by Geary Gravel
planets, should obey eternal laws, and that there
should be a little animal, five feet high, who in
contempt of these laws could act as he pleased,
according to his caprice ...
FROM THE WRITINGS OF VOLTAIRE
I
Jack felt the cool air on his bare arms and legs, the warm sun pooling on his face. He thought the sun was one of the nicest he had ever seen.
Silver coin in a silver bowl, he thought. He squinted at imagined markings, superimposed her face; finding it wasn't the face he had meant, he frowned in surprise and banished the image.
The others were still gathered in the center of the clearing. From the way their mouths were working—too fast and all at
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the same time—he knew that nothing intelligible was being said yet. He moved farther from them, his feet cool in the silvery grass, his half-lidded eyes on the sun.
What am I thinking about, right now? Jack wondered. He tried to pin down a thought, to separate a single moment, one cell of being from the whirl and blink. The effort made him shiver with frustration, like trying to scratch that one place high up on his back.
He removed his smock, sliding it slowly over his arms, feeling the warmth rising over his body. Turning, he picked Marysu from the huddle in the clearing. He stared at her for a few moments, lost in her intense beauty, the coiling slippery ascent of his blood when he thought of her under the wanderlights in their room, her skin dappled into peach, glime, yellow, violet, brole—all colors, no colors, her colors. The haunting planes of her face, the way she clutched at him...
He walked beneath trees. Low branches bearing fans of green translucency obscured, then took away, his sun.
Stubborn, he retained a picture of the pale disk, covered it deftly with a memory of Maya's sun, fat Surya; over that, he laid Sipril's double star, Alpha and Beta something-or-other; then the yellow sun of old Earth; the vast bloodclot of Antares; the liquid gold of Cellini; Axus Ariadne's ruddy bronze...
He was forty-two years old.
The voices started to drift apart, sorting themselves into communication again. He concentrated on Cil as her words flowed through the dying babble, calming it into order. He juggled his suns for a moment longer, then sent them away one by one in reverse order, the final image melting into Cil's pale face with its corona of shifting gold.
He looked back over his shoulder.
/ don't care what they're saying. I don't care what he is.
But he turned and headed back into the clearing.
They were sitting down in the grass in a cautious semicircle. Jack caught the end of Emrys' statement: "... sure many of your questions will be answered if she gives a brief summary— and brief is all it can be—of what's been established so far."
Cil rose and moved away from the others, then sat down on the log facing them, including Jack in her uncertain smile as he ambled near. She sat in silence a few seconds, eyes closed. Then she began speaking, the words passing through
her lips as if they had come from somewhere other than her own thoughts.
"The function of a planalyst is almost always to build bridges. Those of us who are called to the profession come to it because there is that within us which is forever playing with a world as if it were a puzzle: matching pieces, closing gaps, striving to see the pattern that incorporates the many little strands, the odd fragments that show no obvious relationship.
"Perhaps it was this aspect of the discipline which Emrys had in mind when he asked me to be the first to study the data that he and the Hut have compiled. He probably expected me to find the thread of order in it all, something that would enable me to present you with a coherent explanation for what you will see here.
"But I must disappoint him. This Belthannis is a different world. Already I feel it may never be explained—perhaps only experienced. You see, I have found the thread, I have closed most of the gaps. Oh, the pattern has come together here, far, far too quickly.
"I see the coherence. I see the whole and it makes no sense to me. It is like nothing I have ever dealt with before, and I have worked at my profession for many years.
"I think, therefore, that the best way I can serve my function in this case is to reverse the process, to pull apart the threads that fit together so neatly. But there is a vastness here, the pattern is a world with no place clearly marked 'begin here.'
"So I propose that you ask me questions."
She looked up at them, blinked. "What is it you would like to know?"
Marysu's bracelets clanged as she thrust out her finger, pointing past Cil's shoulder.
'7 want to know where our host is going."
The kin had suddenly begun to move, arms flexing, dark head lifting, body swiveling away from the Group. Since their arrival it had remained almost motionless, statuelike in the tall grass. As they watched, it walked unhurriedly toward the thinly forested edge of the clearing.
"Vdnta, min van!" Marysu called.
"Shouldn't we follow him?" Choss rose hesitantly. "He's heading for the valley."
March had risen swiftly when the kin had begun to move. As he started after the retreating figure, Emrys halted him with a hand on his arm.
"No need," he said. "He won't go far, I assure you. Besides—" He pushed back the sleeve of his robe to show a second silver band above the journal on his wrist. "When we want to see him, the Hut can find him for us." He touched the control band. "Are you with us, Hut?"
"Of course." Miraculously, the lovely machine-voice still seemed to be coming from above their heads. Choss could not resist a glance upward: the sky appeared empty.
"How can you be sure how far he'll go?" Jefany asked.
Emrys nodded to Cil. "Let that be your first question."
Cil extended her hand, palm up, toward the Group. "May I have the world, please, Hut? About here."
Above her hand appeared a globe of Belthannis in brown, green, and silver, complete with cloud wisps and ocean sparkle. The world turned slowly, three tiny moons circling it like pale moths.
"This comes from the robotic probes left in orbit by the first Survey ship," Cil said. "There's a continuous broadcast which the Hut can link into. Now the grid, please."
Hair-thin lines of brilliant orange latticed the land areas of the globe, covering the two great continents with a network of polygons.
"Slow it by fifty, I think," she said. The image gradually reduced speed until its rotation was imperceptible.
"Good. Now—" Cil produced a slender wand from the cloth-of-pearl pouch at her waist. She touched the tip of the wand to the image and left a dot of red glowing in an area on the north of the larger landmass. "This is where we are." The mark had fallen near one of the orange lines. Cil touched again, slightly to the east of the first point: a blue dot glowed.
"That's the Hut. Actually, I've exaggerated the distance, but the directions are correct. This whole territory"—she traced the polygon in which the points had fallen, causing it to flare brighter than the rest of the grid—"belongs to the kin. The one we've been watching." She leaned back, gnawed absently at the knuckles of one hand, then resumed. "As you can see, we're now at the eastern border of his territory. Since the creatures never stray beyond these boundaries, Emrys knows
it can go no farther than the rim of the valley."
"It, it," Marysu said. "Why do you keep calling him that?"
Before Cil could answer, Emrys cleared his throat and fingered the band at his wrist.
"Excuse me, but I'd like your permission to begin recording this discussion. It might be useful later." He looked around. "Are there any objections?"
"No."
"Nyet."
"I don't care."
"Go ahead."
"No."
"Fine, then. Hut, please begin a record of our conversation, starting now."
"Certainly," the Hut agreed.
"What marks these boundaries you've drawn?" Choss asked. "I saw no h
int of fabricated structures when we were dropped. And a globe-encircling network of boundary markers would be an impressive artifact, surely indicative of a highly developed civilization."
"Ah, this is difficult to explain, Choss," Cil replied, "because there are no physical markers. Only, well, internal ones, perhaps on the same order as the emotional barrier we felt when we first approached the kin. These large boundaries are permanent, however, and the kin cannot cross them. Permanent in relation to each other, I should say, as the territories themselves move, as if the whole grid were rotating slowly around the globe. It follows climatic changes, I think. The network moves and the kin must move along within it, do you see? Here, I'll show you. This is the way Belthannis looked half a year ago. In a few more months—like this."
"Hey, what happens when you get to the ocean? Do you swim over to the next continent, or just tread water for a while?"
"Ah, good question, Jack. No, the territories are small enough and far enough inland, do you see, so that the migration never brings any of them into contact with the sea. The movement is very gradual: it spans the entire solar revolution. By the time the outermost nears the shore, the process has begun to reverse."
"This is ridiculous!" Marysu exploded. "Invisible webs creeping over the world, dragging people around inside them!
Where do you get such notions? What proof?"
"There are pools of data and files full of holos and flats in the Library. The Hut's Eyes and the satellite probes have been charting the movements of the kin for months. In addition, we have the records of the original Survey ship to verify the consistency of the patterns from year to year. The grid theory is the only one which satisfies the model created by the data."
"How many of them live in each area?" Raille asked tentatively. "Do you know if they have family groups or tribal units? Are they all so strange and aloof as this one or will the others communicate with us?"
"There is no social organization, no grouping at all."
"You see," Emrys broke in, "there is one kin living in each area. Just one."
There was stunned silence, then all spoke at once:
"Only—" Jefany began.
"—absurd to—" Marysu was saying.
"—seems so—" Raille said.
"Huh?" was Jack's response.
"Let me explain—" Cil began.
"One, spurgel" March interrupted scornfully. "That means only—"
"Two hundred and forty-six territories," Cil stated. "Two hundred and forty-six kin."
"On the whole world? Two hundred and fifty natives?" Choss sounded plaintive.
"You said they never cross the borders of their territories, Cil," Raille said.
"Correct."
"Well, but they must. I mean—eventually—" Raille broke off.
Marysu laughed. "Obviously!"
"We don't know yet," Cil said firmly. "In four months not one kin has strayed onto its neighbor's land."
There was a long pause; Jefany broke the silence. "Let us see him again, Jon."
"If the Hut will oblige," Emrys said.
"Of course," the Hut replied.
They stared in awe at the image that appeared.
"Incredible," Choss said slowly. "A man."
"Closer, please," Jefany asked.
"No eyebrows," March observed.
"Nor tastebuds. Three or four other differences, all minor," Cil assured them.
"Handsome beast," Marysu said.
"Looks like he's posing for a portrait," Jack said. "No change in expression all this time."
"No expression to change. Probably utterly bored," Marysu replied.
Jack disagreed. "No, he's not bored, he's got no lines on his face. None. I think he must always look like that."
"He looks—he seems—" Raille fell silent.
"Have you learned the language yet? Are there any chips of it in the Library? Can I have it soon?"
"There is no language, Marysu. They don't communicate."
"Look closely," Emrys said. "See how his head has moved? So slowly you didn't notice it. He does that to keep the sun from shining directly into his eyes."
"I think it would be less misleading to say 'its eyes' from now on, Emrys," Cil suggested softly.
"Cil, there are countless forms of language," Marysu persisted. "You probably wouldn't recognize—"
"I would. It has no language of any sort."
The questions kept coming, faster and faster.
When it was all over Cil could not have said who had asked what, or in which order, or how long the discussion had lasted. The rush of voices had become xme voice: probing, disputing, delving into her for things she could only begin to describe.
Is he what we were sent here to judge, Cil? They dare ask us to evaluate him?
"That is the creature we are to judge."
This man, this—kin, as you call him. He represents the highest form of life on Belthannis?
"A difficult question. But, yes, in all respects but one."
Oh? What's the matter with him?
"Nothing whatsoever."
Is this a question of sophistication, then? Is he a primitive? A savage?
"No."
Wait—he is a native of Belthannis, isn't he?
"Yes. At first I thought— But I'm convinced of it now."
And he is a man.
"Definitely not."
You just told—
Because he doesn't have tastebudsl
"No. Physically, it is identical to an adult human male, the few differences in somatype well within the parameters of variations found on most of the colonies: lightworlds, heavy-worlds, dry worlds—many of these environments have worked far stranger changes in the human pattern."
What's wrong with him, then?
For Fray's sake, get to the point!
Hush, give her a chance.
"There is nothing wrong with it, do you see, and the point is that it has no mind."
What do you mean?
What? Insane?
You said he was—
"Perfect. Physically human, down to the last millimeter. Down to the brain, for that matter, which seems perfect also, perfectly developed. The brain of Homo sapiens, almost identical to ours, but—"
But?
"Barren. Barren as an empty warehouse for all its convoluted promise."
No intellect at all, you're saying?
Hai, look how quietly he stands, staring off at nothing.
Wait, wait! The man is completely devoid of sentience?
"So completely that in this single respect the thing that stands there so quietly is no more related to you or me or any other human being on any other world than these flowering blades of grass at my fingertips, the rocks by your feet, the water in the stream..."
Ah, see, look at the eyes, the eyes...
Congenital? Illness?
Injury? Surgery?
"Congenital. Forever."
Regrettable, but such things do happen on the less privileged worlds from time to time, we know, among the outermost—
"No. No. It is only that they should not look like us."
What do you mean by that?
A rather uncharitable statement—he's still a man!
Wait. You said 'they.'
"Yes."
Surely they' re not all—all—
"Flowers. Stones. The stream..."
There was a long silence.
"You must see it in a different way—"
How horrible!
What happened to them? What did this?
Two hundred mindless human beings. Where are they from? Who put them here?
How do they survive? How do they live?
"Not mindless human beings. Not human beings. Above all, not horrible. They live—in a pattern. There is beauty—"
It's disgusting. Oh, gods!
"No. Look at it. Just look at it."
Begin with a man.
Begin with a male human being of the average height, we
ight, coloring, somatic type.
Give him a face with what are called regular features, pan-racial and unremarkable.
Give him eyes like shadows on water, hair that seems to define the color brown.
Now what? Are there any differences?
Yes, a few.
Look closely at the face: remove the lines that result from fear, the brackets that have framed smiles, the hatchet strokes of anger—smooth away the interplay of muscles just beneath the surface that prepares a face for tenderness or puzzlement or unexpected joy.
But the face is not slack, nor stony, nor withdrawn in appearance. On the contrary: when viewed by the human eye it seems to possess a.vast potential. It is like something asleep, looking momentarily foreign, which will be normal again when it wakes.
It is a face only in that it occupies space on the front of the head from chin to forehead, from right ear to left, containing eyes, nose, a mouth, rooted in bone and articulated in flesh. Everything is there that should be, but the sum of these parts frames a different whole, and by no other human definition can this reflecting surface be called a face.
And the body: where are the differences?
The muscles are not spectacular, having been developed only to the point of greatest utility. The arms, torso, and legs are those of a man who has done mild steady labor all his life, who has never been ill, who has never had a cut, scrape, or bruise.
The proportions are perfect, reminiscent of the anatomical mannikins created by the Vegan Masters from years of computer work and holoform. No portion of the body has been, enhanced at the expense of the remainder.
The total picture is unremarkable. With nothing to anchor it, the eye keeps sliding off, wandering past the edge of the body to silver grass and black tree, as if there were no edge, no defining surface where the creature stops and the world begins.
For some time the kin had reclined, motionless once more, on a smooth ledge of rock midway down the uneven slope.
Below was a great labyrinth of trees bent and elbowed like puzzle-rings, the branches of each individual intertwined with those of its neighbors. Thin, spiral leaves dangled from the limbs, coppery streamers above the soft green-and-gold ground cover stretching in woolly tangles from one side of the valley to the other.
After a space it rose like a flower stem unbending and started back up the steep incline, toes fitting easily into precarious clefts and niches.