The Dancers of Noyo

by Margaret St. Clair

  "Put him in the sweathouse. He'll be OK in a few hours."

  "Can't. These two"—he indicated Franny and me—"are supposed to be kept by themselves."

  "Oh, that's all right. They won't be going back there." I thought it was an ominous remark.

  The Gualala Dancer was standing on a platform above the dance floor with the usual whip in its hand. It looked exactly like the Dancer at Noyo. Nobody was dancing. The whole tribe, even the dogs and babies, seemed to have turned out for our trial. All the men my age were wearing dance shirts. I saw welts on a lot of backs and ribs.

  Franny and I were forced through the crowd into a spot in front of the Dancer. Two more men joined our jailers, each with a heavy blanket over his arm, and stood directly behind Franny and me. I suppose the blankets were to be used to silence us if we started to say anything the Mandarins wouldn't want said.

  The Dancer switched its whip thoughtfully. "What's the charge against these people?" it asked in its fruity voice.

  "Endangering the comfort and security of a Dancer," a man said from the dance floor. As soon as he spoke I knew he was one of the chemical-conscience people, and after I looked at him a minute I thought I recognized him. He was the man who had tried to make me take the Greek coin at Point Arena.

  "I'd like to ask a question," I said. "Who decides whether or not we're guilty?"

  "I do," said the Dancer.

  "Who passes sentence on us?" I asked.

  "I do," said the Dancer.

  "I demand to be tried according to tribal law," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "It's completely illegal for a tribesman to have that kind of a trial. Whoever heard of being judged and sentenced by the, unh, person you're supposed to have wronged?"

  "Tribal law doesn't apply in cases where the charge is endangering a Dancer," the chemical-conscience man put in officiously and precisely. He gave me a nasty little smile.

  Well, I hadn't expected it to work. I glanced at Franny. She looked remarkably calm, considering. She was frowning a little, and her eyes were closed.

  Suddenly I was invaded by an irresistible wave of randy thoughts. It was astonishing, given the circumstances; and the portion of my personality that was still unsubmerged by libido felt blank amazement. I couldn't understand where it was all coming from. After a moment I decided Franny must be doing it.

  Actually, it was partly the datura and partly my earlier regrets about Franny, though her mental activity at the moment did have a lot to do with it. But I jumped to the conclusion that she was trying to use her ESP on the Dancer, to make it perceive death as the acme, the culmination, of bodily enjoyment (death as orgasm, you see), and I decided I ought to cooperate with her in the attempt.

  It was an unwarranted conclusion, certainly. But the datura was still affecting my thinking; and besides that, I was most reluctant to give up the idea of being able to manipulate the Dancer psychologically. I couldn't see any other hope for Franny and me.

  So, while the chemical-conscience man waited for me to reply to his last remark, I struggled to attach some of my superabundant desire to the idea of death, and project the whole package out to the Dancer. I furrowed my forehead, held my breath, bore down with my diaphragm, and went through all the other thought-projection tricks Pomo Joe had taught me. I hardly noticed that I wasn't making contact with Franny's mind. I had other things to think of.

  It didn't work. Thought projection has never been my forte, and though Bennet had certainly had a death-wish, I certainly didn't. I wanted to get out of my ropes, make a concupiscent dive at Franny and, desire satisfied, be on our way. I couldn't make the idea of death psychologically acceptable to myself. It was just unpleasant. I found myself wondering whether the Dancer was really "it" or "he". Though I'd seen the embryonic Dancers naked in O'Hare's growing tanks, I couldn't for the life of me remember what their anatomy had been.

  I was looking hard at the Dancer, trying to concentrate on my projection, and it was looking back at me. Finally it said, irritation showing through its fruity tones, "What are you staring at me like that for? Haven't you ever seen a Dancer before? You know, you're on trial for your life."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stare at you. Matter of fact, I was looking at the welts on the backs of your young men. They seem to have been lashed quite a lot."

  The Dancer grunted. "What's it to you? That's the tribe's affair."

  "I suppose so," I said. "But do you ever have any fatalities? Some of those welts are pretty severe. Or would your people consider dying in pursuit of the sunbasket vision a good death?"

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man who was standing behind me with the blanket make a tentative movement toward me and then relax. The tribesmen shuffled uneasily. Several young men looked at each other significantly. The chemical-conscience man was smiling a really nasty smile, presumably because he liked the notion of people being whipped to death. Well, I had spoken as I had to put the theme of a good death into the Gualala Dancer's mind. If I also made the younger people dissatisfied with their lot, so much the better.

  The Dancer rubbed its chin. "What's the matter with you?" it said. "Do you want me to give my verdict now?"

  Its chemically controlled adviser leaned toward it and whispered something in its ear. "Oh," said the Dancer, as if enlightened. "So that's it. Well, let's get on with the trial."

  Presumably the man from Point Arena had told the Gualala Dancer about the datura I had drunk. Somebody said, "Call the first witness." I listened through an increasing fog.

  The randy thoughts had withdrawn as suddenly as they had come. And, now that they had gone, I was prey to an overwhelming lassitude. I no longer felt the ropes I was tied with. I let my head droop forward on my chest. For the next few minutes, I think I slept.

  Dimly I recognized that this was no time for slumber, and kept trying to wake myself. When I finally managed it, after a number of somnolent attempts, the trial seemed well under way. Apparently one of the Mallo Pass Avengers had just been giving testimony, for he was walking away from the spot in front of the Dancer.

  "And that's what implicates him?" the Dancer asked, pointing at me.

  "That's right," said his adviser. "He interfered with tribal justice, you see." I gathered that the Avenger's testimony had dealt with my unchaining Francesca from the rock. "It's a serious charge."

  "Was she tried according to tribal law?" I put in.

  The chemical-conscience man looked at me slantingly. "Tribal law doesn't apply in cases involving the comfort and security of a Dancer," he said. "I told you that before. You might as well go back to sleep, if that's the best you can do."

  "OK," I said. "But I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear. I'm not afraid of dying. In fact, I rather hope the Dancer does find me guilty, and does pronounce sentence of death. Death seems to me the richest, the finest, the most beautiful, thing in life." I almost held my breath as I said it; if anything could trigger the Dancer's theoretical death-wish, it would be words like these. It was the moment of truth.

  I don't know what I expected the Dancer to do. It didn't do anything. For a moment it stared at me. Its body smell came to me in waves. "Death isn't rich or beautiful at all," it said finally. "I suppose you're talking like that because you think I'll refrain from sentencing you to death if I think you want to die. Either that, or you're crazy. Eh, Bill?"

  "That's right," said the chemical-conscience man. "If he's going to talk pure nonsense, we'd better gag him again." They both glared at me.

  That was all. No death-wish, no nothing. I felt flat and empty. The idea had always been a silly one, and I had clung to it only because I could think of nothing better. But now what was I to do?

  I glanced at Franny. She was looking thoroughly puzzled, as well she might. Then her face cleared. Evidently she had figured out what my motive had been in speaking as I had. She began to frown.

  She shook her head very slightly. She was telling me that I had mistaken her meaning. I must look
elsewhere for help than to a Dancer's suppositious death-wish. It was something else.

  -

  Chapter XXI

  It was beginning to get dark. They would have to bring in torches soon, or light the wood that was piled up beside where the Dancer was standing. I wondered fleetingly whether I might be able to make a break for freedom in the gathering darkness, and decided against it. There were too many tribesmen between me and safety, and besides I wouldn't try to escape without Franny. Her head was sagging discouragedly.

  What had she meant when she had painfully spelled out "Bennet" and then "Dancer"? A connection between them certainly existed, but it wasn't Bennet's death-wish, as I had assumed at first. The Dancers had been grown from his body cells, which had been affected by an interaction between Bennet's own immunological apparatus and the virus of bone-melt cancer. Had his cells been, finally, a little like lichens? Lichens, I had read once in a botany textbook, were dual organisms, the result of an association between a fungus, which gave the lichen shape, and an alga, which supplied it with chlorophyll. If the virus had become an actual, necessary component of Bennet's body, his euphoria in the face of death might be accounted for. But I didn't see the relevance of any of this to our present fix.

  I kept on trying to puzzle it out. But thinking was hard for me; my thoughts came slowly, remote and sluggish, and I found I resented it when some piece of testimony rose above the general drone and caught my attention. I wanted to drowse undisturbed while the trial went on. I knew how dangerous this tendency was, and resisted it. But it was there.

  It was startling to me, almost shocking, when Franny raised her head and spoke. "I'm on trial for my life too," she said. "Instead of your listening to what a bunch of Mallo Pass Avengers have to say, I think you ought to hear what happened from my own mouth."

  Was there a very slight emphasis on the word "mouth"? I couldn't be sure. "It depends on whether or not your account is relevant," the Dancer said to her after an instant. "I'm not here to listen to a lot of tosh."

  "How can you tell whether or not it's relevant unless you hear me?" Francesca said. Her voice was picking up a certain, ringing, almost clarion quality, and I saw the man with the blanket who was standing behind her shift his feet uneasily. "How can you call this a fair trial if the defendant isn't allowed to speak? You ought to hear what happened from my mouth." Again there was—or was there?—that faint emphasis on the word "mouth".

  "Well, I suppose I might listen to you for a while," said the Dancer in its fruity, fluting tones. "Don't go too far back, though. Begin with when you were chained to the rock, in accordance with the Mallo Pass Dancer's decision."

  "That's pretty far along in what happened," Franny said, "but OK.

  "I was chained to the rock, waiting to be drowned, when Sam McGregor, who was going by, heard me and came down off the road to rescue me."

  "He heard you on the road?" Bill, the chemical-conscience man, interrupted in his precise, finicking way. "How could that be? Your voice wouldn't carry that far."

  "I don't know how he could hear me," Franny answered, "but he did. He's a medicine man, you know." Had she accented the word "medicine" a little? "He got me loose somehow—I was too stiff and cold from being in the water so long to help myself—and back on dry land, on the hillside. Then—"

  "I don't see the relevance of all of this," the Dancer said impatiently. "We've already heard witnesses testify that McGregor interfered with tribal justice ... Somebody light that fire. It's getting dark out here."

  Nobody moved to obey him, and Franny continued, "If you'll listen, you'll see that this is relevant. Sam's being a medicine man made him want to save me, and the things he gave me out of his medicine bag are important too."

  "Why?" the Dancer asked.

  "They just are. This is important. He has all sorts of things in his medicine bag."

  This time there was no possible doubt of the emphasis. It wasn't marked enough to rouse suspicion, but I was familiar with Franny's patterns of speech, and she didn't usually talk like that. She was trying to tell me something, something about the things in my medicine bag. Something about Bennet's mouth too, perhaps, but I couldn't be sure of that.

  "Put her gag back on," the Gualala Dancer said abruptly. "She's trying to slow down the trial, that's all." He reached out and flicked her around the waist with his whip. "Dylan, light that fire at once. It's getting dark."

  This time he was obeyed. The fire blazed up, with a resinous crackling, and my poor girl was gagged again with the same old piece of dirty cloth. Her eyes were bright above the gag and she was looking directly at me, willing me—I felt—to understand.

  And I didn't. I couldn't think what she might have meant. "Mouth" must refer to Bennet's mouth, from which the original tissue culture for the Dancers had come. But what was the connection with the things in my bag? The bag itself was hanging down my back, and I could almost touch it with the tips of my fingers. There wasn't any difficulty about that. But what had Franny meant to tell me about it?

  I enumerated the things in the bag mentally. It held six or eight packets of herbs, a few loose mescal buttons, a rattle, an elderwood whistle, a piece of snakeskin, and a copper disk supposed to be used for scrying.

  Most of these could be eliminated as useless at once: the rattle, the whistle and the piece of snakeskin were primarily for magical purposes. If I could force the Dancer to ingest a few mescal buttons, it might or might not get intoxicated on them. And if I could make it look into the copper disk, it might dislike seeing its own face.

  The herbs? They were curative rather than poisonous. I had Ephedra californica for colds, mesquite gum for sore eyes, red penstemon as a wash for burns, Asclepias cryptoceras for inflammatory rheumatism, and so on. Even if I could, impossibly, get one or another of them inside the Gualala Dancer, I didn't think they'd have any especial effect on it.

  No matter how often I went over the contents of my bag, I couldn't see any help in them. I tried and tried, while the trial went on and a whole troop of Avengers from Mallo Pass testified as to Franny's infraction and my accessoryship to it. I couldn't understand what she had meant. Lethargy kept stealing over me. I had a feeling of remote and chilly doom.

  It got darker. Somebody replenished the fire. Finally the Dancer said, "That's enough. It's time for my verdict." It paused for a moment, I suppose for dramatic effect. "I find both the defendants guilty," it said.

  I had been expecting this, of course, but it was a shock anyhow. I looked at Franny. Drops of what seemed to be sweat were glistening on her face in the firelight. Her eyes were fixed, but she didn't appear to perceive what she was looking at.

  There was a murmur from the tribe. It wasn't approving, and it certainly wasn't surprised. "Don't forget to sentence them," the chemical-conscience man prompted.

  "I shan't," said the Dancer. It cleared its throat. "There is only one sentence possible, under the circumstances," it said. "The sentence is death. Bill, you're to carry it out, of course."

  "OK," Bill answered. An expression of wolfish anticipation had appeared on his not unhandsome features. His mouth twisted to one side suddenly and his eyes grew bright. "Might as well get started on it," he said.

  My first thought was that at least I'd find out how the Navarro tribe had died. It was reasonable to assume that Bill would adopt the same method of disposing of Franny and me that had been used on them. At last my curiosity would be satisfied. But death was too high a price to pay for it. The bargain was preposterous, impossible. I didn't want to die myself, and I didn't want Franny to die. I didn't want any part of it.

  We were ushered toward the edge of the circle, guards on both sides of us. Franny was in front. Our executioner walked along beside us. He had got something out of his pants pocket and was tossing it up in the air and catching it again expertly. It was a good display of coordination, but I found myself hoping, childishly, that he'd drop whatever he was juggling and have to stoop to pick it up. He was too self-assured.


  Our guards were not moving us along very fast. As we got near where the Dancer was standing, the light from the fire glinted on the object Bill was juggling, and I saw what it was. It was the Greek coin he had tried to make me accept in the dawn at Point Arena.

  At the sight I had a moment of vertigo in which O'Hare's trap at Point Arena, the drunk's soliloquy about the man he's met who wanted parts of human bodies, and the disappearances at Navarro and Russian Gulch, all whirled in horrifying turbulence through my mind. Then these things added up, and I saw the dreadful pattern emerge.

  I was frightened, more frightened than I had been when Farnsworth had had me, dance for him. I could smell myself; I stank of fear. Actually, whatever Bill was going to do to us wouldn't be any worse than what Farnsworth would have done to me, but it seemed worse, I suppose because more people were involved. Farnsworth had been a lone wolf. I was terrified at the thought of a ring of murderers.