Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

“General Forester, once I wrote a poem I’m reminded of. It was called ‘Advice to Those Who Would Love Poets.’ ” The General opened his teeth without separating his lips. “It started something like: Young man, she will gnaw out your tongue. Lady, he will steal your hands… You can read the rest. It’s in my second book. If you’re not willing to lose a poet seven times a day, it’s frustrating as hell.” He said simply: “You knew I…” “I knew and I know. And I’m glad.” The lost breath returned and an unfamiliar thing was happening to his face: he smiled. “When I was a private, Miss Wong, and we’d be confined to barracks, we’d talk about girls and girls and girls. And somebody would say about one: she was so pretty she didn’t have to give me any, just promise me some.” He let the stiffness leave his shoulders a moment, and though they actually fell half an inch, the effect was that they seemed broader by two. “That’s what I was feeling.” “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “I like you, General. And I promise I’ll still like you the next time I see you.” “I…thank you. I guess that’s all. Just thank you…for knowing and promising.” Then he said, “I have to go now, don’t I?” “We’ll be taking off in ten minutes.” “Your letter,” he said, “I’ll mail it for you.” “Thanks.” She handed it to him, he took her hand, and for the slightest moment with the slightest pressure, held her. Then he turned, left. Minutes later she watched his saucer-sled glide across the concrete, its sun-side flari...