Ruiz-Sanchez stopped, astonished. He had never been to the Message Tree himself before—communicating with Michelis and Agronski, the other two Earthmen on Lithia, had until now been one of Cleaver’s tasks—and the priest found that he had no idea what to do. The scene before him was more suggestive of a bourse than of a message center in any ordinary sense. It seemed unlikely that so many Lithians could have urgent personal messages to send each time the winds were active; yet it seemed equally uncharacteristic that the Lithians, with their stable, abundance-based economy, should have any equivalent for stock or commodity brokerage.
There seemed to be no choice, however, but to plunge in, try to reach the polished black rail, and ask one of the Lithians who stood on the other side to try to raise Agronski or Michelis again. At worst, he supposed, he could only be refused, or fail to get a hearing at all. He took a deep breath.
Simultaneously his left arm was caught in a firm four-fingered grip which ran all the way from his elbow to his shoulder. Letting the stored breath out again in a snort of surprise, the priest looked around and up at the solicitously bent head of a Lithian. Under the long, trap-like mouth, the being’s wattles were a delicate, curious aquamarine, in contrast to its vestigial comb, which was a permanent and silvery sapphire, shot through with veins of fuchsia.
“You are Ruiz-Sanchez,” the Lithian said in his own language. The priest’s name, unlike those of the other Earthmen, fell easily in that tongue. “I know you by your robe.”
That was pure accident. Any Earthman out in the rain in a mackintosh would have been identified as Ruiz-Sanchez, because the priest was the only Earthman who seemed to the Lithians to wear the same garment indoors and out.
“I am,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, a little apprehensively. “I am Chtexa, the metallurgist, who consulted with you earlier on problems of chemistry and medicine and your mission here, and some other smaller matters.”
“Oh. Yes, of course; I should have remembered your comb.”
“You do me honor. We have not seen you here before. Do you wish to talk with the Tree?”
“I do,” Ruiz-Sanchez said gratefully. “It is true that I am new here. Can you explain to me what to do?”
“Yes, but not to any profit,” Chtexa said, tilting his head so that his completely inky pupils shone down into Ruiz-Sanchez’ eyes. “One must have observed the ritual, which is very complex, until it is habit. We have grown up with it, but I think you lack the coordination to follow it on the first attempt. If I may bear your message instead—”
“I would be most indebted. It is for our colleagues Agronski and Michelis; they are at Xoredeshch Gton on the northeast continent, at about thirty-two degrees east, thirty-two degrees north—”
“Yes, the second bench mark at the outlet of the Lesser Lakes; that is the city of the potters, I know it well. And you would say?”
“That they are to join us now, here, at Xoredeshch Sfath. And that our time on Lithia is almost up.”
“That me regards,” Chtexa said. “But I will bear it.”
The Lithian leapt into the whirling cloud, and Ruiz-Sanchez was left behind, considering again his thankfulness that he had been moved to study the painfully difficult Lithian language. Two of the four commission members had shown a regrettable lack of interest in that world-wide tongue: “Let ’em learn English” had been Cleaver’s unknowingly classic formulation. Ruiz-Sanchez had been all the less likely to view this notion sympathetically for the facts that his own native language was Spanish, and that, of the five foreign languages in which he was really fluent, the one he liked best was West High German.
Agronski had taken a slightly more sophisticated stand. It was not, he said, that Lithian was too difficult to pronounce— certainly it wasn’t any harder on the soft palate than Arabic or Russian—but, after all, “it’s hopeless to attempt to grasp the concepts that lie behind a really alien language, isn’t it? At least in the time we have to spend here?”
To both views, Michelis had said nothing; he had simply set out to learn to read the language first, and if he found his way from there into speaking it, he would not be surprised and neither would his confreres. That was Michelis’ way of doing things, thorough and untheoretical at the same time. As for the other two approaches, Ruiz-Sanchez thought privately that it was close to criminal to allow any contact man for a new planet ever to leave Earth with such parochial notions. In understanding a new culture, language is of the essence; if one doesn’t start there, where under God does one start?
Of Cleaver’s penchant for referring to the Lithians themselves as “the Snakes,” Ruiz-Sanchez’ opinion was of a color admissible only to his remote confessor.
And in view of what lay before him now in this egg-shaped hollow, what was Ruiz-Sanchez to think of Cleaver’s conduct as communications officer for the commission? Surely he could never have transmitted or received a single message through the Tree, as he had claimed to have done. Probably he had never been closer to the Tree than Ruiz-Sanchez was now.
Of course, it went without saying that he had been in contact with Agronski and Michelis by some method, but that method had evidently been something private—a transmitter concealed in his luggage, or. . . . No, that wouldn’t do. Physicist though he most definitely was not, Ruiz-Sanchez rejected that solution on the spot; he had some idea of the practical difficulties of operating a ham radio on a world like Lithia, swamped as that world was on all wave-lengths by the tremendous pulses which the Tree wrung from the buried crystalline cliff. The problem was beginning to make him feel decidedly uncomfortable.
Then Chtexa was back, recognizable not so much by any physical detail—for his wattles were now the same ambiguous royal purple as those of most of the other Lithians in the crowd —as by the fact that he was bearing down upon the Earthman.
“I have sent your message,” he said at once. “It is recorded at Xoredeshch Gton. But the other Earthmen are not there. They have not been in the city for some days.”
That was impossible. Cleaver had said he had spoken to Michelis only a day ago. “Are you sure?” Ruiz-Sanchez said cautiously.
“It admits of no uncertainty. The house which we gave them stands empty. The many things which they brought with them to the house are gone.” The tall shape raised its four-fingered hands in a gesture which might have been solicitous. “I think this is an ill word. I dislike to bring it you. The words you brought me when first we met were full of good.”
“Thank you. Don’t worry,” Ruiz-Sanchez said distractedly. “No man could hold the bearer responsible for the word, surely.”
“The bearer also has responsibilities; at least, that is our custom,” Chtexa said. “No act is wholly free. And as we see it, you have lost by our exchange. Your words on iron have been shown to contain great good. I would take pleasure in showing you how we have used them, especially since I have brought you in return an ill message. If you could share my house tonight, without prejudice to your work, I could expose this matter. Is that possible?”
Sternly Ruiz-Sanchez stifled his sudden excitement. Here was the first chance, at long last, to see something of the private life of Lithia, and through that, perhaps, to gain some inkling of the moral life, the role in which God had cast the Lithians in the ancient drama of good and evil, in the past and in the times to come. Until that was known, the Lithians in their Eden might be only spuriously good: all reason, all organic thinking machines, ULTIMACs with tails—and without souls.
But there remained the hard fact that he had left behind in his house a sick man. There was not much chance that Cleaver would awaken before morning. He had been given nearly fifteen milligrams of sedative per kilogram of body weight. But sick men are like children, whose schedules persistently defy all rules. If Cleaver’s burly frame should somehow throw that dose off, driven perhaps by some anaphylactic crisis impossible to rule out this early in his illness, he would need prompt attention. At the very least, he would want badly for the sound of a human voice on
this planet which he hated, and which had struck him down almost without noticing that he existed.
Still, the danger to Cleaver was not great. He most certainly did not require a minute-by-minute vigil; he was, after all, not a child, but an almost ostentatiously strong man.
And there was such a thing as an excess of devotion, a form of pride among the pious which the Church had long found peculiarly difficult to make clear to them. At its worst, it produced the hospital saints, whose attraction to noisomeness so peculiarly resembled the vermin-worship of the Hindi sects— or a St. Simon Stylites, who though undoubtedly acceptable to God had been for centuries very bad public relations for the Church. And had Cleaver really earned the kind of devotion Ruiz-Sanchez had been proposing, up to now, to tender him as a creature of God—or, to come closer to the mark, a godly creature?
And with a whole planet at stake, a whole people—no, more than that, a whole problem in theology, an imminent solution to the vast, tragic riddle of original sin. . . . What a gift to bring to the Holy Father in a jubilee year—a grander and more solemn thing than the proclamation of the conquest of Everest had been at the coronation of Elizabeth II of England!
Always providing, of course, that this would be the ultimate outcome of the study of Lithia. The planet was not lacking in hints that something quite different, and fearful beyond all else, might emerge under Ruiz-Sanchez’ prolonged attention. Not even prayer had yet resolved that doubt. But should he sacrifice even the possibility of this, for Cleaver?
A lifetime of meditation over just such cases of conscience had made Ruiz-Sanchez, like most other gifted members of his order, quick to find his way to a decision through all but the most complicated of ethical labyrinths. All Catholics must be devout; but a Jesuit must be, in addition, agile.
“Thank you,” he said to Chtexa, a little shakily. “I will share your house very gladly.”
III
(A voice): “Cleaver? Cleaver! Wake up, you big slob. Cleaver! Where the hell have you been?”
Cleaver groaned and tried to turn over. At his first motion, the world began to rock, gently, sickeningly. He was awash in fever. His mouth seemed to be filled with burning pitch.
“Cleaver, turn out. It’s me—Agronski. Where’s the Father? What’s wrong? Why didn’t we ever hear from you? Look out, you’ll—”
The warning came too late, and Cleaver could not have understood it anyhow. He had been profoundly asleep, and had no notion of his situation in space or time. At his convulsive twist away from the nagging voice, the hammock rotated on its hooks and dumped him.
He struck the floor stunningly, taking the main blow across his right shoulder, though he hardly felt it yet. His feet, not yet part of him at all, still remained far aloft, twisted in the hammock webbing.
“What the hell—”
There was a brief chain of footsteps, like chestnuts dropping on a roof, and then a hollow noise of something hitting the floor near his head.
“Cleaver, are you sick? Here, lie still a minute and let me get your feet free. Mike—Mike, can’t you turn the gas up in this jug? Something’s wrong back here.”
After a moment, yellow light began to pour from the glistening walls, and then the white glare of the mantles. Cleaver dragged an arm across his eyes, but it did him no good; it tired too quickly. Agronski’s mild face, plump and anxious, floated directly above him like a captive balloon. He could not see Michelis anywhere, and at the moment he was just as glad he couldn’t. Agronski’s presence was hard enough to understand.
“How . . . the hell . . .” he said. At the words, his lips split painfully at both corners. He realized for the first time that they had become gummed together, somehow, while he was asleep. He had no idea how long he had been out of the picture.
Agronski seemed to understand the aborted question. “We came in from the Lakes in the ’copter,” he said. “We didn’t like the silence down here, and we figured we’d better come in under our own power, instead of registering in on the regular jet liner and tipping the Lithians off—just in case there’d been any dirty work afloat—”
“Stop jawing him,” Michelis said, appearing suddenly, magically in the doorway. “He’s got a bug, that’s obvious. I don’t like to feel pleased about misery, but I’m glad it’s that instead of the Lithians.”
The rangy, long-jawed chemist helped Agronski lift Cleaver to his feet. Tentatively, despite the pain, Cleaver got his mouth open again. Nothing came out but a hoarse croak.
“Shut up,” Michelis said, not unkindly. “Let’s get him back into the hammock. Where’s the Father, I wonder? He’s the only one capable of dealing with sickness here.”
“I’ll bet he’s dead,” Agronski burst out suddenly, his face glistening with alarm. “He’d be here if he could. It must be catching, Mike.”
“I didn’t bring my mitt,” Michelis said drily. “Cleaver, lie still or I’ll have to clobber you. Agronski, you seem to have dumped his water bottle; better go get him some more, he needs it. And see if the Father left anything in the lab that looks like medicine.”
Agronski went out, and, maddeningly, so did Michelis—at least out of Cleaver’s field of vision. Setting his every muscle against the pain, Cleaver pulled his lips apart once more.
“Mike.”
Instantly, Michelis was there. He had a pad of cotton between thumb and forefinger, wet with some solution, with which he gently cleaned Cleaver’s lips and chin.
“Easy. Agronski’s getting you a drink. We’ll let you talk in a little while, Paul. Don’t rush it.”
Cleaver relaxed a little. He could trust Michelis. Nevertheless, the vivid and absurd insult of having to be swabbed like a baby was more than he could bear; he felt tears of helpless rage swelling on either side of his nose. With two deft, noncommittal swipes, Michelis removed them.
Agronski came back, holding out one hand tentatively, palm up.
“I found these,” he said. “There’s more in the lab, and the Father’s pill press is still out. So are his mortar and pestle, though they’ve been cleaned.”
“All right, let’s have ’em,” Michelis said. “Anything else?”
“No. Well, there’s a syringe cooking in the sterilizer, if that means anything.”
Michelis swore briefly and to the point.
“It means that there’s a pertinent antitoxin in the shop someplace,” he added. “But unless Ramon left notes, we’ll not have a prayer of figuring out which one it is.”
As he spoke, he lifted Cleaver’s head and tipped the pills into his mouth, onto his tongue. The water which followed was cold at the first contact, but a split second later it was liquid fire. Cleaver choked, and at that precise instant Michelis pinched his nostrils shut. The pills went down with a gulp.
“There’s no sign of the Father?” Michelis said.
“Not a one, Mike. Everything’s in good order, and his gear’s still here. Both jungle suits are in the locker.”
“Maybe he went visiting,” Michelis said thoughtfully. “He must have gotten to know quite a few of the Lithians by now. He liked them.”
“With a sick man on his hands? That’s not like him, Mike. Not unless there was some kind of emergency. Or maybe he went on a routine errand, expected to be back in just a few minutes, and—”
“And was set upon by trolls, for forgetting to stamp his foot three times before crossing a bridge.”
“All right, laugh.”
“I’m not laughing, believe me. That’s just the kind of damn fool thing that can kill a man in a strange culture. But somehow I can’t see it happening to Ramon.”
“Mike. . . .”
Michelis took a step and looked down at Cleaver. His face was drifting as if detached through a haze of tears. He said:
“All right, Paul. Tell us what it is. We’re listening.”
But it was too late. The doubled sedative dose had gotten to Cleaver first. He could only shake his head, and with the motion Michelis seemed to go reeling away
into a whirlpool of fuzzy rainbows.
Curiously, he did not quite go to sleep. He had had nearly a normal night’s sleep, and he had started out his enormously long day a powerful and healthy man. The conversation of the two commissioners, and an obsessive consciousness of his need to speak to them before Ruiz-Sanchez returned, helped to keep him, if not totally awake, at least not far below a state of light trance. In addition, the presence in his system of thirty grains of acetylsalicylic acid had seriously raised his oxygen consumption, bringing with it not only dizziness but also a precarious, emotionally untethered alertness. That the fuel which was being burned to maintain it was in part the protein substrate of his own cells he did not know, and it could not have alarmed him had he known it.
The voices continued to reach him, and to convey a little meaning. With them were mixed fleeting, fragmentary dreams, so slightly removed from the surface of his waking life as to seem peculiarly real, yet at the same time peculiarly pointless and depressing. In the semiconscious intervals there came plans, a whole succession of them, all simple and grandiose at once, for taking command of the expedition, for communicating with the authorities on Earth, for bringing forward secret papers proving that Lithia was uninhabitable, for digging a tunnel under Mexico to Peru, for detonating Lithia in one single mighty fusion of all its lightweight atoms into one single atom of cleaverium, the element of which the monobloc had been made, whose cardinal number was Aleph-Null. . .
agronski: Mike, come here and look at this; you read Lithian. There’s a mark on the front door, on the message tablet.
(Footsteps.)
American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 Page 43