by John Norman
“Through here,” called Rodriguez, pointing out the path through which the sled had been drawn.
A Pon, almost at his elbow, looked up at Brenner.
“Stay with the sled,” said Rodriguez.
“Of course,” said Brenner.
There must be a truth thought Brenner, a truth for my species, some sort of truth, even it be a truth relative to my species, a truth local or private, in its way, to my species. Then he felt grief for the youth of the home world. To them, such as the Pons, those sweet, insignificant, futile, trusting little aliens, would be held up, as Rodriguez had said, as examples. The youth of the home world, Brenner feared, would be destroyed, in its homes, in its schools, almost in its cradles. How could it resist the uniformity, the pervasiveness, of the conditioning programs to which it would be subjected? Indeed, is not youth, in its beautiful simplicity, and its lack of experience, even more likely than its elders to be devoted to, and defend, the very lies which keep them from their own honesties?
But I was such a youth once, thought Brenner.
To be sure, even when quite young, Brenner had never taken pain as a sign of truth, frustration as a clue to right, misery as a guide to an ideal morality. But perhaps that was because he had been a “vat brat”; indeed, he suspected he might well constitute some sort of anachronism in his species, some sort of atavism, or throwback; his genetic materials, for example, had been generated long ago, in a different, more primitive, more backward time.
Perhaps there is hope, thought Brenner.
Perhaps there is a human nature, with its own truths, its own realities, thought Brenner, even its own goodness and badness.
Perhaps there is hope.
“Help here,” said Rodriguez.
He and Brenner, assisting the Pons, lifted the sled up, over some rocks. The Pons then again addressed themselves to the ropes. Brenner noted that the Pons, in this journey, did not make much noise. He did not find that surprising. It seemed fitting for them. On the other hand, perhaps small creatures, generally, in the forest did not make a great deal of noise. There might be a reason for that.
Too, as they had continued in their journey, pausing now and then, he had noted that one or more of the Pons, to the side, rather modestly, back in the brush, squatting down, under the cover of their robes, had apparently relieved themselves. They had then covered this spoor with dirt, gouged up with their tiny, shiny scarps. Predators often covered their spoor, to keep their presence in an area concealed. But the Pons did not seem likely predators. As far as Brenner knew they did not even hunt, their reverence for life deterring them from the chase. This reluctance, of course, need not be symmetrical. In not hunting one does not thereby remove oneself from the category of the hunted. Such unilateral sacrifices are seldom reciprocated in nature. The Pons, in the forest, might not stand at the top of the food chain. There could thus be an advantage not only to the predator in concealing his presence, but one accruing similarly to the prey. But the forest seemed calm. The wind rustled gently through the leaves of the trees. The covering of the spoor, or feces, Brenner supposed, in the case of the Pons, probably had to do with their modesty, or their embarrassment concerning their own bodies, which they kept muchly covered, as shameful objects, and the processes of such bodies, or even with taboos, perhaps their ritual fear or loathing of touching unclean things, and such. Or they might just be neat, tidy creatures, intent upon keeping a pleasant environment.
Brenner struggled not to find the Pons disgusting. He did not wish to commit a fallacy, imposing his own values, as uncertain and confused as they were, on alien creatures. He was not, after all, a Rodriguez, who seemed to feel he was entitled to his own opinions on such matters. He must, instead, be scientifically neutral, and rigorously objective, and keep in mind, too, that all life forms, and all cultures, and such, were wonderful, the same, and equivalent. To be sure, there were some exceptions to this. For example, the science councils and many of the professional organizations of the home world, which were now in effect branches of various parties, and were politically active, and responsible, concerned, and militant, in acceptable ways, had denounced certain cultures, for example, those of several of the openly stratified worlds. Indeed, in some cases, vigorous resolutions had been passed, boldly conforming to various party lines. In short, in effect, science was neutral, and all life forms, and cultures, were wonderful, the same, and equivalent, except for those which were not approved, which were “bad,” etc. Needless to say, the scientific findings on these matters differed from world to world, and, within given worlds, from place to place, and from time to time.
From time to time Rodriguez stopped, and consulted his compass, and made an addition to his map. At such times, the Pons, too, of course, stopped. Then, again, the party would proceed.
There must be a human nature, thought Brenner, and a human goodness and badness, or rightness and wrongness, one for our species, not for all species, or for no species, not something external and imposed, but something internal and real, something with its own teleology, its own impetus, and viabilities.
But he could not deny the strength of conditioning processes. It is possible to condition an animal to behave in unnatural, eccentric fashions, to starve itself, to frustrate itself, to beat its head bloody into walls, to engage persistently, congratulating itself all the while, in self-destructive, life-shortening activities. Experiments, no longer permitted, except apparently on a global scale with rational species, had made that clear.
Perhaps there is hope, thought Brenner.
It is not always easy, say, to twist trees and bushes into unnatural shapes, however appealing these shapes may be to those with unnatural tastes. Once the eccentric stresses are removed, once the wires, the ropes, and bands are cut, the trees, the bushes, tend to grow again according to their own natures, the ancient natures, never forgotten, lurking in each cell in the body, putting down their roots deeply, into the foundational, sustaining, anchoring darkness, seeking there fluids and nutriments, and lifting their branches toward the light, thus standing in darkness, reaching for the sun. How else can one grow, or become real? Surely neither by repudiating the earth nor by denying the stars. One must have both, the darkness and the light, the polarities, each intelligible, each worthy of veneration, each meaningless without the other. And herein lies a paradox, in which some see tragedy, and others the key to the glory of a species.
But what of reason, asked Brenner. Is it empty, or does it have a content? Is it a way merely to achieve ends, or is it, in its way, an end in itself, or germane to particular ends, more to some than others?
Brenner thought of Rodriguez, who was beside him, to his right.
He is a case in point, thought Brenner. He does not subscribe to what he has been taught, he does not accept uncritically the uncontradicted. Indeed, he seemed genetically disposed to think for himself, a disposition which was rare enough perhaps in any time, but was certainly so in these times. Indeed, in virtue of his weakness for thought, he had encountered difficulties in many matters, almost from the very beginning. He had never been convinced that compliance was reason. Perhaps that was because he thought reason might be required in order to determine with what it might be rational to comply. If reason had an appropriate instrumentality, thought Brenner, rather than merely instrumentalities, surely then one might give some sense to the notion of reason, or better perhaps, to the notion of the “rational.” If reason herself were value-neutral, perhaps rationality was not; and rationality might be indexed to nature. To be sure, this involved an axiological commitment. Who is to say that it is not rational for a creature to starve and injure itself, particularly if this starvation and these injuries were instrumental to its moral improvement, namely, in producing an improvement on nature, a twisted, clipped, crippled organism? I, for one, thought Brenner. And who sees words as tools, and weapons, and cloaks of concealment behind which horrors might be hidden? But tell the difference between things and words. They are not the same. Listen to the win
d, to the trees, to your heart. Recollect the forgotten languages, learned in youth, the memory of which lurks within you.
Needless to say, as you can see, Brenner was a very confused young man. Had he paid more attention to the Pons about him, his confusions and puzzlements might have been easily resolved. They provided, in their simplicity, inoffensiveness and innocence, the answer to his questions. Too, did they not stand at the “beginning,” in their way? Were they not the proof that a rational, or protorational, species, could begin in innocence? Perhaps the results of his labors, and those of Rodriguez, would be to provide such an example of basic, fundamental goodness in a rational species as to be not only refreshing to more complex, confused, jaded cultures, but perhaps even reassuring, or therapeutic, in its way, restorative perhaps. Brenner had gathered, from the directress, months ago on the home world, that it was expected that his researches would have some such utilitarian value, that it would be nice if they provided confirmation in their way of what already needed no confirmation, the value structure of the home world. “Anthropology can be good for something,” she had reminded him. Brenner supposed that it would be easy enough to slant the data, and, on a world like that of Abydos, an out-flung world, who would ever know, and, indeed, given the apparent nature of the Pons, it might not even be necessary to slant the data. Presumably they would provide the directress, and her party, through the studies and reports of Brenner and Rodriguez, with exactly what they wished. “Learn from them,” the directress had urged him. “We will all learn from them.”
Yes, thought Brenner. One must stop, and then one must begin again. Reason, he supposed, had indeed no content in itself. But, indexed to the needs of a species, the decision made, it being stipulated that these were to be satisfied, it could have an appropriate instrumentality, an instrumentality appropriate to that end, as indeed, in a sense, it could have instrumentalities appropriate to diverse ends. It is rather like a knife, he thought. It can be used for various things. For example, it could be used in self-defense, and even to attack. There are better things to do with it, thought Brenner, than to open one’s veins.
Brenner looked down at one of the Pons, quite close to him. It, with its small, soft, delicate, gentle, hairy, rather simian face, looked up at him, and blinked.
They are interesting little aliens, Brenner conceded.
The rain had now stopped. The sunlight, here and there, glistened on the wet leaves.
Brenner thought of the brunette. She had seemed a thousand times more a woman than the directress. But then, who knew? Perhaps there was a woman in the directress, too. Perhaps if she had found herself under contract, and put in the light, brief, white camisk of a contractee, chained in a cargo yard awaiting deportation, who knew? Or perhaps if she found herself stripped, save perhaps for a collar, ascending a sales block on an openly stratified world, to be considered by buyers, who knew? Perhaps she, too, later, in a man’s house, or at his feet, might recollect her womanhood.
“Look!” said Brenner. “There is another white, rounded rock.”
“Have you just noticed them?” asked Rodriguez.
“I have seen several,” said Brenner, defensively.
“They began at the edge of the forest,” said Rodriguez. “I have been watching. The Pons are following them. They are using them as guide stones.”
Brenner was silent, and was rather angry. He, too, should have noticed such things, and long ago, assuming they were actually there. He had been noting them, really, only for the past few minutes. He had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts. The whitish stones were spaced about every fifty feet or so. There were other such stones about, here and there, of course, but what Rodriguez had detected before him, and from the first, perhaps in virtue of having been less preoccupied with his own concerns than Brenner, was the alignment of certain of the stones.
“They probably lead between the village and the gates,” said Rodriguez.
Brenner nodded. In virtue of such things the Pons might find their way about in the forest.
“They are apparently so stupid,” said Rodriguez, “that they need such things to find their way home.”
Brenner smiled. Doubtless Rodriguez was right. But, too, Brenner was quite pleased. Now, he, too, whenever he wished, could follow the stones back to Company Station.
“You will not need your map any longer,” said Brenner.
“I will continue to keep it,” said Rodriguez. He was, it seemed, a suspicious fellow. Brenner, of course, was pleased, actually, that Rodriguez was going to continue to keep the map. After all, stones could be moved. They might be dislodged, for example, by the movements of water, or even by the passage of some animal, if it were sufficiently large. To be sure, the forest seemed quite empty.
Brenner wondered if the field between the fences was really necessary. Perhaps its main function, in the final analysis, was to prevent the disappearance of company property.
That must be it, thought Brenner.
“Rodriguez,” he said.
“Yes,” said Rodriguez.
“You remember the little brunette, who came to the gates this morning?”
““Curves”?” he asked.
“If you like,” said Brenner. To be sure, the blonde had been well formed, as well, though perhaps more sparely built.
“Certainly,” said Rodriguez.
“I gather, from what she said,” said Brenner, “that you had the blonde drink a releaser.”
“The matter was cleared with the contract holder,” said Rodriguez.
“And that you left her spread-eagled, and neck-chained, on the bed.”
“I seem to recall that,” said Rodriguez.
“Surely that was deplorable,” said Brenner.
“It was good for her,” said Rodriguez.
“She may be pregnant,” said Brenner.
“It is hard to say,” said Rodriguez.
“Are you in the habit of doing that sort of thing?” asked Brenner.
“No,” said Rodriguez.
“Why did you do that?” asked Brenner.
Rodriguez was silent, walking behind the sled. Brenner could hear his tread on the leaves.
“Why?” asked Brenner.
“Because we are going into the forests,” said Rodriguez.
Brenner did not understand this.
Once those ahead stopped, and so, too, then, did the rest of the party. One or two of the leading Pons had their heads back, lifted. They stood very quietly. Brenner went about the sled. Their nostrils were dilated. They seemed very intent. Then, after a moment, seemingly satisfied, they continued on, the rest of the party following.
“What was that about?” asked Brenner.
“Nothing,” said Rodriguez.
But Brenner noted that Rodriguez, in the interval, had gone to the luggage, and to his pack, which was now on top of the luggage. He unzipped the pack. Within the pack, now that it had been opened, on top, at hand, Brenner could see what appeared to be the brass barrel of an optical instrument, a telescope.
Chapter 7
“May I see?” asked Brenner, speaking clearly.
The tiny creature, some three Commonworld feet or so in height, looked up from its work, where it was gouging in the dirt, digging for tubers.
Brenner smiled, and extended his hand.
He could have lifted the Pon with one hand, but, unlike Rodriguez, he had chosen not to impress his greater strength on them.
Reluctantly the Pon held the scarp out to Brenner. He did not have enough sense, Brenner noted, to reverse it in his hand, but Brenner took it carefully. It was sharp, but not all that sharp. Small, sturdy, broad, slightly curved, it was less a knife than a gouge, less an instrument for stabbing or cutting, than for digging or scraping. To be sure, Brenner supposed it could be dangerous. It could, for example, administer a shovel-like wound, or scrape flesh from bones.
Brenner looked at the object carefully. He turned it about. To this one, at this time, there clung particles of
moist earth. It was the first time he had seen one closely. It was the single most common implement of the Pons. The second most common implement seemed to be the pointed stick.
“Thank you,” said Brenner, handing back the tool.
When he rose to his feet he saw that two others of the Pons had been watching him.
There had seemed something unusual about the scarp to Brenner, but he was not certain, at that time, what it was.
He then returned to where Rodriguez was resting.
It was in the vicinity of noon, on the fifth day from Company Station.
He looked back at the Pon who had now freed a tuber from the earth.
Pons did not use the scarps for scraping the interiors of hollow trees, for insects, or for scraping aside damp leaves, or turning rocks, in pursuit of grubs, as might have other forms of simiantype life. The customs of the Pons, or their taboos, or principles, he had gathered, did not condone such predations. The complex worlds could learn much from the Pons, with their reverence for life. Happily, too, the Pons did not seem to realize that the grains, the roots, the vegetables, and such, on which they fed sparingly also shared the chemistries of life. He trusted that Rodriguez would not bring this to their attention. It would not do at all, if the Pons, who seemed to be an unusually consistent sort of creature, decided that they had a duty to starve themselves to death. Too, they need not know of the dangers they posed to small creatures in performing actions so simple as taking a drink of water, washing their bodies, or, indeed, in even breathing. To be sure, lunatic moralities had caught on here and there throughout the galaxy, at least officially, through well-organized political action, by means of which it seemed that anything could be accomplished, no matter how insane or destructive, but even so, sanity, forced into the guise of hypocrisy, had usually prevented the wholesale extinction of peoples. As a case in point, the examples of saints who had murdered their own children, and then as many other people as possible, and then themselves, in expiation, and to provide compensatory justice for worms, and such, despite their inspirational value, and the sentimentality, poignancy, and sympathy with which they were portrayed in various media, were more likely to be objects of public praise than private emulation.