Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

She came back with something neither modest nor couth. Dr. T’mwarba bit the inside of his lip and wondered if she saw. “I’m not a little girl,” she said. “Besides, he wasn’t thinking anything uncouth. As I said, I was flattered by the whole thing. When I pulled my little joke, I was just trying to let him know how much in key we were. I thought he was charming. And if he had been able to see as clearly as I could he would have known I had nothing but good feeling for him. Only when he left—” Dr. T’mwarba heard roughness work back into her voice. “—when he left, the last thing he thought was, ‘She doesn’t know; I haven’t communicated a thing to her.’ ” Her eyes darkened—no, she bent slightly forward and half-dropped her upper lids so that her eyes looked darker. He had watched that happen thousands of times since the scrawny near-autistic twelve-year-old girl had been sent to him for neurotherapy, which had developed into psychotherapy, and then into friendship. This was the first time he’d understood the mechanics of the effect. Her precision of observation had inspired him before to look more closely at others. Only since therapy had officially ended had it come full circle and made him look more closely at her. What did the darkening signify other than change? He knew there were myriad marks of personality about him that she read with a microscope. Wealthy, worldly, he had known many people equal to her in reputation. The reputation did not awe him. Often, however, she d...