A Call to Arms

by Alan Dean Foster

  He was standing on the edge of the trampoline when they began to emerge from the hatch. Now he could see how tall they were, all except the bird-creature standing at least six-foot-six.

  “Wait, please wait!” The bird-thing sounded almost plaintive. He wondered how it could form English words so well given that encumbering heavy beak.

  The nearest alien was waving one of the pointy, lethal-looking devices in his direction. That settled it.

  Caldaq slowed in surprise as the native leaped into the water. Gingerly he and the others approached the front of the craft. A quick inspection showed no sign of the specimen.

  “Surely it is not amphibious. I saw no sign of gills.”

  “No.” Wouldea pointed to the right of the boat as the native broke the surface. It was heading for an impossibly distant island.

  “Great Stride,” muttered the other soldier. “Look at it move!”

  Caldaq raised his sidearm. They could try to stun it, but what if it wasn’t a water-breather? It might sink and drown. The more unanticipated abilities it demonstrated, the more anxious Caldaq was to examine it.

  He pulled his communicator and gave the necessary orders.

  Will paused momentarily, breathing hard and treading water. Behind him his catamaran was an angular silhouette in the moonlight. He could see the three monsters lined up on the trampoline. They were staring at him but gave no sign of pursuing. The bird-creature stood nearby. Either they didn’t want to follow him or else they couldn’t. He relaxed a little.

  The water was warm and comfortable and he was already a third of the way to his destination. From previous snorkeling expeditions he knew there were coral heads in the vicinity, but only a few that scraped the surface. If he didn’t let his legs dangle he ought to be able to pass over the rest in safety.

  As he turned to resume his crawl a face emerged directly in front of his. Less than a foot away, it was bulbous and glistening, with a mouth that nearly split the skull in half. Something like pink seaweed clung to both sides of the neck, and a pair of small black eyes stared into his own. It had a tail and webbed hind feet and wore some kind of body suit and belt. The fact that it was smaller than him did nothing to minimize the shock of its appearance.

  Uttering an inarticulate cry, he tried to swim around it. Darting effortlessly in front of him, it blocked his path to the island.

  Despite the creature’s smaller stature, its mouth was wide enough to encompass Will’s entire head. That intimidating orifice gaped as it made burbling sounds at him. When a second attempt at slipping past proved equally futile, he swam in place and studied his opponent.

  Noting the webbed feet, gills, and tail, Will had no illusions about trying to outswim it. It didn’t seem hostile: just curious. The vast mouth was devoid of teeth. There was also something about the tiny dark eyes, about the whole aspect of the alien, which was reassuring.

  It burbled at him afresh. Not a pet or domesticated animal, he decided. The instrumentation it wore on the belt was proof enough of that. Its attitude was easygoing, but not indifferent.

  Turning in the water, Will pointed back to his boat, then looked questioningly at the creature. He was not surprised when it lifted a dripping hand and mimicked the gesture.

  “All right,” he said tiredly. “I get the idea. You could probably swim circles around me till I sank.” Reluctantly, he started swimming back toward the cat.

  As he swam it struck him that the aliens already on board could have shot him at their leisure. They hadn’t done so when he’d bolted from the cabin, when he’d jumped overboard, or while he’d been trying to swim to safety. Whatever their intentions were they apparently did not include immediate dismemberment and vivisection.

  If he needed additional proof, he got it when he swam around to the back of his boat.

  Long, slim fingers reached down for his. He found himself gazing up past whiskers and teeth into eerie catlike eyes.

  The water alien was right behind him. Will reached up and took the proffered hand.

  “I cannot do it.” The soldier spoke to Caldaq. “It is much heavier than it appears.”

  Wouldea came over to aid his companion. It took their combined strength to help the native back aboard. Caldaq and Dropahc covered them as they retreated. At a sign from his captain, Vatoloi swam back to the unoccupied submersible.

  Will climbed down into the cockpit, stood there dripping as he studied his captors. They were spread out, no doubt to cover him more effectively should he try to flee a second time.

  “Take it easy.” He raised both hands. “It’s cold out here at night when you’re wet. I just want to get a towel.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Will regarded the Wais admiringly. “Damn but your English is good. I’ve got students you could tutor.”

  The Wais responded to the alien’s words with a cocky flip of its feathery plume before turning to Caldaq.

  “It does indeed speak the principal language. My earlier words were understood. I surmise it could think only of flight.”

  “Why?” Caldaq was genuinely puzzled. “We made no hostile gestures.”

  “I believe its reaction was based solely on our appearance.”

  “That makes no sense. Why should the way we look frighten it so?”

  “I am a translator, not a xenopsych.” The Wais spoke again in English. “Go and get your ‘towel.’ Believe me when I tell you that we mean you no harm. There was no reason for you to flee.”

  “Say you, yeah. I maybe think otherwise, you bet.” Aware he’d momentarily slipped back to the patois of his childhood he added, “Just give me a minute to dry off. What is it you people want, anyway?” He entered the center cabin. His visitors (that was better than “captors,” he thought) followed.

  “Just to talk,” said the Wais.

  “Ah sure. Where are you from?”

  In place of the nonexistent English equivalent, the translator substituted a descriptive term. “The Weave.”

  “ ‘The Weave.’ As in someplace up there?” He gestured skyward with a thumb. The Wais flipped its plume again, curious to see if the native would interpret the gesture correctly.

  “And you just want to talk?”

  Caldaq could stand it no longer. He stepped forward. The native flinched, then allowed the taller Massood to place the translator around its neck and a corresponding lightweight receiver atop its head. It tightened automatically. At first the native bared its teeth. Then it relaxed.

  “We have many things to tell you.” The native’s eyes widened, hopefully an indication it was receiving properly.

  It responded hesitantly, mimicking the captain by directing its voice to the translator now dangling from its neck. The machine responded by converting the grunting speech into intelligible Massood.

  “I don’t know what you have to tell me. I’m more interested in the fact that you don’t want to shoot me.”

  “Why would we want to shoot you?” asked the Wais. Catching Caldaq’s expression, it hastened to add in Massood, “My apologies, Captain. I did not mean to…”

  “Never mind. I am interested in results here, not protocol.” He turned to the native. “We have to tell you about the Weave. About the Amplitur, and about…” he paused, not wanting to panic the specimen unduly and giving the translator time to catch up. “About many things.”

  “Fine.” Apparently the native was not given to lengthy replies. “So long as you’re not going to shoot me.”

  “You persist with that,” said Dropahc. He held his sidearm in his undamaged hand. “Why would we want to shoot you? You are an intelligent being, we are intelligent beings. We have only just met. Why would we respond with weapons?”

  “What do you call what you’re doing right now?”

  “You struck first, in anger.”

  “I wasn’t angry: I was scared.”

  “But why?”

  Will sighed. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He indicated Dropahc’s weapon. “I
’ll stay frightened as long as those things are pointed at me.”

  Dropahc looked at his captain. With deliberate slowness, Caldaq resecured his weapon at his belt. His companions did likewise.

  “That’s better.” Will went over to a locker and found a clean towel, dried himself off. He was very close to the inside helm. Also the radio and cellular phone, but if he decided to make use of those it would be better to do so when they weren’t watching him so closely.

  He spoke while mopping his back. “Look, I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said to Dropahc.

  An apology for the violence committed, Caldaq thought. That was a hopeful sign, but far from conclusive.

  “Will he be okay? By the way, my name is Will Dulac.”

  “Two names?” said the Wais.

  “Yes.”

  “Dropahc will heal. Our medical staff has means for speeding his recovery.”

  The native was staring past him, astern. “Medical staff. You must have a pretty good-sized ship out there somewhere, right?”

  “A shuttle. Our main vessel is presently situated between your world and your unusual moon.” Caldaq was puzzled. Just when he began thinking of the native as perceptive it would betray its ignorance with a stupid comment or question. It was a nest of contradictions.

  “Are you by any chance,” Wouldea asked, unable to restrain himself any longer, “a fighter?”

  “A fighter?”

  Wouldea asked again. The translator program obediently essayed alternative semantics.

  “A soldier.” The native sat down on a long, padded seat. “Hell, no. What makes you think I might be a soldier?”

  “You struck. You caused injury.”

  “I told you, I was scared. I wasn’t fighting. When your friend came toward me I tried to push his hand out of the way. That’s all. Maybe I was a little sharp, but I swear I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.”

  “Why should you want to push his hand out of the way if you are not a soldier?”

  Will found the whole line of questioning exasperating. “Wouldn’t you?” was all he could think of to say.

  “Of course not.” Wouldea responded instantly, startled by the very notion.

  “I’m not a soldier,” Will informed them brusquely. “I’m a composer, a musician.”

  “We heard your ‘music,’ ” Caldaq declared. “It is not to our tastes.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” There was no reason for Will to be upset by the admission. What did these creatures from elsewhere know of symphonic music?

  Wouldea pushed his translator aside and spoke to Caldaq. “I saw Dropahc’s hand, Captain. If this is a race of musicians and teachers, what might they be like if they chose to fight?”

  “Think it through,” Caldaq warned him. “Remember that we are dealing with a single specimen in isolated circumstances.”

  No, not quite, he reminded himself. There remained the matter of the two missing survey drones which had brought them to this place.

  “Merely because some of their music is violent does not mean they are suited to combat.”

  “They are physically able,” Wouldea argued, unwilling to concede his optimism. “Dropahc can attest to that.”

  As the tropical night warmed his body Will watched the two aliens converse. No question but that they were as interested in him as he was in them. He was still not convinced their intentions were altogether peaceful, but he felt he was in no immediate danger.

  Studying them, he was conscious of his naked flesh. The three tall ones with the ratlike skulls sported short gray fur, while the English-speaker’s feathers covered nearly all of its body, some of it garishly. It looked like a cross between a secretary bird and Einstein as it fiddled with the instruments suspended from its belt. The large soft eyes were peridot green.

  He didn’t consider it dangerous at all, as opposed to the other three. Not only were its mannerisms unthreatening, so was its strange, mellifluous voice. This despite its appearance, which was far more alien than that of its taller companions.

  He hung the towel around his neck. The two aliens, one of whom appeared to be in charge, continued to argue. Would they notice if he leaned casually against the helm and manipulated the radio sufficient to send out a general mayday? The unit would report his position automatically, bringing any yacht or powerboat that picked up the signal to his side. It might frighten off his visitors. They might not want the attention.

  Or did they have the means to cope with that, too?

  By now curiosity was starting to replace his initial terror. He peered through a port, wondering what had happened to the seallike creature which had intercepted him in the water. It had tried to talk to him without the benefit of a translating device.

  Now all three of the tall aliens were arguing while the bird-creature continued to fiddle intently with the instruments attached to its belt. Will had no doubt that he was the subject of the animated debate. Were the clever little language devices designed to respond only to directed input, or were they deliberately excluding him?

  He used the time to examine the equipment they carried. Besides the maybe-weapons and the translators there were a number of other instruments, fashioned of shiny, opaque materials. Plastic, perhaps, or some dull metal. Maybe something more exotic like metallic glass. He could only recall what he’d read in the general press and try to imagine, his education in the hard sciences being woefully deficient.

  Simultaneously they ceased their high-pitched chatter and turned back to him. The hand which had been edging toward the radio froze. He smiled, wondering if it would mean anything to them. The one who was clearly in charge stepped forward. His whiskers quivered almost comically, but there was nothing funny about those teeth.

  “Tell me something,” he heard himself saying. The tall alien halted. Encouraged, Will continued. “Have you been here before this? Visited our world previously without our knowing it?”

  There was concern in the alien’s reply. It was not what Will had expected. “You have received previously extraplanetary visits?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, rumors about UFOs have been around for some time. Not that I believe in them myself, of course.” Until now, he added silently.

  “No one from the Weave,” the alien told him, “has been to this world before us. We have not been studying you.” It seemed to Will that the alien spoke slowly and with extreme earnestness. “You are saying you have had no confirmed encounters with any intelligence other than your own kind?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Will wondered what all the concern was about. He did not need the services of a translating device to sense the tension in the cabin.

  It evaporated with his reply.

  “It is important to us to be sure that we are the first to visit your world,” the bird-thing said in English. Will wondered why it was so important but didn’t have the chance to ask because the one in charge was speaking again.

  “My name is Caldaq, of the Massood.” The name was not translated but instead came across as a short squirt of consonants interrupted by spit vowels. It was almost as much whistled as spoken, Will noted. The translator struggled with it. “I am in command of this visitation. I am a fighter by training, captain by avocation, runner by choice, male by gender. I am once-mated and have no cubs. My lineage is an important one. I am an ascetic omnivore.”

  “Now I have told you about myself. Tell us of you.”

  Why not? Will mused as he sat down on the couch. His life wasn’t a state secret. “I’m thirty-eight, male, and single. I do some teaching, I’m trying to gain recognition as a serious composer, and this boat is my home, a choice of life-style which makes me suspect among my more conservative friends.” He was staring at the alien leader. “Are you always this nervous?”

  “Nervous?” said Caldaq.

  “I’ve been watching you and your friends. Your faces are in constant motion: mouth, lips, ears, whiskers, nose. Don’t you ever stop twitching?”

&nb
sp; “It is a natural function of our physiology,” Caldaq explained. “Does it trouble you?”

  “No, it doesn’t trouble me. But we don’t do that and it’s kind of hard to get used to.”

  “You are isolated.” The bird-thing was speaking. “I am Wais. Our faces are not capable of such a range of motion.” Will looked on with interest as one delicate hand wove an intricate pattern in the air.

  “Every species,” Caldaq went on, “has its own distinctive characteristics. Those which are natural and familiar to one may appear strange and even unpleasant to another.”

  “Ah. Like me brushing your companion’s hand aside.”

  Caldaq was willing to concede the point. The more they conversed with the native, the more genuinely apologetic it seemed.

  “What else can you tell us about yourself?”

  Will spread his hands. “Not much. Once you get past my music, there’s not much else to talk about. I’m half Cajun, though I don’t guess that would mean anything to you. We call ourselves Humans.” He gestured toward the nearest port, at the calm water of the lagoon and the uninhabited islets that ringed it.

  “We call our world Earth. Right now we’re offshore from a small Central American country called Belize.” Pointing that out called a question to mind. “Why’d you land here, anyway? Why didn’t you set down in Washington or Moscow or someplace important?”

  Would this isolated native know anything about the missing remotes? Caldaq doubted it, and decided not to bring up the matter just yet.

  “We have a procedure for exploring new worlds. We feel it is best to approach quietly, to study and learn certain basics before announcing our presence. Particularly when that world is home to a sentient species.”

  “Of which there are more than a couple, right?” said Will. “I mean, there’s us, and you, and the Wais there, and then there was that thing that cut me off in the water. That’s four right there.” He shook his head. “We’ve always wondered if we were the only ones. The only intelligence around, I mean.”

  What an extraordinary conceit, Caldaq thought. “There are dozens of intelligent races.”

  “I see.” The native was very quiet for a long moment. Finally he asked, “With all those intelligences out there, how come it took until now for you or anybody else to make contact with us?”