by David Brin
Dennis looked up and stared. The most ominous weapon in sight was a shepherd’s crook held by a four-foot-tall towhead with a dirty face.
The first sapient extraterrestrial with whom Dennis had made contact wiped a lock of untidy brown hair out of his eyes and panted. “… Ayoo-missuh.…” The boy breathed excitedly.“Ooowan’ seem’pop?”
A bit numb from surprise, Dennis realized he probably looked silly laying there. Slowly, so as not to frighten the child, he picked himself up.
He decided not even to think about the incongruity of finding a human boy—apparently about eight years old—here on an alien world. There was no profit in it. He made himself concentrate on the language problem. Something about the sounds spoken by the boy had sounded strangely familiar, as if he had heard them somewhere before.
He tried to remember a few facts from the linguistics course he had taken in college in order to get out of the infamous Professor LaBelle’s English 7. There were a few sounds, he had learned, that were nearly universal in meaning among human beings. Anthropologists used to use them at the beginning of contact with newly discovered tribes.
He swallowed, then ventured one of them.
“Huh?” he said.
By now the boy had caught his breath. With a sigh of exaggerated patience he repeated himself.
“You wanna see my pop, misser?”
Dennis gulped. He did manage, at last, to make his head go up and down in a nod.
3
The pup ran around them, yapping about their feet. The boy—who said his name was Tomosh—walked earnestly beside Dennis, leading him over the hilly meadow toward his home.
As they walked, Dennis saw a pair of riders pass by on the highway. Seen through breaks in the hedge, the sources of the threatening red dots that had sent him plunging into hiding minutes before turned out to be a couple of farmers cantering past on shaggy ponies.
He was just starting to adjust to all this. Of all possible first contacts, this one had to be the most benign and the most confusing. Dennis couldn’t even begin to imagine how there had come to be humans here.
“Tomosh,” he began.
“Yessirrr?” The boy rolled his “r’s” in an accent that Dennis was only just getting used to. He looked up expectantly.
Dennis paused. Where could he even begin? There was so much to ask. “Er, will your flock be all right while you escort me to meet your folks?”
“Oh, the rickels will be fine. The dogs watch ’em. I just gotta go out an’ count ’em twice a day an’ give an alarrm if one’s missin’.”
They walked on in silence for a few more steps. Dennis didn’t have much time to prepare for his first meeting with adults. Suddenly he felt very nervous about it.
Before running into the boy he had resigned himself to standing out as an alien and taking his chances. To be slain on sight by mammal-hating antmen, for instance, would have merely been unavoidable bad luck. Nothing he could have done about that.
But small details of his own behavior could affect the way local humans reacted to him. A simple mistake in courtesy—a careless slip—might cost him everything. And in that case the foult would be his.
Perhaps he could ask a child questions that would only cause an adult to become suspicious.
“Tomosh, are there many other farms around here?”
“Nossirr, only a few.” The boy sounded proud. “We’re almost the farthest! The King only wants miners an’ traders to go into the mountains where the L’Toff live.
“Baron Kremer feels different, o’ course. M’pop says th’ Baron’s got no right to send in lumbermen an’ soldiers.…”
Tomosh rambled on about how tough and mean the local overlord was and how the King, who lived far away to the east, would put the Baron in his place someday. The story broke down into gossip that sounded a bit sophisticated for a small boy … how “Lord Hern” was slowly taking over all the mines in the Baron’s name and how no circuses had come to the region in more than two years because of the troubles with the King. Although it was hard to follow all the details, Dennis gathered that the local setup was a feudal aristocracy, and apparently war was not uncommon.
Unfortunately, the story didn’t tell him anything about the crucial question of the world’s technology. The boy’s clothes, though dusty, looked well made. There were no pockets, but the belt of button-down pouches looked like it came straightout of a Kelty catalogue. Tomosh’s shoes looked a lot like the tough old sneakers Dennis had worn as a child.
A rambling farmstead came into view as they crested a low hill. A house, barn, and storehouse lay about a hundred meters back from the windbreak along the road. The yard was surrounded by a high stockade. To Dennis the place looked prosperous enough. Tomosh grew excited and pulled on Dennis’s hand. Dennis uneasily followed the boy down the hill.
The farmhouse was a low, rambling earth-sheltered structure with a shallow, sloping roof that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. At first Dennis thought the reflection came from aluminum siding. But as they came closer he saw that the walls were actually laminated wooden panels, beautifully joined and vanished.
The barn was similarly constructed. Both buildings looked like pictures out of a magazine.
Dennis stopped just outside the gate. It was his last chance to ask stupid questions.
“Uh, Tomosh,” he said, “I’m a stranger hereabouts.…”
“Oh, I could tell that. You talk funny!”
“Umm, yes. Well, in fact, I’m from a land far away to the … to the northwest.” Dennis had gathered from the boy’s ramblings that it was a direction about which the locals knew little.
“Naturally, I’m a bit curious about your country,” he went on. “Uh, could you tell me, for instance, the name of your land here?”
Without hesitation the boy answered, “It’s Coylia!”
“So your King is the King of Coylia?”
Tomosh nodded with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Right!”
“Good. You know, it’s a funny thing about names, Tomosh. People in different lands call the world by different names. What do your people call it?” Dennis was determined to put “Flasteria” to rest.
“The world?” The boy looked puzzled.
“The whole world.” He motioned at the earth, the sky, the hills. “All the oceans and kingdoms. What do you call it?”
“Oh. Tatir,” he replied earnestly. “That’s the name of the world.”
“Tatir,” Dennis repeated. He tried not to smile. It wasn’t much of an improvement on “Flasteria.”
“Tomosh!”
The shrill cry came from the farmhouse. A rather husky young woman stepped out onto the front porch and shouted again, “Tomosh! Come here!”
The boy frowned. “It’s Aunt Biss. What’s she doin’ here? An’ where’s Mom an’ Pop?” He took off toward the farmhouse, leaving Dennis standing at the gate.
Something was obviously wrong. The boy’s aunt looked worried. She knelt and held his shoulders as she explained something earnestly. Tomosh was soon fighting back tears.
Dennis felt awkward. To approach before he was invited by the adult didn’t seem wise. But he couldn’t see just walking away, either.
Nothing looked awry about the house and yard. Real chickens pecked at the ground alongside what looked like a flock of tiny tame ostriches.
The paths about the farmyard apparently were made of the same resilient, hi-tech material as the highway. They had the same raggedy edges, almost blending into the surrounding dirt and grass.
That seemed to be the way the whole farm was put together. The windows in the house were clear and well fitted, but they were inserted at various rough approximations to level and square. Big and small windows were set side by side in no apparent pattern.
Tomosh clutched his aunt’s skirt, now fully in tears. Dennis was concerned. Something must have happened to the boy’s parents.
Finally he decided to approach a few steps. The woman looked up.<
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“Yourr name is Dennis?” She asked coolly, in the queer local dialect.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Is Tomosh all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”
The offer seemed to surprise her. Her expression thawed just a little. “The boy’s parents are gone. I’ve come to take him to my home. You are welcome to sup and stay until my man comes to gather the goods and lock up.”
Dennis wanted to ask more questions, but her severe look kept him quiet. “Set here on the steps an’ wait,” she said. She led the boy inside.
Dennis wasn’t offended by the woman’s suspicion of a stranger. His accent probably didn’t help any. He sat on the steps where she had indicated.
There was a rack of tools on the porch just outside the front door. At first Dennis looked them over complacently, thinking about other things. Then he looked closer and frowned. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he said.
It was the strangest assortment of implements he had ever seen.
Near the door were a hoe, an ax, a rake, and a spade, all apparently shiny and new. He touched a pair of shears next to them. The edges were sharp, and they looked quite strong.
The handles had grips of smooth, dark wood, as one might expect. But the cutting edges didn’t seem to be made of metal. The razor-sharp blades were translucent and showed faint veins and facets within.
Dennis gaped. “They’re stone!” he whispered. “Some sort of gemstone, I do believe! Why, they may even be single crystals!”
He was staggered. He couldn’t imagine the technology that could provide such tools for a country farmer. The implements near the door were unbelievable!
But that wasn’t the last surprise. As he scanned the toolrack, Dennis felt a growing sense of strangeness, for although the tools farthest from the door seemed also to be made of stone, that was all they had in common with the beautiful blades near the entrance.
Dennis blinked at the incongruity. On the far left was another ax. And this one might have come straight out of the late Stone Age!
The crude wooden handle had been rubbed smooth in two places, but it still had bits of bark attached to it in spots. The blade appeared to be a piece of chipped flint held on by leather thongs.
The rest of the tools fell between these extremes. Some were as crude as could be imagined. Others were obviously the products of an extremely high materials science, and computer-aided design.
He touched the flint-headed ax, lost in thought. It might have been made by the same hand that put together the mysterious knife that lay wrapped in his pack.
“Stivyung’s the best practicer in these parts,” a voice behind him said.
He turned. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard Aunt Biss come out onto the porch. The woman proffered a bowl and spoon, which he took automatically. Steamy aroma sparked a sudden hunger.
“Stivyung?” He repeated the name with difficulty. “The boy’s father?”
“Yah. Stivyung Sigel. A fine man, sergeant of the Royal Scouts before marryin’ my sister Surah. His reputation for practice was his downfall. That an’ the fact that he’s built just like the Baron—both height an’ weight. The Baron’s men came for him this mornin’.”
She seemed to think she was making sense. Dennis didn’t dare tell her otherwise. Much of his confusion might be due to the woman’s thick accent, anyway.
“What about the boy’s mother?” Dennis asked. He blew on a spoonful of stew. It was bland but compared favorably to the survival rations he had been eating for over a week.
Aunt Biss shrugged. “When they took Stivyung, Surah ran over to fetch me, then packed up an’ headed for the hills. She wanted to ask the L’Toff for help.” Biss snorted. “Lot o’ good that’ll do.”
Dennis was getting dizzy with all the references to things he didn’t understand. Who were the L’Toff? And what in the world was a practicer?
As for the story of the boy’s father being arrested, Dennis could see how a farmer’s pride might get him in trouble with the local strongman, but why would Stivyung Sigel be seized for being “built just like” his overlord? Was that a crime here?
“Is Tomosh all right?”
“Yah. He wants to tell you good-bye before you go.”
“Go,” Dennis repeated. He had sort of been hoping for some down-home hospitality, including a real bed and some trial conversation, before he tackled a larger settlement. Things didn’t sound too peaceful hereabouts. He wanted to find out who made the marvelous hi-tech items and head straight for that element in society, avoiding the Baron Kremers of this world.
Aunt Biss nodded firmly. “We got no room at my place. An’ my husban’ Bim is locking up this stockade tomorrow. If you want work, you’ll find it in Zuslik.”
Dennis stared down at the bowl. Suddenly he did not want to face another night in the wilderness. Even the clucking chickens made him feel homesick.
Aunt Biss was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “Oh, wha’ the hey. Tomosh thinks you’re a genuine pilgrim an’ not one of those layabouts we sometimes get in from th’ east. I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to let you sleep th’ night in th’ barn. So long as you behave an’ promise to go peaceful in th’ mornin’.”
Dennis nodded quickly. “Perhaps there are some chores I can help with …?”
Biss thought about it. She turned and picked up the flint-headed ax from the porch rack. “I don’ expect it’ll do any good, but you might as well chop some firewood.”
Dennis took the crude ax dubiously.
“Well … I guess I could try …” He glanced over at the beautiful gemstone ax by the door.
“Use this one,” Biss emphasized. “We’ll want to sell it off quick, now that Stivyung’s gone. There’s a pile o’ logs aroun’ back.
“Good practice to you.” She nodded and turned to go inside.
There was that word again. Dennis felt sure he was missing something important. But he judged it would be best not to ask Aunt Biss any more questions.
First things first, then. He finished the stew and licked the bowl clean. It felt like the kind of unbreakable dinnerware found in homes all over Earth. But on closer examination he realized that the bowl was made of wood, fashioned wafer thin and varnished to perfection.
If I ever get the zievatron fixed, and if we ever start trading with this culture, they’ll be able to sell us millions of these! Their factories will be working overtime!
Then he remembered draft animals pulling sledges that slid noiselessly through the night.
What’s going on here?
Casting a wistful glance at the beautiful gemstone ax near the door, he resignedly picked up the caveman special and walked around to the woodpile in back of the house.
4
The Best Way to Carnegie Hall
1
The town of Zuslik lay at the bottom of a wide valley, where low hills on both sides crowded close to a broad, sluggish river. The land was heavily wooded, with cultivated fields evenly scattered among thick patches of forest. The riverside town sat at the junction of several roads.
From a slope west of Zuslik, Dennis could see that the walled settlement was built around a hill overlooking a bend in the river. Atop this eminence, towering above the town, stood a dark, squat tower, built in a series of flat layers like a dark, brooding wedding cake.
Through his Sahara Tech monocular, Dennis could make out antlike columns of men marching in the yards surrounding the fortress. Sunlight occasionally flashed from ranks of upheld weapons. Pennants riffled from the high tower, blown by the breeze that swept up the valley.
There was no mistaking the home of the chief honcho. Dennis hoped his search wouldn’t require that he go there. Not after what he had heard about the man.
The evening before last, while Dennis settled into the hayloft of the Sigels’ farm, the little boy Tomosh had come out to the barn. Ostensibly it was to wish the visitor good night, but Dennis realized that the young fellow actually had come for sympathy and comfort.
He didn’t imagine Tomosh got much of it from his cool aunt.
Tomosh had wound up staying for a couple of hours, exchanging stories with Dennis. It had been a fair trade. Dennis had a chance to practice his accent—familiarizing himself with the muddy, strange Coylian version of English—and Tomosh, much to his delight, learned a great deal about the ways of Brer Rabbit and of flying elephants.
Dennis didn’t find out much about Coylian technology—he hadn’t expected to, talking with a small boy. But he listened attentively as Tomosh told “scary” stories about “Bleckers” and other fabled bogeymen, and about ancient, kindly dragons that let people ride them through the sky. Dennis filed away the tales in his memory, for one never knew what would turn out to be useful information.
More relevant, he imagined, were the tidbits Tomosh told about Baron Kremer, whose grandfather had led a tribe of hillmen out of the north to take Zuslik from the old Duke a generation ago. Kremer sounded like a good man to stay away from, according to Tomosh, especially after what the fellow had done to the boy’s family.
Much as he wanted to learn more, Dennis knew Baron Kremer wasn’t the best topic to dwell on. He distracted the boy from his troubles with an old camp song that soon had him laughing and clapping. By the time Tomosh fell asleep on the hay nearby, the boy had forgotten about the day’s traumas.
It left Dennis feeling as if he had done a good deed. He only wished he could have done more for the little tyke.
Aunt Biss, taciturn to the end, gave Dennis a cloth-wrapped lunch of cheese and bread for his departure early the next morning. Tomosh manfully rubbed back tears when he said farewell. It had taken only a day and another morning to hike here from the farmhouse.
On the trek to town Dennis had kept a lookout for a small pinkish creature with bright green eyes. But the pixolet never showed up. It looked like the little creature really had abandoned him this time.
Dennis examined Zuslik from the bluff outside of town. Somewhere in that citadel, the boy’s father was being held for mysterious crimes Dennis still didn’t understand … because he was “built just like” his overlord and was good with tools.… Dennis was relieved to find out that he, at least, didn’t resemble the warlord at all.