We had begun by seizing the retrieved articles haphazardly, and stowing them just above the water. I don't recall just when a sort of system crept in. Nels and Richard, standing waist-deep, collected the flotsam from the flouwen, and described it, and one of what was becoming a fairly efficient bucket brigade bore the object along to someone who put it in a more reasonable place, announcing, tersely, where it was. So, after a time, our drenched belongings were more or less arranged, and all of us knew the order. It was dreary, tedious work, and no one enjoyed it less than I, but, in a way, it was satisfying to take from one pair of hands, and pass along to another, yet one more precious remnant of our vanished life.
Throughout our labors, we noted occasionally and spoke of some small creatures, about the size of housecats but looking like nothing on earth, who scuttled out from the bushes long enough to survey us, apparently, and then disappeared. They never came close enough for us to see any details of their structure, but they are a not unpleasant shade of blue-green, and vaguely fuzzy in appearance. The most singular thing—literally!—that we have been able to detect, is that they seem to have just one eye! It is so startling that it gets our attention for the brief glimpse we have of them, and then they are gone.
After some time, as we worked, the rain began to feel cool, in contrast to the warmth of the sea. I was more tired than I have been in years, and began to think dreamily of just floating in the warm water. Fortunately, Jinjur either spotting our increasing fatigue or sharing it, called a halt.
"Little Red! Little White! Little Purple! This is Jinjur. We're going to rest a while. Stay together, don't go far, and don't try anything new until I tell you!"
Silence from the water. Then, "You tell us . . .?" The flouwen's voice sounded surprised. Throughout the months of computer-translated communication, such niceties as mutual respect had been automatically dealt with by the translation program. I had believed, as had Jinjur, that the flouwen had never been able to understand Jinjur's somewhat flamboyant methods of command. Now, in direct communication with the aliens for the first time, weary and worried, she instinctively reverted to early training. There was an echo of boot-camp sergeant in Jinjur's parade-ground bellow: "That's an order!"
I waited, aghast, to hear how our only allies would respond to this arrogance. It was a tremendous relief to hear, out of the rainy dark, only a soft, three-fold shuddering splutter—the flouwen equivalent of a giggle. And to see Jinjur smack herself, smartly, on her own forehead, and turn away.
Wearily, we humans stumbled up the beach one last time. We drank from the little basin again and picked up something from one of the salvaged food lockers. The cold food was unappetizing and tasteless, but we ate whatever it was hungrily, while the rain rinsed the salt from our drenched bodies. By the time we had collected our own choices of sodden bedding or springy tufts and leaves for pillow or cover, and hollowed our selection of sand into comfortable niches, we were too tired to feel anything more than the need to sleep. As I scooped away the soft earth, I saw that our little group had spread itself over a remarkably small area. In the single stroke of our crash, we had changed from maintaining our individual privacy at any cost, to something like a huddle of puppies. I said nothing, only thankful for the sound of other humans breathing, so close to me. One of the few fortunate aspects of our situation is that the air is so warm; as I lie here, propped up on an elbow, the breeze is not even slightly chilling on my damp garment. Indeed, the gentle darkness is balmy on my skin, and brings the strange and spicy scent of the crushed herbs beneath me.
The sound of the rain on the leaves is soporific, as is the gentle wash on the shore; the occasional purposeful rustle among the dark bushes is less so. Overhead, other sounds are in the air; strange little calls and squeaks. There is nothing inherently alarming about the noises, but it will be much less disturbing when we know the source of the sounds, or so I sincerely hope! It is time for me to wake the next watch. I have only managed to stay awake by recording this, and by contemplating the white, pure line of lace around my wrists, and wondering how long I can keep it intact.
RAINING
We were awakened, this "morning," by a shriek from Shirley. I think all of us had been drowsing, half-awake, for some hours, but were not fully aware in the soft light and gentle rain of what time it might be. Muscles sore from yesterday's unaccustomed strenuous activity were aching all over me. Shirley's scream brought us all to our feet, but to my horror she lay flat, thrashing as though confined. She looked unharmed, but then I saw that her thick braid of blond hair was tightly held down by a thick tendril of vine! We tried to pull her free, but the plant was as tough and strong as wire.
"My Mech-All!" Shirley spluttered. "It's in my back belt pouch!"
She twisted her body violently on the ground, managed to grasp the precious tool, and held it up. She manipulated a control on the side of the handle and the metal blob at the tip reconfigured itself into a serrated knife. Nels knelt, seized the knife, and sawed through the vine with difficulty. When it was severed, Shirley was able to rise, and we could pull the marauding strand down along the braid and off; however, the little tendril remained tightly coiled and rigid, like a spring. I looked at the cut-off end and remembered the sped-up sequence of pictures we had all observed—with such clinical detachment!—back aboard Prometheus. This was obviously one of those war-like plants.
"It must have been trying to strangle my braid!" Shirley said, her hands moving from the thick plait to her throat. "I think, if we have to spend another night here, I'll find a spot on the beach!"
Mentally, I decided to do the same, and I saw Cinnamon run a thoughtful hand along her own long braids.
Nels picked up the end of the vine from which we had freed Shirley, and gave it an experimental tug. "Humph! Considerable resistance there." I looked along the visible length of the vine—it disappeared underground within a few feet—and was surprised at how thin it was; nowhere near as thick as the coil.
"Why do you suppose the vine is so thin, and then expands at the coil?" I asked,
"Don't know," he said. "Unless it was sort of exploring, and then when it detected something, it enlarged somehow to deal with it." Shirley looked at the difference between the fragile root and her attacker, and shuddered.
We turned to regard the mass of undergrowth with increased respect. Suddenly . . ."Look there!" said David softly. Regarding us from under cover of one of the giant leaves was a single, large, bright eye. Arielle slipped silently towards it, and stopped. In an instant, the eye had vanished, and we heard the now-familiar rustling fade away.
"Did you see it clearly?" asked Cinnamon.
"Too fast." Arielle turned to us, her own eyes wide. "But the legs—like bug? I dunno!"
That is interesting; we'll have to try to get a better look at the little creatures. It might be possible to pursue one if the undergrowth were not quite so thick and soggy.
For it is still raining. Not a downpour, just the slow, steady sort that can fall from leaden skies for days. Morning, after our much-needed rest, brought us the renewed optimism it usually does, and we breakfasted more heartily among our peculiar provisions. Arielle's determined rummaging among the disorder reminded me how hungry I really was, and I joined John in the dividing of a cold but meaty sandwich, while I saw Jinjur munching on an equally cold pseudo-sausage. Not really cold, of course, but I did find my thoughts turning speculatively towards fire.
I was not alone in this, I learned. Jinjur opened the discussion.
"The first thing we must do, as soon as possible, is to get a message to Prometheus. They'll know we've crashed, of course, but they won't know if, or how many of us have survived. I think the quickest way to signal them is by a precise pattern of fires along the beach."
This was a startling thought to me—it sounds so primitive! But I could think of nothing more effective to hand, and even this ancient tool was going to take some ingenuity to achieve.
"We can only hope all the dead pla
nts around here are really flammable," said John. "And that we can find anything dry enough to ignite."
David had been scanning the sky intently, shielding his eyes from the raindrops.
"I'm all for a fire," he said. "But I don't see any real break in the low clouds; they're just sitting overhead and pouring. When I do get a glimpse of the higher layers they're moving fast."
"That's bad," grumbled Jinjur. "Any fast-moving cloud will not only obscure our message, it makes it really tough for Prometheus to respond so that we can detect it."
"How is that?" I asked.
"Well, if we make some precise shape in fire, it's going to be lost if it's intermittent."
"Tough, too, to keep a fire going for any length of time in this rain," added John, with his usual cool realism.
"And," said Carmen, "what sort of answer can we expect from Prometheus? They could try to send some landers down, but those high winds would blow their aeroshells and parachutes far away from us, even assuming we knew they were coming!" The daunting facts of our isolation are, I realize, beginning to sink in. We all know, all too well, how truly desperate is our plight, but we cannot admit it, even to ourselves.
Jinjur decided, arbitrarily. "We need a fire, so let's get going on that first. The meat I ate just now would definitely have been improved by being heated, and I think it would be safer, too. Once we have a small fire, we'll just plan to wait until the weather improves enough to try to send a clear signal. How are any of you at fire-building?"
A wave of dismay swept the faces around. Even as children, or students, we had taken such an elemental tool for granted. Indeed, open fires are a rarity on Earth at present—so primitive and energy-wasteful they are.
Cinnamon volunteered hesitantly, "I did it once, at home, just to see how it was done. But it took me hours!"
"So be it," said Jinjur firmly. "Hours are one thing we've got. Richard, you and I will go back down to the shore and see if we can get the flouwen back to salvage duty for us. The rest of you help Cinnamon." The two of them moved off, Jinjur's short legs taking two steps to his one; I watched them for a moment. Her brown face, at about his elbow level, looked up at her companion with a grin. It is not difficult to see that our diminutive commander takes a very feminine pleasure, even in these hazardous circumstances, in the strong arms still under her command!
I followed the others toward the strange plants, and began looking under the sheltering leaves for dry tinder. At Cinnamon's direction we collected a variety of possible fuels—some very small and others more massive. The slim brown hands sorted through the offerings we brought her, and began to arrange them in separate piles on a flat rock, temporarily shielded with big leaves. While we patiently shredded quite a lot of stuff into very fine fibers, she bent some more limber twigs into a curious shape with painstaking care. When she was ready, we moved to assist her, using the broad leaves to protect her and her work from the rain and the steadily increasing wind. I watched, with great interest, as she bent over the sticks on the dry stone. Faster and faster she spun the little bow she had contrived around its fellow. Of course, if this method failed, we could eventually collect a spark from a lightning-caused blaze, but it seemed important to us all that this should not fail—I think, as humans, we want to feel "in charge" of our situation again!
Then, I thought my eyes were mistaken, but no, truly, a thin line of gray drifted up from Cinnamon's busy hands. She bent closer, and gently laid the finest of fibers from the pile near her across the arc. It blackened, shriveled, and more smoke arose! Tenderly, carefully, she added the tiny fibers, and suddenly, there was a tiny flicker of light. None of us dared move, or breathe too deeply, lest we endanger the little fire, but it grew steadily. It was incredibly beautiful! None of us has seen an open flame for years, nor, honestly, have we missed seeing one, but the warmth and life and beauty of the little yellow flame held our gaze. It was amazingly bright compared to the dull red light from Barnard that we had become accustomed to. As the fire grew, and shifted, and began to crackle on the larger fuel, we became aware of the smoky smell, achingly familiar and yet sharply new. It was acrid, and made Arielle cough as it drifted into her face, but it was also deliciously spicy, and the thought of hot tea floated into my mind. The crackling sparks sounded sharp and clear, and then drifted upward with their ancient loveliness.
Easily, now, we added fuel, and propped our protecting leaves with stones and sandpiles, to keep the fuel stack dry and to keep most of the wind and rain from the blaze. Cinnamon stood, and stretched, and grinned proudly at us. Nels took a long step to her side and hugged her tightly.
"Good job, Cin! We're proud of you!" We joined in, in exuberant congratulation. John said suddenly, "Makes me feel independent again!"
"Right," agreed David. "We're on our way now."
"Like Prometheus," I added. Carmen looked puzzled. "The original one, I mean," I said, "The one who gave men fire."
"That's right," said John. "And went on to encourage science and skill."
"The essences of civilization," I said. "We really are back on a path." It seems rather grandiose to attach so much importance to this humble little blaze, but we feel amazing fondness and pride for our—creation! That is what it is, and we shared our moment of triumph in a brief enjoyment of the warmth.
I thought it curious, our behavior—even as I shared it! We are all strangely silent about the future that confronts us, although I suspect we have all thought about it a great deal in the last day, and even more so in the night. We face the very real possibility of living the rest of our lives on this strange and beautiful world, and whether those lives will be days, months, or years longer is speculation about which we cannot even be logical. But none of us is willing to say anything aloud! Partly, I suppose, it is our habits of independence; partly a desire to alarm no one unnecessarily; and partly, a sensible feeling that we can only await developments. For whatever reasons, our conversations have focussed very much on the immediate present. It does no good to discuss how the crash occurred, and we have abandoned the topic. We all are wholly aware of the resources left to George and the rest, and the lack of any real rescue mission they can possibly mount. We know the futility of lamentations, and when, I think, each of us feels a twinge of fear, we are heartened by the resolution of the others, and then we do our own share of heartening. Those last few cautious words around the now flourishing fire are the first which acknowledge the facts beginning to face us. Slowly, but with genuine pleasure, I looked at the faces in the firelight. There are strengths here, and courage, and competent minds and hands. I too am capable, and together we can do much.
At that point, Jinjur and Richard trudged up the beach to join us, laden with soggy flotsam the flouwen had hauled forth.
"The lander has slowed down, Little Red says, but is still going slowly toward the bottom. Sounds like the deepest part of the lagoon is pretty much in the center, and the sides the lander is sliding over must be smooth enough that it doesn't hang up on anything. From its shape, I'm now certain it's the crater of a volcano, like the rest of the place, only this volcano is on the side of an even bigger volcano that makes up the central mountain on this island. And, that being the case, if they are the right kind of volcano, we might find something really useful, when we have time to look around a bit for it.
"Useful?" Arielle queried.
"Obsidian," he answered briefly.
Carmen's face brightened. "Obsidian? That could be very useful indeed! There was a whole display of antique knives and axes in the museum in San Diego—beautiful, it is, but more important, it can be chipped to a really sharp edge!"
That's true, I remembered. Obsidian was used so early on by primitive tribes that it's not known when they began, but obviously they recognized, as we now do, the value of a substance that can so easily be made into a good, sharp knife.
Jinjur looked with pleasure, then, at the fire, her eyes softening. "A gradely sight!" she murmured. "I remember . . ." she broke off
. All of us had done some remembering, when the small flames had settled down to their steady dance. I straightened briskly, and set off down the beach.
With Shirley's capable help I pulled a soggy roll of blankets from the creaming shallows where the flouwen had left them. Between us, we managed to twist the fabrics and squeeze the water from them.
"As we went to Necessary Beach this morning, I saw what looked like a pond off to the left—did you see it?" I asked. (I am being stubborn about the euphemism for that beach; it's clumsy, but I prefer it to the much more Anglo-Saxon epithet with which David had startled me!)
"No, I didn't notice," answered Shirley. "But if it's fresh water we could rinse these blankets out—or shall we just let the rain do the job?"
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