Myself, I think the game is silly. I’d be satisfied to speak of bipeds adapted to a world mostly swamp and water. I would mention the great yellow eyes, which saw only a short way into those frequencies we call red and otherwise had to focus infrared waves—largely because they could also see fairly well at night. I might say the beings didn’t have nostrils, but closable slits beneath the ears, since this gave their voices an odd snarling quality. The barrel chests were also significant, betokening a metabolism that required more oxygen per breath than we who are blessed with iron-based hemoglobin. It is certainly worth recording that the species was bisexual, viviparous, and homeothermic, though not technically mammalian.
In general, though, I don’t care what image you develop. What matters about a people is technology, thought, art, the whole pattern of life.
As for technics, the score of hunters who entered our compound were high-level paleolithic. Their weapons were spears, tomahawks, daggers, and blowguns. Stone, bone and wood were beautifully worked and tastefully ornamented. They went nude except for a sort of leather harness, which supported a pouch as well as tools and armament. But an older one who seemed to be their leader had a representation of the galaxy tattooed on his head.
We were relieved to find no obviously alien semantics. These people would be much easier to understand than the Yonderfolk—or so we thought. For example, they had individual names, and their gestures were the kind humans would make in attempting sign language. When we fetched gifts—a steel knife for ya-Kela the boss and some bits of plastic and other junk for his followers—they yelped and danced with delight. They had brought presents of their own, local handicrafts, which we accepted with due dignity. There came an embarrassing moment, several hours later, when three Azkashi who had slipped out into the woods returned with a big game animal for us. We were doubtless expected to eat it, and had no idea if it would poison us. But Valland carried the situation off by soaking the body in camp fuel and setting it alight on a heap of wood. Our visitors got the idea at once: this was how the strangers who indicated they had come from the galaxy accepted an offering.
“In fact,” Valland remarked to me, “they’re smart fellows. They must’ve watched us from the woods for a long time before decidin’ to send a delegation. My guess is they waited for the galaxy to rise; it’s a god or whatnot to them, and then they felt safer against our mana. But now that they’re here and know we don’t mean any harm, they’re tryin’ hard for communication.”
Ya-Kela was, at least, and so was Valland. Most of the other hunters left after a while, to take word back home. Man and nonman squatted in the compound, by firelight, drew pictures and exchanged gestures. Rorn complained about the darkness outside our hut. I overruled him. “We’ve seen them cover their eyes against our normal illumination,” I said. “We don’t want them to go away. They may be our labor force.”
“Indeed?” Rorn said. “How’ll you pay them?”
“With metal. I don’t know how many thousands of knives and saws and planes we can make out of scrap from the ship, and you must have noticed how ya-Kela appreciates the blade we gave him. I saw him holding it up once and singing to it.”
“Nice theory. Only … captain, I’ve dealt with primitives too. Generally they don’t make proper helpers for a civilized man. They don’t have the drive, persistence, orderliness, not even the capability of learning.”
“Rather like your caveman ancestors, huh, Yo?” Urduga gibed.
Rorn flushed. “All right, call it a culture pattern if you want. It’s still real.”
“Maybe it isn’t in this case,” I said. “We’ll find out.”
With a good bit more hope in me, I started organizing us for work. First we had to jury-rig a better lighting system aboard the Meteor, so we could operate effectively. Next, with spacesuits doubling as diving rigs, we must patch most of the holes in the hull, seal off the remaining compartments, pump out the water and float her ashore. Then there’d be the construction of a drydock, or whatever we decided was best. Then we must take a complete inventory, so we’d know exactly what was possible for us to build; and lay concrete plans; and— The list looked infinite. But we had to begin somewhere. By burning torch and electric flare, we rafted out to the wreck.
Valland stayed behind, dealing with ya-Kela. That didn’t look very strenuous, and again Rorn protested. “I don’t give a belch if it’s fair or not,” I threw back at him. “Somebody has to spend full time learning the language, and Hugh’s got more talent for that sort of thing than any two of you clumpfeet put together.”
Which was true. With the help of his omnisonor for noises that the human throat would not form, he could soon produce every Azkashi phoneme; and then it was not so much linguistics as a sense of poetry that was needed to fit them into meaningful phrases.
I was not too surprised when, after several Earth-days, he told me that ya-Kela and the others wanted to go home—taking him along. He was eager to make a visit. What could I do but agree?
VIII
WITH A woodsranger’s wariness, ya-Kela reserved judgment. Perhaps he had misunderstood those few words and gestures the stranger called ya-Valland could make. Perhaps ya-Val-land did not really claim to be the emissary of God.
For surely he had curious weaknesses. He was as night blind as any downdevil once he took off his fish-resembling mask. Without tail or footwebs, he stumbled awkward through the marshes; and whenever the party swam across a body of water, he was still more clumsy and soon grew tired. Besides, he must push those things he carried on his back ahead of him, lashed to a log. One could accept that he did not speak the speech of the Pack—God must use a tongue more noble—but he was ignorant of the simplest matters, must actually be restrained from walking into a dart bush. There might be some magical reason for his not touching ordinary food and, instead, opening little packets of powder and mixing them with water to swell the bulk before he cooked himself a meal. But why must he send the water itself steaming through a thing of bottles joined by a tube, rather than lap up a drink on his way?
Ya-Eltokh, one of the four who had remained to accompany them back, growled, “He is weirder than any of the Herd. And that great thing he came in, sitting out in Lake Silence! How sure are you that he is not some downdevil animal sent to trap us?”
“If so, the Herd has been clever,” ya-Kela said, “for our watchers told how their canoes fled when the strangers tried to come near. And you know well that prisoners we tortured were made to confess that the downdevils did not appear to have anything to do with that which, generations ago, came from the sky. Why, then, should the enemy have brought this new manifestation about?” He signed the air. “I am the One of the Pack. The thought was mine that we should seek the strangers out, for they might be from God. If I was wrong, it is my souls that will suffer; but with this hand I will plunge the first spear into ya-Valland.”
He hoped that would not come to pass. The big ugly creature was so likable in his fashion, and the music he made was somehow more important than the sharp blade he had given. He explained, after much fumbling on both sides, that the tune he made most often was a song to his she. But when he heard those notes, little ghosts ran up and down the skin of ya-Kela. There was strong magic in that song.
They continued to seek understanding whenever they camped. Ya-Valland guided the lessons with marvelous skill. By the time they reached the lairs, he could do a little real talking.
It was good to be back in hill country. The Herd fighters seldom ventured into this land of long ridges and darkling valleys, noisy rivers and silent woods. Ya-Kela snuffed a wind that bore the odor of ninla nests, heard the remote scream of a kurakh on the prowl, saw God swirl radiant above Cragdale, and bayed to call his folk. They slipped from dells and thickets until the trail was a stream of lithe, padding hunters, and went together to the caves where the Pack dwelt.
Ya-Kela took ya-Valland into his own place. His aunt, su-Kulka, made the guest welcome and prepared a bed. His s
he and youngs were frightened and kept in the background, but that was as it should be anyhow. Now ya-Kela settled down to toil with the newcomer as he might have settled down to chasing a onehorn till it dropped. And as God mounted yet higher in heaven, serious talk became possible. It went haltingly, with many misunderstandings; but it went.
The great question was hardest to pose and get answered. Ya-Valland seemed to make an honest effort, but his words contradicted each other. Yes, he was from God. No, he was not of God … Finally he swung to asking questions himself. Ya-Kela replied, in the hope of making himself clear when his turn came again.
“God is the Begetter, the One of the World. All others are less than Him. We pray to God alone, as He has commanded,” ya-Kela said, pointing and acting. He returned from the cave mouth and squatted against his tail once more. The fire was big, throwing the painted walls into lurid smoky relief. But it didn’t appear to make much light for ya-Valland.
“The downdevils are the enemies of God. They deny Him, as does the Herd which serves them. But we know we are right to course for God: because He does not rule our lives. He asks only worship and upright conduct of us. Furthermore, He lights the night for us, on those times when He is risen after sunset. And then the downdevils can see but poorly.” Mutter: “Almost as poorly as you, my friend-?-enemy.” Aloud: “Such of the Herd as we have captured when they came raiding say the downdevils made the world and rule it. And true, they have powerful things to give. But the price is freedom.”
“The Herd people are like you, then?” ya-Valland asked.
“Yes and no. Many of them resemble us, and we have learned over generations that certain Azkashi whom Herd raiders take prisoner are used for breeding stock. But others look most unlike any member of this Pack or any other Pack, and none of them think like us. They are afraid of God, even when the sun is in the sky at the same time to hide Him; and they worship the downdevils.”
That much conversation took the entire while between two sleeps. Then ya-Kela must judge disputes among his folk; for he was the One. Meanwhile ya-Valland studied language with su-Kulka? su-Iss, and other wise old shes.
Thus he was better able to explain himself at the following talk: “We fell from the sky, where our own Pack hunts. We cannot return until we have fixed our boat. That will be the work of many years, and cannot be done without many hands. For this we will pay in goods, blades such as we gave you, tools that will lighten your labor, perhaps also teaching of arts you do not know yourselves.”
“But how shall the Pack be fed meanwhile?” ya-Kela asked.
“Given the use of certain weapons we own, fewer hunters can bring in ample game. Besides, they will soon drive off those enemies who trouble you.”
Now this I may doubt, ya-Kela thought. You showed us your thunderous arms back at your camp. But are they really more potent than the downdevils’? I do not know. Perhaps you do not either.
He said merely, “That is good; yet such is not the ancient way. When you go, and leave a large number of our youngs who have not had time to learn the skills we live by, what then?”
“You’re one hell of a bright boy, you know?” said ya-Valland in his own speech. He replied, “We must consider that also. If we plan well, there need be no hungry years; for the tools and weapons you earn will keep you fed until the old ways are learned afresh. Or it is even possible—though this I cannot promise—that my people will wish to come and trade with yours.”
He leaned forward, his eyes brilliant in the firelight, the musicmaker in his lap talking sweetly as God Himself. “We must begin in a small way in any case, ya-Kela. Find me only a few clever young hes that are willing to come back with me and work for knives like yours. Then, in the course of a year or so, we will find out if this is good for our two sides.”
“Gr-r-um.” Ya-Kela rubbed his muzzle thoughtfully. “You utter no ill word there. But let me think on the matter before I say anything to the Pack at large.”
That period, shortly before sleep, ya-Valland spoke into a little box he carried. It answered him, as had often happened before. But this time ya-Kela saw him grow tense, and his voice was chipped sharp and his smell became acrid.
“What is wrong?” asked the One, with hand on knife.
Ya-Valland bit his lip. “I may as well tell you,” he said. “I know you still keep watchers, who will send word here as soon as they can reach the drums. Vessels have landed by the camp of my people, and some from the crews have entered the stockade to talk.”
“The Herd does not use the laguage of the Pack,” ya-Kela said. Dampness sprang forth on his skin. “Some have learned it, true. But none of your folk save you have mastered any but a few shards of Azkashi. How can there be talk?”
Ya-Valland was silent for a long while. The waning fire spat a few flames. That light picked out the shes and youngs, crouched frightened in the inner cave.
“I do not know,” ya-Valland said. “But best I return at once. Will you give me a guide?”
Ya-Kela sprang to the cave mouth and bayed after help. “You lie!” he snarled. “I can tell that you hold something back. So you shall not leave before we have the entire truth from your downdevil mouth.”
Ya-Valland could not have followed every word. But he rose himself, huge and strange, and clasped the weapon that hung at his belt.
IX
WE ALWAYS left one man on the guard tower while the rest were at the ship. What Valland had radioed—good thing our gear included some portables!—suggested that attack by certain rivals of the Azkashi was not unthinkable. He hadn’t learned much about them yet, except that they belonged to quite a different culture and must have sent those canoes we’d spied at sunset.
No doubt the Azkashi were prejudiced. They were … well, you couldn’t call them simple hunters and gatherers. A Pack was only vaguely equivalent to a human-type tribe; Valland suspected that rather subtler concepts were involved. He was still unsure about so elementary a matter as what “Azkashi” meant. It referred collectively to the different Packs, which shared out the inland hunting grounds and lakeside fishing rights, spoke a common tongue and maintained a common way of life. But should the name be translated “hill people” as he thought at first, or “free people,” or “people of the galaxy god,” or what? Maybe it meant all those things, and more.
But at any rate, the Shkil, as ya-Kela called them, sometimes preyed on the Azkashi; and in the past, they had driven the Packs out of lands on the far side of Lake Silence. This, and certain other details which Valland got during his struggle for comprehension, suggested a more advanced society, agricultural, spreading at the expense of the savages. Which in turn made me wonder if the Shkil might not be potentially more useful to us. On the other hand, they might be hostile, for any of a multitude of reasons. We took no chances. A man in the tower, with gun and searchlights, could hold off an assault and cover the landing of his friends.
By chance, I was the sentry when the Shkil arrived. The galaxy was hidden in a slow, hot rain; my optical equipment could show me nothing beyond the vapors that steamed under our walls. So I had to huddle cursing beneath an inadequate roof while they maddened me with snatches of radioed information from the spaceship. Finally, though, the data were clear. A large band of autochthones had appeared in several outsize canoes and a double-hulled galley. They wanted to confer. And … at least one of them spoke the Yonderfolk language!
I dared not let myself believe that the Yonderfolk still maintained an outpost on this planet, so useless and lethal to them. But I felt almost dizzy as I agreed that two or three of the newcomers might enter our compound along with the returning work party. And when they came, destruction take thoughts of treachery, we left no one on the tower. We settled for barring the gate before we led our guests into the hut.
Then I stood, soaked, hearing the rain rumble on our roof, crowded with my men between these narrow walls, and looked upon wonder.
Our visitors were three. One resembled the Azkashi we had already
met, though he wore a white robe of vegetable fiber and a tall white hat, carried a crookheaded staff like some ancient bishop, and need but breathe a syllable for the others to jump at his command. One was a giant, a good 240 centimeters in height. His legs and arms were disproportionately long and powerful, his head small. He wore a corselet of scaly leather and carried a rawhide shield; but at our insistence he had left his weapons behind. The third, by way of contrast, was a dwarf, also robed, but in gray. He kept his eyes shut and I took a while to realize that he was blind.
The one with the staff waved his free hand around quite coolly, as if extraplanetary maroons were an everyday affair. “Niao” he said. I gathered this was his people’s name for themselves. He pointed to his own breast. “Gianyi.”
“Felip Argens,” I said, not to be outdone. I introduced my comrades and summed them up: “Men.”
“We’ve told him that much,” Urduga murmured in my ear. “He stood in the prow of that galley and talked for—you know how long. But you’re better at the Yonder lingo than any of us, captain.”
I ought to be. I’d studied, as well as electro-crammed, what little had been learned on Zara. Not that we could be sure the language was what the Yonderfolk used among themselves. It might well be an artificial code, like many others I had met, designed for establishing quick communication with anyone whose mind wasn’t hopelessly alien. No matter. Gianyi of the Niao had also mastered it.
“Sit down, everybody,” I babbled. “What can we offer them? Better not anything to eat or drink. Presents. Find some good presents, somebody. And for mercy’s sake, whisky!”
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