Littlejohn seemed amused. He was always an agile sort; Brad often pictured him as a black leprechaun, grinning as he hopped across the Australian outback.
This morning, in his quarters, he appeared to be even more sprightly than usual. The chief of the anthropology department, amused beyond words at the antics of the people he was studying.
“You seem to have made quite an impression on Professor Kosoff,” Littlejohn said to Brad as he gestured to the bar that separated the sitting room from his tiny kitchen.
Pulling out one of the stools at the bar, Brad replied, “I think he’s sore at me.”
“Really?”
Littlejohn’s quarters were superficially identical to Brad’s and almost everyone else’s on the ship. A sitting room, bedroom, efficient little kitchen, and a lavatory. But the Aborigine had filled his sitting room with items from home: family photos, a holographic image of a kangaroo standing in the corner beside the sofa, a stuffed dingo snarling at the world, and a sagging little potted dwarf tree that looked close to death.
Littlejohn sat next to Brad, whose long legs allowed him to plant both his feet on the tiled floor. Littlejohn’s feet were hooked on his stool’s rung. A pair of faux omelets sat on the bar, with a red-labeled bottle between the two plates. Hot sauce, Brad figured. He decided to steer clear of the stuff.
Liberally sprinkling his omelet with the sauce, Littlejohn said, “Kosoff told me that you rattled Dr. Steiner’s cage when you asked about keeping any subjects we bring up from the surface from knowing they’d been taken to the ship.”
Brad swallowed a bite of omelet, then answered, “It seemed kind of callous to murder them after she’s finished examining their innards.”
Littlejohn nodded his heavy-browed head. “You brought an ethical question into her meeting. She didn’t like that.”
“I didn’t mean to challenge her.”
“But that’s what she felt—challenged. As an anthropologist, you should have realized she’d resent your stepping onto her turf.”
Nodding unhappily, Brad said, “Yes, I suppose I should have.”
Littlejohn brightened. “But you impressed Kosoff. He called me first thing this morning and suggested a special assignment for you.”
“Special assignment?”
His features clouding slightly, Littlejohn answered, “It might be more like an exile.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants to send you to Alpha for a while.”
Feeling stupid, Brad echoed, “Alpha?”
“Yes,” said Littlejohn, his face totally serious now. “Kosoff saw that you minored in languages, and wants you to try to decode the sounds that those octopus-like creatures are making. See if they have a true language. See if they’re intelligent.”
“How in hell am I supposed to do that? I’m not a philologist. We’ve got a whole team of linguists, why doesn’t he tap one of them? I don’t—”
“The philology team is fully occupied studying the Gammans’ language.”
“I’m not a philologist,” Brad repeated.
“It’s strictly voluntary,” Littlejohn interrupted. “I made sure of that.”
Almost sullenly, Brad asked, “Who else is going?”
“Only you—with the neuronal analysis equipment and as much computing power as can be packed into a shuttlecraft.”
Brad got off the stool and paced across the sitting room. Think before you speak, he told himself. Don’t get angry at Littlejohn; this isn’t his doing.
Turning back to face the Aborigine, Brad asked, “So what did you say to Kosoff?”
“I told him I’d ask you about it. I made no commitment. This is your decision to make.”
Brad went back to the breakfast bar and leaned his rump on the stool he’d been sitting on. “Kosoff wants me out of his way,” he said. “He’s sore because I got between him and one of the female biologists.”
“So he’s punishing you by sending you to Siberia.”
“If I refuse, my name’ll be mud.”
“I’ll protect you as much as I can,” Littlejohn offered.
“Yeah. And then I’ll be the cause of a rift between you and Kosoff. Most of the scientific staff already resents being studied by the anthropology team.”
With a sigh, Littlejohn admitted, “That’s one way to look at it.”
“Is there another way?”
The department head’s deep brown eyes were rimmed with red, Brad saw. The man looked … not sad, so much as resigned. He’s seen his share of unfair deals, Brad realized.
“How long am I supposed to be out there, alone?”
Littlejohn shrugged. “A few months, at least.”
“An exile. A leper.”
“But if you actually do make something of the aliens’ beeps and twitters you’ll be a hero.”
“The chances for that are somewhere between zero and negative numbers.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Littlejohn countered. “Neuronal analysis systems have translated the brain activities of chimps and dolphins on Earth into recognizable language. Even the leviathans on Jupiter.”
Brad mused, “We’d have to drop scanners into the ocean, guide them to trail the octopods.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s a million-to-one long shot.”
With a meager smile, Littlejohn said, “That’s better than zero or negative numbers.”
Brad said, “Not by much.”
“All right, I’ll tell Kosoff that I won’t go along with the idea. I’ll refuse to allow you to go.”
“And then you’ll be on Kosoff’s shit list. Most of the scientific staff thinks the anthropology department’s a waste of time, anyway. We’ll just be putting the whole department in Siberia.”
Littlejohn nodded sadly. “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right.”
“Damn.”
“What do you want to do?” Littlejohn asked softly. “What do you want me to do?”
“How soon does Kosoff expect an answer?”
“Before the day is out.”
Brad got to his feet again. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
He strode to the door, leaving his mentor behind him.
* * *
“Alone?” Felicia looked aghast. “For three months?”
“Or more,” Brad said.
He had phoned her and they met in one of the starship’s observation blisters, a bubble of transparent glassteel on the ship’s outer hull, where they could be alone with no cameras watching them. It was almost like being out in space itself: the stars were spread across the infinite blackness, the lushly green planet hung overhead.
Felicia hugged herself against the chill. Brad felt warm, though. The cold of space couldn’t penetrate the heat of his anger.
“He can’t do that to you,” Felicia said. She looked fearful, though, her eyes glistening with tears.
“I’m afraid he can,” Brad replied gently.
She shook her head. “It’s all my fault. This is all over me, isn’t it?”
“Most likely.”
“What can I do?”
A vision of the opera Tosca flashed in Brad’s mind: the soprano jamming a knife into the villain’s gut.
But instead he said, “Keep away from him until I get back.”
Felicia pressed her lips together and nodded. “I will, Brad,” she said in a near whisper. “I will.”
Then she slid her arms around his neck and they kissed.
“We have tonight,” she said.
“Tonight,” he agreed. Yet he knew that tonight was all they had.