by Brian Aldiss
We never did learn why the heptapods left, any more than we learned what brought them here, or why they acted the way they did. My own new awareness didn’t provide that type of knowledge; the heptapods’ behavior was presumably explicable from a sequential point of view, but we never found that explanation.
I would have liked to experience more of the heptapods’ worldview, to feel the way they feel. Then, perhaps I could immerse myself fully in the necessity of events, as they must, instead of merely wading in its surf for the rest of my life. But that will never come to pass. I will continue to practice the heptapod languages, as will the other linguists on the looking-glass teams, but none of us will ever progress any further than we did when the heptapods were here.
Working with the heptapods changed my life. I met your father and learned Heptapod B, both of which make it possible for me to know you now, here on the patio in the moonlight. Eventually, many years from now, I’ll be without your father, and without you. All I will have left from this moment is the heptapod language. So I pay close attention, and note every detail.
From the beginning I knew my destination, and I chose my route accordingly. But am I working toward an extreme of joy, or of pain? Will I achieve a minimum, or a maximum?
These questions are in my mind when your father asks me, ‘Do you want to make a baby?’ And I smile and answer, ‘Yes,’ and I unwrap his arms from around me, and we hold hands as we walk inside to make love, to make you.
Protected Species
H. B. FYFE
The yellow star, of which Torang was the second planet, shone hotly down on the group of men viewing the half-built dam from the heights above. At a range of eighty million miles the effect was quite Terran, the star being somewhat smaller than Sol.
For Jeff Otis, fresh from a hop through space from the extra-bright star that was the other component of the binary system, the heat was enervating. The shorts and light shirt supplied him by the planet coordinator were soaked with perspiration. He mopped his forehead and turned to his host.
‘Very nice job, Finchley,’ he complimented. ‘It’s easy to see you have things well in hand here.’
Finchley grinned sparingly. He had a broad, hard, flat face with tight lips and mere slits of blue eyes. Otis had been trying ever since the previous morning to catch a revealing expression on it.
He was uneasily aware that his own features were too frank and open for an inspector of colonial installations. For one thing, he had too many lines and hollows in his face, a result of being chronically underweight from space-hopping among the sixteen planets of the binary system.
Otis noticed that Finchley’s aides were eyeing him furtively.
‘Yes, Finchley,’ he repeated to break the little silence, ‘you’re doing very well on the hydro-electric end. When are you going to show me the capital city you’re laying out?’
‘We can fly over there now,’ answered Finchley. ‘We have tentative boundaries laid out below those pre-colony ruins we saw from the ’copter.’
‘Oh, yes. You know, I meant to remark as we flew over that they looked a good deal like similar remnants on some of the other planets.’
He caught himself as Finchley’s thin lips tightened a trifle more. The coordinator was obviously trying to be patient and polite to an official from whom he hoped to get a good report, but Otis could see he would much rather be going about his business of building up the colony.
He could hardly blame Finchley, he decided. It was the fifth planetary system Terrans had found in their expansion into space, and there would be bigger jobs ahead for a man with a record of successful accomplishments. Civilization was reaching out to the stars at last. Otis supposed that he, too, was some sort of pioneer, although he usually was too busy to feel like one.
‘Well, I’ll show you some photos later,’ he said. ‘Right now, we – Say, why all that jet-burning down there?’
In the gorge below, men had dropped their tools and seemed to be charging towards a common focal point. Excited yells carried thinly up the cliffs.
‘Ape hunt, probably,’ guessed one of Finchley’s engineers.
‘Ape?’ asked Otis, surprised.
‘Not exactly,’ corrected Finchley patiently. ‘That’s common slang for what we mention in reports as Torangs. They look a little like big, skinny, grey apes; but they’re the only life large enough to name after the planet.’
Otis stared down into the gorge. Most of the running men had given up and were straggling back to their work. Two or three, brandishing pistols, continued running and disappeared around a bend.
‘Never catch him now,’ commented Finchley’s pilot.
‘Do you just let them go running off whenever they feel like it?’ Otis inquired.
Finchley met his curious gaze stolidly.
‘I’m in favour of anything that will break the monotony, Mr Otis. We have a problem of morale, you know. This planet is a key colony, and I like to keep the work going smoothly.’
‘Yes, I suppose there isn’t much for recreation yet.’
‘Exactly. I don’t see the sport in it myself but I let them. We’re up to schedule.’
‘Ahead, if anything,’ Otis placated him. ‘Well, now, about the city?’
Finchley led the way to the helicopter. The pilot and Otis waited while he had a final word with his engineers, then they all climbed in and were off.
Later, hovering over the network of crude roads being levelled by Finchley’s bulldozers, Otis admitted aloud that the location was well-chosen. It lay along a long, narrow bay that thrust in from the distant ocean to gather the waters of the same river that was being dammed some miles upstream.
‘Those cliffs over there,’ Finchley pointed out, ‘were raised up since the end of whatever civilization used to be here – so my geologist tells me. We can fly back that way, and you can see how the ancient city was once at the head of the bay.’
The pilot climbed and headed over the cliffs. Otis saw that these formed the edge of a plateau. At one point their continuity was marred by a deep gouge.
‘Where the river ran thousands of years ago,’ Finchley explained.
They reached a point from which the outlines of the ruined city were easily discerned. From the air, Otis knew, they were undoubtedly plainer than if he had been among them.
‘Must have been a pretty large place,’ he remarked. ‘Any idea what sort of beings built it or what happened to them?’
‘Haven’t had time for that yet,’ Finchley said. ‘Some boys from the exploration staff poke around in there every so often. Best current theory seems to be that it belonged to the Torangs.’
‘The animals they were hunting before?’ asked Otis.
‘Might be. Can’t say for sure, but the diggers found signs the city took more of a punch than just an earthquake. Claim they found too much evidence of fires, exploded missiles, and warfare in general – other places as well as here. So… we’ve been guessing the Torangs are degenerated descendants of the survivors of some interplanetary brawl.’
Otis considered that.
‘Sounds plausible,’ he admitted, ‘but you ought to do something to make sure you are right.’
‘Why?’
‘If it is the case, you’ll have to stop your men from hunting them; degenerated or not, the Colonial Commission has regulations about contact with any local inhabitants.’
Finchley turned his head to scowl at Otis, and controlled himself with an obvious effort.
‘Those apes?’ he demanded.
‘Well, how can you tell? Ever try to contact them?’
‘Yes! At first, that is; before we figured them for animals.’
‘And?’
‘Couldn’t get near one!’ Finchley declared heatedly. ‘If they had any sort of half-intelligent culture, wouldn’t they let us make some sort of contact?’
‘Offhand,’ admitted Otis, ‘I should think so. How about setting down a few minutes? I’d like a look at the ruins.’
Finchley glared at his wrist watch, but directed the pilot to land in a cleared spot. The young man brought them down neatly and the two officials alighted.
Otis, glancing around, saw where the archaeologists had been digging. They had left their implements stacked casually at the site – the air was dry up here and who was there to steal a shovel?
He left Finchley and strolled around a mound of dirt that had been cleared away from an entrance to one of the buildings. The latter had been built of stone, or at least faced with it. A peep into the dim excavation led him to believe there had been a steel framework, but the whole affair had been collapsed as if by an explosion.
He walked a little way farther and reached a section of presumably taller buildings where the stone ruins thrust above the sandy surface. After he had wandered through one or two arched openings that seemed to have been windows, he understood why the explorers had chosen to dig for their information. If any covering or decoration had ever graced the walls, it had long since been weathered off. As for ceiling or roof, nothing remained.
‘Must have been a highly developed civilization just the same,’ he muttered.
A movement at one of the shadowed openings to his right caught his eye. He did not remember noticing Finchley leave the helicopter to follow him, but he was glad of a guide.
‘Don’t you think so?’ he added.
He turned his head, but Finchley was not there. In fact, now that Otis was aware of his surroundings, he could hear the voices of the other two mumbling distantly back by the aircraft.
‘Seeing things!’ he grumbled, and started through the ancient window.
Some instinct stopped him half a foot outside.
Come on, Jeff, he told himself, don’t be silly! What could be there? Ghosts?
On the other hand, he realized, there were times when it was just as well to rely upon instinct – at least until you figured out the origin of the strange feeling. Any spaceman would agree to that. The man who developed an animal’s sixth sense was the man who lived longest on alien planets.
He thought he must have paused a full minute or more, during which he had heard not the slightest sound except the mutter of voices to the rear. He peered into the chamber, which was about twenty feet square and well if not brightly lit by reflected light.
Nothing was to be seen, but when he found himself turning his head stealthily to peer over his shoulder, he decided that the queer sensation along the back of his neck meant something.
Wait now, he thought swiftly. I didn’t see quite the whole room.
The flooring was heaped with wind-bared rubble that would not show footprints. He felt much more comfortable to notice himself thinking in that vein.
At least I’m not imagining ghosts, he thought.
Bending forward the necessary foot, he thrust his head through the opening and darted a quick look to the left, then to the right along the wall. As he turned right, his glance was met directly by a pair of very wide-set black eyes which shifted inward slightly as they got his range.
The Torang about matched his own six feet two, mainly because of elongated, gibbon-like limbs and a similarly crouching stance. Arms and legs, covered with short, curly, grey fur, had the same general proportions as human limbs, but looked half again too long for a trunk that seemed to be ribbed all the way down. The shoulder and hip joints were compactly lean, rather as if the Torang had developed on a world of lesser gravity than that of the human.
It was the face that made Otis stare. The mouth was toothless and probably constructed more for sucking than for chewing. But the eyes! They projected like ends of a dumb-bell from each side of the narrow skull where the ears should have been, and focused with obvious mobility. Peering closer, Otis saw tiny ears below the eyes, almost hidden in the curling fur of the neck.
He realized abruptly that his own eyes felt as if they were bulging out, although he could not remember having changed his expression of casual curiosity. His back was getting stiff also. He straightened up carefully.
‘Uh… hello,’ he murmured, feeling unutterably silly but conscious of some impulse to compromise between a tone of greeting for another human being and one of pacification to an animal.
The Torang moved then, swiftly but unhurriedly. In fact, Otis later decided, deliberately. One of the long arms swept downwards to the rubble-strewn ground.
The next instant, Otis jerked his head back out of the opening as a stone whizzed past in front of his nose.
‘Hey!’ he protested involuntarily.
There was a scrabbling sound from within, as of animal claws churning to a fast start among the pebbles. Recovering his balance, Otis charged recklessly through the entrance.
‘I don’t know why,’ he admitted to Finchley a few minutes later. ‘If I stopped to think how I might have had my skull bashed in coming through, I guess I’d have just backed off and yelled for you.’
Finchley nodded, but his narrow gaze seemed faintly approving for the first time since they had met.
‘He was gone, of course,’ Otis continued. ‘I barely caught a glimpse of his rump vanishing through another window.’
‘Yeah, they’re pretty fast,’ put in Finchley’s pilot. ‘In the time we’ve been here, the boys haven’t taken more than half a dozen. Got a stuffed one over at headquarters though.’
‘Hm-m-m,’ murmured Otis thoughtfully.
From their other remarks, he learned that he had not noticed everything, even though face to face with the creature. Finchley’s mentioning the three digits of the hands or feet, for instance, came as a surprise.
Otis was silent most of the flight back to headquarters. Once there, he disappeared with a perfunctory excuse towards the rooms assigned him.
That evening, at a dinner which Finchley had made as attractive as was possible in a comparatively raw and new colony, Otis was noticeably sociable. The coordinator was gratified.
‘Looks as if they finally sent us a regular guy,’ he remarked behind his hand to one of his assistants. ‘Round up a couple of the prettier secretaries to keep him happy.’
‘I understand he nearly laid hands on a Torang up at the diggings,’ said the other.
‘Yep, ran right at it bare-handed. Came as close to bagging it as anybody could, I suppose.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well he didn’t,’ commented the assistant. ‘They’re big enough to mess up an unarmed man some.’
Otis, meanwhile and for the rest of the evening, was assiduously busy making acquaintances. So engrossed was he in turning every new conversation to the Torangs and asking seemingly casual questions about the little known of their habits and possible past, that he hardly noticed receiving any special attentions. As a visiting inspector, he was used to attempts to entertain and distract him.
The next morning, he caught Finchley at his office in the sprawling one-storey structure of concrete and glass that was colonial headquarters.
After accepting a chair across the desk from the coordinator, Otis told him his conclusions. Finchley’s narrow eyes opened a trifle when he heard the details. His wide, hard-muscled face became slightly pink.
‘Oh, for –! I mean, Otis, why must you make something big out of it? The men very seldom bag one anyway!’
‘Perhaps because they’re so rare,’ answered Otis calmly. ‘How do we know they’re not intelligent life? Maybe if you were hanging on in the ruins of your ancestor’s civilization, reduced to a primitive state, you’d be just as wary of a bunch of loud Terrans moving in!’
Finchley shrugged. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if debating whether Otis or some disgruntled sportsman from his husky construction crews would be easier to handle.
‘Think of the over-all picture a minute,’ Otis urged. ‘We’re pushing out into space at last, after centuries of dreams and struggles. With all the misery we’ve seen in various colonial systems at home, we’ve tried to plan these ventures so as to avoid old mistakes.’
Finchley nodded grudgin
gly. Otis could see that his mind was on the progress charts of his many projects.
‘It stands to reason,’ the inspector went on, ‘that some day we’ll find a planet with intelligent life. We’re still new in space, but as we probe farther out it’s bound to happen. That’s why the Commission drew up rules about native life forms. Or have you read that part of the code lately?’
Finchley shifted from side to side in his chair.
‘Now, look!’ he protested. ‘Don’t go making me out a hard-boiled vandal with nothing in mind but exterminating everything that moves on all Torang. I don’t go out hunting the apes!’
‘I know, I know,’ Otis soothed him. ‘But before the Colonial Commission will sanction any destruction of indigenous life, we’ll have to show – besides that it’s not intelligent – that it exists in sufficient numbers to avoid extinction.’
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
Otis regarded him with some sympathy. Finchley was the hard-bitten type the Commission needed to oversee the first breaking-in of a colony on a strange planet, but he was not unreasonable. He merely wanted to be left alone to handle the tough job facing him.
‘Announce a ban on hunting Torangs,’ Otis said. ‘There must be something else they can go after.’
‘Oh, yes,’ admitted Finchley. ‘There are swarms of little rabbit-things and other vermin running through the brush. But, I don’t know –’
‘It’s standard practice,’ Otis reminded him. ‘We have many a protected species even back on Terra that would be extinct by now, but for the game laws.’
*
In the end they agreed that Finchley would do his honest best to enforce a ban, provided Otis obtained a formal order from the headquarters of the system. The inspector went from the office straight to the communications centre, where he filed a long report for the chief coordinator’s office in the other part of the binary system.