Rite of Passage

by Alexei Panshin

  “Well, what happened to her?”

  “That’s the way the original story goes,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it meant that she was an hysteric.”

  “Now, hush,” somebody said, “and let her get on with it.”

  When the lady came to her senses again, after a manner of speaking, she threw her fan down in the den among the lions. That stirred them up, as you can imagine, and they began growling and prowling around. Then, quite satisfied with herself, the young lady said, “Now which of you gentlemen will win my hand by returning my fan to me?”

  That really got the local boys to laying bets. The two young men looked down at the lions’ den and then at her, back and forth, mulling the situation over and trying to come to a good, fair decision. Finally the lieutenant, who deserved every one of the medals he wore but who’d been taught a thing or two about good sense by his own mama, shook his head and said he thought he’d go back to town and have another pint of beer. He walked off down the road muttering under his breath about women and their silly notions.

  Then everybody looked at the sea captain, wondering what he would do. Finally he took off his coat so that it wouldn’t get mussed, straightened his collar so that he would look at his best in spite of not being dressed properly, and said, “I’ll do it.” And he climbed down to the entrance to the lions’ den. There were some who said that he had more courage than brains, and there were some who said he’d just had too much to drink. In any case, he disappeared inside the den, and there wasn’t anybody who thought he’d ever come back out again.

  They strained to see, but it was dark inside the den. They could hear the lions grumbling among themselves. And then the sea captain emerged, looking slightly rumpled, with the fan in his hand.

  Well, when the lady saw him coming, she said, “Here I am,” and prepared to throw herself into his arms.

  The sea captain just looked her in the eye and said, “If you want your fan, you can get it yourself,” and threw it back to the lions.

  Then he walked back to town and stood the lieutenant the price of a beer, after which each of them went his own way. I don’t know if the lady ever got her fan back.

  When he had a chance to speak to me privately, Jimmy said, “Isn’t it lucky we’re out here for a good reason?”

  In the morning, with the fires out, the lights high and the heli-pacs protected by a bubble tent, we set out casting for tracks behind the leashed dogs. We followed behind in anticipation.

  As we walked, I picked up hand-sized rocks and practiced throwing. Att and Jimmy offered criticism.

  “Not like that,” Jimmy said. “Like this.” He threw. It looked smooth and more effective, but I didn’t see what was different about it.

  “I don’t know quite what you’re doing wrong,” Att said, “but you twitch your whole body when you throw.”

  “I think I see,” Jimmy said. “You keep your forearm stiff and throw with your shoulder. You ought to be using your wrist and your forearm more. Snap them forward.”

  Venie edged over toward us and said, “Being all sweet and helpless again, Mia?”

  I picked up another rock and threw it.

  “That’s better,” Jimmy said.

  I turned to Venie and was about to make a sharp comment when the dogs began to yelp. It wasn’t their ordinary yapping. It was a more musical note as though they felt they had something to sing about.

  “Come on over here,” Mr. Pizarro said, and we gathered around.

  Mr. Marechal was kneeling by a pug-mark that was a full four inches across and more than that long. He pointed to it.

  “There we are,” he said. “Look at the grains of sand in the track. It’s not more than two hours old. Probably less,” he added as he tested the breeze.

  Mr. Pizarro brought the dogs forward and unsnapped their leashes. They sniffed and quivered over the tracks. It was an exciting moment as they poised and then sprang forward, bugling as they went. Now that they were at their business, the noise they made was more businesslike. We set out, trotting after them, up and down the sand hills. I was glad that I was wearing sandals that emptied of sand as fast as they filled.

  It is amazing what differences in terrain and vegetation can be produced by slight variances in breeze, temperature, and above all moisture. We ran through gullies between sand shoulders, through scrub and around it when we could, going farther from the grassland all the time. The tiger, in all probability, came down to the grassland to hunt, and then returned to the scrub where it had its lair.

  There were times when we lost sight of the dogs and kept on their track only by following their sound. Once the dogs lost their scent and had to cast back to find it. Running became an effort. Finally, the dogs’ voices lifted and it was clear that they had caught sight of the tiger. We came over the hillside behind them to see the purple hindquarters of the tiger sliding behind a rock projection and the dogs winding around the base of the rocks to find their way up.

  If making the Third Level as it is had been a matter of filling an empty volume with rock and dirt, the job would hardly have been worth attempting. Just take a slide rule and figure the number of scoutship loads it would take. The amount of effort is ridiculous. But in point of fact, the Ship is nothing more than a great rock, partly honeycombed, and making the Third Level required nothing more than blasting and chipping it loose and then pulverizing it to a desired consistency. The great rock jumble into which the tiger was disappearing was nothing more than a giant rain of rock left where it had fallen. It sat there, a red tumble, and the dogs followed the tiger into it.

  We pelted down the slope, yelling, and followed the noise of the dogs. There was a trail into the rocks, and then it split, one branch going up and apparently away from the noise ahead, one going directly toward the noise.

  Mr. Marechal waved breathlessly at the high trail and said, “Take some of them that way.”

  I followed him straight ahead. In a moment we came to an opening in the rocks and there, at bay, snarling and striking at the dogs, was the tiger. It was purple, with high-set black shoulders and a wicked wedge-shaped head. Its teeth seemed too large for its narrow face. It was as essentially useless as a soccer professional, and as ornamental, elegant, and entertaining. We spread around in a circle. The dogs were yapping at its flanks and then darting out of reach as it spun to strike at them. It had been trying to break for the far side of the rock opening, but the dogs never let it get a chance. As we encircled it, one of the dogs was too slow in anticipating the tiger and was knocked into a broken bloody heap where it kicked slowly.

  Then on the rocks above the tiger appeared Mr. Pizarro and four of the kids. They looked down at the noise, blood, and dust.

  One of them was David Farmer, who was almost as much of a goof as Riggy Allen. He posed picturesquely at the top of the red rock face and, I have no doubt, was about to yell to be looked at, and then he lost his footing. One of his legs doubled beneath him and he went skidding down the face of the rock and landed heavily on the flanks of the startled tiger. It sprang forward and went charging right over the one cringing dog.

  The tiger snarled and charged at the circle of people. Unfortunately, he picked me to charge at. Without thinking, I heaved the rock in my hand and whether I threw it properly or not, it rapped him in the muzzle. That was the signal that set off the barrage of rocks, and the poor bewildered tiger spun away again back toward the rock face. Those above threw rocks down at him.

  The circle started closing on him, nobody quite daring to dash in and face him alone, but gathering courage from those who moved in beside them. Then working almost like the dogs, Jimmy waved his knife in the tiger’s face and it snarled and slapped at it. And then, with the tiger’s attention held, Att, whom I’d never have expected to do it, jumped on the tiger’s back and slid his knife between its ribs.

  The tiger hunched its shoulders and threw Att off, making a wounded cry. Then it was swarmed under by all of us knife-wielding, screaming ki
ds. In just a few seconds it was dead. When we drew away, it lay there in a hot, limp pile, its purple streaked with streams of blood.

  David Farmer came out with a badly broken leg. Bill Nieman had a clawed and broken shoulder, the tiger having struck him almost as it died. I had one tiny scratch and a moderately serious knife gash, not from my own knife.

  They were right, too. It gives you a feeling of power to know that you can kill something as alive, as beautiful, and as dangerous as a tiger. But the feeling of power can come from pushing a button at the range of five hundred yards. We killed the tiger on his own terms. We chased him on foot, we caught him, and we killed him. That makes you feel able.

  You also learn about yourself. You learn about the sight of a claw a foot from your face. You learn about blood. And you learn that a tiger hunt can give you a sore throat.

  * * *

  For whatever positive effects on our minds that the tiger hunt held, nonetheless it cannot be denied that the month of November was a time of growing uneasiness and tension. I was not at my most cheerful. Though my mind told me, as it had for months, that Trial would be the simplest sort of waltz, my viscera refused to be convinced. I tried to act decently to people, but by the end of the month I could hardly bring myself to talk to anybody at all, let alone nicely, and I was sleeping badly. I woke myself screaming one night, something I hadn’t done in years.

  The worst thing about it was waiting. If I had had a choice, by the middle of November I would have elected to go then, rather than later, simply to have it begun. Instead, I just got more and more edgy.

  I even managed to get on bad terms with Jimmy, and that wasn’t easy, partly because Jimmy is very good-natured, partly because we were close. Though you are dropped separately, one at a time, after landing you can join forces. I had been intending to go partners with Jimmy, and I’m sure he had the same thought in mind, but our quarrel ended that.

  It started with an intransigent remark by me about the Mudeaters. I said what I thought, but I may have overstated my ideas for the sake of emphasis. In any case, Mr. Mbele was moved to comment.

  “I thought you’d gotten over that, Mia,” he said. “This is a point that’s important to me. I don’t like this over-simple categorizing. Some of my ancestors were persecuted during one period and held to be inferior simply because their skins were dark.”

  That was plain silly because my skin happens to be darker than Mr. Mbele’s and I don’t feel inferior to anybody.

  “But that’s not an essential difference,” I said. “This is. They just aren’t as good as we are.”

  On the way home, Jimmy tried to argue with me. “Do you remember those ethics papers we did last winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “It seemed to me that you approved of the proposition that we should treat all humans as both ends and means.”

  “I didn’t attack it.”

  “Well, then, how can you talk this way about the Colons?”

  I said, “Well, really, what makes you think that the Mudeaters are people?”

  “Oh, you sound just like your father,” Jimmy said.

  That’s where the fight started. Jimmy never physically fights anybody, at least he hasn’t since I’ve known him, and I hadn’t been in a swinging fight with anybody in more than a year, but we came very close to it then. We ended by going separate ways and not speaking to each other. And I gave Jimmy back his “between mountains” pin. That was Friday night, the night before my birthday.

  Jimmy didn’t show up on my birthday. That day, when I turned fourteen, was completely flat. So was Sunday. On Monday, we left for Trial.

  Part III: A Universal Education

  Chapter 14

  THERE ARE BASICALLY TWO WAYS of facing Trial: the turtle method and the tiger method. The turtle method means that you dig yourself a hole and stay in it for a month, looking for no trouble, looking for nothing, simply sitting. The tiger method means that you prowl, investigating, seeing what there is to see. There is no doubt that the tiger method is more dangerous. On the other hand, there is also no doubt that it is more lively. None of our instructors was ever presumptuous enough to recommend one course or the other, and there was no official stigma attached to being a turtle, but certainly there was more prestige in being a tiger. We used to talk about it sometimes. Riggy was determined to be a turtle.

  “I want to come home again,” he said, “and I’ve got a better chance if I’m a turtle.” It just shows you what happens when a rash boy starts thinking.

  Att wouldn’t talk about his plans, but Jimmy said that he was going to be a tiger. When I was thinking in terms of going with Jimmy, I was thinking of being a tiger. When I decided that I was going by myself, I toned my projected tigerhood down by about sixty percent. Call me a reluctant tiger.

  I got up early on the morning of the first of December and went out to get myself breakfast. I found both Daddy and breakfast waiting for me. We ate a subdued meal.

  When I was ready to go, Daddy said, “Goodbye, Mia. Your mother and I will be there waving when you come home.”

  I kissed him and said, “Goodbye, Daddy.”

  Then I took the shuttle down to Gate 5 on the Third Level. I was wearing sturdy shoes, pants, light and heavy shirt. I had my knife and my handgun, my bubble tent, my bedroll, some personal things, changes of clothes, a green, yellow, and red cloth coat, food, and, most important, my pickup signal. This, a little block three inches by two, was my contact with the scoutship. Without it, without a signal from me at the proper time, I might as well be dead, and as far as the Ship was concerned I would be. Silent or dead—either way you didn’t come home.

  I collected Ninc, my stalwart and stupid pony, and his gear and loaded them on a transport shuttle. Then I helped Rachel Yung do the same, and we went down together to First Level and the scoutship bay. We loaded our stuff and went outside to wait.

  There were no bands playing. There were just the scoutships standing quietly over their tubes, men working in a businesslike fashion in the great rock gallery, and us. We were ignored—we might not come back, you know.

  One by one the kids came, loaded their stuff aboard, and then came outside to join us in standing around. We weren’t making much noise, except for Riggy, who told a joke and then laughed at it, his voice echoing. Nobody else laughed.

  We were to leave at eight. At quarter to eight, Mr. Marechal came in, wished us luck, and went on his way. His new class was to have its first meeting that afternoon and I think he was probably already memorizing names.

  There were sixteen of us girls, and thirteen boys. David Farmer and Bill Nieman were missing, still recovering from the tiger hunt. They would have another chance in three months, though I didn’t envy them the wait at all. Especially after we came back and were adults, and they weren’t.

  Just before eight, George Fuhonin and Mr. Pizarro arrived. George was quite bright and cheerful in spite of the early hour. I was standing near the ramp and he stopped.

  “Well, the big day at last,” he said. “I’d wish you luck if I thought you needed it, Mia, but I don’t think I have to worry about you.”

  I don’t know whether I appreciated his confidence or not.

  Mr. Pizarro went about halfway up the ramp and then turned and waved for attention. “All right,” he called. “Everybody aboard.”

  We took our seats in the bullpen. Before I went in, I paused at the head of the ramp and took a good long look at home, possibly the last look I would ever have. After we were settled, George raised the ramps.

  “Here we go,” he said over the speaker. “Ten seconds to drop.”

  The air bled out of the tubes, the rim bars pulled back, and then we just . . . dropped. George didn’t have to do that. He would never have dared to do that with Daddy aboard. My stomach flipped a little and then settled again. George has an odd sense of humor and I think he thinks it’s fun to be a hot pilot when he can get away with it.

  Att was sitting near me and he turned
then as though he had finally gotten up the nerve to say something difficult.

  “Mia,” he said, “I wondered—do you think you might want to go partners?”

  After a moment I said, “I’m sorry, Att, but I guess not.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “No. I think I’ll just go by myself.”

  “Oh,” he said, and after a few minutes he got up and moved off.

  I guess it was my day to be popular because Jimmy came over, too, a little later. I was busy thinking and I didn’t see him come up. He cleared his throat and I looked up.

  Almost apologetically, he said, “Mia, I always thought we’d join up after we were dropped. If you want to, I will.”

  I still had that final crack of his in mind, the one about being a snob, so I simply said, “No,” and he went away. That bothered me. If he cared, he would have tried to argue, and if he’d argued I might have changed my mind.

  That crack of his continued to rankle. He had to bring Daddy into it, but Daddy never convinced me. People who live on planets can’t be people. They don’t have any chance to learn how to be, so they grow up to be like those characters I met the first time I was on a planet. And I heard lots of other stories at home. If both you and your father come to an inevitable conclusion based on facts, that doesn’t mean he convinced you. I’d made up my own mind. And tell me, is it being a snob not to like people who aren’t people?

  The planet that we were being dropped on was called Tintera. Daddy told me that one thing at breakfast, sailing a little close to the edge of the rules. But it was hardly much of an admission on his part since he well knew that I had never heard of the place. Our last contact with the planet, and we were aware of none recently, had been almost 150 years before. We knew the colony was still extant, but that was all. The Council always discusses Trial drops before they are made, and this much time out of contact had given them something to talk about. But the planet was conveniently at hand, so in the end they went ahead. Actually, for them not to, Daddy would have had to make some objection, and speaking practically, he couldn’t object because of me.