At the moment, I would have gladly settled for that last one.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sun was up but still behind the low hill. The hut was in shadow, but light enough to tell me Thraxil wasn't there.
Not for the first time, I wished there was some way to get rid of the scratchy stubble that was becoming more irritating every day. In time, if there was any metal on the planet, I could possibly devise a razor of sorts. What would that entail? Finding ore, mining, refining, a handy forge, etc. I would probably not get around to this soon.
If there was any metal in use here, I hadn't seen it. These people were in the Early Straw Hat and Fiber Mat stage. Also, in the midst of the Pre-Soap and Shower period.
That subject brought Wallace McAllister to mind. A very dear and brilliant man whose big, sausagelike fingers could take the most intricate mechanisms apart and put them back together in wondrous ways. Sometimes things worked backward, sideways, or upside down after McAllister's ministrations—but they were always interesting. If Wallace were here he would scratch his bald dome and hum to himself and in no time at all he would have a hot shower going right here in the wastelands. It would work by wind action, worm-power, or God knows what—but it would work.
I pictured this happy scene. Hundreds of green pods marching up conveyor belts to be squished, heated, and sprayed over the broad McAllister back. Only, Wallace would not settle for that. He would get to the heart of the problem. He would see that if bulbs grew that near the surface—in ample supply—there was a great deal of water somewhere below. And he would ask: Where are the lakes? Streams? Rivers? What is all the water hiding from? How deep is it? Where does it come from and where does it go?
I stretched and walked out of the hut and into the semi-cool morning. Still shaveless and showerless, McAllister fantasies nowwithstanding. It would be well for engineering professors to be marooned on peculiar worlds, rather than economists. But I could not wish that on McAllister.
The sun pushed the last shadows aside. I spotted Thraxil, out on the flat plain. He was squatting on misshapen haunches, consuming his morning bulbs. I joined him, and we moved back to the hut together.
"You sleepin' good, Andrewgaffa?"
"I did. Thank you, Thraxil."
"Bettern' sleepin' in holes," he muttered.
"Much better."
"Dumbers. Stupids." He spat toward the settlement.
"I couldn't agree more."
"Thems gotten holes. Thraxil hasn hut. Whasat maken me? Huh?" He seemed to be getting lost in a circle of thoughts again. When we reached the hut he turned and gave me a quizzical look.
"Andrewgaffa. Wheresit youcomin' from? Was people lookin' li' there? Li' you?"
I weighed the answer. "Everyone's different where I come from, Thraxil. But—yes, a lot of them look something like me. Not exactly the same, though."
His largest eye narrowed, and the smaller one gazed at me steadily. "Andrewgaffa—les go that places. Now."
I was filled with sudden pain for this creature. He was the ugliest, most grotesque being I had ever seen. But that was on the surface. There was no ugliness inside. Phretci and the others might be too detached from the world to care. But Thraxil knew there were places to go, and questions to be answered. And that's why the eyes filled with anguish. He sensed whatever was there was beyond his reach.
I looked at him and he turned away from me.
"No," he cried, "they not lettin' me do that. Not lettin' me goin', Andrewgaffa!"
"Thraxil—" I put out an arm to touch him.
"No!" He drew back, shook me off. "You goway, Andrewgaffa," he glared. "You goin' an leavit Thraxil alone!"
I stood a moment, hearing him in the hut. I did not want to hear more, and I moved quickly away down the hill.
The settlement was even more depressing, now.
I saw it through Thraxil's eyes, as well as my own. I barely repressed a shudder. If Thraxil was alone, locked from his own kind . . . what of me, then?
I wanted to be away from these creatures. I wanted to leave this place as quickly as I could. And if there were others like them at the next stop—why, I would move on from there, too.
I almost laughed at the mental picture. A modern-day Flying Dutchman, sailing the Great Grooves forever. An eternal commuter on the Alimentary Express.
The sun rose higher and I yearned for one of the straw hats. I suppose if I had simply snatched one from a passing head its owner would scarcely have known the difference. I had no idea when the next Dhoolh, as Thraxil had called it, would arrive. I would be here, and I would dutifully pay my fare in bulbs and be gone from this place.
Just before noon I took heart. A great many dun creatures had begun to mill about. Fellow travelers, I decided. Fine. I stood, stretched, and offered my bulbs to the growing pile below.
Farewell, Thraxil, I thought. I will not turn around to see if you might be watching from your hill.
To the left, a black smudge was eating up the distance, rapidly approaching the settlement. In minutes, it undulated to a halt, sides heaving. Pink patches shimmered through its body slits.
Half a dozen passengers got off, and I moved toward the nearest slit. Dun bodies blocked my way and I stepped past them. Another bottleneck. I tried again. Everywhere I turned—Great God, I thought, is everybody leaving town? Only they weren't. They were there, but no one was in any hurry. The hell with it, I decided. They could stand about all day if they liked. I saw an opening and made for it. Suddenly, the opening wasn't there. I moved to the right and four creatures shifted methodically to block me.
I stepped back, took a deep breath. Now, what was all this about? The Dhoolh wouldn't wait forever. I looked into ball-bearing eyes and smelled the stench of dun bodies. And in a sudden moment of near-panic I knew exactly what all this was about: No one intended to go anywhere. They were all here to keep me from going.
Why, though?
What brought on the sudden popularity?
As if in answer, the Dhoolh pulled out, and I watched it disappear down the spur line past the low hill. At the same time, dun bodies moved aside and formed a clear pathway through the pack. There was nothing subtle about it. I was to go that way, down the spur where the Dhoolh had disappeared. Out of the settlement.
Well, we were of one mind, if nothing else. They wanted me gone and I was all for that. Only—I would walk instead of ride. I was not to contaminate the public transit system.
And to hell with you, too. I marched through their ranks without looking back, passed the low hill, and started off across the flatlands. The Groove was to my left, the sun to my back.
"You. . . .
Someone spoke behind me and I turned. It was a dun-colored female. Following in my tracks. I couldn't have picked one from a hundred others but I would have bet my last bulb it was the scorned lover.
She caught up, stopped. "You don't come back," she announced flatly.
"And, lady, don't you worry," I told her. "Did you come all the way out here to tell me that?"
She gazed dumbly and gestured over her shoulder.
"Thraxil."
"What about Thraxil?" .
"Thraxil crazy. Very much crazy. You go somewhere else."
That set me on my heels. "What?"
"Here." She thrust something at me. It was tightly wrapped in fiber. A little larger than a lemon, with a looped shoulder strap attached.
"What's that supposed to be?"
"Here."
I shook my head. "Thanks. But no thanks."
"Keep," she said, and thrust it at me again. "You keep. Go somewhere else."
"I think you've made that quite clear," I told her. I took the thing, whatever it was, and slung it over my shoulder. Mostly, so she wouldn't stand there all day until her arm dropped off. "Look," I began, "one thing—"
But she had nothing more to say. She turned and stalked off toward the settlement, showing me her unlovely bottom and dirty heels.
Well, Andrew, I told myself, you should ha
ve known. Your friend Thraxil is the village idiot. In their eyes, anyway. And guess what that makes you? Obviously, no settlement has to board more than one loony. You put them over their quota, so you've got to move on. Find your own village, Mac.
Thraxil, I said silently, don't let them get you down. You make a hell of a lot more sense than your keepers. And remember, you've got cloze and a hut and a cheery lamp, and they don't.
I kept my eyes on the horizon.
If I made the umber emptiness by midafternoon, I could be halfway to nowhere by nightfall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Why recount events that didn't happen?
For the better part of three days, I walked along the spur, veering steadily south. I ate bulb food and drank bulb water. Late on the second day, a Dhoolh passed going back toward the settlement. Period.
There was ample time to think about all that had happened. Truthfully, though, I thought about nothing at all. No more intellectualizing for Andrew Gavin. The key word, I had realized, was lethargy. Nonthinking was the path to follow.
But the world never leaves a man alone. Near the end of the third day movement appeared ahead and to my right. A long line of figures inching toward the Groove. If they kept on course, we would meet somewhere ahead.
The old Gavin would have quickened his pace. Here was a chance to meet new people, gain fresh cultural insights. The new Gavin summed it up nicely for me: If the bastards will leave me alone, I won't bother them.
I sat down and waited.
They would reach the Groove and either turn toward me or away from me. If they came toward me, I could simply move aside and let them pass.
I dug up a bulb and drank it and chewed on the pink clusters inside.
It was a singularly uninteresting group. But then, I hadn't expected a colorful troupe of players trumpeting across the wasteland. There were a dozen dun creatures and four beasts loaded with bulky cargo. The beasts looked remarkably like their masters. Larger, with four legs. The same dun-colored hides, potbellies, and featureless heads. Clearly, the two-legged species were more intelligent, since the others were carrying the cargo.
The caravan fooled me.
Instead of turning right or left, it went straight ahead and disappeared into the Great Groove. Obviously, I had been here too long. I was becoming adjusted to rigid patterns of thought. It never occurred to me to cross the Groove. That was where Dhoolhs traveled. Other creatures kept to the high ground.
In a moment, they reappeared and moved up the other side. There was a sloping pathway, then, that allowed an easier climb. The creatures might have scrambled up the sides unaided, but not the beasts.
I watched them until they were only dun smudges, and realized I was falling back into old habits. Wondering where the caravan was going. What I might see there. I could argue with myself, but I had done that before, and knew how it would all turn out. So why sit and listen to a dull conversation?
I caught up with the caravan by nightfall.
Not actually. Because I had no intention of joining them. Loonies know their place. I was a camp follower, nothing more. If they were going someplace interesting, I wanted to go, too.
The caravan was some two-hundred meters away, settled in for the night. I scooped a shallow, body-sized hole out of the soil and crawled in. My nights on the wasteland had taught me any protection from the night air was better than none at all.
The sky was full of cold stars. I looked them over carefully, wondering which one was mine. It might not even be visible from here but I liked to think that it was.
It was a bad dream.
The capsule-eater shrugged out of the black pebbly soil and grinned at me. Its big maw opened to suck me in. I slapped at it. One of its lipless jaws grabbed my arm and held it hard. I jerked, but it wouldn't let go. I backed off, realized in horror there was another one behind me. I tried to move my legs but it was too late. Both arms and both legs were being swallowed. And I was in the middle.
I woke up with a start and sat up.
Or tried to.
I was suddenly cold all over. Great God, it wasn't a dream—the things have got me!
Something had me. But it wasn't a capsule-eater. I was still in my hole. My arms and legs were tightly bound and a trio of dun creatures were staring dumbly down at me.
I stared back at them. "Listen," I said. "What's with you people? I wasn't doing a damn thing to you!"
Nobody spoke. The silence made me mad.
"Say something, you goddamn dummies! Answer me!"
No one did. I kicked out. suddenly with bound feet. The nearest creature saw me, but he was too slow. My boots caught him just above the ankles and sent him tumbling. The other two didn't like that. They looked at each other and took cautious steps backward.
They were slow on their feet and mentally lethargic. They didn't quite know how to handle me. They weren't used to violent actions. I'd thought about that after leaving the settlement. Probably, I could have taken three-quarters of them apart before the others got moving. But what was the point?
This little business was something else again. I was more surprised than worried—I couldn't imagine why they'd bothered.
Still, they had.
And whatever they had in mind, I wanted no part of it. They were more frightened of me than I was of them, and that was some advantage. But it wouldn't untie ropes.
The one I'd knocked over looked at me with buckshot eyes and gestured. I understood what he wanted. I was to get on my feet and behave. I stared back at him and didn't move.
He looked at me a long time, then turned and walked out of sight. He was back in a few moments. I didn't like this new development. He. carried a long, slender pole, and he was pointing it at me.
"Now, look—" I started.
He very calmly jabbed the pole sharply into my groin.
I gasped, doubled up, and rolled away from him. He methodically jammed the pole in my kidneys.
"All right, I yelled, "all right!"
I scrambled quickly to my feet, or as quickly as you can scramble from such a position. I noticed the dawn was just lightening the east.
"Now what? Do you mind telling me what this is all about?" I glared at the little bastard with the pole. He wasn't getting too close. He wasn't sure I was tame, yet.
He pointed toward the caravan camp. "Go."
"What for?"
The two others had sticks, now. I moved off, taking deliberately long strides. They didn't like that. And let me know it. I got a sharp blow to the legs, and slowed down considerably.
By noon it was unusually hot. Probably because I was trussed up facing the sun and couldn't turn away. The camp was some fifty meters north. I was staked out with the rest of the livestock. My arms were still bound behind me, feet stretched in front. A painful sitting position. I could eitherlie down or stand up—but if I did, the two ropes looped about my neck to secure poles on either side would strangle me quickly.
I wasn't afraid of these creatures.
A peculiar thing to say, in my position. But first impressions are hard to break. Whatever they had in mind, I didn't think they'd harm me. Famous last words. I would probably wish I'd kicked a little harder when they fed me to the Dhoolhs, or something worse.
What in God's name am I doing here? I wondered.
How could you pick anyone more ill-suited to play Lost Survivor on a Strange Planet?
You would be proud of your disappointingly academic offspring, old Dad. While I am not carrying the pigskin to victory, as you would have liked, I am certainly athletically engaged, and I am finally "getting outside and using the old muscles." I hope to hell you are satisfied.
CHAPTER NINE
Toward midafternoon another caravan joined the first.
They came in from the east and set up their camp to my right. No one from my group went out to greet them. A great deal of activity was going on in both areas, though, and it was clear some sort of gathering was in the offing.
For
these creatures it was an almost exhausting display of energy. First, my group unpacked their cargo and spread it neatly on the ground between their camp and the newcomers. The cargo consisted mostly of poles. I was already familiar with this item. The poles were standard in length, each a bit more than a meter. They closely resembled bamboo. It proved, anyway, that something grew on the planet besides bulbs.
The newcomers waited patiently, then spread their wares opposite the others. This time, woven fiber rope and straw hats. Then both parties stood behind their treasures and stared at each other.
The staring went on interminably. I wondered what in God's name was going through their heads. If you didn't care for poles, rope, or straw hats there was little else to think about.
Finally, one of the newcomers shuffled forward and set two straw hats and a length of rope a little ahead of the rest of the merchandise. Then he picked up five poles from my captors' display and set them beside his offering.
This move called for a great deal of thought. Eventually, one of my creatures stepped forward and put one of the poles back in its place and added two straw hats to the new corner's pile. A keen bargainer, that one. I was proud of him. If this sharpie from the east thought he was going to steal five poles for two hats and a bit of rope he had another guess coming.
More staring. More thinking. Then a counteroffer. Three straw hats and a length of rope for four poles. He was no fool either.
I was certain I'd lose my mind before the sun went over the horizon. What better way to torture a professional economist? Stake him out in the sun and make him watch a whole day of catatonic trading.
I had been given no food or water. I fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of Melisa Mills. She handed in a term paper which was supposed to deal with the relative importance of poles and straw hats on the world's economy—instead, she took the opportunity to pour out her heart to me. How she could not stand to sit in my class any longer without touching me, without tearing her clothes from her slim body and having me do this, and that, and a number of other things. Ah, Melisa. Where are you now? Married to some dolt, no doubt, who has presented you with a litter of wheat-haired children.
Stress Pattern Page 4