Fiction Complete, page 6
“His is a sickness that is unknown to you,” Tornan told him. “I am a man of medicine; I know the signs.”
“Consider one of your own people,” Hald said. “Take one who has been your close friend, a companion on many hunting and fishing trips. You trust him and like him and see nothing unusual about him. Then one day you find that he is acting entirely the opposite of his natural self. He might try. for instance, to kill himself—or to kill you or another friend. He might look as he has always looked, and yet because he did these things he would be ill. Can you understand?”
Noko’s eyes widened in horror. “No one could think of doing away with himself intentionally. It—it is impossible; everyone wants to live as long as he can, because life is good.” He shook his head, wonderingly.
“Exactly!” Hald continued, seeing an advantage. “And that is how we know Rorn is ill. He is doing something completely against his nature—against the nature of all Dorjalans.”
“And,” the Doctor put in, “if he has a child by Fara, the child, too might be ill, and its children, and so on. Can you picture what could happen to Raalkaar in a few generations?”
Noko was frowning again. “But what has he done that is so different? Show me how he is ill.”
“There are many signs; for instance, Dorjalans feel no physical attraction for members of the opposite sex. We mate only to continue the species—the race.”
“Rorn,” Tornan said, “is attracted to Fara. For one of your own people, that is natural; for us it is not.”
Noko nodded, comprehendingly. “I have seen your women,” he said. “I can see why there is no attraction. But Fara—she is a beautiful girl.”
“To a Raalkaarian, yes—but to us she is nothing; only Rorn finds her beautiful. Have any of the rest of us become enamored of one of your women?”
Noko faltered. “No,” he said at last.
“And the chewing of dida bark,” Tornan continued. “That is an old Raalkaarian custom, no doubt, but dida is a mild intoxicant. Dorjalans ordinarily feel no need for such stimulation, yet Rorn slipped into the habit immediately. But notice—not one of your people has become interested in spending hours reading our books, although plenty of chances have been provided.”
“Reading,” Raid stated, “is a Dorjalan—er, habit. Your people, being normal Raalkaarians, have no desire to learn it, just as we have no desire to engage in the partaking of dida bark—except for Rorn, who is ill.”
“If Rorn is returned to us,” Tornan said, “I’m sure we can cure him. But if you will not help us . . .”
Noko rose. The old man’s sharp black eyes were troubled. He ran a hand through his thick mane of white hair.
“I like Rorn,” he said simply. “I had thought he would be a welcome addition to our tribe. My niece loves him, and he could make her happy. Yet the well-being of my race is more important than her happiness—or mine or Rorn’s.”
The old chief stood up, looking down on them. “I cannot take a chance on Rorn’s sickness spreading to my people, but it will hurt me to see him go. I cannot envy you of Dorjala; I hope none of you ever reaches our world again, for we wish nothing you have to offer.”
The proud oldster turned and walking stiff and straight, strode away across the green field that separated his village from the Dorjalan ship. He did not turn back to look at them. He would not have been ashamed for one of his own kind to see him weep, but he did not—these strangers to see tears in his eyes.
DESPITE their unemotional nature, the Dorjalans spent a good deal of that evening congratulating Hald and Tornan on their victory.
“Just when,” Vanda inquired, “does Noko intend to return Rorn to us?”
“He didn’t say,” Tornan replied, “but I imagine it will be in the morning. We might as well make preparations for blast-off.”
“Praise Center,” Keren said. “May we never hit a planet like this again.”
“We won’t,” Clerid mused. He stood looking out the porthole over the darkened ocean. “In all the cosmos, I doubt if there is another Raalkaar.”
Keri was lounging in his chair, his hands behind his head, relaxed for the first time in weeks. “Is that bad, my philosophical companion?” he asked.
Clerid was silent for several moments. “No,” he said at last, “I don’t suppose so. It would be an awful jolt to find out that another savage, barbarous world might pervert one of us.”
“That’s rather strong, isn’t it?” Vanda asked him. “I hardly think anyone has been ‘perverted’. Rorn’s mind is not right, and that is a frightening thing: but perhaps he can be cured. Probably when we get away from Raalkaar he’ll be well again and we won’t even have to make a report on this disgusting business.”
Keri rubbed his cheek. “As Captain,” he told Vanda, “I’m required to make a full report of everything that happens to the expedition. If Rorn does recover, perhaps Center will take no action, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“In other words,” Clerid stated, “we stand a good chance of losing Rorn no matter what happens. I don’t think any of us considered that before; seems rather a disappointing climax, don’t you think?”
Tornan was uneasy. “I told you once before, Clerid, that what happened to Rorn here, might shake the foundations of our whole civilization. He most certainly will recover when we get him back aboard. When he does, I’m certain that Center will take no action, despite what has happened.”
Clerid smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. At any rate, now that the whole problem of bringing Rorn back to the ship is settled, I think I’m rather tired.”
At the door, he stopped and turned to them. “Our race has always known that the goal of evolution is intelligence,” he said. “When we have learned all there is to know, about the universe and the things that are in it, then mankind’s quest will be complete. But first we must learn comparison. What we think is savagery and barbarism may actually be the pure intelligence for which we have searched for a millenium.”
“Now what in Center,” Keri asked after the Psychologist had left the lounge, “do you suppose he meant by that?”
CLERID lay meditating on his bunk for several hours, until the rest of the crew was asleep; then he dressed and slipped out into the Raalkaarian night. Because he carried no light, and had not vet learned to see in the darkness of the moonless little world, he stumbled several times in the underbrush between the ship and the village.
There were a few flickering lights still shining in the settlement, and here and there an infant wailed lonesomely as some dark-skinned mother awakened and prepared to feed her offspring. Walking quietly down the main street, Clerid found himself wandering how many lovers might be wrapped in each other’s arms in those darkened huts or how many were sleeping now after an interlude of physical intimacy.
He took a breath of cool night air to clear his head and made his way on through the village to the little hill where Rorn’s hut stood alone, looking down on the town from one direction and the ocean and Noko’s house from the other. Here the Psychologist felt a final pang of conscience, but he hesitated only a moment before knocking on the crude door.
After a long wait, Rorn appeared, a lighted candle in his hand. “Clerid,” he said, “haven’t you people given up yet?”
“You haven’t seen Noko today?” Clerid asked.
“No, not since early this morning; I’ve been out trying to learn to fish all day with some of the natives.”
“Noko,” Clerid told him flatly, “is going to return you to the ship.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Hald and Tornan talked to him this afternoon; they’ve convinced him that you’re insane and might contaminate the whole race with your progeny. The expedition expects to blast off tomorrow with you on board.”
Rorn smiled sardonically. “And you, the Psychologist, came here to warn me?”
“Perhaps I did it because I am the Psychologist—not in spite of it. I don’t mean to set myself up as more intelligent than the rest of the Expedition—we’re all supposed to be on the same intelligence level—but perhaps I have more of an insight into what is emotionally right and wrong than the rest of them. I’m convinced it is right for you to stay here; that’s why I came.”
Rorn scratched his towseled head. “Just what do you suggest, Clerid?”
“You know Noko’s personality better than I,” the other said. “What would happen if the rest of us were to leave and you were found hiding here later? Would Noko let you live?”
Rorn shrugged. “The Raalkaarians have little use for violence, but I don’t know just how far I could go. I’m willing to find out.”
“Good. Now, the next thing—where can you go?”
“I don’t know; Fara could tell me.”
“Can you get in touch with her tonight?”
Rorn snuffed out the candle and sat it just inside the door. “I think so,” he said. “Come on—let’s give it a try.”
l
FARA SHIVERED in the cool Raalkaarian night.
“Did your uncle wake up?” Rorn whispered.
“No—I don’t think so. I was still awake; besides, I would know your signal anywhere.”
Listening to them, Clerid felt a sensation that was almost paternal, although, even with his training, he was unable to identify it within himself. Quickly he and Rorn told the girl of Noko’s decision.
“When your people have finally gone,” she said, “I know it will be safe for us to come out of hiding. You can convince my uncle that you are well, and he will forgive us.”
“Wait, Fara,” Rorn said gently; “I’m looking for a safe place to hide myself, not you.”
Fara smiled. “You do not know our islands as I do; you would be found in a few hours if I left you alone. Remember, you are still a stranger here; you will never really be a Raalkaarian until the Dorjalans have gone back into the sky. Until then, I’m going to hide with you.”
Rorn would have protested further, but Clerid spoke up. “I think she’s right, Rorn. You’ll be happier in hiding if she’s with you, and not so apt to go nosing about and let them spot you. If Fara can find a good hidingplace, I think it would be safe for her to go, too.”
“I know the place,” the girl told them. “When I was a little girl, Noko and my father and mother lived on the island of Seryan, a few miles over the horizon. That was before Noko’s father died and he became chief of the tribe and we moved here to the big island where the chiefs are required to live.
“There are not many people on Seryan, and they’re mostly all located on the southern tip. At the other end, there is an almost unapproachable valley. Once, when I was still a child, I went on a fishing-trip with Noko and my father, a rare thing for a girl. We came near the valley and I asked Noko why no-one lived there. He told me it was because crops did not grow well there and the harbor is so poor. But I think there should be plenty of wild game, and I can fix much food from roots and berries.” She smiled up at the blond Dorjalan. “Now do you see how much you need me, my Rorn?”
Rorn put his arm around her gently, saying nothing.
“You don’t suppose your uncle will remember the place and expect you to go there?” Clerid asked.
“Of course not; old men pay little attention to the questions of children.”
“What about the harbor?” Rorn inquired.
“There are many rocks and whirlpools,” Fara admitted, “but I can steer a boat as well as any man.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Rorn said; “let’s get a boat from one of the moorings.”
THE THREE of them ran down to the beach where several small fishing boats lay squirming idly in the gentle surf, Clerid puffing to keep up with the younger pair.
Rorn grabbed one of the boats and steadied it while the Psychologist helped Fara aboard. As he lifted the lithe young body, the Dorjalan felt a strange feeling creeping over him. He could not have been more astounded if he had suddenly grown a third arm. His skin burned and his pulse quickened. There was an almost enjoyable ache in his groin; for the first time in his life, Clerid was feeling real, physical desire.
Rorn turned and faced him. “You’re a true friend, Clerid,” he said humbly, “and I mean that in the Raalkaarian sense of the word, not the Dorjalan.”
He clasped Clerid’s hand for a few seconds, then turned and took up one of the little craft’s two oars. The Psychologist stood for a long time on the sand, watching until they disappeared in the darkness. Then with a sigh he started walking slowly back in the direction of the spaceship.
4
THEIR FLIGHT to the neighboring island of Seryan had taken place so quickly and with so little forewarning, that neither Rorn nor Fara had stopped to think of just what might happen when two young people in love were forced to spend an indefinite time in such an isolated spot. It was on the afternoon following their arrival, after they had made the beginnings of a rude encampment, that the two youngsters experienced their first intimacy. There was no thought of seduction in the minds of either; they lay on the cool green grass of a forest edge beside a wide and peaceful river, talking as lightly as possible of their problems, when at last they slipped quietly into each other’s arms. For a few brief minutes the rest of the cosmos was forgotten . . .
If Rorn had found happiness on the planet of Raalkaar, that happiness was doubled, now that he and Fara were alone on Seryan Island. The young Dorjalan, although unaccustomed to the rigors of shifting for himself or providing for a mate, was strong, and what was more important, in love. Unobtrusively, for Raalkaarian women knew how to keep their men bewitched, Fara let him learn the secrets of catching murak and chiro, the two commonest four-footed animals on Raalkaar. With her own native culinary talents she prepared them, along with root and grass delicacies, and fed Rorn the most delectable food he had found on any world during his several years as a member of an exploring Expedition.
Except for brief hunting-forays, and abortive attempts to fish from Servan’s rocky coast, they had little. to do except talk and make love. Fara never tired of hearing of the many strange races and cultures Rorn had visited and the Dorjalan loved to watch the expressions on her tan face as he talked.
Finally, when Rorn’s store of adventures was exhausted at last, and they were looking for new diversions, they made little explorations up the ebon river into the thick jungle. Eventually, they discovered a small clearing that offered them more protection than their camp by the sea, and they moved there. The hunting in their new shelter was even better than in the old, and Fara was able to prepare Rorn even more delicious dishes than before.
Here she discovered a rare species of the hollow reed from which the Raalkaarians made their native flutelike instruments, and while Rorn was mastering the art of playing the device she would hum little tunes with him. He composed a poem, which he taught her, and she spent many evenings singing it for him as he played,
She sang of their cool, still river and their quiet jungle home, the bright sun of day, and the stars that basked it all in a silver-green glow at night. She could not understand the various allusions, and comparisons to other places Rorn had been, but the song was the song of all wanderers who have found at last the one place where they want to take root away from whatever civilization they might have left behind.
l
IT WAS NOT difficult for either Noko’s people or the Dorjalans to understand that Fara and Rorn had fled. The problem facing both factions was how the pair might have known of Noko’s decision, and during the many heated discussions of the subject aboard the Expedition’s ship Clerid had kept uncomfortably quiet.
The Dorjalans had discovered numerous unique problems in their explorations of other planets, but always before—through their superior intellect or the tools and weapons of their advanced culture—such problems had been overcome. Raalkaar had been the only one to present a serious obstacle. It was not a pleasant situation, and this last anti-climax had done nothing to improve the tense condition of the explorers. Supermen they might be, but stasis is the one frustration a superman cannot abide.
Despite Clerid’s violent objections, the rest had voted to delay blast-off indefinitely—until they could discover what had become of Rorn and Fara. Now, after weeks of fruitless searching and waiting, tempers were growing even shorter than before. During one meeting Keri brought this to the attention of the others.
“We’re beginning to argue and moan like a bunch of savages,” he said. “Before, I tended to be neutral; now I’ve a hunch that if we don’t get away from here soon, we might be permanently affected by this debacle. It may sound unbelievable that a group of intelligent, superior Dorjalans could be emotionally jarred like this, but . . .”
“You’re more right than you might imagine,” Clerid interrupted, seeing a chance to solve his problem at last. “Our behavior is a sign we’re becoming aberrated. I’ve a diagnosis, and all signs point to my being right.”
He turned to the Expedition’s doctor. “Tornan—just what are the properties of the Raalkaarian atmosphere?”
“Why, it’s somewhat similar to Dorjala’s. Predominately nitrogen and oxygen—about three percent water vapor, with traces of helium, ozone and a few lesser elements we’ve never catalogued before.”
“Would you say any of these gases are harmful to us?”
The doctor was angered. “Certainly not. We conducted extensive tests before anyone was allowed on the surface without a spacesuit; are you questioning my ability?”
Clerid laughed nervously. “Of course not. But have we ever encountered exactly the same proportion of gases on any other world we were able to explore without suits?”
“I’ve checked that,” Tornan said. “We haven’t; it would be most unusual to find exactly the same proportions—or even the same gases—on two different planets.”
“Then I have a suggestion. I think it’s possible that the particular combinations in Raalkaar’s atmosphere might be having a harmful effect on us. Would that be impossible?”
“N—no,” the doctor hesitated, “I suppose not. But it would be highly unlikely.”
