“How soon does it start?” he asked.
“In an hour,” Mele said. Formerly she had been straightforward and free with him. Now her heart was heavy, oppressed. She didn’t know why. Shyly she glanced at his bright alien garments, his red hair.
“Oughta be nice,” Hadwell mused. “Yessir, it oughta be mighty nice . . .” His voice trailed away.
From under his lowered eyelids, he looked at the comely Igathian girl, observed the pure line of neck and shoulder, her straight dark hair, and sensed rather than smelled her faint sachet Nervously he plucked a blade of grass.
“Mele,” he said, “I—”
The words died on his lips. Suddenly, startlingly, she was in his arms.
“Oh, Mele!”
“Hadwell!” she cried, and strained close to him. Abruptly, she pulled free, looking at him with worried eyes.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“Hadwell, is there anything more you could do for the village? Anything? My people would appreciate it so.”
“Sure there is,” Hadwell said. “But I thought I’d rest up first, take it easy.”
“No! Please!” she begged. “Those irrigation ditches you spoke of. Could you start them now?”
“If you want me to, honey,” Hadwell said. “But—”
“Oh, darling!” She sprang to her feet.
Hadwell reached for her, but she stepped back.
“There is no time! I must hurry and tell the village!”
She ran from him. And Hadwell was left to ponder the strange ways of aliens, and particularly of alien women.
MELE ran back to the village and found the priest in the temple, praying for wisdom and guidance. Quickly she told him about the emissary’s new plans for aiding the village.
The old priest nodded slowly. “Then the ceremony shall be deferred. But tell me, daughter, why are you involved in this?”
Mele blushed and could not answer.
The old priest smiled. But then his face became stern. “I understand. But listen to me, girl. Do not allow love to sway you from the proper worship of Thangookari and from the observances of the ancient and honorable ways of our village.”
“Of course not!” Mele said. “I simply felt that an Adept’s death was not good enough for Hadwell. He deserves more! He deserves—the Ultimate!”
“NO MAN has been worthy of the Ultimate for six hundred years. Not since the demigod V’ktat saved the Igathian race from the dread Huelva Beasts.”
“But Hadwell has the stuff of heroes in him. Give him time, let him strive! He will prove worthy!”
“Perhaps so,” the priest said doubtfully, “it would be a great thing for the village . . . But consider, Mele. It might take a lifetime for Hadwell to prove himself.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth waiting for?”
The old priest fingered his mace and his forehead wrinkled in thought. “You may be right Yes, you may be right.”
Suddenly he straightened and glanced sharply at her. “But tell me the truth, Mele. Are you really trying to preserve him for the Ultimate Death? Or do you merely want to keep him for yourself?”
“He must have the death he deserves,” Mele answered serenely.
But she was unable to meet the priest’s eye.
“I wonder,” the old man said. “I wonder what lies in your heart. I think you tread dangerously close to heresy, Mele—you who were among the most orthodox.”
Mele was about to answer, when the merchant Vassi rushed into the temple.
“Come quickly!” he cried. “It is the farmer Iglai! He has evaded the taboo!”
They hurried after him to the death scene.
The fat, jolly farmer had died a terrible death. He had been walking his usual route from his hut to the village center, past an old thorn tree. Without warning, the tree had toppled on him. Thorns had impaled him through and through. Eyewitnesses said the farmer had writhed and moaned for over an hour before expiring.
But he had died with a smile on his face.
THE priest looked at the crowd surrounding Iglai’s body. Several of the villagers were hiding grins behind their hands. Lag walked over to the thorn tree and examined it. There were faint marks of a saw blade, which had been roughened over and concealed with clay.
The priest turned to the crowd. “Was Iglai near this tree very often?”
“He sure was,” another farmer said. “Always ate his lunch under this tree.”
The crowd was laughing openly now, proud of Iglai’s achievement. Remarks began to fly back and forth.
“I wondered why he always ate here.”
“Never wanted company. Said he liked to eat alone.”
“Hah!”
“He must have been sawing all the time.”
“For months, probably. That’s tough wood.”
“Very clever of Iglai.”
“I’ll say! He was only a farmer and no one would call him religious—but he got himself a damned fine death.”
“Listen, good people!” cried Lag. “Iglai did a sacrilegious thing! Only a priest can grant violent death!”
“What the priests don’t see can’t hurt them,” someone retorted.
“So it was sacrilege,” another man said. “Iglai got himself a fine death. That’s the important thing.”
The old priest turned sadly away.
There was not a thing he could do. If he had caught Iglai in time, he would have applied strict sanctions. Iglai would never have dared arrange another death and would probably have died quietly and sheepishly in bed, at a ripe old age.
But now it was too late. The farmer had his death and had already gone to Rookechangi on the wings of it. Asking the god to punish Iglai in the afterlife was useless, for the farmer was right there on the spot to plead his own case.
Lag asked, “Didn’t any of you see him sawing that tree?”
If anyone had, he wouldn’t admit it They stuck together, Lag knew. In spite of the religious training he had instilled in them from earliest childhood, they persisted in trying to outwit the priests.
When would they realize that an unauthorized death could never be as satisfying as a death one worked for, deserved and had performed with all ceremonial observations?
He sighed. Life was a burden sometimes.
A WEEK later, Hadwell wrote in his diary: “There has never been a race like these Igathians. I have lived among them now, eaten and drunk with them, and observed their ceremonies. I know and understand them. And the truth about them is startling, to say the least.
“The fact is, the Igathians do not know the meaning of war! Consider that, Civilized Man! Never in all their recorded and oral history have they had one. They simply cannot conceive of it. I give the following illustration.
“I tried to explain war to Kataga, father of the incomparable Mele. The man scratched his head and inquired, ‘You say that many kill many? That is war?’
“ ‘That’s a part of it,’ I said. ‘Thousands killing thousands.’
“ ‘In that case,’ Kataga said, ‘many are dead at the same time, in the same way?’
“ ‘Correct,’ said I.
“He pondered this for a long time, then turned to me and said, ‘It is not good for many to die at the same time in the same way. Not satisfactory. Every man should die his own individual death.’
“Consider, Civilized Man, the incredible naivete of that reply. And yet think of the considerable truth which resides beneath the naivete, a truth which all might do well to learn.
“Moreover, these people do not engage in quarrels among themselves, have no blood feuds, no crimes of passion, no murder.
“The conclusion I come to is this: Violent death is unknown among these people—except, of course, for accidents.
“It is a shame that accidents occur so often here and are almost invariably fatal. But this I ascribe to the wildness of the surroundings and to the lighthearted, devil-may-care nature of the people. And as a matter of fact, even accidents do
not go unnoticed and unchecked. The priest, with whom I have formed a considerable friendship, deplores the high accident rate and is constantly militating against it. Always he urges his people to observe more caution.
“He is a good man.
“And now I write the final, most wonderful news of all.”
Hadwell smiled self-consciously, hesitated for a moment, then returned to his notebook.
“Mele has consented to become my wife! As soon as I complete this section of my book, the ceremony begins. Already the festivities have started, the feast prepared. I consider myself the most fortunate of men, for Mele is a beautiful woman. And a most unusual woman, as well.
“She has great social consciousness. A little too much, perhaps.
She has been urging me constantly to do things for the village. And I have done much. I have completed an irrigation system for them, introduced several fast-growing food crops, started the profession of metal-working, and other things too numerous to mention. And she wants me to do more, much more.
“But here I have put my foot down. I have a right to rest. I want a long, languorous honeymoon and then a year or so of basking in the suns and finishing my book.
“Mele finds this difficult to understand. She keeps on trying to tell me that I must continue helping her people. And she speaks of some ceremony involving the ‘Ultimate’ (if my translation is correct).
“But I have done enough work. I refused to do more, for a year or two, at least.
“This ‘Ultimate’ ceremony is to take place directly after our wedding. I suppose it will be some high honor or other that these simple people wish to bestow on me. I have signified my willingness to accept it.
“It should be highly interesting.”
FOR the wedding, the entire village, led by the old priest, marched to the Pinnacle, where all Igathian marriages were performed. The men wore ceremonial feathers and the women were decked in shell jewelry and iridescent stones. Four husky villagers in the center of the procession bore a strange-looking apparatus. Hadwell caught only a glimpse of it, but he knew it had been taken, with tedious ceremony, from a plain black-thatched hut which seemed to be a shrine of some sort.
In single file, they proceeded over the shaky bridge of vines. Kataga, bringing up the rear, grinned to himself as he secretively slashed again at the worn spot.
The Pinnacle was a narrow spur of black rock thrust out over the sea. Hadwell and Mele stood on the end of it, faced by the priest. The people fell silent as Lag raised his arms.
“O great Thangookari!” the priest cried. “Cherish this man Hadwell, your emissary, who has come to us from out of the sky in a shining vehicle, and who has done service for the Igathi such as no man has ever done. And cherish your daughter Mele. Teach her to love the memory of her husband—and to remain strong in her tribal beliefs.”
The priest stared hard at Mele as he said that. And Mele, her head held high, gave him look for look.
“I now pronounce you,” said the priest, “man and wife!”
Hadwell clasped his wife in his arms and kissed her. The people cheered. Kataga grinned his sly grin.
“And now,” said the priest in his gentlest voice, “I have good news for you, Hadwell. Great news!”
“Oh?” Hadwell said, reluctantly releasing his bride.
“We have judged you,” said Lag, “and we have found you worthy—of the Ultimate!”
“Why, thanks,” Hadwell said.
The priest motioned. Four men came up lugging the strange apparatus which Hadwell had glimpsed earlier. Now he saw that it was a platform the size of a large bed, made of some ancientlooking black wood. Lashed to the frame were various barbs, hooks, sharpened shells and needle-shaped thorns. There were cups, which contained no liquid as yet. And there were other things, strange in shape, whose purpose Hadwell could not guess.
“Not for six hundred years,” said Lag, “has the Instrument been removed from the Shrine of the Instrument. Not since the days of V’ktat, the hero-god who single-handed saved the Igathian people from destruction. But it has been removed for you, Hadwell!”
“Really, I’m not worthy,” Hadwell protested, succeeding in working up a blush.
A murmur rose from the crowd at such modesty.
“Believe me,” Lag said earnestly, “you are worthy. Do you accept the Ultimate, Hadwell?”
Hadwell looked at Mele. He could not read the expression on her lovely face. He looked at the priest. Lag’s face was impassive. The crowd was deathly still. Hadwell looked at the Instrument. He didn’t like its appearance. A doubt began to creep across his mind.
Had he misjudged these people? That Instrument must have been used for torture at some ancient time. Those barbs and hooks . . . But what were the other things for? Thinking hard, Hadwell conceived some of their possible usages. He shuddered.
The crowd was closely packed in front of him. Behind him was the narrow point of rock and a sheer thousand-foot drop below it. Hadwell looked again at Mele.
The love and devotion in her face were unmistakable.
Glancing at the villagers, he saw their concern for him. What was he worried about? They would never do anything to harm him, not after all he had done for the village.
The Instrument undoubtedly had some symbolic use.
“I accept the Ultimate,” Hadwell said to the priest.
THE villagers shouted, a deep-throated roar that echoed from the mountains. They formed closely around him, smiling, shaking his hands.
“The ceremony will take place at once,” said the priest, “in the village, in front of the statue of Thangookari.”
Immediately they started back, the priest leading. Hadwell and his bride were in the center now. Mele still had not spoken since the ceremony.
Silently they crossed the swaying bridge of vines. Once across, the villagers pressed more closely around Hadwell than before, giving him a slightly claustrophobic feeling. If he had not been convinced of their essential goodness, he told himself, he might have felt genuinely apprehensive.
Ahead lay the village and the altar of Thangookari. The priest hurried toward it.
Suddenly there was a shriek. Everyone turned and rushed back to the bridge.
At the brink of the river, Hadwell saw what had happened. Kataga, Mele’s father, had brought up the rear of the procession. As he had reached the midpoint, the central supporting vine had inexplicably snapped. Kataga had managed to clutch a secondary vine, but only for a moment. While the villagers watched, his hold weakened, released, and he dropped into the river.
Hadwell stared, frozen into shock. With dreamlike clarity, he saw it all—Kataga falling, a smile of magnificent courage on his face, the raging white water, the jagged rocks below.
It was a certain, terrible death.
“Can he swim?” Hadwell asked Mele.
“No,” the girl said. “He refused to learn . . . Oh, Father! How could you!”
The raging white water frightened Hadwell more than anything he had ever seen, more than the emptiness of space. But the father of his wife was in danger.
He plunged headlong into the icy water.
Kataga was almost unconscious when Hadwell reached him, which was fortunate, for the Igathian did not struggle when Hadwell seized him by the hair and started to swim vigorously for the nearest shore. But he couldn’t make it. Currents swept the men along, pulling them under and throwing them to the surface again. By a strenuous effort, Hadwell was able to avoid the first rocks. But more loomed ahead.
The villagers ran along the bank, yelling at him.
With his strength ebbing rapidly, Hadwell fought again for the shore. A submerged rock scraped his side and his grip on Kataga’s hair began to weaken.
The Igathian was starting to recover and struggle.
“Don’t give up, old man,” Hadwell gasped. The bank sped past. Hadwell came within ten feet of it, but then the current began to carry him out again.
With his last surge of strength, h
e managed to grab an overhead branch and hold on while the current wrenched and tore at his body. Moments later, guided by the priest, the villagers pulled Hadwell and Kataga in to the safety of the shore.
BOTH men were carried to the village. When Hadwell was able to breathe normally again, he turned and grinned feebly at Kataga.
“Close call, old man,” he said.
“Meddler!” Kataga spat at Hadwell and stalked off.
Hadwell gaped after him. “Must have affected his brain,” he said. “Well, shall we get on with the Ultimate?”
The villagers drew close to him, their faces menacing.
“Hah! The Ultimate he wants!”
“A man like that!”
“After dragging poor Kataga out of the river, he has the nerve to . . .”
“His own father-in-law and he saves his life!”
“A man like that doesn’t deserve the Ultimate!”
“A man like that,” Vassi the merchant summed up, “doesn’t deserve to die!”
Hadwell wondered if they had all gone temporarily insane. He stood up a bit shakily and appealed to the priest. “What is all this?”
Lag, with mournful eyes and pale, set lips, looked at him and did not answer.
“Can’t I have the Ultimate ceremony?” Hadwell asked, with a plaintive note in his voice.
“You do deserve it,” the priest said. “If any man has ever deserved the Ultimate, you do, Hadwell. I feel you should have it, as a matter of abstract justice. But there is more involved here than abstract justice. There are principles of mercy and human pity which are dear to Thangookari. By these principles, Hadwell, you did a terrible and inhuman thing when you rescued poor Kataga from the river. I am afraid the action is unforgivable.”
Hadwell didn’t know what to say. Apparently there was some taboo against rescuing men who had fallen into the river. But how could they expect him to know about it? How could they let this one little thing outweigh all he had done for them?
“Isn’t there some ceremony you can give me?” he pleaded. “I like you people. I want to live here. Surely there’s something you can do.”
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