Seven Come Infinity

by Groff Conklin

  Ernie Gallen shrugged. “That’s not my department, Mart,” he said. “Maybe they’re all in a rut.”

  “Telepaths?” suggested Bob Chavez.

  Martin Ashley shrugged, puffing on his pipe. “Let’s hope not,” he said. “Learning a telepathic language is the toughest job there is, especially when you don’t happen to work that way.”

  “It does sort of simplify things in a way—the uniform culture, I mean,” Gallen suggested. “At least there’s no problem of picking the right group to set down in. They’re all the same; we can just flip a coin.”

  “Don’t forget Mr. Einstein on the beach,” cautioned Ashley. He was genuinely worried, but it would serve no useful purpose to upset the others now. “But Ernie’s right—I guess we might as well set her down. The preliminary survey from the Juarez showed one other possibility in this system, remember—Carinae V. But I sure don’t feel like trying that hop in this scooter unless we have to. I vote we go down.”

  Ernie Gallen nodded. “Same here,” he said.

  “I’ll make it unanimous then,” Bob Chavez agreed. A spark of interest burned in his dark eyes—the first sign of animation he had shown since his father’s death. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” he asked with wonder in his voice. “Just think of all we know, all we’ve been through, that they haven’t even started to think about yet down there! A whole world waiting for us, a whole new world for us to build up—and maybe for our children.”

  “Lord knows it could use some developing,” agreed Ernie Gallen.

  Martin Ashley smiled, hiding the sick feeling that turned his stomach to ice. “Beggars can’t be too particular,” he said. “Take her down, Bob.”

  The scream of the jets muted into a roaring mutter and the shuttle from the Juarez started down.

  The shuttle had landed.

  They could not, of course, open up the port until the air was carefully analyzed—not for basic constituents, which they already knew were O.K., but for possible disease contamination. Just because some human beings could live on Carinae IV didn’t mean that they could, without long-developed immunities.

  The dead Juarez was eloquent testimony to this basic fact.

  They could see, however, and they could hear. They saw a rich green field of grass all around them, stretching away into the west as far as the eye could see, and merging in the east with the soft browns and yellows and greens of a spacious forest. They heard the strange silence of land left alone—a vibrant silence compounded of a myriad of tiny sounds, of wind whispers and furtive chirpings and distant cries of unknown animals.

  Carinae IV had a “day” of twenty-two Earth hours, and now the yellow sun was setting on the far horizon, settling gingerly like an elastic ball among the peaks of a blue-black mountain range. Long shadows marched silently through the sea of grass.

  The air analyzers hummed gently, and evening came to Carinae IV. Even here, Martin Ashley thought, so far from home, the night still came. How many times had the night fallen on this world, and what dramas of love and hate had played themselves out on the grass fields that swayed unconcernedly around the alien shuttle from Earth? How many times would he see the night fall here—and what would the days be like that separated the nights?

  This world looked peaceful, contented. A man could do a lot worse, he thought, and had done a lot worse. But how could you tell?

  A volcano was pleasant enough—until it erupted. And this world was far from Earth, had never even heard of Earth.

  Its standards would be different.

  “Well, we can’t go out until morning,” Ernie said, sensing the thoughts that were in all their minds. “Let’s hit the sack and worry about it when the time comes.”

  He tested the radio, and the message came in at once: “SHUTTLE TO FOURTH PLANET, SYSTEM OF CARINAE. CONDITIONS THERE UNKNOWN. WILL MAINTAIN CONTACT WITH SHUTTLE RADIO. SURVIVORS ARE ERNEST GALLEN, RADIOMAN; ROBERT CHAVEZ, APPRENTICE PILOT; MARTIN ASHLEY, ANTHROPOLOGIST. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL—”

  He switched it off. “A good night,” he finished. “Tell the bugler to take it easy in the morning; I got sensitive ears.”

  “Good night,” said Bob Chavez, lost in thought and awed again at the enormity of the thing that had happened to them.

  “Good night,” said Martin Ashley. He was very tired and trying not to hope too much. He did not sleep for a long time, listening to the night sounds outside and the rustling of the breeze in the long grass.

  He slept, finally, but it was a restless, uneasy sleep—the sleep of a man who knows that he is not alone.

  And high overhead, an almost invisible speck of light lost in the silver glow of the solitary moon of Carinae IV, the empty Juarez floated in a slow circle among the stars.

  III

  In the morning, the natives were there.

  There were three of them, standing patiently in the tall green grass. They were dressed in short, togalike garments that left the arms and legs free. Two of them carried bows, and the third was armed with a metallic club of some sort. They acted neither threateningly nor fearfully.

  They simply waited.

  Martin Ashley looked them over carefully from the security of the shuttle, taking in the situation with a practiced eye. Bob Chavez was still new to this type of experience, and his pale face was flushed with excitement. Ernie Gallen sized them up without enthusiasm; to him, they looked pretty much like primitive peoples he had seen on any one of a dozen occupied planets.

  “Hail, fellow citizens and newfound brothers,” Ernie said, determined to make the best of a situation that in no way appealed to him. “We want to be pals, so kindly point them things the other way.”

  “They don’t look so bad, do they, Mart?” Bob asked.

  “Not from here,” Martin Ashley agreed.

  “The view from the inside of a stewpot is less flattering,” Ernie Gallen observed. “But this is your department, Mart. What do you make of them?”

  Martin Ashley smiled. There were three human beings, standing in high grass fifty yards from the ship. He had never seen them before and knew practically nothing about them. Human beings were ticklish things to evaluate, even if you knew them well. What did he make of Ernie Gallen and Bob Chavez? He wasn’t sure, and they were inside the ship.

  But never mind all that, doctor. Just give us the capsule diagnosis, and if you’re wrong … well, better luck next time. If there is a next time.

  He said: “There are only three of them, and unless my eyes are getting too old to tell the difference one of them looks like a woman. See—the one with the club or whatever that thing is? I could be mistaken, but they hardly look like a war party. They don’t seem angry, and they don’t seem afraid. Probably we’re something completely outside their experience, but I’m just assuming that. Unfortunately, I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I can’t look at the color of the clay on their heels and tell you their philosophy of life. There’s only one way to find out about that.”

  Ernie Gallen cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “I’ll just have to go out and see,” Martin Ashley said. “The air analyzer says O.K., and we’ll have to do it sooner or later.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Bob Chavez offered at once.

  Ashley warmed a little at that; maybe he had misjudged the kid. “Thanks, but that won’t do,” he said. “You stay here with Ernie and keep me covered. Remember: don’t shoot unless I signal I’m in trouble. And if they get me first, just get out of here and try again someplace else.”

  “Good luck,” Ernie Gallen said.

  Martin Ashley nodded and stepped into the open air lock. He closed the inner door behind him; it wasn’t necessary except for the fact that the outer door would not operate with the inner door open. He spun the heavy wheel and the outer door clicked open.

  He took a deep breath and stepped out into the morning air.

  The tall grass of the field was still wet with dew and the world was still chilled by the night. The sun, climbing rapid
ly now, was pale and just beginning to feel warm on his back.

  He walked steadily, watching the three natives. He felt little emotion now; this was a job he had done many times, on many worlds. He was not visibly armed, but he had a gun inside his shirt. He didn’t want to use it if he could help it. But he had used it before, and would again if it were necessary. He smiled wryly.

  You didn’t have to go to school to learn about survival.

  The three natives watched him come, unmoving. As he came closer, he saw that one of them was unmistakably a woman. The natives had an odd pink skin color, almost the shade of salmon, that looked like a perpetual sunburn. They were handsome people, by any standards, and they looked him straight in the eye.

  Ashley walked slowly. It was a long fifty yards. He kept his face utterly expressionless. He was very careful not to smile. There were no such things as “universal” gestures. On one planet a smile meant friendship, while on another it might be a bitter insult. Expressionless features were almost always a sign of neutrality, since that was the resting position of the face. It was the safest bet there was.

  When he was about seven yards from them, Ashley stopped. He did nothing. He simply stood there, his hands empty at his side. He made no sound. He waited for them to make the first move.

  They eyed him without fear—without even curiosity, as far as he could tell. A long sixty seconds passed. Then one of the men smiled, making Ashley feel a little silly, and put his bow on the ground. The other man promptly followed his example, and the woman put down her metallic club.

  Taking no chances, Ashley took out his gun and placed it on the pile with the other weapons. The others smiled approval.

  The first man said something to him, speaking slowly and softly. Testing? Ashley could not, of course, understand a word. He replied in English: “I know that we can’t understand each other yet, but I hope that understanding may come.” He smiled a little and added, “It had better come—and soon.”

  The native appeared satisfied. He pointed toward the east, where the forest trees loomed up like a wall beyond the grass, made the shape of a hut in the air, and then pointed at Ashley. The meaning was clear enough—Ashley was welcome to come to the village if he so desired.

  Ashley did some pointing of his own, to indicate that he wanted to go back to the ship first. The natives understood instantly. They’re not stupid, Ashley thought, and that’s for sure.

  Ashley went back to the shuttle and told Bob and Ernie where he was going. He told them to give him four days and then clear out if he didn’t make it back. He shook hands with both of them and rejoined the three natives.

  They picked up their weapons and Ashley picked up his, and no one bothered about them again. The first native led the way through the damp grass, with Ashley second and the other man and the woman following behind. The natives talked quietly among themselves and seemed perfectly at ease.

  Martin Ashley felt the sun getting hotter on his back and tried to tell himself that the wrongness he felt was only nerves.

  But he knew better.

  Once contact had been made, the rest slipped easily into routine—for a while. Ashley had to constantly remind himself that this time it was different. There was no Juarez to report back to, no paper to write up about a people whose lives had intersected his for a brief few weeks and then been lost again among the stars.

  This time it was for keeps.

  This time the people were his people.

  But routine is an insidious thing; it dulls the mind and lulls the senses with the comfort of the familiar. Martin Ashley liked his work, and did it with pride, but it was hard now to remember that it was more than a job.

  It was life itself.

  He got to know the village very well during the next month, while he was learning the native language as he had learned so many others in his life. There were sixteen structures in the village—fourteen rectangular log family houses built around a central plaza, a large ceremonial building in the center of the plaza, and a partially underground storage chamber for agricultural produce. Eighty people lived in the village, neatly divided into five old men, five old women, fifty persons in the young-to-middle-aged bracket, and twenty children.

  The natives were friendly and helpful, and Ashley had gone back for Chavez and Gallen on the third day. They had built themselves a small log hut on the edge of the village, and they spent most of their time wandering around and waiting impatiently for Ashley to tell them what the score was. They both seemed pleased with what they saw, and they both were beginning to think that Ashley was taking everything a shade too seriously. After all, here they were in a peaceful and rather pleasant village, with plenty to eat and time on their hands. Here they were, and here they would probably stay. They had ideas and they wanted to get started on them. They were not selfish men, as men go, but they were human. They felt that they had forgotten more than the people around them had ever learned, and they wanted to help them out. Why, these natives had not even discovered the wheel—and they had landed on the planet with atomic power!

  The future was wide open before them.

  But they waited.

  And while they slept, a puzzled Martin Ashley worked far into the night—juggling columns of figures that wouldn’t add up.

  The native who taught Ashley the rudiments of the language was named Rondol. He was a specialist in the native social structure, obviously a shaman among other things. Apparently, he had other capabilities as well. He was a brash man, a bit pompous, shrewd, and a good teacher. It early became clear that he was teaching Ashley a simplified form of the language of his people—scaling it down for ready comprehension.

  That was unprecedented.

  “I will teach you the rest when you are ready for it,” Rondol said to him, with a faintly superior air. “To understand, one must start at the beginning.”

  “Drop dead, brother,” Martin Ashley said—to himself. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and he was annoyed at his own inability to comprehend the culture in which he found himself.

  On the surface, it wasn’t too complicated. The natives called themselves the Nern, which simply meant “human beings.” It was quite common for primitive peoples to name themselves in that manner, and the implication was usually obvious—no one else could be a human being, since they were not in the tribe.

  It was not, Ashley reflected, a characteristic wholly restricted to primitives.

  The Nern, as Ashley had already seen from the shuttle, had a simple mixed economy. They grew a single crop, a sweet tuber not unlike a potato, which they planted with digging sticks and harvested when their supply ran low. They shot several game animals with bows, mostly deerlike creatures that grazed on the great grass plains. They did some fishing in nearby streams, and they gathered a variety of fruits and vegetables that grew wild in the forest.

  The Nern were monogamous, and lived in small family units. But they were very conscious of kinship ties, and the little village was divided into halves, or moieties. Each moiety was a unit in the social organization, and they worked together as a reciprocal whole. Marriage always took place between members of opposite moieties.

  Nothing unusual there.

  There were no clans, although the moieties had some clan characteristics. Sexes, as far as Ashley could tell, had equal rights. There was a “chief” of sorts, a charming man named Catan, but such authority as there was seemed vested in a council of elders—the ten oldest men and women. There was the shaman, Rondol, who was primarily concerned with healing and the supernatural.

  Nothing unusual there.

  There seemed to be a great emphasis on mythology, or even philosophy. There were many rituals, in which the whole village participated. There was the yearly cycle of ceremonies, a virtual universal among human beings. Some called them Christmas and Armistice Day and the Fourth of July, others rain dances and harvest sings and sacrifices to the sun.

  Nothing unusual there.

  One night, Rondol st
ood with Ashley in the central plaza. A cool breeze whispered in off the grass fields and sighed through the forest trees. A few orange fires crackled and hissed softly in front of the log huts of the village.

  Rondol pointed up into the night, out into the infinite. “You say you came from the stars, Martin,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Ashley. “From the stars, from Earth.”

  Rondol smiled. “What you call stars we call campfires in the sky,” he said. “Up there are our ancestors and the never-born. The stars are our brothers.” He looked closely at Ashley. “We call them our star-brothers. Are not stars our brothers?”

  The wind murmured in from the fields of grass.

  Nothing unusual there?

  Martin Ashley looked up, and out.

  When they had been in the village two months, they were asked to leave.

  For a long time, the social life of the Nern had been “pointing” toward a single event—the initiation of two boys and two girls into adult life. As did many other peoples, the Nern symbolized crisis periods in life with rituals and ceremonies. These were the rites of passage—passage into life when you were born, passage into adulthood when childhood was done, passage into marriage, and the final passage of all when life had run its course.

  Now, four Nern were ready to take their place in adult society. It would take them four days of fasting and endurance and instruction from tribal elders. It was a precious thing in their lives.

  The Nern were very polite about it. They went out of their way to assure the men from Earth that they would be welcome again after the ceremonies. They were profuse and sincere in their apologies.

  But there was no doubt that they meant business.

  Ashley and Gallen and Chavez went back to the shuttle, silent and alone among the tall grass. There was nothing else they could do.

  They waited.

  On the fourth night, the last night of the ceremonies, they crept back through the grass to the forest to have a look. They moved quietly and spoke in whispers.