A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Why there?”

  “Because it’s a perfect meeting place. I make it a practice to visit the Casino once a week and he stops in whenever he’s on Ragna; that way no one thinks it’s strange when we run into each other now and then—especially since we’re both avid pokochess players.”

  “I hope you’ve included me in your plans tonight,” Old Pete said. “I haven’t had a really good game of pokochess in years.”

  “Of course you’re included,” Jo told him. “I want you along to question him on his information since you seem to have made a private study of deBloise and his activities.”

  “Just his public life. I know nothing of his private affairs.”

  “That’s a start,” Jo said.

  Later that night, as they flittered toward the Casino, Jo turned to Old Pete. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s about my father. You were the last person on Ragna to see him and were closest to him except for my mother. What kind of a man was he?”

  Old Pete studied her for a moment. “You’re a lot like your grandfather,” he said finally. “Junior—your father—was different. He was never a very happy person; he was a born achiever, but his major problem was that he was born at the top, the heir apparent to IBA. He tried his best to make it with the company while your grandfather was alive, but after Joe died he became increasingly restless.” Old Pete’s mind drifted back to the day of Junior Finch’s departure.

  “But where are you going?” Paxton asked.

  Joe Finch, Jr. shrugged. “I haven’t really decided yet. It’s only for a year, Pete, and I’m sure IBA won’t miss me. You’ve been running the show ever since Dad’s death anyway.” He put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. They were close—Junior had called him “Uncle Pete” as a kid—and Pete now and then tended to take on a fatherly attitude. “I’m a big boy now, Pete. I’m thirty-three, I have a wife who understands and a ten-year-old daughter who’ll miss me but who’ll somehow survive a year without me.”

  “I know what’s eating you, Joe,” Pete said gravely. “But can’t you climb a mountain, or something?”

  Junior laughed. “I’ve no desire to be a mountain goat. I just don’t feel a part of IBA, that’s all. It’s not my company. I had nothing to do with its growth, or founding . . . it was just handed to me.”

  “But the company has a lot of growing to do,” Pete said. “You could be part of that. Its future will ultimately depend on you, you know.”

  “IBA’s present momentum will carry it another ten or twenty years with little help from anyone. I’ve got no qualms about taking out a year to go somewhere.”

  “And do what?”

  “I dunno . . . something.” He stuck out his hand. “Good-bye, Pete. I’ll contact you when I get where I’m going.”

  Peter Paxton watched him walk off in the direction of one of the shuttle ramps, a man in the shadow of his father, the only son of Joe Finch trying to prove to himself that he was worthy of the title.

  Junior didn’t know why he picked Jebinose. Maybe he had heard about their minor racial problem once and had tucked it into the back of his mind for future reference. Maybe he was drawn to situations in flux. Jebinose was in minor flux.

  Jebinose was one of those mistakes that blot the early history of man’s interstellar colonization. In the old days of the splinter colonies, exploration teams were sent out to find Earth-class planets and now and then one of these teams became a little careless. A major criterion for colonizable classification was the absence of an “intelligent” native species. No one was quite sure just exactly what was meant by “intelligent” but tool-making was the favorite rule of thumb for dividing the intelligent from unintelligent. The Jebinose fiasco had nothing to do with interpretation of the rules. The fact of the matter is that Jebinose was given an “M” classification (Earth-type, suitable for settling) after the most cursory of examinations. The colonists were indeed surprised when they found out that they were sharing the planet with a tribe of primitive humanoids.

  No one knows too much about the early colonial history of Jebinose. The splinter colony that landed there was conspicuous only by reason of its particular ineptitude at the task of colonization. But for the Vanek, not a single member would have survived a decade.

  The Vanek are an alien enigma. They are quiet, humble, peaceful, fatalistic. They are few in number, in tensely religious and welcomed all newcomers to their fold. They are humanoid with blue-gray skin and long spindly arms. Their civilization had reached a plateau in its development and they were quite willing to let it remain there. They swallowed up the colonists.

  The cross-breeding phenomenon between human and Vanek has yet to be explained. There are many theories but not one has received general acceptance. No matter . . . it worked. The Jebinose colony, as in the case of many other splinter colonies, was completely forgotten until the new Federation tried to order the chaos of the omnidirectional human migration. By the time it was rediscovered, human and Vanek genes had been pooled into a homogeneous mixture.

  Much heated debate ensued. Some argued that since the original colony had been completely absorbed, resettlement would, in effect, be interference with an alien culture. Others argued that the Vanek were now part human and thus had a right to Terran technology . . . and besides, Jebinose was favorably situated in regard to the emerging trade routes.

  Jebinose was resettled.

  The Vanek had settled in one of the agricultural regions and it was through this area that Junior wandered. Eventually he came upon the town of Danzer. It was a tiny place consisting of eight buildings, a general store-restaurant among them. Locals and Vaneks peopled the dirt street that ran down the middle of the town. On each side of the street ran a raised wooden boardwalk; Junior found a shady spot on one of these and sat down.

  He had been walking for days and was bone weary. A cool breeze helped evaporate the sweat beading his face. A middle-aged man glanced at him from across the street and then came over for a closer look.

  “You’re new around here, I believe,” he said to Junior, as he stuck out his hand. “I’m Marvin Heber and I like to know everyone around.”

  Joe shook the hand. “My name’s Junior Finch and I’m very new around here.”

  “Just moved in, huh?”

  “No, I’m just wandering around the region to see what I can see.” The man was friendly but nosey so Junior decided to play it safe and be as oblique as possible. “Lot of virgin land left around here.”

  Marvin Heber nodded and eyed the newcomer. “If you want to settle, I’m sure we can find a place for you.”

  As Junior was trying to think of what to say next, an elderly, spindle-armed beggar in a dusty robe came up to him and asked for alms. His skin was bluish gray. Junior dropped a few small coins in the proffered alms bowl. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” said the beggar.

  “Was that a Vanek?” he asked as the beggar walked away. “I’ve heard they’re common in this region, but that’s the first one I’ve seen since I arrived.”

  “They keep pretty much to themselves and only come into town to buy supplies now and then. There’s always a beggar or two about, however.”

  Junior said nothing but looked sincerely interested. He recognized Heber for a talker and was quite ready to prove a willing audience.

  “They spend most of their time fooling around on their reservation, meditating and carving their little statues.”

  “What little statues are those?” Junior asked.

  Heber took this opportunity to sit down and share Junior’s shade. “You won’t see any around here. Some company in the city buys them up as fast as the Vanek can turn them out and sells them as curios—`Handmade by alien half-breeds.’ They’re pretty popular over most of the settled galaxy. The Vanek have no financial worries, no, sir.”

  “Then why do they beg?”

  Heber shrugged. “It’s
somehow mixed up in their religion which nobody really understands. You heard him say, ‘Wheels within wheels’ after you gave him some coins.”

  “Yeah,” Junior said. “Then he said, `bendreth: What does that mean?”

  “Not much. Bendreth is the Vanek equivalent of `sir’ or `madam.’ They say that to just about everybody. `Wheels within wheels’ has something to do with their religion. According to tradition, a wise old Vanek philospher with an unpronounceable name came up with the theory that the universe was a conglomeration of wheels, wheels within wheels within wheels within wheels. It got to the point where the only answer, or comment, he would make about anything was a simple ‘Wheels within wheels.’ It’s a very fatalistic philosophy; they believe that everything works out in the end so they rarely take any decisive action. They figure the wheels will turn full circle without their help.” He paused.

  “Did you notice the crack in the begging bowl, by the way?”

  Junior nodded. “Looked like it had been broken and then glued back together.”

  “That’s part of the religion, too. You see, that old philosopher went to a banquet once—this was in the ancient days when the Vanek were rather barbaric—and the chief of the tribe sought to question him on his philosophy. Of course the only answer he could get was ‘Wheels within wheels.’ This annoyed the chief but he contained his anger until they all sat down at the eating table. During the meal it is said that the old philosopher uttered his favorite phrase over two hundred fifty times. The chief finally flew off the handle and broke a heavy earthen salad bowl over the old man’s head, killing him. So now all the Vanek beggars carry an earthen salad bowl that they have broken and then repaired as a sign that the old man did not die in vain.”

  Junior shook his head in wonder. “They must be strange folk. Do the local Terrans get along with them?”

  “I guess ‘get along’ is about the only way you could put it,” Heber admitted. “There’s no open animosity between the two groups, but there’s no friendship either. The Vanek float in and out of town and have no effect on the Terrans. I guess there are cases where the Vanek are discriminated against by the Terrans, but it’s a passive thing. Most Terrans have little or no respect for the Vanek because the Vanek don’t seem to care about respect and do nothing to engender it.

  “It’s not racial enmity as many outsiders might think.” He cast a significant glance at Junior as he said this. “The fact that the Vanek are partially alien has little to do with it; that’s a minor difference. There’re other differences.”

  “Like what?” Junior asked.

  “For one thing there’s no first-person singular pronoun in the Vanek language. Some people thought this was a sign of group consciousness but that was disproved. It’s just that they don’t think of themselves as individuals. This makes it hard for Terrans to relate to them as individuals and thus it’s hard to respect them as individuals.”

  “So it comes right back to a lack of respect again,” Junior observed.

  “Right! But try to convince the legislators in the capital about that! They’re getting together a bill to combat the so-called discrimination against the Vanek, and it looks like it’ll pass, too. But that won’t make Terrans respect the Vanek and that’s where the real problem lies.” He kicked a stone out into the middle of the street. “Damn fools in the capital probably don’t even know what a Vanek looks like! Just trying to make political names for themselves!”

  “But if it helps the Vanek get more equality—” Junior began.

  “Lip-service equality!” Heber declared angrily. “A forced equality that might well cause resentment on the part of the Terran locals. I don’t want to see that. No, Mr. Finch. If equality’s going to come to Danzer and other places like it, it’s gotta come from the locals, not from the capital!”

  Junior made no comment. The man had a good point, but one could never know whether it was sincerely meant or just an excuse to oppose some legislation that interfered with his racial prejudices. He noted that Heber made no alternative proposals.

  Heber glanced at the sun. “Well, time for me to get back to my job,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m the_government in town, you might say . . . mayor, sheriff, judge, notary, and so on.” He smiled. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Finch.”

  “Nice to have met you, Mr. Heber,” said Junior. And he meant it

  Heber was a pleasant man, but Junior wondered why he had taken so much time to explain the TerranVanek situation to him. Politics, maybe. If enough outsiders could be turned against the pending Integration Bill, maybe it wouldn’t pass. Whatever his reasons, Heber had been very informative.

  Junior walked across the dusty street to the general store. A land-rover passed close behind him as he crossed. Ground transportation was common here, possibly because flitters were too expensive to buy, run and service. It was hard work living off the land on Jebinose and the rewards were minimal. The farmlands were a depressed area as far as economics went. That would help explain a part of the poor TerranVanek relations; the Terrans were in control as far as numbers and technology were concerned and they owned all the businesses. But the Vanek held a superior economic position through the sale of their crude little statuettes. The Terrans broke their backs to keep their heads above water, while the Vanek did quite well by merely sitting around and whittling. The situation was tailor-made to generate resentment.

  He approached the general store-restaurant building. The foodstuffs and supplies piled out front in their shiny, colorful plastic, or alloy, containers struck an odd contrast to the weather-beaten wood of the store. All the buildings in Danzer were handmade of local wood; prefab probably cost too much.

  A hand-lettered sign proclaiming that Bill Jeffers was the proprietor hung over the doorway and Junior’s nostrils were assailed by a barrage of smells as he passed under it. Everything from fertilizer to frying food vied for the attention of his olfactory nerve.

  His retinas had not yet adjusted to the diminished light of the store interior and Junior bumped into someone just inside the door. Straining his eyes and blinking, he saw that it was a young Vanek.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t see too well in here just yet.” He made his way to the main counter in the back, not noticing the intense gaze he was receiving from the Vanek.

  “Yes, sir!” said the burly bear of a man behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like something to eat. What’s on the menu?”

  The big man winked. “You must he new around here. You don’t get a meal here, you get the meal: local beef, local potatoes and local greens.”

  “All right then,” Junior said with a shrug. “Let me have the meal.”

  “Good. I’m Bill Jeffers, by the way,” the man said and stuck out a paw.

  Junior shook hands and introduced himself.

  “Staying around here long, Mr. Finch?” Jeffers asked.

  Junior shook his head. “No. Just wandering about the area.” Again the questions about who you were and how long you were staying.

  Jeffers nodded and then looked over Junior’s shoulder. “What’ll it be?”

  “The meal, bendreth,” said a sibilant voice behind him. Junior turned to face the Vanek he had accidentally jostled on his way in.

  “Hello,” he said with a nod.

  “Good day, bendreth,” replied the Vanek. He was young and slight with piercing black eyes.

  “How are you today?” Junior asked in a lame effort to make conversation. The Vanek interested him and he wanted very much to get into a conversation with one. But finding a common ground for a discussion was no easy matter.

  “We are mostly well,” came the reply. Junior noted the plural pronoun and remembered what Heber had told him. It might help to open a conversation.

  “ ‘I’ve heard that the Vanek always use the word ‘we’ in the place of ‘I’ and I’ve been wondering why that is so.”

  “It is the way we ar
e,” came the impassive reply. “Our teachers say we are all one on the Great Wheel. Maybe that is so, we do not know. All we know is that we have always spoken thus and no doubt we always shall. There is no Vanek word for a single man.”

  “That’s too bad,” Junior said without thinking.

  “Why do you say that, bendreth?” The Vanek was showing some interest now.

  Junior would have to come up with a tactful yet honest answer. “Well, I’ve always thought that a race progressed through the actions of individuals. The progress of the Vanek seems to have been terribly slow. I mean, you’ve gone nowhere in the past few centuries. Maybe that’s the result for having the word `I’ absent from your functional vocabulary.”

  The Vanek eyed him closely and was about to speak when the meals arrived. Each paid for his meal and Junior expected the Vanek to follow him to one of the small tables situated in the corner. Instead the alien turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Junior asked.

  “Outside. To eat.”

  “It’s too hot out there. We’ll sit at one of these tables.”

  The Vanek hesitated and glanced around. The store was empty and Jeffers had disappeared into the back. Wordlessly, he followed Junior to a table.

  Both were hungry and once seated they began to eat. After swallowing two mouthfuls, Junior said, “Now, what were you about to say?”

  The Vanek looked up and chewed thoughtfully. “You may be right. Once we might have said that we have progressed as far as we desire but that doesn’t hold true any more. The Vanek seem to have proved quite willing to accept the benefits of a civilization technologically far superior to their own. So perhaps it has not been by desire that our culture has been stagnated. But it is our culture and—”

  “Hey!” came a shout from behind the counter. “What’s he doing in here?” It was Jeffers. He was pointing to the Vanek.

  Without looking around, the Vanek picked up his plate and walked out the door. Junior watched in stunned silence.

  “What was that all about?” he asked. “I was talking to him!”