Adventures on Other Planets

by Donald A. Wollheim

  Ris’s webs spread and re-folded in a gesture of nervousness. It was rare for the freedom of speech to be given except in full audience—but it was a signal honour, all the same.*

  He said, “May it please you, there is the question of the human in the forest.”

  Lattimer froze into startled immobility. This was impossible! There wasn’t another man within two hundred miles, except the maintence crew across the ridge, and they did not venture alone from their own colony. He kept his face carefully mask-like while he answered with an affected air of boredom. “What of him?7'

  “He has remained in one place by himself for a day and part of a day—so long as it would take the time-tree’s shadow to reach from the first to the fourth mark. We cannot understand his words, and he will not leave his place.”

  God almighty, thought Lattimer—and the concept brought a wry smile to his eyes, though it got no further—a man out alone in the forest. Where the hell did he come from? More important—what was he doing?

  Aloud, he said, “You have brought him offerings?” "Assuredly. Even such as we have brought to you.”

  He wouldn’t starve, then. "There is no need to do more,” he added aloud, his mind working furiously. He didn't dare disrupt the standard cycle of an audience day. First there was the audience itself, and he had gathered prior word that there was a long case to hear. Then he had told Chief Miglaun that he wished to survey the new plantings of curra and paplet in the paddies to the west of the village. Then there was the fact that this made the fourth rain in three days, and the levee surrounding those fields was none too strong. He couldn’t get away before nightfall, in. all likelihood, and the natives wouldn’t stir out into the forest once it was dark.

  But equally, he couldn’t leave a man out there. Maybe, if the stranger was carrying a radio pack, he could contact him, but as far as locating him went, it would be chancy homing in the forest on a weak signal. The static build-up would be partially released by this rain, but the prospect was far from good.

  Well, if the worst came to the worst, he reasoned, he could postpone the inspection of the fields on the grounds that his brother wished to confer with him.

  “I thank you, Ris,” he said. “Your concern for my brother is well-meant, though of course needless. Perhaps I shall visit him this day.”

  Seal-black, moving with the sinuous grace of a seal, Ris retreated down the hill towards the village. Lattimer closed the door and stood leaning against it. Now what in hell was he in for? Wasn’t it bad enough just being here and running the place—?

  He picked up the basket and transferred its contents to the food-cupboard. Absently, he selected the best of the paplets and dropped it in the cleaner to be readier for his breakfast. Then he put on his best breeches and slicker, and a pair of thigh boots—the mud would be somewhere around knee-level after this rain. He combed his beard, wishing that someone would invent an everlasting razor-blade, or better yet, a depilatory which didn’t make his face sore, and trimmed off a few untidy wisps of hair behind his ears. All this time his mind was working over the problem of who the stranger might be.

  In the middle of breakfast he got up from his chair and tried the locator on his radio. The rain had only discharged part of the static from the overcast, and sighting was bad, but he got some sort of blip from a spot almost five miles off in the forest—on a rough line to the spaceport and not far from the pegging-ground where he’d split the last jume. It was very faint, but it looked sufficiently like the emanation from a tired personal beacon to make him sure of his estimate.

  That was bad. There was nothing on the communicating band—only the continuous weather call from the port, dimmed by the mountains. Either the stranger hadn’t got a talkie, or he was tired of trying to get an answer—or he was afraid of getting an answer.

  If his last guess was right, he was headed for a whole load of trouble.

  He glanced at the clock and saw with a start that he was already a minute late for audience. He shut off the locator and made for the door, only to stop, face about and come back hastily for his blaster. It would never do to attend an audience without his power-symbol. And it was a measure of his agitation that he had forgotten.

  The audience was held in the centre of the village near the time-tree which had been one of his first jobs when he arrivd. He had got tired of having no standard of time by which to arrange his meetings with the natives, though they weren’t worried by it. So he had installed a tree and put rings around it, designing them carefully so that the faint, dim shadow cast by the big bright blur that was the sun would intersect them at easily identifiable times. It was a chancy, fallible system but it was rare for the sun to be so blotted out by the overcast that it was quite impossible for a shadow to be detected. And it had the great point of complete nonmechanism in its favor.

  He arrived, walking slowly as soon as he came in sight, to find the elders of the village already assembled. Ris, he noticed, was receiving glances of envy from his neighbors. He must have spread the word that he had been granted free speech with Lattimer at rising time.

  Lattimer hid his smile and took his place on a small dais before the council square with the slow dignity befitting a man. He said, “Let Chief Miglaun stand forth."

  In the front row of squatting natives, the chief slid forward lithely. He said, “May it please you, we have two disputes among us.”

  “I will hear them," nodded Lattimer. He frowned with the effort of concentration. It was a difficult task keeping his mind on the petty squabbles of these people when there was a man loose in the forest. It was not what the natives might do that worried him—it was what the man might do. He could upset quite a lot of things, not least himself.

  The first case proved easily resolvable. He had in fact settled an identical dispute some months before, but the natives had not yet reached the stage of judging by precedent. For them, life was still one long today.

  When the parties had stated their claims in the matter of the disputed land-trade, he gave judgment without hesitation.

  The second case was the one he had expected for some weeks. One of the chief s egg-sibs was involved, which made it inevitable that it would in time be passed out of the tribal jurisdiction to the court of final appeal—that was himself. Nonetheless, the chief had put up a steady fight to have it resolved in favor of his sib, and Lattimer thought he detected a slight air of displeasure in the attitude of the elders. He gave himself up to the tangles of the law with almost heartfelt relief. The necessity for passing judgment meant that he had no chance to make up his mind about the stranger—yet.

  Have to do something about old Miglaun, he reflected. It’s bad for tribal discipline to find fault with their chief, but if he tries to drag in nepotism I’ll have to depose him.

  The case dragged on. The rain lightened and let up. The shadow, faint though it was, of the time-tree reached the sixth and final mark and began to drift back. While he listened to the evidence, Lattimer made his decision. This was going to be tough on Miglaun, but it was his own fault. He had got himself the chieftaincy by a bit of sharp practice in the first place, and the flurry of electing a new one would give Lattimer a respite from the proposed tour of inspection. That meant he could slip out into the forest, taking a couple of non-partisans—say Ris and Flaokh, the two Awakeners, who could not meddle in politics because of their religious office. They would be able to put him in touch with the stranger easily enough.

  He stood up from his chair. Instantly the natives stopped their wrangling and looked at him expectantly.

  He mustered an expression of disdain and contempt. “You will find a new chief,” he said shortly. “Chief Miglaun has tried to sway my judgment from the path of justice with fair words on behalf of his egg-sib, thinking that I will pay more heed to his sayings than to those of a common member of the clan. Be it known that this is not so. In my ears have the words of an honest commoner more weight than those of a partial chief. This case may be restated when M
iglaun no longer has the garb of chieftaincy to color his evidence. I have spoken.”

  A wonderful idea in theory, thought Lattimer wryly. He wished it could be more genuinely applied. Then he looked tensely around the circle of elders to see if his words had met with approval. They would be carried out regardless, of course—he had “spoken”—but it was as well to keep the goodwill of the elders. With a faint stirring of relief he noticed that they all relaxed together. That was what they wanted, then.

  He added. "The audience is adjourned until there is a new chief. Ris!”

  The senior Awakener shuffled forward through the crowd.

  “I desire that you and Flaokh, whom I have debaired from chieftaincy in view of your high office in my service, shall accompany me now that I go to confer with my brother in the forest. Is it well?”

  “It is well,” said Ris, his webs furling and unfurling as if he was trying to convey his surprise and delight simultaneously.

  It took Lattimer only a few minutes to check that the blip he had caught on the locator was still in the same place, and to make sure that the drizzle of the rain had not damped the magazine of his blaster. His best clothes would have to do for this trip—the election of the chief might go through smoothly for once, one never knew, and he might have to recommence the audience at short notice.

  Then there came a hesitant tapping at the door again, and he opened it and went out to find Ris and Flaokh waiting on the stoep. He said, “Is it well?”

  “It is well,” the Awakeners replied in chorus.

  "Then come with me.”

  He set a brisk but not undignified pace with which the natives had little trouble in keeping up. The path they were to take led them past the fields he had intended to survey, and he noted with a slight frown that the levee was not doing so well as he had hoped. The incessant rain had pulped the tough bark of the stanchions into softness, and that meant a new working party out here tomorrow. He couldn’t spare them today, of course. In some ways it was a pity at times like this that he had insisted on all adult members of the tribe attending audiences and elections and taking part in tribal affairs, but it would set a useful precedent at later stages of their development.

  Beside him, the two natives kept silence, except for the splashing of their feet in the wet earth. He hoped devoutly that he wouldn’t have to ask them for guidance—the ability of one man to talk to another across miles of country was one of the deepest-rooted of their articles of faith. Unfortunately, since the stranger either had no talkie or was using none, he had to rely on the only too fallible locator trace.

  After a while he condescended to relax a little, and said. “Whom do the people say shall be the next chief?”

  Ris, flapping his webs, answered. “It will be most likely Chinsel. People remember the commendation you gave him for his planning of the paddies. It was even as you said: his work was of a standard that would not have shamed a man."

  Lattimer considered. It was good to find that they were coming to recognize administrative ability, and it was quite true that Chinsel had shown a remarkable intuitive grasp of engineering requirements in his design for the levee. Of course, it had had to be strengthened three times in as many months, but that was to be expected, and certainly it was praiseworthy to succeed as well as that with no more than hints by way of guidance from Lattimer.

  Ris appeared to think he had been over-bold in comparing Chinsel to a man, even in view of his privileged position. He fell behind slightly, and allowed Flaokh to come up beside Lattimer. The party continued in silence.

  In the light gravity the man had the advantage of making fast time where the ground was firm, but where it had melted into mud the natives made that up, and they took barely an hour to reach the spot at which the blip had shown. Lattimer mentally crossed his fingers. If the man had moved, he would have a lot of difficulty explaining why he could not find him.

  They crossed the pegging-ground where the monstrous carcass of the last jume to come marauding through this part of the country lay stretched out on its wooden frame. Beneath it the little pottery jars which caught the valuable secretions from its five major glands were almost full, and he made a mental note to have them collected. The natives’ metabolism had not yet come under serious study, and the existence of a natural source of antibiotics for them was not to be overlooked. The forty-foot bulk of the monster had shrunk slightly, but it would take another month for its flesh to become soft enough for the natives to carve it up and bury it.

  They skirted the body. On the far side of the clearing a faint trail showed between the trees, and Lattimer followed it optimistically. As it turned out, he was correct in his choice. Only a few yards further on three baskets of offerings lay untouched at the mouth of a friendly-palm, whose matted leaves formed a sort of vegetable cavern ten feet deep.

  The natives drew back in awe and hesitation. Lattimer told them to come forward and not to be afraid. He raised his voice and called in the native language, “Come forth, brother!"

  There was a cautious stirring at the mouth of the palm, and a man looked out from between the leaves. At the sight of the natives he drew back, cursing.

  “Is the human angry?” demanded Ris anxiously. “Have we offended him? We have brought him only such gifts as you have accepted."

  Lattimer motioned him to silence. “I shall now speak to him in the human tongue,” he said quietly. “I shall find the reason for my brothers displeasure.”

  Brother, he thought. Egg-sib was the only translation of its exact meaning—but somehow, though he accepted the precise semantic equivalent mentally when thinking of the monosexual natives, he still clung to the human aspect when he referred to another man.

  The two natives shied at mention of the holy language, and scuttered to the edge of the clearing. “AZJo/" said Lattimer in International. “Kis 6 tu? O 6 amik!"

  Again the face appeared. It was dirty. It bore a ten-day-old beard that was matted and untidy. Its eyes were tired and inflamed. Lattimer was profoundly glad that Ris and Glaokh had never seen any down-and-outs from whom they might have drawn conclusions about this specimen of man.

  He saw Lattimer, and instantly a blaster was poking through the gap in the foliage. The natives saw the power-symbol and rejoiced aloud, keeningly.

  “Ne tir!” said Lattimer sharply. “Kesk6 tu fas, ne tir!" He searched the other's face for some sign of understanding. Apparently he didn’t speak International, though it was the safest bet. He tried English, and repeated, “Don’t shootl Whatever you do, don’t shoot!”

  “So you do talk human,” said the stranger sullenly. He lowered the blaster and stepped to the mouth of the cavern. Lattimer looked him up and down.

  “You’ve had a rough time of it,” he said evenly. “What was the trouble?”

  The stranger appeared to be considering. Then he holstered the blaster reluctantly. His clothes were badly tom—Lattimer guessed he had stumbled into a zareba bush somewhere—and his arms and legs were marked with its scratches. He said, “What are those things? Pets?”

  Lattimer hid his surprise. “They’re my Awakeners,” he said. “A couple of senior officials from my village. It’s only five miles back that way. I can offer you food and clothes and a bath. And something for those scratches of yours.”

  The other did not appear to have heard the last part of the statement. He was gazing incredulously at the natives. At length he laughed briefly. "Senior officials, you call them! They look like a couple of performing seals to me.”

  “They do, don’t they?” agreed Lattimer. "By the way, my name’s Lattimer. I’m a Resident, as you must have guessed.” '

  "Can’t see anyone dropping in on this place for more than a quick look-see,” said the other. “Name’s—Tomson. Jim Tomson.”

  Lattimer failed to comment on the hesitation. “You can’t stay here,” he said reasonably. "I’m afraid it’ll be some time before the next car from the port looks in on my place, but I can let you have a guide to
the foot of the ridge, if you like, and the next Resident along will see you through the rest of the way. How come you’re here, anyway?”

  Tomson hesitated again. “Came with a group of prospectors,” he said finally. "I mislaid the rest of the party. I expect there’ll be a search out for me.”

  “I suppose so,” said Lattimer calmly. He turned and made for the narrow path back through the forest. After a pause, Tomson fell into step with him.

  He said nothing until they reached the pegging-ground. Then the sight of the monstrous carcase of the jume made him catch his breath, and he asked with an edge of fear on his voice, “Is that thing—dangerous?”

  “It was,” said Lattimer. He gave quick directions to Ris to pick up the jars beneath the frame and replace them with new ones.

  “Are there—many of those things?” Tomson added.

  “Not around here. That was the first we’d had in nearly four months,” said Lattimer casually. “They’re a bit of a problem further south. They’re so mindless they don’t object to a blaster and tough enough to take any kind of a bullet without noticing. The natives catch them in dead-falls and starve them to death—they have a faster metabolism than most creatures on the planet. Takes about three days to finish them.”

  With commendable sense, Flaokh had thrown the stale offerings out of one of the baskets nearby and packed the jars full of jume secretion in soft moss. He announced their readiness to Lattimer, and the party set out again. Tomson cast awed glances over his shoulder as they left the pegging-ground.

  “I was lucky I didn’t meet one of those things while I was out here,” he ventured. “Or I wouldn’t have lasted long.” He tried a chuckle which died on him.

  Lattimer turned an unsmiling face to him. “It’s nothing to joke about,” he said soberly. “A jume is very careless about the way it kills people. It tends to break them up and leave them to die. Human beings interfere with its digestion.”

  Tomson turned his eyes firmly to the trail ahead.

  They left Ris and Flaokh at the village, and continued up towards the Residency, which stood on the only piece of fairly high ground within miles. It was common to find such a spot chosen—perhaps the natives subconsciously assumed when building them that the men from beyond the sky wanted to be as near home as possible. Here Lattimer fetched out his first-aid kit, swabbed the scratches on Tomson s arms and legs with surgical spirit, and spread them with a tissue regenerant.