The Howling Stones

by Alan Dean Foster

  They made their way toward the skimmer shed, the magnificent bay glistening in the morning sun as if it had been coated with powdered diamond.

  "I think I'll be able to communicate without any trouble." At her mild urging he avoided a plant with thorny leaves that was growing over the edge of the path. "For alien vocalizations, the language's of Senisran are fairly simple, and the Parramati dialect seems to present no unique difficulties."

  "Glad all those recordings I made proved useful. Of course, I could've been carrying out routine station main­tenance instead." Entering the shed, she ran a quick check of skimmer integrity and functions, paying particular at­tention to the fore intakes, before climbing aboard. Ap­parently there were some things she was willing to spend the time to maintain.

  Following her on board, he settled himself for the sec­ond time into the seat next to the pilot's chair. This morn­ing's journey would be less eventful than yesterday's, he hoped.

  "Where are we headed?"

  She spoke without looking up as she efficiently checked readouts and instrumentation. "Northwest coast. The skim­mer's only practical for overwater travel. Rest of the is­land is too rugged. You'll have plenty of opportunity to walk the trail to the main village, but this'll get us there in a couple of minutes." On a rising whine, the sturdy craft rose a meter into the air and backed out of the shed.

  "The locals like to see me arrive by skimmer. They al­ready know how to walk."

  "How do they react?" he asked. "Are they awed, curi­ous, indifferent, what?"

  "Straightforwardly accepting, mostly. It didn't take them long to get used to it. They call it the boat that flies on air, which is pretty direct. I think the absence of out­riggers surprises them more than anything else."

  He settled himself back into the seat. "I'm looking for­ward to meeting the local chief, this being the dominant island in the archipelago." He smiled. "I'm sure the AAnn weren't happy about the Commonwealth setting up a sta­tion here first."

  She shrugged. "They seem to be perfectly happy on Mallatyah. That's the second‑largest inhabited island in the group. They're doing a good job of extending their influence from there."

  Pulickel was mildly alarmed. "I've been wondering what kind of progress they've been making. How are you do­ing with the Torrelauans?"

  "As well, or as bad. It's hard to tell. As you know from your preparations, the Parramati aren't like any other so­ciety on Senisran." The skimmer crossed the beach and entered the bay. "They're special. Special unique or spe­cial frustrating, take your pick."

  Wind began to ruffle his hair. "I'm sure as soon as I get to know the chief, we'll make some serious headway."

  She adjusted several controls, preferring manual to vorec operation. The engine whined responsively and the skim­mer accelerated. He frowned at her.

  "What're you laughing at?"

  She stopped chuckling. "If you wanted to speak to the chief on any other island group, there wouldn't be a prob­lem. But you can't do that on Parramat."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the Parramati are different. As you'll find out. It's why I've stayed here, by myself. See, there care things that interest me besides lounging around, cultivat­ing native flowers, and sampling the local foodstuffs."

  "I didn't mean to imply otherwise," he muttered.

  "Of course. Nobody ever means to." She boosted the skimmer another meter above the water.

  Well out on the bay, the wind was now howling around them. He really would have preferred an enclosed, climate­controlled cockpit, but decided to hold off making the suggestion. Instead, he studied his surroundings intently. How the wind blew her burnished gold hair out behind her, how the sculpted profile of her face stood out pale against the green walls of the fjord‑not forgetting to make mental notes on the surrounding terrain as well, of course.

  "What's so special about the Parramati, besides their reluctance to formalize relationships with outsiders?"

  Reaching the end of the bay, she turned west, follow­ing the coast. Beneath the skimmer's thrusters, the smooth waters of the encircling lagoon flashed by. Silicaceous pseudocorals shoved bumps and blades and nodules toward the surface.

  "Everything. Their society is unique on Senisran. They're friendly, polite, but defiant."

  "What are they defying? Everything is subject to nego­tiation. It's not like we're trying to impose our will on them."

  "But we are. However benignly, we're imposing con­temporary culture on them, be it in the form of a formal treaty of mutual cooperation, track goods, weapons, poli­tics, even comments and suggestions about art. The AAnn are doing the same. The Parramati reject nearly all of it. It's not part of their kusum, you see."

  Pulickel blinked as the skimmer rocked slightly. "Their what?"

  "The term is a phonetic coincidence, though it means much more than just custom. It signifies a way of life that goes beyond the superficial. It's a way of looking at the entire cosmos. They're afraid that if they ally themselves formally with either us or the AAnn, it will go against kusum and they'll lose their way."

  "For a supposedly primitive people, that's a relatively enlightened outlook." He smiled thinly. "Of course, it never works. You can't reject and ignore advanced tech­nology once it's been offered to you. If not the elders, then the youth of primitive species who are less steeped in tradition are always willing to try exciting new things. Historical xenology proves it over and over. Any group that attempts to exclude high tech soon finds that its less diffident neighbors have leapfrogged beyond them in terms of wealth, education, and the ability to wage war."

  "I know that." She leaned back and let the autopilot guide the skimmer. "I've tried explaining it to them. They just humor me and insist that as long as they stick to their kusum, they'll be all right."

  "Very admirable. Noble, even. But misguided. Stub­bornness never works. Sooner or later on every inhabited world, those who advance assume control over or come to dominate those who do not. The natives of Ophhlia have already advanced a full classification by accepting and embracing the Commonwealth presence there."

  "The Parramati wouldn't be impressed. You could of­fer them untold wealth. They'd consider it politely, dis­cuss it at length, and if the determination was that it went against kusum, reject it outright no matter how many lives it would better. That's why I've had such a hard time getting them to accept gifts." The skimmer automati­cally eased around a small, sandy islet from which a flock of bright red gliders exploded into the sky like the outpouring of a burst crimson pinata.

  "Like all the rest of it, the gift‑giving rituals of their kusum are very elaborate. If I were to offer them some­ thing like a small, portable entertainment center, they'd have nothing equivalent with which to reciprocate and therefore, according to kusum, they couldn't accept it.

  About all they'll exchange readily are foodstuffs. There's a soft drink concentrate from New Riviera that they're particularly fond of. Swapping drinks doesn't make for an instant treaty, but it's a start. One of the few I've been able to make."

  "So that's how you get your fruits and juices. Exotic tastes are always a good way to ingratiate oneself with natives, provided body chemistries are compatible, of course."

  "It isn't the taste. The drink is carbonated, and the bubbles tickle their sensitive palates. They like the sensa­tion." Leaning forward, she resumed manual control and turned the skimmer toward shore. "There's something really important to be discovered here, Pulickel. Some­thing that extends beyond treaties and trade agreements and adding to the general bulk of xenological knowledge. I'm just not sure what it is yet."

  "Pretty hard to verify something in the laboratory when you don't even know what it is you're looking for," he commented.

  "Maybe you'll have better luck." She shook her head, chasing blond strands from her face. "A new approach, intuition‑you obviously have a lot of experience."

  "It would help if I knew what you were looking for."

  "I agree.
All I can say is that it's all tied up with what makes Parramat society so different from that of any of the other island groups and the Parramati different from the rest of the seni. They're not evasive so much as they are obtuse."

  "Is obtuseness a component of kusum, too?" Pulickel braced himself as the skimmer slowed, approaching the shoreline.

  "I don't think so." She eased the craft up on a narrow beach shaded by tall thin trees clad in striated blue bark and huge oval leaves that grew directly upon the trunk. Their coloring blended perfectly into the sky, an adaptive quality whose purpose he would have to discover at a later date. Near the crown of one bole small chittering things with eight legs hung upside down and gawked at him out of eyes like Persian turquoise. Each eye ap­peared to have three pupils.

  "We have to stop here and walk." She climbed out of the open cab. "It's not far, but there's a bit of a climb."

  He followed her over the side and studied the sloping terrain inland. "The skimmer should be able to negotiate this hill."

  "Probably, but some of the older Parramati don't like to be around it when it's running." She smiled know­ingly. "Because it sucks in air and kicks it back out they're afraid it might steal their breath."

  "And besides," he grumbled as he studied the narrow trail that wound like a corkscrew through the dense vege­tation, "no doubt it's against kusum."

  "You got it. So I park it here." Reaching into the stern of the skimmer, she removed a couple of small back­packs and handed one to him. Slipping the other over her shoulders, she started up the trail. "As you've probably figured by now, the Parramati consider everything in the light of kusum."

  "Who makes the interpretations? The local chief?"

  "I told you," she reminded him, looking back over her shoulder, "the Parramati have no chiefs."

  "Somebody has to make decisions."

  "They all do. It's something like an Athenian‑style democracy, only with internal gradations I'm still trying to sort out. There are big persons, and middle persons, and small persons, and the big persons have a greater say than the small persons, but if enough small persons get together they can override the opinion of the big persons."

  "So the voting is weighted?" He'd always had plenty of stamina and the climb wasn't tiring him.

  "It's not that straightforward. You'll see."

  The trail was well maintained. He glanced back the way they'd come. "They won't bother the skimmer?"

  "They'll look at it and peek inside, but they won't touch anything. They've seen what it can do, and no one wants to take the risk of it running off with them. I set the alarm anyway, just in case somebody's curiosity over­comes their adherence to kusum." She held up her right arm, showing him the communicator band encircling her wrist. "I can control basic functions from here. If some native were to start monkeying around with it, I'd just send it scooting out into the lagoon. Believe me, any in­truder would abandon it in a hurry. The Parramati are brave enough, but they have a healthy respect for our technology, even if they don't want any of it for them­selves:" She grinned and pushed aside the branch of a succulent that had grown across the trail.

  "Also, they have a healthy respect for ghosts and spir­its, and I've told them that one sleeps in the skimmer at all times." She eyed him appraisingly. "You managing okay?"

  "I'm fine," he replied irritably. "Just lead on and I'll be right behind you:" Which, he decided, even though he did his best to focus his attention on the surrounding alien jungle, was not a bad place to be‑provided he could get her to stop patronizing him. He might not be able to match her stride for stride, but he'd run marathons and could hike all day without stopping.

  The jungle was an extraordinary place, frantic with mo­tion and sound, brilliant with exotic colors and shapes. Surrounded by dwarf trees and gigantic flowers, it was often hard to tell which was which. In contrast to the great Terran rain forests, which boasted a thousand dif­ferent shades of green, the jungle on Torrelau was painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Alongside blue‑black branches and silver stems, red roots and yellow bark, some of the flowers looked positively intimidated. He mentioned his observations to his companion.

  "Many of the plants here have the ability to concen­trate specific minerals in their phylose." She indicated a brace of brilliant red‑and‑yellow bushes. "Colekoli. Sucks up cinnabar like a sponge. I hear that in the Pura­lyra Archipelago north of Ophhlia there's scrub that con­centrates platinum." She grinned. "Makes me wish I had time to do a little gardening."

  He stepped over a protruding root. "What about the rare earths here that have the commercial interests so excited?"

  "Nice thought, but so far I haven't been able to find a flower with a passion for niobium. Too bad. Wouldn't stop the mining interests, though. They'd still want to dig the place up. Picking flowers would be too slow. Insuffi­ciencies of scale." He reached for a loop of vine to help pull himself over a steep spot. "Don't touch that."

  He withdrew his finger. "Why not?" He studied the ropy liana. It looked innocent enough.

  After she'd given him a hand up, she found a dead stick and carefully gave the section of vine he'd been about to grab a sharp whack. Instantly hundreds of small, hooked thorns that had lain flush with the smooth bark of the vine snapped erect, exactly as if she'd pulled a trig­ger. Which, effectively, she had.

  She tossed the stick aside. "Not deadly, but extremely painful and difficult to shake off. Each thorn is lined with backward‑curving barbs. If you're not careful or you don't know what you're doing, the harder you struggle to free yourself the more seriously entangled you become. The plant itself isn't carnivorous‑the thorns' design is entirely defensive‑but there are plenty of scavengers in the forest ready to take advantage of any critter that gets hung up in them and exhausts itself trying to fight its way free."

  Pulickel leaned over to examine the vine, careful not to touch it. "I can see that you haven't been devoting all your time to studying the Parramati."

  "They've taught me the characteristics of many plants. The teriasti vine is just one of them. Others I've learned about on my own." Grabbing the hem of her shorts on her left leg, she pulled the fabric up almost to her waist­line, adding to the enormous length of thigh that was already visible. Each roughly eight centimeters long, two parallel stars were etched into her flesh, pale white against her deeply tanned skin. She let the hem fall back.

  "Those haven't healed completely yet. I'm not sure they ever will heal completely. I've tried half a dozen dif­ferent reseptics. "

  "Another vine?" he asked as they resumed climbing.

  "No. A tree‑dwelling arthropod about a hundred cen­timeters long. It's got a dozen legs and a real interesting bite. I was picking jeru fruit and didn't see it until it was right on my leg. I must've disturbed its lair, or nest, or maybe I just caught it in a bad mood. The pain was so se­vere I thought I was going to fall out of the tree."

  "Trouble in paradise." After first checking them for oc­cupants, he pushed leaves out of the way.

  "Senisran isn't paradise and neither is Torrelau. Since it was on me I couldn't get a safe angle with my gun. Had to cut its head off with my knife. Then I had to dig the head out of my leg. Strong fangs." She held up one little finger. "About half this long.

  "Fortunately, the toxin works slowly. I'm sure that if I didn't have access to modem adaptive antivenins I would've died, or at least lost the leg."

  "Sounds to me like you handled it admirably."

  "The hell I did. I was screaming and flopping around like a burned baby. I'm surprised they didn't hear me all the way back in Ophhlia. I cried all the way back to the station and most of the rest of the day, until the anal­gesics started to bite. It felt like somebody was using my quadriceps for kindling. So watch where you put your hands and feet. This environment may look beautiful, but it isn't entirely benign."

  "So even though indigenous dangers are abundant and modern weapons would help them cope, the Parramati won't accept them?"
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br />   "That's right." She ducked beneath an overhanging cluster of vines. "The big persons say it would violate kusum. This isn't a culture that allows for a lot of flexi­bility. Either you adhere to kusum or you abandon it. There doesn't seem to be much middle ground."

  "Every primitive society hews to an inviolate set of moral imperatives. Flexibility comes in the interpreta­tion. If we persist I bet that sooner or later we'll run into a big person or two who'll find a way to bend the ab­solutes to their advantage‑and to ours."

  She shrugged. "I hope you have better luck than I have. I understand that alien semantics is a specialty of yours."

  He nodded. "There are times when I think that I get along better with aliens than with other humans."

  "Due, no doubt, to your carefully moderated sense of humor."

  He glanced up sharply, but she was turned away from him, her attention fixed on the trail, and he couldn't gauge the amount of sarcasm just from her tone.

  "If it's any consolation," she went on, "the AAnn are even more frustrated than I am. I don't know that they've ever encountered aboriginals before who wouldn't accept free weapons. They're also frustrated because the Parra­mati don't do things quickly. Everything takes time since all the big persons have to be consulted on any major decision." She halted, took a deep breath, and gestured through the trees.

  "We're almost there. No more climbing."

  "It doesn't matter," he replied a little too quickly. "I'm not tired."

  The ground leveled off and the forest began to thin. Raising her voice, Fawn called out in the singsong Parra­mati dialect. Stepping up alongside her, Pulickel was rewarded with his first glimpse of alive seni.

  It looked exactly like the recorded images he'd been studying for the past several months. Smaller than ex­pected, it exhibited all the specified characteristics of a juvenile of the species.

  "This is Kirtra'a." Fawn made an elaborate rolling ges­ture of greeting with her forearms. "He's a young male on the cusp of sexual maturity." '