First Cycle, page 13
There was a piece of native farm machinery sitting just about in the center-a wheeled thing with a big fork, which looked as though it had been used to gather and bundle whatever the crop was. Vandro made up a few inventive new cursewords, when he suddenly realized that he had completely missed seeing the gadget from the air, and they must have missed it by no more than a couple of arm-widths.
A strip a hundred lances wide had already been cut through the field, extending from a distant clump of tall, tree-like fauna, past the ships, to the clump of buildings and smokestacks some three hundred lances in front of them. On either side, the crops were still standing. The plant looked like giant club-mosses, stalks two lances high and thick as a man's leg at the knee. Karnna picked up a half-burned bit of plant-detritus from the ground and sniffed at it. "Doesn't smell as though it had a very high sugar content"
she said. "Obviously carbon-oxygen-hydrogen, though. They might use the stuff for roughage for whatever kinds of herbivorous animals they raise, or--"
"Here they come!" Yssa said, pointing across the fields, then raising her binoculars.
There were four large trucks with boxy bodies, that looked like they were probably armed and armored, and ahead of them came two small open cars, each carrying half a dozen humanoid figures. One of the cars came on toward the grounded shuttle-craft, the other, and the trucks, began circling slowly around, at about two hundred lances. They didn't make any attempt to preserve any of the crop, but just plowed it under their wide wheels as they went.
Yssa had her glasses trained on the approaching open car. "Oh! They're horrible!" she cried. "They have no fur; just some hideous stuff like grass on their heads. And they're covered with clothing, all over, from what I can tell. The little bits of skin that are sticking out are green-gray, like a swamp-eel's."
"Restrain yourself, Yssa," Karnna said. "Remember, we probably look just as hideous to them."
"Ridiculous, Karnna," Yssa said. "Why, just look at them, and then look at us. Any unbiased person would have to admit that we're rather handsome people, and they're monsters."
The open car came to a stop just outside the triangle of the landing-craft. Four of the six occupants got out and stood talking for a moment. The driver remained in his seat, as did the one who sat beside him (her? Yssa wondered; she couldn't tell-all the ones she could see seemed to be of the same sex. They looked male, but she'd like to have seen a female for comparison), who was crouched behind something that looked like a heavy, rapid-fire gun.
The four who descended took off their belts and put them on the seats of the vehicle, and then advanced toward the Hetairans, their arms extended in front of them. Vandro nodded to himself, pleased. To lay aside weapons and approach with plainly empty hands seemed like an obvious peace-gesture to him; the fact that these natives thought so too was a sign that their mental processes were not totally unsimilar.
They had six fingers, the two outside ones thumbs, he noted, and made a small bet with himself that their mathematics would be based on a duodecimal system. Their faces were broad, with wide mouths and heavy jaws, bulging eyes and erect, pointed ears; but all the parts seemed to be in the right places. The most alien-looking thing about them was their body baldness-assuming it carried through under their clothing-and the strange stuff on their heads, which was definitely not fur. Yssa was right, despite-or, perhaps, because of-the great similarities in what one might call gross appearance, they did look pretty horrible.
The circling shuttle-craft came roaring down for one more pass, with the sound-maker on again, and the newcomers ducked their heads as one, although the puff of red smoke it released was a good five hundred lances over their heads. Dantro Fanzagarro, kneeling beside the radio transmitter, began reporting into it, and Lylla kept the television camera aimed at the delegation of Shining Sister's unpleasant-looking children.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
It was three sleep-periods later when the Successor-Controller and his entourage arrived at the Doroda Alcohol Center on Dudak. Before going out to look at the great ships that had landed in thenarga-field , they paused to refresh themselves after the journey-Krav-Torov didn't want to look tired or worn when meeting the aliens; probably the most important confrontation he'd have during his whole ministry.
His car headed the small convoy that left the distillery buildings and headed for the field ofnarga- stubble.
"Slower, Citizen Driver," he instructed as they entered the field, "and a little to the left; when we get closer, half-circle around them to give me a look at them."
"Obedience, Citizen Controller-Successor."
The car slowed, and Krav-Torov leaned across Harv-Sarov, on his right. The three space vehicles were ahead; great streamlined shapes in black and silver, larger than any aircraft ever built by the Organic State, at least three times as large as anything currently flying. They had huge jet engine pods on their triangular wings, with great air-intake scoops that looked as though they closed up for streamlining when they weren't in use. A cluster of rocket nozzles came out of the rear of the strange craft.
Much as their size impressed him, it didn't seem that they were large enough to carry sufficient fuel for the return trip. They could have had disposable tanks for the trip across, but if so they were obviously disposed of already. Scientists working on the problem for him had hypothesized that the reason why the earlier ship had not landed was that it could not have carried enough fuel to lift itself out of the gravity well and crossed space to its home planet again.
But a ship could carry enough fuel to reach a low orbit and return to the ground several times. Which meant that these ships had probably been launched from some gigantic space-travelling vehicle, which must even now be orbiting around his planet. If these, then, were indeed mere landing-craft, the thought of what the ship that carried them must be like awed him, as did the scientific and organizational abilities of its builders. These beings must certainly have some sort of an Organic State, probably one more highly developed than his own.
He had been worrying about the inadequacy of the troops available, and wishing that the Organie State, after the bloody extinction of its last rival, had not allowed its armed forces to deteriorate. But now he realized that no army that had ever been fielded on his planet, not even the forces which had marched to the conquest of Dudak in 2078, would have been of any use to him against the beings who had built these ships. The only hope for the survival of the Organic State lay in conciliation and avoidance of conflict-at least until the science of these aliens could be appropriated and applied.
The cars stopped at the edge of the triangle bounded by the three shuttle-craft, and everybody, even the drivers, got out and stared at the group around the tables that had been set up at the center. Krav-Torov spared a hasty glance at Skrov-Rogov, the supervisor of the Doroda Alcohol Center, and his assistants, and then turned his full attention to examining the aliens.
He had expected to find beings different from himself, but he was shocked at the extent of the difference.
These creatures were at least a head taller than any of his own race, and red in color. They wore leather trousers and vests, and short boots, and carried what looked like weapons at their belts. One of his race dressed that way would have looked scantily-clad, but these beings didn't. It was, perhaps, because of the body-covering of some kind of fine down which extended to every visible part of their anatomy. No, not down, he corrected himself as he approached the tables; it was finer, as fine as the nap of velvet. The color was not uniform. One of them had a pinkish splash across its flat-nosed, triangular-eared face; another, scarlet elsewhere, was almost white under its chin.
They were, he was suddenly startled to notice, missing a thumb on each hand. It would have been the under-thumb when the two hands were extended and clasping each other. He also noted differences between the aliens in physical structure, which were almost certainly secondary sexual characteristics.
Like his own race, these aliens would seem to be gamogenetically-reproducing mammals. That was reassuring; it promised a common psychological base. Although, he reminded himself, the ability to understand another's psychology did not necessarily equate with the ability to get along. Thesvarps were gamogenetically-reproduced mammals, of whom there was a folk-saying, "As dirty and disgusting as asvarp."
This party seemed to consist of four males and four females. He wondered, idly, which was the dominant sex.
The aliens had set up quite a bit of apparatus around the field, and Krav-Torov examined it as best he could as he strode toward the central tables. There was what looked like a portable radio. One of the males was beside it, talking into the hand-phone. A large, angular, plastic or painted-metal box with a wide lens in its face sat on a heavy tripod. A female was keeping it pointed toward him and his party.
Some sort of camera, he supposed, and then realized with a start that, for all he knew, it could be a deadly weapon. There were a few more metal or plastic boxes, studded with dials, levers, and knobs; two of them had large screens which glowed with bluish light and on which pictures shifted.
The tops of the two tables were littered with pads of paper and books, and what looked like oversized photograph-folios. To the left of the tables was a big, white plastic board, on its own stand something like an artist's easel. There were drawings on it; diagrams of some sort "done in colored grease-pencil. One of Skrov-Rogov's subordinates and one of the alien females seemed to have been using it to explain something to each other.
When Citizen Successor-Controller Krav-Torov reached the tables in the middle of the triangle, Supervisor Skrov-Rogov and the rest of his party rose from their seats, and the one who had been trying to converse with the alien female put down his grease-pencil. They all gave him the Organicist salute and bowed deeply, holding the bow for perhaps an exaggerated length of time, following Skrov-Rogov's lead, to show the aliens the importance of their visitor. The aliens stared at this happening, and then spoke to each other in queer, high-pitched voices. No doubt, Krav-Torov thought, they were trying to decide just how important he was among his own kind.
"Tell them, Skrov-Rogov," he said, "tell them who I am."
Skrov-Rogov turned to the alien male he had been talking to. "Name Krav-Torov," he said, indicating the Successor-Controller. "Big high man for all people this world."
The alien advanced toward Krav-Torov, grimacing in what was probably his version of a friendly smile.
Krav-Torov resisted the urge to take a step backward with each step the alien took forward.
"Name Vandro Hannaro," the alien said, slowly and carefully, and only slightly squeaky. "People my world friends people your world. Your world, my world, sisters; your people, my people, sisters' children."
Krav-Torov looked at Skrov-Rogov with respectful surprise. To have taught these aliens so much of the language in the few days since their arrival had been a considerable feat. He made a mental note to have Citizen Skrov-Rogov's brain-cell category revised upward very sharply.
He tapped himself on the chest. "Name Krav-Torov. My world glad people your world come," he said.
"Your world, my world, good friends always. Learn much from each other. Welcome."
"We learn much, your world. We want know all, your world. We work much time, come your world,"
the alien said. He gestured toward the screens with the glowing pictures. "Learn much, much to learn."
Krav-Torov turned toward the screens and stepped closer, so he could make out the pictures. 'One was a view of the country around Doroda Alcohol Center, as seen from about three kilometers overhead; the point-of-view was shifting slowly, circling around the complex. The other screen showed a magnification of the scene in the first. In it he could see the three great shuttle-craft, and the grouped tables and chairs, and the equipment, and the people and aliens inside the triangle. He could even make himself out, staring at the screen. Then the scene in the magnified image drifted, and the cars in which he had arrived came into view on one side, to move off the other, followed by the armored trucks, the stand of unharvestednerga- plants, and then the massed infantry and combat-vehicles and artillery deployed a league and a half away, waiting on his word. All of this, in plain sight on this strange screen!"
"Citizen Skrov-Rogov," he said, working to keep his voice calm, casual. "What sort of devices are those screens!"
"It seems to be a thing like radio, Citizen Successor-Controller," Skrov-Rogov answered, "except that it transmits pictures instead of sound. We don't know enough of each other's languages yet for them to explain it in any technical way, but that's the basic idea: That box over there, with the lens set into the front, is picking up what's happening here and sending the pictures, in continuous motion, to another spacecraft circling overhead. And that one, in turn, is sending views of the, ah, countryside."
Wonderful! Krav-Torov thought. If we make one hostile move, every alien on the planet not only knows about it, but sees pictures of it. Then the bombs begin to fall. He wondered what sort of bombs they'd be-explosive, fire, poison gas, strange disintegrating rays, little puffs of smoke that turn us into vegetables? Vran only knew which of the endless possibilities.
Krav-Torov took a deep breath. "You have done well, Citizen Skrov-Rogov," he said. "You will turn the management of your farms and distillery over to your immediate subordinate. I'm ordering you immediately re-classified to Category Four. From now on, you'll maintain contact with these beings, and coordinate the work of exchanging linguistic and other information with them. You will follow such directives as you are from time to time given, always keeping in mind that your prime directive is to gain and hold the friendship of these beings at any cost. Have you got that?"
"Yes, Citizen Successor-Controller."
"Remember," Krav-Torov said, stepping close to Skrov-Rogov and dropping his voice to a whisper.
"Gain their trust. Make friends with them.
Learn their language. Learn their technology. Call on what expert help you need. The resources of the State are yours. Steady increasing success will be rewarded."
"Yes, Citizen Successor-Controller."
"There is a corollary that I don't think we need discuss," Krav-Torov continued. "And that is the price of failure."
"I understand, Citizen Successor-Controller."
Mysterious and deep is the Mind of Vran! Strange and secret are the thoughts of Vran! Incomprehensible are the ways of Vran! Skrov-Rogov repeated this litany to himself piously. How had the Hand of Vran worked to single him out this way! His transfer to Doroda Alcohol Center had actually been a demotion. He had held a much better position at Urava, in the central office of the Bureau of Agrarian Industry Control, until a superior had made an outrageous blunder and had needed a scapegoat.
At the time Skrov-Rogov had thought himself lucky not to have been amputated; it never occurred to him to harbor any bitterness about what was plainly a legitimate act of bureaucratic self-defense. He would have done the same, had their positions been reversed.
Now, having tried his loyalty to the machinery of the State, behold how Vran had rewarded him! That he should be given the credit for the fact that these aliens had developed a superb system for teaching and learning languages seemed every bit as just as that he should bear the blame for his superior's idiocy.
Skrov-Rogov soon found himself as the Deputy-Controller in charge of the Agency for Communications With and Technological Studies Of the Visitors from the Horizon Object. It was set up as a regular Control Bureau in miniature. Using the authority given him by the Citizen Successor-Controller, he took over what had been the country estate of one of the wealthy landowners of the old Dudakan Confederacy, now a rest-resort for upper-category brain-cells, and converted it into lodgings for the aliens and headquarters for himself and his assistants. A landing-field for the aliens' shuttlecraft was provided, and the entire company of the orbiting mother-ship, at one time or another, came down to visit.
There were bitter power.-struggles with brain-cells of greater tenure or higher category than his own, but Skrov-Rogov had a good grounding in bureaucratic infighting, and he managed to keep control of his agency. With the Citizen Successor-Controller solidly behind him, he had his own brain-cell category revised upward twice, getting a special waiver of time-in-category from the Committee on Grants and Waivers. This was deemed necessary, not only for his own status, but so that he might have authority over the high-category specialists that were assigned to his agency.
He contrived that everything learned from the Outsiders must pass over his desk, that the different specialists were kept in ignorance of the details of each other's work, and that the extent to which Vandro Hannaro and the other aliens participated in the work was kept to a minimum. The Outsiders were, to the greatest extent possible, to be amused rather than informed; and they were to teach rather than be taught.
He also made sure that the area was surrounded by a high fence, and kept under constant guard.
Whenever any of the Outsiders left it, they were always attended by members of the Organic State Police-to protect them from embarrassment and annoyance, he explained, because there was considerable fear of them and resentment of them among the more ignorant people. This, of course, would pass away in time; but for the present- The only trouble with this explanation was that the Outsiders refused to understand. The concept of the ignorant public was one Skrov-Rogov was weaned on: the body-cells, the working mass, the serfs. But the Outsiders persisted in thinking he was referring to feeble-minded or organically brain-damaged people, and wondering why they were allowed to roam around. Won't they hurt themselves? And this problem did not lessen as time passed. It almost seemed as if, as communication between the races improved, mutual incomprehension increased.
Skrov-Rogov almost collided with Harv-Sarov, a priest and professor at the Sacred University of Urava, as he emerged from the main doorway of the Outsiders' Guest House. They snarled angrily at one another, and then, as mutual recognition dawned, apologized, laughing ruefully.
