The five were advancing on the ship now; Beirut backed off the scanner to keep them in view, said: 'They carry bows and arrows. That's odd, considering the cannon. Each has a back quiver with ... five arrows. That five again. Bows slung on the string over left shoulder. Each has a short lance in a back harness, a blue-violet pennant just below the lance head. Some kind of figure on the pennant - looks like an upside down 'U' in orange. Same figure repeated on the front of their tunics which are also blue-violet. Blue-violet and five. What's the prognosis?'
Beirut waited for the computer's answer to come to him through the speaker grafted into his neck. Relays clicked and the vocoder whispered through the bones of his head: 'Probable religious association with color and number five. Extreme caution is indicated on religious matters. Body armor and hand weapon mandatory.'
That's the trouble with computers, Beirut thought. Too logical.
The five natives had stopped just outside the fire-blackened landing circle. They raised their arms to the ship, chanted something that sounded like 'Toogayala-toogayala-toogayala.' The sound came from the oval central orifice.
'We'll toogayala in just a minute,' Beirut muttered. He brought out a Borgen machine pistol, donned body armor, aimed two of the ship's bombards directly at the steam wagon and set them on a dead-man switch keyed to a fifteen-second stoppage of his heart. He rigged the stern port to the PTW syslem, keyed to blow up any unauthorized intruders. Into various pockets he stuffed a lingua pack receptor tuned to his implanted speaker through the computer, a standard contact kit for sampling whatever interested him, a half dozen minigrenades, energy tablets, food analyzer, a throwing knife in a sheath, a miniscanner linked to the shipcomputer and a slingshot. With a final, grim sensation, he stuffed a medikit under the armor next to his heart.
One more glance around the familiar control center and he slid down the tube to the stern port, opened it and stepped out.
* * * *
The five natives threw themselves flat on the ground, arms extended toward him.
Beirut took a moment to study them and his surroundings. There was a freshness to the air that even his nose filters could not diminish. It was morning here yet and the sun threw flat light against the low hills and clumps of scrub. They stood out with a clean chiaroscuro dominated by the long blue spear of the ship's shadow wavering across the prairie.
Beirut looked up at his B-ship. She was a red and white striped tower on his side with a gaping hole where the nose should have been. Her number - 1107 - stenciled in luminous green beneath the nose had just escaped the damage area. He returned his attention to the natives.
They remained stretched out on the grass, their stalked eyes stretched out and peering up at him.
'Let's hope you have a good metal-working industry, friends,' Beirut said. 'Otherwise, I'm going to be an extremely unhappy visitor.'
At the sound of his voice, the five grunted in unison: 'Toogayala ung-ung.'
'Ung-ung?' Beirut asked. 'I thought we were going to toogaya-la.' He brought out the linguapack, hung it on his chest with the mike aimed at the natives, moved toward them out of the ship's shadow. As an afterthought, he raised his right hand, palm out and empty in the universal human gesture of peace, but kept his left hand on the Borgen.
'Toogayala!' the five screamed.
His linguapack remained silent. Toogayala and ung-ung were hardly sufficient for breaking down a language.
Beirut took another step toward them.
The five rocked back to then: knees and arose, crouching and apparently poised for flight. Five pairs of stalked eyes pointed toward him. Beirut had the curious feeling then that the five appeared familiar. They looked a little like giant grasshoppers that had been crossed with an ape. They looked like bug-eyed monsters from a work of science fantasy he had read in his youth, which he saw as clear evidence that what the imagination of man could conceive, nature could produce.
Beirut took another step toward the natives, said: 'Well, let's talk a little, friends. Say something. Make language, huh.'
The five backed up two steps. Their feet made a dry rustling sound in the grass.
Beirut swallowed. Their silence was a bit unnerving.
Abruptly, something emitted a buzzing sound. It seemed to come from a native on Beirut 's right. The creature clutched for its tunic, gabbled: 's'Chareecha! s'Chareecha!' It pulled a small object from a pocket to the others gathered around.
Beirut tensed, lifted the Borgen.
The natives ignored him to concentrate on the object in the one creature's hands.
'What's doing?' Beirut asked. He felt tense, uneasy. This wasn't going at all the way the books said it should.
The five straightened suddenly and without a backward look, returned to their steam wagon and climbed into the cab.
What test did I fail? Beirutwondered.
Silence settled over the scene.
* * * *
In the course of becoming a B-ship pilot, Beirut had gained fame for a certain pungency of speech. He paused a moment to practice some of his more famed selections, then took stock of his situation - standing here exposed at the foot of the ship while the unpredictable natives remained in their steam wagon. He clambered back through the port, sealed it, and jacked into the local computer outlet for a heart-to-heart conference.
'The buzzing item was likely a timepiece,' the computer said. The creature in possession of it was approximately two millimeters taller than his tallest companion. 'There are indications this one is the leader of the group.'
'Leader schmeader,' Beirut said. 'What's this toogayala they keep yelling?'
From long association with Beirut, the computer had adopted a response pattern to meet the rhetorical question or the question for which there obviously was no answer. 'Tut, tut,' it said.
'You sound like my old Aunt Martha,' Beirut said. 'They screamed that toogayala. It's obviously important.'
'When they noted your hand, that is when they raised their voices to the highest decibel level thus far recorded here,' the computer said.
'But why?'
'Possible answer,' the computer said. 'You have five fingers.'
'Five,' Beirut said. 'Five ... five ... five ... '
'We detect only five heavenly bodies here,' the computer said. 'You have noted that the skies are otherwise devoid of stars. The rapid companion is overhead right now, you know.'
'Five.' Beirut said.
'This planet,' the computer said, 'the three hot gaseous and plasma bodies and the other companion to this planet's sun.'
Beirut looked at his hand, flexed the fingers.
'They may think you are a deity,' the computer said. 'They have six fingers; you have five.'
'Empty skies except for three suns,' Beirut said.
'Don't forget this planet and the other companion,' the computer said.
Beirut thought about living on such a planet - no banks of stars across the heavens ... all that hidden behind the enclosing hydrogen cloud.
He began to tremble unaccountably with an attack of thepush.
'What'll it take to fix the nose of the ship?' Beirut asked. He tried to still his trembling.
'A sophisticated machine shop and the work of electronics technicians of at least grade five. The repair data is available in my banks.'
'What're they doing in that machine?' Beirut demanded. 'Why don't they talk?'
'Tut, tut,' the computer said.
* * * *
Thirty-eight minutes later, the natives again emerged from their steam wagon, took up stations standing at the edge of the charred ground.
* * * *
Beirut repeated his precautionary measures, went out to join them. He moved slowly, warily, the Borgen ready in his left hand.
The five awaited him this time without retreating. They appeared more relaxed, chattering in low voices among themselves, watching him with those stalked eyes. The word sounds remained pure gibberish to Beirut, but he had the lingua pack train
ed on them and knew the computer would have the language in a matter of time.
Beirut stopped about eight paces from the natives, said: 'Glad to see you, boys. Have a nice nap in your car?'
The tallest one nodded, said: 'What's doing?'
Beirut gaped, speechless.
A native on the left said: 'Let's hope you have a good metal-working industry, friends. Otherwise I'm going to be an extremely unhappy visitor.'
The tallest one said: 'Glad to see you, boys. Have a nice nap in your car?'
'They're mimicking me!' Beirut gasped.
'Confirmed,' the computer said.
Beirut overcame an urge to laugh, said: 'You're the crummiest looking herd of no-good animals I ever saw. It's a wonder your mothers could stand the sight of you.'
The tall native repeated it for him without an error.
'Reference to mothers cannot be accepted at this time,' the computer said. 'Local propagation customs unknown. There are indications these may be part vegetable - part animal.'
'Oh shut up,' Beirut said.
'Oh, shut up,' said a native on his left.
'Suggest silence on your part,' the computer said. 'They are displaying signs of trying to break down your language. Better we get their language, reveal less of ourselves.'
Beirut saw the wisdom in it, spoke subvocally for the speaker on his throat: 'You're so right.'
He clamped his lips into a thin line, stared at the natives. Silence dragged on and on.
Presently the tall one said: 'Aagroop somilican.'
'Toogayala,' said the one on the left.
'Cardinal number,' the computer said. 'Probable position five. Hold up your five fingsrs and say toogayala.'
Beirut obeyed.
'Toogayala, toogayala,' the natives agreed. One detached himself, went to the wagon and returned with a black metal figurine, about half a meter tall, extended it toward Beirut .
Cautiously, Beirut moved forward, accepted the thing. It felt heavy and cold in his hand, it was a beautifully styled figure of one of the natives, the eye stalks drooping into inverted U-shapes, mouth open.
Beirut brought out his contact kit, pressed it against the metal.
The kit went 'ping' as it took a sample.
The natives stared at him.
'Iron-magnesium-nickel alloy,' the computer said. 'Figure achieved by casting. Approximate age of figure, twenty-five million standard years.'
Beirut felt his throat go dry. He spoke subvocally: 'That can't be!'
'Rating accurate to plus or minus six thousand years,' the computer said. 'You will note the figures carved on the casting. The inverted U on the chest is probably the figure five. Beneath that is writing. Pattern too consistent for different interpretation.'
'Civilization for twenty-five million years,' Beirut said.
'Plus or minus six thousand years,' the computer said.
Again, Beirut felt a surge of the push, fought it down. He wanted to return to the crippled ship, flee this place in spite of the dangers. His knees shook.
The native who had given him the figurine, stepped forward, reclaimed it. 'Toogayala,' the native said. It pointed to the inverted U on the figure and then to the symbol on its own chest.
'But they only have a steam engine,' Beirut protested.
'Very sophisticated steam engine,' the computer said. 'Cannon is retractable, gyroscopically mounted, self-tracking.'
'They can fix the ship!' Beirut said.
'If they will,' the computer said.
The tall native stepped forward now, touched a finger to the lingua pack, said: 's'Chareecha' with a falling inflection. Beirut watched the hand carefully. It was six-fingered, definitely, the skin a mauve-blue. The fingers were horn-tipped and double-knuckled.
Try ung-ung,' the computer suggested.'
'Ung-ung,' Beirut said.
* * * *
The tall one jumped backward and all five sent their eye stalks peering toward the sky. They set up an excited chattering among themselves in which Beirut caught several repeated sounds: 'Yaubron ... s'Chareecha ... Autoga ... Sreese-sreese ... '
'We have an approximation for entry now,' the computer said. 'The tall one is called Autoga. Address him by name.'
'Autoga,' Beirut said.
The tall one turned, tipped his eye stalks toward Beirut .
'Say Ai-Yaubron ung sreese s'Chareecha,' the computer said.
Beirut obeyed.
The natives faced each other, returned their attention to Beirut . Presently, they began grunting almost uncontrollably. Autoga sat down on the ground, pounded it with his hands, all the while keeping up the grunting.
'What the devil?' Beirut said.
'They're laughing,' the computer said. 'Go sit beside Autoga.'
'On the ground?' Beirut asked.
'Yes.'
'Is it safe?'
'Of course.'
'Why're they laughing?'
'They're laughing at themselves. You tricked them, made them jump. This is definitely laughter.'
Hesitantly, Beirut moved to Autoga's side, sat down. Autoga stopped grunting, put a hand on Beirut 's shoulder, spoke to his companions. With a millisecond delay, the computer began translating: 'This god-self-creation is a good Joe, boys. His accent is lousy, but he has a sense of humor.'
'Are you sure of that translation?' Beirut asked.
'Reasonably so,' the computer said. 'Without greater morphological grounding, a cultural investigation in depth and series comparisons of vocal evolution, you get only a gross literal approximation, of course. We'll refine it while we go along. We're ready to put your sub-vocals through the lingua pack.'
'Let's talk,' Beirut said.
Out of the lingua pack on his chest came a series of sounds approximating 'Ai-ing-eeya.'
Computer translation of Autoga's reply was: 'That's a good idea. It's open sky.'
Beirut shook his head. It didn't sound right. Open sky?
'Sorry we damaged your vehicle,' Autoga said. 'We thought you were one of our youths playing with danger.'
Beirut swallowed. 'You thought my ship ... you people can make ships of this kind?'
'Oh, we made a few about ten million klurch ago,' Autoga said.
'It was at least fifteen million klurch,' said the wrinkle-faced native on Beirut's left.
'Now, Choon, there you go exaggerating again,' Autoga said. He looked at Beirut . 'You'll have to forgive Choon. He wants everything to be bigger, better and greater than it is.'
'What's a klurch?' Beirut asked.
The computer answered for his ears alone: 'Probable answer - the local year, about one and one-third standards.'
'I'm glad you decided to be peaceful,' Beirut said.
The lingua pack rendered this into a variety of sounds and the natives stared at Beirut's chest.
'He is speaking from his chest,' Choon said.
Autoga looked up at the ship. 'There are more of you?'
'Don't answer that,' the computer said. 'Suggest the ship is a source of mystical powers.'
Beirut digested this, shook his head. Stupid computer! 'These are sharp cookies,' he said speaking aloud.
'What a delightful arrangement of noises,' Autoga said. 'Do it again.'
'You thought I was one of your youths,' Beirut said. 'Now who do you think I am?'
The lingua pack remained silent. His ear speaker said: 'Suggest that question not be asked.'
'Ask it!' Beirut said.
A gabble of sound came from the lingua pack.
'We debated that during the presence of s'Chareecha,' Autoga said. 'We hid in the purple darkness, you understand, because we have no wish to seed under the influence of s'Chareecha. A majority among us decided you are the personification of our design for a deity. I dissented. My thought is that you are an unknown, although I grant you temporarily the majority title.'
Beirut wet his lips with his tongue.
'He has five fingers,' Choon said.
'This was the a
rgument you used to convince Tura and Lecky,' Autoga said. 'This argument still doesn't answer Spispi's objection that the five fingers could be the product of genetic manipulation or that plus amputation.'
The Worlds of Frank Herbert Page 13