At the very end of this lush orchid garden of languages there was one more section, where linguists don’t generally care to visit—a few lonely shelves of faded plastic flowers, the artificial languages. The Klingon Dictionary was here, among other books on languages I had never heard of: Babm, aUI, Nal Bino, Leno Gi-Nasu, Tutonish, Ehmay Ghee Chah. These were not lighthearted language games, like pig Latin, or the spontaneous results of in-group communication, like Cockney rhyming slang or surfer jargon. They were invented on purpose, cut from whole cloth, set down on paper, start to finish, by one person. They had chapters and chapters of grammar and extensive dictionaries. They were testaments not to the wonder of nature but to the human impulse to master nature. They were deliberate, painstakingly crafted attempts to tame language by making it more orderly, more rational, less burdened with inconsistencies and irregularities. There were hundreds of them. And they were all failures, dead in the water, spoken by no one.
Well, of course they were. If you plant a plastic flower, will it grow? So I was skeptical about the claims that Klingon—Klingon?—had really defied the odds and sprouted roots. In the name of research, I registered for the annual Klingon conference, or qep’a', to occur in Phoenix at the end of the summer. I wanted to be prepared, and so I arranged to meet with Mark.