Cluster (6 page)

Flint knew that this was merely the standard post-hunt let-down. But still he was depressed. So he did the sensible thing.

He went to see Honeybloom.

She was picking juiceberries beyond the West Thicket. Her red hair was radiantly lovely. He green breasts were as lush as melonberries, and her skin as soft as a freshly peeled vine.

“Flint!” she cried with mock chagrin. “You're filthy!”

“I fell in a hole,” he said. He looked at her appreciatively. “I'd like to fall in another.”

She threw a juiceberry at him. The eyeball-sized globe splattered on his chest and dribbled blue juices down his belly. “Let me wash you,” she said, instantly contrite.

She took him to the river pool and washed him thoroughly, in that special way she had. Her hands were marvelously gentle. He thought of the threatened pus-spell, and was supremely relieved that it hadn't come to pass. After a while he pulled her down with him, dunking her with a pretense of savagery as though he were a real caveman subduing a real cavewoman. Actually few of the tribe lived in caves; it was easier to make lean-tos under vines, and there were no resident predators to oust. But myths of caveman violence were always good for laughs—and when Honeybloom laughed, it was something to see.

Her breasts floated enticingly, looking even larger than they were. Flint looked forward with a certain wistful regret to the time when he would have to give them up to his baby. That was the problem with marriage.

Eventually, feeling much better, he made his way to his shop in the village. It was now noon; Etamin shone down hotly. He had lost half a day. But it had been worth it, in its fashion; he had learned enough to last him a week.

He brought out a large block of flint. Flint was a unique stone. Other material fractured unreliably, making large chunks, small chunks, pebbles, and dust, all irregular. Flint could be fractured in controlled fashion, to make flakes with sharp edges: knives. A flint knife was sturdy; it could kill a small animal effortlessly. It was durable; it never lost its edge, and it was exceedingly hard. All in all, it was a stone of near-miraculous properties.

But it had to be handled correctly. Strike a block of flint the wrong way, and useless chunks would flake off. Strike it the right way, and anything could be produced: a thin-bladed knife, a pointed speartip, a solid handax, or a scraper. All it required was the proper touch.

It was an inborn talent. Flint was one of the few who had the touch; it fact, he was the finest flint craftsmen in the region. His blades were sharper, better-formed than anyone else's. But most important, he could turn them out rapidly and with very little waste stone. Flint stone was not found naturally in this region; the tribe had to trade for it, so it was precious. Fortunately Flint's talent had made this trade profitable for the first time in a generation. They could import as much of the stone as they needed in return for half the finished blades. That was why Flint was no longer obliged to hunt or to perform other onerous tasks like burying the tribe's dung. He was more valuable to the group as a craftsman. Until this morning when the hunt had flushed old Snort.

He oriented his master-block carefully, laid a bone buffer against it, and struck the core glancingly with a specially designed club. A long narrow blade flaked off. He struck again, and another blade appeared.

Flint made no secret of his technique; the skill was in his hands, not his tools. The strike had to be not too hard, not too soft, not too far from the edge, nor too close. Others had tried to copy his motions, but they muffed it because they lacked his coordination and feel for the stone. The material was in his being; when he hefted a piece he could tell at a glance where the key cleavage lay, and he could strike that spot accurately. No one had trained him in this; no one had needed to.

On a good day he could turn out several hundred assorted blades. A year ago, upon achieving his maturity, he had given a public demonstration. Thus he had earned his name and become the flintsmith. As long as there was flint to be had, and his hands remained uninjured, his position was secure.

That was another reason to marry Honeybloom. She was a sweet girl, and beautiful, always amenable, but not unduly bright. The Shaman had tried to argue him out of making the commitment to her, on the grounds that she would become poor company the moment her figure went to fat. But she had a fair talent for magic, and specialized in hands. Even as she had given him the stiff finger—retribution, she had claimed, for what he had done with it one time when he had caught her sleeping—she could ensure that his hands remained strong and supple. That was insurance he had to have.

Crack! Another blade. Crack! Yet another. It always took him a while to get the rhythm of it, the feel, but he was warming up beautifully now. With luck, he would turn out his full day's quota despite the loss of the morning.

“Flint.” The voice startled him, destroying his concentration, and he muffed a shot. A foully misshapen fragment of stone skittered across the ground. Damn!

He looked up, his upper lip lifting in a silent snarl. But he didn't speak, for this was no ordinary intruder, no naked tribe child. It was a man wearing the uniform of the imperial Guard. His skin was so pale as to be virtually white, slug-white, like the Shaman's, which meant he was Earthborn. From the spaceport, obviously; one of their idle personnel. But the imperial Guard was not to be ignored.

Flint, like most natives, didn't care for clothing. It interfered with necessary activity. Only in winter would he don protective gear. This completely clothed Earthman turned him off.

“I am Flint,” he said.

“Come with me.”

Once every five years the imperials rounded up all the children of the tribe and ran them through a battery of obscure tests. It was a meaningless procedure, but the kids got a kick out of it and it seemed to satisfy the Earthborns. But this was not the year or the time, and Flint was no longer a child. Earth had no present call on him. “Like hell I will!” he snapped. “I've got work to do.”

The Guardsman reached for his weapon, a regulation blaster.

Flint was on his feet instantly, poised, a flint blade held expertly between his fingers. “Want to try it, Imp?” he whispered.

Now a crowd of children had gathered by the shop, gawking at the scene. The Imperial reconsidered. If he blasted Flint, he would be deemed a murderer, attacking a naked and effectively unarmed primitive. If Flint killed him with that blade—a far more likely outcome than he imagined—he would be dead. Either way, he would have failed in his mission. Missions were supremely important to Imperials. “You have to come, Flint,” he said. “It's by order of the Regent of Earth. The capsule just arrived.”

“What does the Regent want with me?” Flint demanded, not relaxing. An Imperial, like a dinosaur, was never to be trusted.

“He wants to send you to Sol. That's all I know.”

“Sol!” the children cried, amazed.

Flint laughed. “Me to Sol! No one goes to Sol. They
come
from there.”

But then he remembered the omen. Could this be its meaning?

In that moment of Flint's hesitation, the Imperial Guard drew his blaster. “Nothing personal,” he said. “But orders are orders. You're being mattermitted to Earth—today.”

But the resistance was gone from Flint. He could have handled the guard, and hidden from the Earthborns. But how could he fight the omen? His magic was weak, and the sign had reached across 108 light years to touch him. Against that, there was no defense.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2:

Mission of Ire

 

 

*notice target galaxy development*

–notice taken report–

*transfer logged 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from sphere knyfh to underdeveloped region*

–potential interest evidently knyfh is searching for assistance unable to monitor outer galaxy alone futile no advanced cultures in that segment–

*addendum number of technologically incipient cultures in vicinity cluster of spheres*

–itemize–

*canopus spica polaris anteres sador nath bellatrix mirzam mintaka*

–cluster of nonentities canopus is slave culture spica waterbound sador regressive to core mintaka interested only in music antares possesses transfer but uses it only internally polaris represents potential threat owing to efficient circularity this is where knyfh transferred?–

*correction transferred to sphere sol*

–sol! barely technological small sphere–

*advanced rapidly in recent period after awkward breakthrough*

–concurrence detail on sol–

*abortive mattermission expansion depleted source planet almost to point of nonreturn followed by disciplined starship colonization 400 source planet cycles of years major colonies sirius and procyon atomic level altair formalhaut vega machine technology arich mufrid pollux acturus denebola castor capella all pre-industrial commerce sheriton deneb-kaitos aldebaron alioth consepertis sabic all medieval  remaining colonies further regressed to subcivilized*

–enough! with nucleus of only three atomic-level settlements including origin sphere represents very limited actuality and questionable potential no action required at this time continue monitoring to ascertain purpose of knyfh transfer if other than desperation quest–

 

*POWER*

–CIVILIZATION–

 

Flint looked about, still angry despite the omen. He was in a huge room, much like the main chamber of the Imp station in Outworld, but larger. Vents set high in the walls let in slits of light—no, it was artificial light after all, that was one of the things the imps had—and there was a growling as of hidden machines running. The overall effect was awful.

“Flint of Etamin?” a woman inquired. She had no sex appeal; she was flat breasted, cloud white, and spoke with a strong Imp accent. Flint presumed this really was Imperial Earth, and he didn't like it.

“Outworld,” he said shortly. “Etamin's the star.”

“Etamin—double star on the Fringe,” she said. Her voice was low but not soft.

This elicited a spark of interest. “You mean Sol
isn't
double?” he inquired. He was not being facetious; it had not occurred to him that Sol should differ from his home sun in this significant respect. No wonder Sol was so faint in the sky. But of course there was no reason a single star system should not support life; it was the
planet
that counted.

“Please don this tunic,” she said, holding out a bolt of red cloth.

“You want me to put on a red dress?” he asked incredulously.

“It is not a dress. It is an Imperial tunic. All citizens wear them, males and females. You will note that
I
wear one.”

Flint looked again. This imp was not merely flatbreasted but
non
breasted. “You're
male
!” he said, surprised. The dress and the smooth, unbearded face had deceived him, but the voice and chest should have given him the hint. He was being dangerously unobservant.

The man rolled his pale eyes briefly skyward in a feminine gesture. “What color tunic would you prefer? Anything except black.”

“Why not black?”

“That signifies officialdom.”

Flint disliked officialdom. “I'm happy the way I am. No tunic.”

Now an evanescent smile. “That simply won't do. You're no Tarot figure.”

“Tarow people are naked?”

“That's Tarot, with an unpronounced terminal T. Merely illustrations on occult cards used by the cult of Tarotism. Its prime tenet is that
all
concepts of God are valid.”

“
Aren't
they?”

Again the rolling of eyes. “You're to meet the Council of Ministers in fifteen minutes. You must be dressed.”

Flint realized that argument would only delay his return home. “Give me a green one, then. I'm a green man.”

“Very good,” the white man said distastefully. He produced a green tunic that came reasonably close to matching Flint's skin, and Flint put it on over his head. He balked at using the silk undergarment the man tried to make him wear under it, however. A dress was bad enough, but no warrior or craftsman wore panties! Suppose he needed to urinate in a hurry?

A woman—a real one this time, with breasts and hips and hair, though dressed just like a man—came and slicked down his proudly unruly hair, washed his hands and feet, and trimmed off the better part of his strong finger- and toenails. She was, despite her pale skin, an attractive female with a musky odor and a deft touch; otherwise he would not have submitted to these indignities. He hoped he would not have to fight soon; his hands were now as embarrassingly dainty as Honeybloom's.

He was ushered into a capsule that closed about him and abruptly plunged through the wall. He had a confused glimpse of buildings like straight vertical cliffs, and crowds of robed people. Up above the sky was
blue
, not green, and the light of the sun was sickeningly yellowish. This was Imp Earth, all right. Then the capsule penetrated another wall like a spearpoint through hide, and stopped inside.

A bit dizzy, Flint got out.

A man stepped up to grasp his hand. Flint was tempted to grasp that flabby appendage and throw the idiot over his shoulder, but restrained himself. It was better to ascertain the facts before acting, as the Shaman always reminded him.
Then
he could throw a few Imps about.

“Welcome, Flint of Outworld. I am the Minister of Population. It was our excellent aura-intensity files that located you. The Council is ready for you now.”

“Ugh,” Flint grunted noncommittally. He followed the man through bare halls like the base of an overgrown vine forest. He felt confined, his vision, hearing, and smell restricted to the point of uselessness. Surely this was one of the fabled Earth prisons. He kept a nervous eye out for predators, though he knew that the larger dinosaurs had died out on Earth. Confinement like this might have killed them.