Authors: Brian Stableford
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Space Opera, #sci-fi, #space travel, #arthur c. clarke
Balance of Power (8 page)
I shook my head wonderingly.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “If they find out what you’ve done they’ll come looking for us. They must have noticed your absence—we’re just bloody lucky they haven’t looked in the hold. We’d best make our way upriver. Get ourselves lost, for the time being. I’m not risking going back to the stockade.”
I got up, and started looking round bushes. There was no sign of Nieland, but I did find a patch of squashed grass where he might have lain.
“Malpighi said he’d get loose,” I muttered. “Damn fool must have tried to wake me, failed, and set off on his own. God only knows what he’ll try to do. He surely won’t have gone back to the stockade.”
The possibilities, while not exactly endless, did not seem to warrant any more in the way of analytical commentary.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”
I took the lantern from her hand, and then grabbed her hand to make sure we stayed together.
We had gone some distance before I spoke again. “In your shoes,” I said, “I’d have run.”
“I wanted to get a little of my own back,” she said. “They were very nasty thoughts that Ogburn was thinking.”
“Did you have to throw
all
the guns over the side?” I asked.
“I thought you didn’t approve of guns.”
“They have their uses. But we’ll get by. You did one hell of a job. I don’t know how we’re going to put Humpty Dumpty together again, but you did a hell of a job.”
“I thought we could negotiate,” she said. “We have the food.”
“Yeah,” I said, without enthusiasm. She’d got some of her own back on the crew, all right—and maybe a bit for me, too. But she hadn’t quite marooned them as finally as they’d marooned us. And we both knew, deep down, that there wasn’t a hope in hell of negotiating our way back home on the New Hope. Even if we patched up the quarrel and somehow gained a little leverage to preserve our lives during the long journey home it would be a long, long trip. Accidents can happen at sea. Not to mention stranger things.
As we made our way westward in the starry night, I couldn’t quite see how we were ever going to get off Delta.
We didn’t go far—just far enough to get ourselves thoroughly lost. We could always find ourselves again by heading back to the river. What mattered was that they shouldn’t be able to find us.
We rested underneath a tree, not really intending to doze off—sleeping in subtropical forests can be dangerous. But the aftereffects of the drug made me far too drowsy to resist the pull of sleep, and I succumbed. I assume that Mariel must have done likewise, but at least she woke up when things began to happen.
I woke up when she began shaking my arm.
Day had dawned, and the cool morning was all about us. There was a heavy dew. There were also five aliens standing round in a semicircle contemplating our prostrate forms. I sat up very suddenly.
They were all males—one very large, the others in assorted sizes, presumably in varying stages of maturity. They were naked except for belts slung over their shoulders, with little pouches and pockets hung therefrom. The biggest one was carrying a spear with an iron blade. Two of the others had big knives, also of iron. All the ones with weapons were fingering them nervously while they watched us. Their fur was dark, with a pattern (black on brown) that was halfway between random blotches and vertical stripes. They looked like anthropomorphized versions of giant tabby cats.
The big male studied me carefully. He had dark brown eyes with wide pupils—not catlike pupils, but humanoid circular ones. He wrinkled his nose as if he didn’t take too kindly to the way I stank. His lower jaw moved a little, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of an apposite remark.
Who could blame him?
I put up my hands, palms outward, to show that there was nothing in them. The lamp lay beside me—I ignored it.
I got slowly to my feet.
The big one said something. The sounds he made were not unlike one of the more fluid human languages—Japanese, perhaps. But some consonants were missing, others blurred.
“I’m sorry,” I said, inadequately. “I don’t understand.”
I looked down at Mariel, helplessly appealing for her to take over. This was her show. But as she struggled to her feet the big one ignored her. He said something else to me, in a tone that suggested he was asking a question.
“He’s talking to you because you’re the biggest,” she said. I forgave her for not saying “bigger”—it was a stressful moment and she could be excused the slip.
“Look,” I said, trying to sound pleasant and reassuring. “I wish I knew what you were talking about, but I don’t. I can assure you, though, that I feel nothing but goodwill toward you and yours.”
It wasn’t much, but it beat
Me Alex, Who You?
He didn’t look angry. I couldn’t tell whether he looked puzzled or not—his brow wasn’t built for furrowing.
He said something to the next in line, who answered monosyllabically. Then he said something else to me.
Affably, I said: “Don’t just lie there, help me!” I didn’t take my eyes off the alien while I said it.
Mariel said: “You’re doing fine,” and giggled. It didn’t seem to me to be any time for merriment. I hoped that she wasn’t showing her teeth—it’s rumored that that’s one of the most dangerous things to do when trying to chat to other species. Not that the guy who started the rumor had any practical experience in the matter.
Then the big one came to a decision. He dropped his spear, reached out his long furry arms and gripped both my wrists. The way he did it brought my own fingers round into contact with his wrists, and it seemed natural to join the clasp. I did. He let go a long sound that was halfway between a purr and a muffled war-whoop. The other four began chattering. The whole atmosphere seemed much more relaxed.
“Congratulations,” said Mariel.
My new friend let got of my left arm but transferred grip on the other to take me by the elbow and guide me away. I let him guide me. Mariel picked up the lantern. One of the younger aliens picked up the leader’s weapon. And off we went—heading west.
At the first opportunity, I asked Mariel what had happened.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “They obviously decided that we’re worth getting to know. They haven’t captured us...they’re just taking us home to meet the folks. What I can’t understand is why the big one seemed so very
pleased
when he decided to be friends.”
“You think he’s seen humans before?”
“Maybe. I can’t tell.”
We were all walking as a group, now. All friends together, following our leader. I swapped curious glances with the younger aliens. They talked—presumably about us—and we talked about them. It was all very amicable. I had difficulty keeping it in mind that we didn’t know what the hell was happening. It all seemed so
natural.
“Well,” I said, “you got your chance. Whatever else happens you met your aliens. You have time to get to know them. Maybe all the time in the world.”
“Count your blessings,” she said. “They’re friendly. And they have fishing boats. It could be we’ve got a better chance of ultimately getting home than Ogburn’s pirates.”
“Whoever built that dhow,” I said, “it wasn’t this lot. These are swidden farmers...forest people. They migrate from place to place, burning out areas of forest and cultivating the ashy soil. They can only stay in one place for a couple of years—then the soil begins to become exhausted and they move on, letting the forest grow back. They aren’t the kind of people who build boats.”
“They aren’t the kind of people who make steel, either,” she said. “But look at those knives.”
I looked at the knives carried by the younger men. I had assumed that they were beaten iron, but now they’d been called to my attention I saw that they were strangely smooth. Not rusted. Their edges looked good and sharp. I checked the spear that the big one had been carrying when first we saw him. That was iron, and rusted. It had been hammered out, and carried no edge at all—just a blunt point.
“They trade,” I said, stating what was now the obvious. “And what’s more, they trade with someone who has a fairly sophisticated knowledge of metalwork.”
“The dhow builders,” she said.
I wondered. We had no dependable information about the accomplishments of the more civilized aliens to the north, but dhows and stainless steel struck me as being pretty advanced. More advanced than we could possibly have anticipated.
While we marched, they made no attempt to open communication. They didn’t attempt to exchange names, or teach us words of any kind. But they talked to one another, and Mariel watched. I didn’t expect her to begin picking up the language until they actually began to teach us, but I knew that when that time came she’d be all geared up to master it at superhuman speed. She’d know all the sounds, and she’d know the tones and the rhythms. It all came naturally to her. And learning it wouldn’t be just a matter of memorizing the labels—not for her. She’d actually get to grips with the feelings behind it, the ways of thinking implicit in it. She had a very flexible world view, an elastic mind. It was the necessity of
keeping
that elasticity which really set the limit on her ability. Talents dwindle not for any of the quasi-supernatural reasons she’d quoted aboard the ship, but for the simple reason that children growing up inevitably settle into the world view of their own kind. Their minds crystallize out, their ways of thinking become fixed. If Mariel hadn’t come out with the
Daedalus
she might already have lost her “gift of tongues.” A ceaseless supply of new worlds and new cultures is one way to help maintain elasticity.
Despite the fact that the situation as a whole was clouded by every possible uncertainty, I couldn’t help feeling glad that she had, whatever else might happen, got her chance with the natives of Delta.
We reached the village late in the day. It was in a little gully between two slopes, one of which was steep enough for bare rock to show through here and there. The rock had been worked by metal tools. There was a stream cutting through the gully, and they had built a small dam to contain a sizable pool at the lower neck of the cleft. There were about forty huts, made mostly from thin laths of wood, matted leaves that resembled fern or bracken, and mud-caked straw. There were a lot of small children and a lot of small animals running loose between the huts on the cleared, stony ground. The burnt-out enclaves where the various families cultivated their plots were scattered on both sides of the stream downstream of the village itself. There were two or three fires set close together in the center of the living area.
A great deal of curiosity was aroused by our arrival, but not much commotion. Everyone stared, but no one crowded close to get a better look at us. We went first to the pool, where our escorts drank their fill after a thirsty day’s marching. We drank too, a little more modestly. The leader of our little group was approached by a group of natives his own size, and they indulged in an animate conversation. They were obviously discussing us, but there was no attempt at formal introduction.
“The one who made friends with us is trying to explain himself,” said Mariel. “There doesn’t seem to be one among the others who has special authority. If they have a chief, he’s not out here. One or two of the others don’t seem very pleased with him, but our friend is trying to mollify them. They don’t seem particularly hostile to us—if I had to guess I’d say they want to know why he didn’t follow through with whatever the original purpose of his expedition was. He’s trying to tell them that we’re more important.”
As running commentaries go, it seemed fairly adequate.
Eventually, the one who’d brought us here came back, and began ushering us forward again. He took us to one of the huts and invited us inside. He made signs at us, which even I had no difficulty interpreting as instructions to stay put. Then he went back to his discussion group, to argue a bit more. I peered out of the doorway for a few minutes, watching the villagers, but after a while I got tired of being watched in turn. I went inside.
There wasn’t much in the hut—two long mounds of straw, presumably used for sleeping; a few bowls carved out of wood—all empty and quite clean; a pot full of some greasy substance rather like soap. One of the inner walls, though, was sown with the colored feathers of a dozen different species of bird—just the wing feathers, obviously saved for some decorative purpose. And in little grass pockets built into the same wall there was an assortment of small tools—scrapers, knives, forks, even pairs of forceps. They were almost all made from wood or bone, but one or two were made from a horny substance that may have been from the bill of a bird. There was no metal at all.
“Home sweet home,” I murmured.
The straw had a musty animal odor, but it wasn’t too hard to get used to.
Mariel sat on the floor with the lantern in front of her, staring at it.
“I wish I’d brought some of the food,” she said. “I could have loaded up a packsack.”
“They’ll feed us,” I said. “It’s safe to assume that anything they eat won’t be poisonous to us. Poisons are fairly ubiquitous. And their bacteria certainly won’t worry us except, perhaps, for a touch of gut sensitivity. Anyhow, we don’t have a lot of choice.”
About an hour passed before we had visitors. There were four of them, and I realized with a guilty start when they came through the door that I couldn’t tell which of them, if any, was the one who’d brought us here. I’d kept my eyes on him before, but I couldn’t actually
recognize
him. One of the four, however, I eliminated from consideration. He was wearing a headdress made out of feathers and bits of black fur. He seemed to be the one in command, but whether he was the tribal chief or the local shaman there was no way of knowing. He looked us both over very carefully. Then we all sat down, in an approximate circle, with the one in the headdress facing me. He asked questions. I tried to convey my inability to answer. He held conferences with the others. Then they asked more questions. I tried to tell them our names. They didn’t get it—or refused to acknowledge it. One of them handed the lantern to the guy in the fancy headgear, who inspected it closely, figured out how to turn it on, and lit up the inside of the hut. He tested the transparent plastic for heat. I took it from him and showed him how to vary the intensity of both light and heat. Then I switched off, unscrewed the base and showed him the fuel cell. He took a lively interest in all of this, and didn’t seem to attribute any of it to evil magic. In the end, I made a show of making him a gift of the lantern. He took it with apparent pleasure.
