protein aboard. It's one of their most amusing foods.
Through it I could hear harsh chopping consonants, a whining intonation. I doubted that Mannion would be able to make anything of that gargle. Our Bogie closed steadily. At four hundred twenty-five miles he reversed relative directions, and began matching our speed, moving closer to our course. There was no doubt he planned to parallel us.
I walked into the wardroom, drew a cup of near-coffee, and sat down. The screen showed a beach with booming surf. The sound track picked up the crash and hiss of the breakers. Considering the red plague that now covered the scene, I thought it was a poor choice. I dialed for a high view of rolling farmland. Mannion sat at a table across the room with Kirschenbaum.
"That's a highly inflected version of early Interlingua, Captain," Mannion said. "After I taped it, I compensated it to take out the rise-and-fall tone, and then filtered out the static. There were a few sound substitutions to figure out, but I finally caught on. It still doesn't make much sense, but that's what it says." "I wonder what we're invading," I said. "And what is the 'Mancji Presence'?"
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