Unearthly Neighbors (19 page)

A: Yes. But you can’t possibly know my people yet! I haven’t done them justice…

A knife in my brain, cutting them off. It is all changing. I am going out…

Wait!

Come back!

It is over, it is over.

No!

I can see, it is beginning…

I am not myself, but I am a man.

(What long arms you have, Grandpa!)

Is this what freedom means?

I am standing on the roof of the world. There are leaves all around me, red leaves and green leaves, and they draw a line across the sky. There is a cool breeze kissing my face; the air is clean and spiced with the smells of living things. The big sky arches above me. The sun is white and near and friendly.

There are birds nesting in the high branches: brown and yellow birds that sing with the sheer joy of being alive. Every leaf is new-minted, every line in the bark of age-old trees is unique.

Nothing has changed. This is where peace reigns supreme. It has always been so, from the beginning of time, It will always be here, waiting for me.

I dive from the top of the world. The blood races in my veins. I smile; who could keep from smiling? I rush through the cool green air, reach out with my strong right hand, catch a branch. It gives under my weight, but I swing in a great arc—forward and down, so fast that I can hardly breathe! My left hand breaks my fall and I swing on my long arm, swing out and down…

(Look, Ma, I’m flyin’!)

I rest on a gnarled limb in the middle ranges, sealed off from the sky above and the land below. There is water here, standing in dark little hollows in the wood. And there is food: blue eggs in neat, round nests, red berries on thorny vines, combs of honey clouded in buzzing insects.

This is where a man belongs. This is where he finds his strength. This is where the good dreams are born.

There is no need to think, to analyze. It is enough to feel, to
be.
A man is not alone. He is a part of everything he sees; he shares in the harmony of the open sky and the budding land and the thrusting trees. He is in the crystal rivers that flow from dark mountain ranges, in the orange fires that warm the night, in the air that whispers over waving grasslands.

I love this place. I am grateful for what it is. I am grateful too that it was given to me, for the Sun Shadows built our world well, and built it to last forever…

It was long ago and it was yesterday. It was in the beginning and it is now.

The Sun Shadows looked down on Walonka and were sorry that it was lonely. They walked out on the Edge, where it is neither night nor day, and there they found the Moon Shadows. Together, hot and white and cold and silver, they danced beneath the stars.

They made the Merdosi, born of the sun and the moon in a shelter of stars. They carried them to Walonka. They gave Walonka to the Merdosi and Merdosi to Walonka.

“Live under the sun,” the Sun Shadows said. “Look up and know that we are watching. Look down and see our Shadows walking across your land. That is the way it will be, forever.”

“Live under the moon,” the Moon Shadows said. “Look up and know that we are watching. Look down and see our Shadows walking across your land. That is the way it will be, forever.”

The sun and the moon did not forget. They always watch us from our sky. The Merdosi did not forget. We have honored the Shadows of the Sun and the Shadows of the Moon, and we have kept Walonka as they gave it to us.

We have been careful…

A dream?

I am a man. A man spends half of his life with his eyes open and half of his life lost in dreams. The two go together. A man cannot live without his dreams and a dream cannot live until it is acted upon.

It is good to dream, to refresh myself. There is wisdom in dreams. If you dream in the afternoon, the Sun Shadows speak to you. If you dream at night, the Moon Shadows speak to you. And if you can dream on the Edge…

My dreams speak truth to me always. They tell me what I really want to do. And what I really want to do is
right,
for am I not a man?

Of course, sometimes a dream is not clear. It must be interpreted. There are Merdosi who are skilled in such things. And twice a year we all dream together…

It is dangerous to change. When the old ways are left behind, the dreams are confused. It is hard to know what is right.

It is wise to accept the world that was given to us. Our lives have been comfortable. Each of us in his time repeats a cycle that goes back to the Beginning.

And yet…

Sometimes the dreams are strange. There are longing dreams. There are dreams that speak of unknown countries. There are restless dreams. When a man wakes from such a dream, he is unhappy, he is filled with a sense of something missed, something lost…

It is better to ignore such dreams.

It is better to keep things as they are, forever.

(Ask me no questions…)

I am a boy.

I have lived my life in the village with the women and the old men. I have played down by the river. I have not told the Elders about
all
of my dreams, for I am ashamed. I have been happy, I suppose. But there are times…

I have seen the men come into the village. I have sensed the thrill in the air. I have watched, sometimes…

I have watched the men go back into the great forest, where the trees grow tall. How I have wanted to go with them!

My time is coming. I am
almost
a man.

They will build a great fire on the ledge that looks down over the river. They will bring us together, four
boys and four girls. We will drink together, and the Elders will look into my mind. I hope they don’t see everything!

If we are fit, we will be taken to the Place—four boys and four girls. There we will stay alone with the Sun Shadows and the Moon Shadows. We will stay alone until we are no longer boys and girls.

Renna has dreamed of me. I know she has, for she has told me so. And when the moon is full, and we are at the Place…

I am afraid, but I can hardly wait.

I want to be a man!

And later, much later, I can go into the great forest alone and find my tree…

I see—myself!

I come out of the sky in a round metallic thing that lands in a clearing. I step out into the air of Walonka. I sneeze.

How strange I look with my short arms and funny clothes, clutching my rifle! I am full of questions, full of strange smells. My mind is cold.

I am an alien.

I walk toward the forest. I never look up toward the roof of the world. I am busy with schemes, plans, subterfuges.

I am different.

I walk toward the Merdosi. I am something new, something unknown, something dangerous.

What do I want, with my cold, closed mind?

What do I want, with my words that are only words?

I am Change.

I am to be feared; I cannot be trusted.

I keep coming, keep coming, keep coming…

Go away, go away!

I keep coming, keep coming…

Go back, go back!

I keep coming, keep coming…

Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

Blackness!

Monte Stewart opened his eyes. At first, he was confused. The black nothingness of oblivion was gone, but it had been replaced by a gray, featureless gloom that was not much more informative. He felt a hard surface under him. He reached over with his hand and touched rock. He sat up, squinting. He felt dizzy and faint, but there seemed to be a fighter patch of gray to his right…

Of course! He was in one of the village caves. He had passed out during the trial, if that was the right word for it, and…

It all came back with a rush.

He leaped to his feet and ran toward the entrance to the cave. He stuck his head out, grinning like an idiot. The village was asleep around him, asleep and strangely beautiful in the first pale light of the dawn. The waterfall was a murmur of silver, the winding river a ribbon of glass. The forest was deep and dark and inviting.

He was on the Edge, where it was neither night nor day.

There was no fear in him now. There was no worry, no uncertainty.

He did not have to ask any questions.

He knew.

(Had he not seen into their minds, as they had seen into his? He knew the decision of the Merdosi as surely as they themselves did.)

He was free.

More than that, he had won—won for all of them.

He was frankly surprised at the outcome, and yet it had a certain inevitability about it. He was surprised and he was proud. He was proud of himself, proud of his people, proud of the Merdosi. And he was grateful—grateful for the meaning that had been given to his life.

He had lived his life in the conviction that understanding was possible between man. He had lived his life in the belief that hope was possible between men. He had lived his life in the belief that hope was not an obsolete word. How many men are given such a dramatic proof of the codes by which they live?

The verdict?

It was not a simple thing, not a matter of being guilty or not guilty. (What was tile crime, what was the law?)

It was rather a matter of
acceptance.

The Merdosi had accepted him as a man, as a human being that was neither all bad nor all good. They had accepted his people for what they were, seeing in them a fundamental kinship with themselves. They had recognized the differences and respected them.

Perhaps they would have preferred never to have met the men from Earth. But the men from Earth had come. The Merdosi, at the very least, were prepared to make the best of a bad bargain.

They were willing to give the strangers the benefit of the doubt.

They loved their world the way it was, and yet they were big enough to know that they were not perfect. They had things to learn, just as did the men from Earth. It would take time, and the way would not be easy, but they were ready to try. They did not know where the new road might lead; there would be many new dreams. But surely, if all men walked the road together, it would be a good road…

Monte stood for a long time on the Edge, waiting for the night to end and the day to begin. He watched the stars winking out one by one. He sensed the silent thunder of the dawn.

The Merdosi had looked into his heart and mind, and they had trusted him. But what of his own people? What would they do to the world of Walonka in the years to come? Could
he
trust the men of Earth?

If the Merdosi could have faith in the aliens, could he have none?

But it would take more than faith.

There was work to be done.

He walked down the trail that wound down to the canyon floor, leaving the sleeping village behind him. There was no need to tell them he was leaving or where he was going; they already knew. He was free to go, just as he was welcome to stay.

He walked along the purling river.

Just as the great white sun flamed behind the mountains, he vanished among the trees of the waiting forest.

It was late afternoon when he reached the little clearing. The battered tents still stood. The blank-faced space-suit helmets still lay where they had fallen. The charred black logs of the dead fire were still in place.

Monte shivered, despite the heat of the day. He was not alone here. He was surrounded by watching eyes, eyes of the living and eyes of the dead. He was engulfed in two sets of memories—his and those of the Merdosi. He was at once the explorer setting foot in a strange and unknown land and the native who stared and feared and wondered.

He sat down on a rock to rest, cupping his bearded chin in his hands. The problem, really, was the same as it had always been. The problem was communication, getting through to people. First it had been the Merdosi. Now it was his own people.

His own people…

A wave of homesickness swept through him, more intense than any he had ever known. This was not his world, could never be his world. He was hungry for the sights and sounds he knew, hungry for a sun that was not a white furnace filling an alien sky. He had done his job, hadn’t he? Surely they could expect nothing more of him. He had only to signal the waiting ship, and go home.

(Home, the loveliest word in the language—in any language! See the shining snow on the Rockies, the green of the mountain meadow in spring, the friendly books that lined his office. Have a cup of steaming coffee, sleep in his own bed, have a classic bull session with the boys. And who was looking after the flowers that Louise had planted?)

That wasn’t all, either. He would be famous, wouldn’t he? He would be a big shot, a hero. Didn’t every man have a hankering to be a wheel, even when he laughed at the wheels he knew? He would be a Success, a corn-ball dream come true. He could write his own ticket. He could be the top man in his field.

He got up, filled his pipe, and went to work. He straightened up the devastated tents, built a fire, and cooked a meal. Then he dug out the voice-typer and set it up by his cot. He lined up a supply of tobacco, arranged the portable light, and sat down to think.

This was going to be the most important piece of writing he had ever done in his life. Quite possibly, it was the most important piece of writing that
anyone
had ever done.

He tried to remember them, those people he must reach with his inadequate words. He tried to think of them as individuals. Admiral York—not an easy man to sell. Tom Stein and Janice; their memories of the Merdosi were anything but pleasant. Don King, a cynic with small use for dreams. Mark Heidelman. The Secretary-General.

And there were so many others: politicians, reporters, hordes of self-styled experts.

How would he himself have received the story of the Merdosi if he had never come to Sirius Nine? He pictured himself sitting in his university office, his beard neat and trim, his eyes skeptical. He saw a student come crashing into his sanctum, all full of the wonderful story of the Merdosi. He could almost hear the biting sarcasm of his own comments…

He stared blankly at the voice-typer. Outside the lighted tent, he could feel the darkness of the world around him. Where were the words that could tell his story?