“Get off,” said Mishinatven. “God, this in an Earthman named Frome we found in the woods. Frome, this is God.”
Frome watched Mishinatven to see whether to prostrate himself on the pounded clay floor or what. But as the Dzlieri took the sight of his deity quite casually, Frome turned to the short, burly man with the flat Mongoloid face, wearing a pistol and sitting in an old leather armchair of plainly human make.
Frome nodded, saying: “Delighted to meet you, God, old thing. Did your name used to be—uh—Sirat Mongkut before your deification?”
The man smiled faintly, nodded, and turned his attention to the three Dzlieri, who were all trying to tell the story of finding Frome and shouting each other down.
Sirat Mongkut straightened up and drew from his pocket a small object hung round his neck by a cord: a brass tube about the size and shape of a cigarette. He placed one end of this in his mouth and blew into it, his yellow face turning pink with effort. Although Frome heard no sound, the Dzlieri instantly fell silent. Sirat put the thing back in his pocket, the cord still showing, and said in Portuguese: “Tell us how you got into that peculiar predicament, Senhor Frome.”
Unable to think of any lie that would serve better than simple truth, Frome told Sirat of his quarrel with Quinlan and its sequel.
“Dear, dear,” said Sirat. “One would almost think you two were a pair of my Dzlieri. I am aware, however, that such antipathies arise among Earthmen, especially when a few of them are confined to enforced propinquity for a considerable period. What would your procedure be if I released you?”
“Try to beat my way back to Bembom, I suppose. If you could lend me a Grévy and some rations . . .”
Sirat shook his head, still smiling like a Cheshire cat. “I fear that is not within the borne of practicability. But why are you in such a hurry to get back? After the disagreement of which you apprised me, your welcome will hardly be fraternal; your colleague will have reported his narrative in a manner to place you in the worst possible light.”
“Well, what then?” said Frome, thinking that the entrepreneur must have swallowed a dictionary in his youth. He guessed that Sirat was determined not to let him go, but on the contrary might want to use him. While Frome had no intention of becoming a renegade, it wouldn’t hurt to string him along until he learned what was up.
Sirat asked: “Are you a college-trained engineer?”
Frome nodded. “University of London; Civil Engineering.”
“Can you run a machine shop?”
“I’m not an expert machinist, but I know the elements. Are you hiring me?”
Sirat smiled. “I perceive you usually anticipate me by a couple of steps. That is, roughly, the idea I had in mind. My Dzlieri are sufficiently clever metal workers but lack the faculty of application; moreover I find it difficult to elucidate the more complicated operations to organisms from the pre-machine era. And finally, Senhor, you arrive at an inopportune time, when I have projects under way news of which I do not desire to have broadcast. Do you comprehend?”
Frome at once guessed Sirat was violating Interplanetary Council Regulation No. 368, Section 4, Sub-section 26, Paragraph 15, which forbade imparting technical information to intelligent but backward and warlike beings like the Dzlieri without special permission. This was something Silva should know about. All he said, though, was: “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” Sirat rose. “I will patch up your ear and then show you the shop myself. Accompany us, Mishinatven.”
The Siamese led the way through the maze of mat-lined passages and out. The “palace” was connected by a breezeway with a smaller group of structures in which somebody was banging on an anvil; somebody was using a file; somebody was pumping the bellows of a simple forge.
In a big room several Dzlieri were working on metal parts with homemade tools, including a crank-operated lathe and boring mill. In one corner rose a pile of damaged native weapons and tools. As his gaze roamed the room, Frome saw a rack holding dozens of double-barreled guns.
Sirat handed one to Frome. “Two-centimeter smooth bores, of the simplest design. My Dzlieri are not yet up to complicated automatic actions, to say nothing of shock guns and paralyzers and such complex weapons. That is why the guns they expropriate from traders seldom remain long in use. They will not clean guns, nor believe that each gun requires appropriate ammunition. Therefore the guns soon get out of order and they are unable to effect repairs. But considering that we are not yet up to rifling the barrels, and that vision is limited in the jungle, one of these with eight-millimeter buckshot is quite as effective as an advanced gun.
“Now,” he continued, “I contemplate making you my shop foreman. You will first undergo a training course by working in each department in turn for a few days. As for your loyalty—I trust to your excellent judgment not to attempt to depart from these purlieus. You shall start in the scrap-sorting department today, and when you have completed your stint, Mishinatven will escort you to your quarters. As my Dzlieri have not yet evolved a monetary economy, you will be recompensed in copper ingots. Lastly, I trust I shall have the gratification of your companionship for the evening repast tonight?”
###
The scrap-sorting room was full of piles of junk, both of human and of native origin. Idznamen, the sorter, harangued Frome on such elementary matters as how to tell brass from iron. When Frome impatiently said: “Yes, yes, I know that,” Idznamen glowered and went right on. Meanwhile Frome was working up a state of indignation. An easy-going person most of the time, he was particular about his rights, and now was in a fine fury over the detention of him, a civil servant of the mighty Viagens, by some scheming renegade.
During the lecture, Frome prowled, turning over pieces of junk. He thought he recognized a motor-armature that had vanished from Bembom recently. Then there was a huge copper kettle with a hole in its bottom. Finally he found the remains of the survey party’s equipment, including the radar target.
Hours later, tired and dirty, he was dismissed and taken by Mishinatven to a small room in this same building. Here he found a few simple facilities for washing up. He thought he should mow the incipient yellow beard in honor of dining with God, but Mishinatven did not know what a razor was. The Dzlieri hung around, keeping Frome in sight. Evidently Sirat was taking no chances with his new associate.
At the appointed time, Mishinatven led him to the palace and into Sirat’s dining room, which was fixed up with considerable elegance. Besides a couple of Dzlieri guards, two people were there already: Sirat Mongkut and a small dark girl, exquisitely formed but clad in a severely plain Earthly costume—much more clothes than human beings normally wore on this steaming planet.
Sirat said: “My dear, allow me to present Senhor Adrian Frome; Senhor, I have the ineffable pleasure of introducing Senhorita Elena Millán. Will you partake of a drink?” he added, offering a glass of moikhada.
“Righto,” said Frome, noticing that Sirat already held one but that Miss Millán did not.
“It is contrary to her convictions,” said Sirat. “I hope to cure her of such unwarranted extremism, but it consumes time. Now narrate your recent adventures to us again.”
Frome obliged.
“What a story!” said Elena Millán. “So that handsome North European coloring of yours was almost your death! You Northerners ought to stick to the cold planets like Ganesha. Not that I believe Junqueiros’s silly theory of the superiority of the Mediterranean race.”
“He might have a point as far as Vishnu is concerned,” said Frome. “I do notice that the climate seems harder on people like Van der Gracht and me than on natives of tropical countries like Mehtalal. But perhaps I’d better dye my hair black to discourage these chaps from trying to collect my head as a souvenir.”
“Truly I regret the incident,” said Sirat. “But perhaps it is a fortunate misfortune. Is there not an English proverb about ill winds? Now, as you observe, I possess a skilled mechanic and another human being with
whom to converse. You have no conception of the ennui of seeing nobody but extra-terrestrials.”
Frome watched them closely. So this was the missing missionary! At least she had a friendly smile and a low sweet voice. Taking the bull by the horns he asked: “How did Miss Millán get here?”
Elena Millán spoke: “I was travelling with some Dzlieri into Mishinatven’s territory, when a monster attacked my party and ate one of them. I should have been eaten, too, had not Mr. Sirat come along and shot the beast. And now . . .”
She looked at Sirat, who said with his usual smile: “And now she finds it difficult to accustom herself to the concept of becoming the foundress of a dynasty.”
“What?” said Frome.
“Oh, have I not enlightened you? I am imbued with considerable ambitions—exalted, I think, is the word I want. Nothing that need involve me with Bembom, I trust, but I hope before many years have elapsed to bring a sizable area under my sovereignty. I already rule Mishinatven’s people for all practical purposes, and within a few weeks I propose to have annexed old Kamatobden’s as well. Then for the tribe of Romeli living beyond Bembom . . .” He referred to the other intelligent species of the planet, six-limbed apelike beings who quarreled constantly with the Dzlieri.
“You see yourself as a planetary emperor?” said Frome. This should certainly be reported back to his superiors at Bembom without delay!
Sirat made a deprecating motion. “I should not employ so extravagant a term—at least not yet. It is a planet of large land area. But—you comprehend the general idea. Under unified rule I could instill real culture into the Dzlieri and Romeli, which they will never attain on a basis of feuding tribes.” He chuckled. “A psychologist once asserted that I had a power complex because of my short stature. Perhaps he was correct; but is that any pretext for neglecting to put this characteristic to good use?”
“And where does Miss Millán come in?” asked Frome.
“My dear Frome! These primitives can comprehend the dynastic principle, but are much too backward for your recondite democratic ideals, as the failure of attempts to teach the representative government has amply demonstrated. Therefore we must have a dynasty, and I have elected Miss Millán to assist me in founding it.”
Elena’s manner changed abruptly and visibly. “I never shall,” she said coldly. “If I ever marry, it will be because the Cosmos has infused my spiritual self with a Ray of its Divine Love.”
Frome choked on his drink, wondering how such a nice girl could talk such tosh.
Sirat smiled. “She will alter her mind. She does not know what is beneficial for her, poor infant.”
Elena said: “He walks in the darkness of many lives’ accumulated karma, Mr. Frome, and so cannot understand spiritual truths.”
Sirat grinned broadly. “Just a benighted old ignoramus. I suppose, my love, you would find our guest more amenable to your spiritual suasion?”
“Judging by the color of his aura, yes.” (Frome glanced nervously about.) “If his heart were filled with Cosmic Love, I could set his feet on the Seven-Fold Path to Union with the Infinite.”
Frome almost declared he wouldn’t stand by and see an Earthwoman put under duress—not while he had his health—but thought better of it. Such an outburst would do more harm than good. Still, Adrian Frome had committed himself mentally to helping Elena, for while he affected a hard-boiled attitude towards women, he was secretly a sentimental softhead towards anything remotely like a damsel in distress.
Sirat said: “Let us discuss less rarefied matters. How are affairs proceeding at Bembom, Mr. Frome? The information brought hither by my Dzlieri is often garbled in transit.”
After that the meal went agreeably enough. Frome found Sirat Mongkut, despite his extraordinarily pedantic speech, a shrewd fellow with a good deal of charm, though obviously one who let nothing stand in his way. The girl, too, fascinated him. She seemed to be two different people—one, a nice normal girl whom he found altogether attractive; the other, a priestess of the occult who rather frightened him.
When Sirat dismissed his guests, a Dzlieri escorted each of them out of the room. Mishinatven saw to it that Frome was safely in bed (Frome had to move the bed a couple of times to avoid the drip of rainwater through the mat ceiling) before leaving him. As for Adrian Frome, he was too tired to care whether they mounted guard over him or not.
###
During the ensuing days, Frome learned more of the workings of the shop and revived his familiarity with the skills that make a metalworker. He also got used to being tailed by Mishinatven or some other Dzlieri. He supposed he should be plotting escape, and felt guilty because he had not been able to devise any clever scheme for doing so. Sirat kept his own person guarded, and Frome under constant surveillance.
And assuming Frome could give his guards the slip, what then? Even if the Dzlieri failed to catch him in his flight (as they probably would) or if he were not devoured by one of the carnivores of the jungle, without a compass, he would get hopelessly lost before he had gone one kilometer and presently die of the deficiency diseases that always struck down Earthmen who tried to live on an exclusively Vishnuvan diet.
Meanwhile, he liked the feeling of craftsmanship that came from exercising his hands on the tough metals, and found the other human beings agreeable to know.
One evening Sirat said: “Adrian, I should like you to take tomorrow off to witness some exercises I am planning.”
“Glad to,” said Frome. “You coming, Elena?”
She said: “I prefer not to watch preparations for the crime of violence.”
Sirat laughed. “She still thinks she can convert the Dzlieri to pacifism. You might as well instruct a horse to perform on the violin. She tried it on Chief Kamatobden and he thought her simply deranged.”
“I shall yet bring enlightenment to these strayed souls,” she said firmly.
###
The exercises took place in a large clearing near Amnairad. Sirat sat on a saddled zebra watching squadrons of Dzlieri maneuver at breakneck speed with high precision: some with native weapons, some with the new shotguns. A troop of lancers would thunder across the field in line abreast; then a square of musketeers would run onto the field, throw themselves down behind stumps and pretend to fire, and then leap up and scatter into the surrounding jungle, to reassemble elsewhere. There was some target practice like trapshooting, but no indiscriminate firing; Sirat kept the ammunition for his new guns locked up and doled it out only for specific actions.
Frome did not think Sirat was in a position to attack Bembom—yet. But he could certainly make a sweep of the nearby Vishnuvan tribes, whose armies were mere yelling mobs by comparison with his. And then . . . Silva must be told about this.
Sirat seemed to be controlling the movements in the field, though he neither gestured nor spoke. Frome worked his way close enough to the renegado to see that he had the little brass tube in his mouth and was going through the motions of blowing into it. Frome remembered: a Galton whistle, of course! It gave out an ultrasonic blast above the limits of human hearing, and sometimes people back on Earth called their dogs with them. The Dzlieri must have a range of hearing beyond 20,000 cycles per second.
At dinner that night he asked Sirat about this method of signaling.
Sirat answered: “I thought you would so conjecture. I have worked out a system of signals, something like Morse. There is no great advantage in employing the whistle against hostile Dzlieri since they can perceive it also; but with human beings or Romeli . . . For instance, assume some ill-intentioned Earthman were to assault me in my quarters when my guards were absent? A blast would bring them running without the miscreant’s knowing I had called.
“That reminds me,” continued the adventurer, “tomorrow I desire you to commence twenty more of these, for my subordinate officers. I have decided to train them in the use of the device as well. And I must request haste, since I apprehend major movements in the near future.”
“Moving
against Kamatobden, eh?” said Frome.
“You may think so if you wish. Do not look so fearful, Elena; I will take good care of myself. Your warrior shall return.”
Maybe, thought Frome, that’s what she’s scared of.
###
Frome looked over the Galton whistle Sirat had left with him. He now ran the whole shop and knew where he could lay hands on a length of copper tubing (probably once the fuel line of a helicopter) that should do for the duplication of the whistle.
With the help of one of the natives, he completed the order by nightfall, plus one whistle the Dzlieri had spoiled. Sirat came over from the palace and said: “Excellent, my dear Adrian. We shall go far together. You must pardon my not inviting you to dine with me tonight, but I am compelled to confer with my officers. Will you and Miss Millán carry on in the regular dining room in my absence?”
“Surely, Dom Sirat,” said Frome. “Glad to.”
Sirat wagged a forefinger. “However, let me caution you against exercising your charm too strongly on my protégée. An inexperienced girl like that might find a tall young Englishman glamorous, and the results would indubitably be most deplorable for all concerned.”
When the time came, he took his place opposite Elena Millán at the table. She said: “Let us speak English, since some of our friends here” (she referred to the ubiquitous Dzlieri guards) “know a little Portuguese, too. Oh, Adrian, I’m so afraid!”
“Of what? Sirat? What’s new?”
“He has been hinting that if I didn’t fall in with his dynastic plans, he would compel me. You know what that means.”
“Yes. And you want me to rescue you?”
The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens Page 8