This time the youth took four days to reach the village where the great shaman lived, due to the weariness of his own body and the slowness of his new wife. On the way he stopped to shoot a domestic pig with his long rifle. The pig had not belonged to him but the young man argued with his bride that now the end of the world had come, private property had become public.
When the pair arrived at the great shaman’s village they found that the elders had just emerged from a long debate concerning the blankness on the oracle bones. These grave and pious elders took their duties extremely seriously. The opium was their link with their ancestors and it was the work of the elders to extract opinions from their hallowed forebears and impart these to their fellow debatees. Unfortunately, there were as many divine dead as there were men to question them. The fact that the old men could hardly stand when they left the Happy Hut, and frequently toppled over, indicated how long and hard the discussion had been.
They finally came to the conclusion that ‘blank bones’ meant the tribe had no future. The invaders, said the elders, would kill every man, woman and child in the tribe.
‘That’s true, that’s true,’ cried the excited young man, ‘they have already destroyed my village. Look, you can see the smoke from here...’ and pointed to the black vertical column which rose from beyond the southern ridges. There were other dark pillars of cloud visible further back.
The great shaman ignored the youth. The old man’s face was full of light and wisdom. He lifted his ancient hand, extended a bony finger and pointed dramatically towards the smoke in the south.
‘It was when we saw that sign from the gods,’ he told his people, ‘that we knew the tribe had no future.’
The young man nodded vigorously, and was about to remonstrate with the elders, to spur them to some kind of action, when they retired to the debating hut once more to decide whether their particular village had no future because of the presence of the invaders—who might indeed be satisfied with their conquest of the lower villages and come no further—or because the elders had killed its last two bulls and it could not survive without breeding stock.
The youth was disgusted with the old people. He and his young wife set out for the caves in the distant mountains, he explaining to her that there was no need for a bridal hut now, because their ancestors had been left back there in the village of their birth. She, not without a little pique, was explaining to him that if he loved her as much as he said he did, he would not forego her traditional rights just because they had been forced away from their roots. He was supposed to build her a pretty hut of bamboo poles and banana leaves. If he loved her, he would still do this little thing.
A healthy discussion ensued, as they hurried onwards.
When they reached a mountain pass, they came across more of the enemy emerging from huts with whirling arms that had come down from the gathering of rain-clouds. The green and brown warriors carried guns the boy had never seen before and looked more like wooden figures from a sacred gate come to life than they did flesh and blood men. Clearly the enemy were not interested in debate, for they swooped on the village in a silence interrupted only by the roar of their weapons.
The youth and his bride hid in a cave and they stayed there for two days before venturing out again. He went down to the ruined village to see if anyone was left alive. Unhappily they were all dead.
At the time of the attack the great shaman had been caught in the middle of some wonderful rhetoric, for his blackened jaw was still wide open. When the youth sorted through his smouldering bones, in the haze of a smoky afternoon, he found they were cracked in many places. Although he had never smoked opium, the boy was able to read these divine messages easily, and predict the future of the tribe.
In the evening, it rained, sizzling upon the hot earth.
PAPER MOON
Travel the world, meet interesting people and I’ll fill in endless forms for no particular reason. Bureaucracy, the bane of any traveller’s life. Also a dangerous weapon of control.
‘They’re not supposed to discriminate,’ said the angular man to my left, ‘but they do. Yes sir...’ His voice trailed off in bitter resentment. There were three of us, humans, sitting together—the idiotic herd instinct. Moreover, we had been together for nine units, and I knew the whole orchestral range of his indignation, from the low whine to the high, heated complaints. I was sweating. The temperature of the room was very uncomfortable. You had to admit those Spicans had it all weighed up. This was acceptable heat for most races. Not for us, though, and that was the main reason for it being set so high.
The woman said, ‘Discriminate? I’ve been here thirteen times.’
Here was the location of the only Spican bureau in the Affiliation—the moon of a remote planet that circled Algol.
‘But I’ll get past them,’ she muttered, tight-lipped. She was thin and brittle and, I guessed, touching seventy Earth years.
‘They won’t keep me out. I’ve been to all sorts of places they’ve not even heard of.’
I stared at the oval doorway through which I would pass within the next few units. Inside that chamber was a Spican. Not many people have seen a live Spican, let alone talked to one. They were humanoids, a lot like us...or maybe not. Physically Earthmen and Spicans were compatible. That was the main source of their dislike for us. Our physical compatibility. Mentally, spiritually, we were galaxies apart. The clerks in the outer chambers were all Alterians, Spican employees with a flair for petty bureaucracy. My God, did they have a gift for that little game! They could drive a man up the concave walls and halfway to insanity with their endless cards, disks, tapes, and I’m afraids.
‘I’m afraid you haven’t the required seal on your application, sir. You’ll need to have this reprocessed.’
‘I’m afraid the clerk you spoke to previously has now left our employ. Could you begin again?’
Greasy, oil-blue excuse for a smile. The snapper showing a band of hard bone.
Lost cards. Lost tapes. Lost identity. Signatures from inaccessible officials. Excessive quarantine periods. Stringent medicals. Monetary investigations. Family history. The works.
The salesman stood up, his rumpled, soiled clothes at variance with his expensive luggage. He walked over to a free window and impatiently rapped on the screen. Behind the screen the clerk stood up and, without giving any indication of having heard or seen, moved out of our range of vision. The salesman loosened his collar, shrugged, and dropped down heavily onto the purposely hard, lumpy benches that were so low to the floor that an average Terran’s knees almost dislocated his jaw when he used them.
‘See what I mean?’ he said. ‘Bastards. Ignorant as hell. Make a fuss and they’re all over you with their slimy apologies. But you still don’t get anything done faster.’
‘Patience, pal,’ I said.
‘Patience, shit!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just about had enough! Anybody else says patience to me, I’ll punch a few noses—or whatever,’ he snarled, glaring round at the other members of the Affiliation. A Miran coughed in the silence that followed.
‘Settle down, chum,’ I said softly. ‘You’re frightening the lady.’
‘Like hell he is,’ the lady in question cackled. ‘I just wanna see him break a few things.’
I said quickly, ‘None of us will get to Spica’s worlds that way. We’ll all get canned.’
‘That’s just what these guys want, right?’ said the salesman, now taking my advice and calming down. ‘Well, they’re not gonna get it—not from me. I’ll get past immigration if it kills me.’
‘Dead ones don’t get in any quicker than live ones,’ muttered the old lady. The salesman took no notice of this advice.
‘Get in,’ he said, ‘that’s all they told me at head office. “Get in there and sell,” they said.’ He looked at me with stricken eyes, and I suddenly pitied him.
‘How the hell can I sell when they keep me away from my customers?’
I nodded. He was right. He wou
ld never get to a Spican world. But I would. The infinite delaying tactics employed by the Spicans couldn’t stop Alex Clay. I was no grit-eyed salesman or kitsch-loving tourist sponging up ethnic origins and alien cultures in order to drench my penurious relatives. The machine wasn’t built that didn’t grind to a halt when my spanner landed in its guts. G-time was seventeen units. I stood up and strode toward the oval doorway leading to the inner chamber. I heard the salesman behind me say, ‘Now where the hell does he think...?’ An Alterian stepped in my path. He was a full head shorter than I.
‘You can’t—’ he began.
‘Oh but I can. You see, I’ve waited ten units. I’m entitled.’
His eye glanced around nervously.
‘No violence,’ he said flatly.
I smiled. ‘Of course, no violence. I’m merely telling you the law. We’re on Spican soil—here in this immigration office—and I’ve waited ten units. I am now entitled to an audience, under Spican law,’ I finished softly. His snapper came open involuntarily, and he closed it, using his claw. He stared for a while, then said, ‘Wait here,’ and passed into the oval.
A short time later he was back, and under the incredulous stares of my erstwhile companions, I entered the inner chamber.
‘You quote Spican law to me?’
A tall, elegant creature was standing with his back to me, gazing through the transparent wall over the silent landscape of the moon. It was dusk outside and still. The only light, a purple glow from a cluster of house-high rocks nearby.
‘I do,’ I replied quietly.
He turned to face me then. We were about the same height, and I am tall for a Terran, but his build was better proportioned than my own. He was also very handsome.
‘And who are you?’
‘Alex Clay. I’m a Terran engineer.’
‘I’m aware of your planet of origin—only two races that answer to the pattern of the human form, and you are no Spican. I believe that’s what you call us?’ His accent was a peculiar mixture of rounded vowels and clipped word endings.
‘You know very well what we call you,’ I replied. I laid my identisc on a polished slate table before him. He made no move toward it, his hands clasped behind the multifold cloak.
‘How do you know of our laws?’
I glanced around the chamber. It was tastefully decorated with bright metallic centripetals that covered the walls and ceiling. ‘Nice place.’
‘Answer my questions,’ he said.
I snapped, ‘I don’t have to answer questions of that nature. I won’t be intimidated by some petty official.’
He flushed at this and seemed about to palm an eyeswitch.
‘And calling your minions won’t help you this time,’ I anticipated. ‘I’ve had enough of their brand of intimidation, too.’
He hesitated, and finally his hand fell back to his side. ‘I am asking you now, as a polite inquiry. How did you know that under Spican law an official must admit a suppliant to his presence after ten units?’
‘I was told,’ I replied. ‘Now that I’m here, I shall inform you in your official capacity that I intend to emigrate to a Spican world.’
‘Which one?’ He sounded sure of himself. Sure that no matter what passed between us, I would never make it.
‘Alca-s.’ I pronounced it perfectly, softly hissing the end of the word.
He winced. ‘You’ll have to do something with that after-s,’ he replied, destroying my illusions. ‘It grates.’ He continued, ‘We don’t have much call for engineers. In fact I think we are fully employed.’
‘How the hell do you know?’ I replied quickly, sitting down on the cushion. ‘You don’t know my discipline.’
‘Starship maintenance?’ He looked away from my eyes. ‘Well, you didn’t think I’d see you without looking at your personal file, did you?’
‘I’d have been disappointed had it been otherwise,’ I answered. ‘Do they have any trees on Alca-s?’ This time I didn’t attempt a correct pronunciation.
‘Trees?’ He looked offended at the word.
‘Yes, tall organic structures composed of wood.’
His voice turned cold. ‘I don’t see the connection—’
I interrupted. ‘It’s a protest on my part,’ I said. ‘Forested planets produce an administrative mechanism based on paper. Even after the paper’s gone, the administrative blocking techniques live on. Paper is manufactured from wood,’ I explained.
‘I know about paper,’ he nodded seriously. ‘I still don’t see.’
‘The Alterian worlds are forested. That’s why they suit your purposes— why you use Alterians as clerks in your immigration offices.’ His eyes began to register intelligence. The irises were a soft mushroom gray. ‘It’s a sickness, really—Terra has it, always will have. The bogging bureaucrats.’
He nodded and I could see he was following my argument.
‘You use it to keep us out,’ I said. ‘You need the Affiliation for the security of its economy, for the trade. But under Affiliation law you have to accept immigrants as part of the package deal. The right of free passage for all member worlds. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He walked to the far side of the chamber and washed his hands in a moonshaped dish. Symbolic?
‘Do you work for the government, Clay?’
‘The Affiliation of Worlds?’ I said.
‘You know what I mean. The government of Terra. Your own government.’
‘I used to, once upon a time,’ I said, aware of what was in my personal history—the recorded part, that is. ‘I was an engineer on their solar freighters as a young man. Later I graduated to starships and left Earth for good. I haven’t been back in...nearly five megaunits.’
He rubbed his hands into each other. He said, ‘You’re suddenly being very co-operative. Why the change of tactics?’
‘Perhaps I wasn’t getting anywhere?’
‘You had me on the run.’
‘You turned and faced me.’
He smiled then, for the first time.
‘I like you, Clay. You’re much the same as me, in personality, thinking.’
‘But not physically,’ I said, contradicting the truth. We were alike superficially, but he was a Greek god and I was fashioned more on the lines of a galley slave.
‘No, not such a...’
‘Magnificent specimen?’ I finished for him, using an old cliché.
He laughed openly at that and said something in his own tongue.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. It doesn’t translate perfectly. It loses.’
I nodded. ‘Anyway, now that we’re friends,’ I said frivolously, ‘how about my application?’
A frown appeared on his face, and he pulled the cloak firmly around his body before settling on a nearby cushion.
‘Let me tell you something about this place you wish to live in. Alca-s.’ His tongue seemed to savour the word. ‘My own world, incidentally. It’s one of the three inhabited Spican planets. The temperate one. A pleasant overall climate, discounting the equator and the poles. The other two worlds, Alcans and Alca-cs, have extreme climates, even in the so-called temperate zones. One too hot, the other too cold.’ I nodded. I knew it all anyway.
‘Alca-s. The women are beautiful and the men are...’
‘Beautiful,’ I finished again. I couldn’t resist it.
‘Yes. True. They are, but more to the point, they are xenophobic. You would hate it there because they would hate you. None of us have ever emigrated because we...we can’t live among strangers.’
‘Not true,’ I said. ‘Official policy, maybe. But your ordinary people...I can’t believe they hate those they have never met.’
‘What do you know about my people?’ he suddenly rapped into my face. ‘I know my people.’
I replied simply, ‘So do I.’
He jerked upright from his crouched position. ‘What do you mean?’ There was a thick atmosphere between us, and I could see by his taut expression that
he was having difficulty in controlling his anger. I let him have the earthquake. The one I’d been saving for the right moment.
‘I mean,’ I said, ‘I’m married to one.’
All the tension went out of his facial muscles, and the clenched fingers uncurled. I could smell the sweet oil on his palms.
‘That’s impossible,’ he said at last. He spoke the words as if he were trying to convince himself rather than me.
‘No,’ I answered.
‘You mean...you mean you’re actually married to one of my race? We don’t marry—not in the same way.’ It was a desperate argument.
‘You’re clutching at straws,’ I said. ‘I married her—our way. A Terran wedding.’
‘Ah! You wouldn’t last on our world. It wouldn’t work.’
‘I’ll last. Besides, if your people are such racial purists, how come you let others in? How come it’s just us you block?’
‘Well, ah, I should have thought that was obvious. Bad blood.’
‘Yes? Well, I’m going to tell you a story, friend—a love story.’ He lifted his hand as if to protest, but I waved it down. ‘You’ll need to know, in your official capacity, so I’ll tell you anyway. Listen. Once upon a time—we always start stories that way—once upon a time there was a starship carrying a group of Spican politicians home from a conference. The destination of the ship was Alca-s.
‘Suddenly, a long way between worlds, something goes wrong with the main drive. The ship halts—well, not exactly, but worse still, it keeps going, with no way of stopping. Runaway. The engineer onboard this small executive craft gets to work right away, but wouldn’t you guess it, he gets a jolt from a naked power line and zang! he’s busted, too. Bad deal! The ship keeps flashing through space. Pretty soon it’ll hit something—a planet, a sun—and whammo, full stop . . . Say, is my frivolous delivery bothering you?’ His eyes told me the truth, even though his expression remained blank. I was enjoying myself.
I continued, ‘Anyway, out goes the distress call, and who should be the only listeners within striking distance but the bad-blooded old Terrans. Quick decision. Do you allow yourselves to be contaminated by the presence of untouchable Terrans? Or do you risk certain death? To hell with dying, you say, even though it means fumigating the ship afterward.
Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales Page 24