As Peterluk approached, Dr. West saw his parka was fringed with ermine tails. As Peterluk raised his broad face, his big teeth gleamed and muscles bulged on the sides of his massive Eskimo jaw.
But Peterluk's jutting nose, Dr. West thought cautiously, suggested a Boston whaling captain in his ancestry. Now Dr. West became uncomfortably aware of Peterluk's avid glances at his rifle.
As if initiating a whiteman's handshake, Peterluk extended his mahogany-colored hand, rough with frost scars. Gripping Dr. West's right hand, Peterluk lowered his bushy head, his eyes disappearing beneath all that shaggy black hair as he peeked down. He seemed to be staring at Dr. West's left leg or rather at Dr. West's rifle which was leaning against his left leg. Dr. West's left hand involuntarily tightened on his rifle.
When Dr. West relaxed his right hand as a hint the handshake was over, Peterluk's suddenly raised eyes glinted through his shaggy hair. Gently, irresistibly, he continued holding Dr. West's right hand.
"Furs-furs," Peterluk's voice murmured in English. "Furs? Peter has furs. Understand?"
"Later we will trade," Dr. West replied in Modern Eskimo, tightening his own grip in defense against Peterluk's tightening grasp.
Peterluk laughed in amazement. "You understand us."
"This person is trying to -- " Dr. West laughed in relief, quickly explaining he was not a Guard or a policeman. "This person is wondering where are the other strong hunters, the Eskimos who were with you when the whitemen closed off this land."
Peterluk peered past Dr. West's arm, probably at Eevvaalik, Dr. West thought, his own hand beginning to feel numb.
"Many fine fox furs," Peterluk's voice grunted with exertion.
Dr. West had to tighten his own grip in self-defense, hardening his whole arm like a trembling iron bar, trying to harden his hand to protect it from being crushed.
"Eh-eh, you are a strong man," Peterluk laughed excitedly.
Straining there, Dr. West didn't know what to do. Peterluk was smiling like a friend.
"We are friends," Dr. West said hopefully. "You are a man who understands. You are a strong man who understands where all these young Eskimos come from -- "
"Eskimos? Innuit? "
"Yes, did they come from the north?"
"Eh-eh, from the north," Peterluk laughed derisively as if he didn't care what he said. "From the north."
"But these people have a legend they were born here on the Boothia Peninsula."
"Humpback monster-man split open," Peterluk began insolently.
"No, not that old legend. Tell me how these young people came to the Boothia Peninsula."
Like an animal's hard jaw, Peterluk's grip tightened. "All lies! There is no Grandfather Bear coming down from the sky. You and me don't believe ignorant things like that!"
"Then why are you," Dr. West resisted, "camped here in the Burned Place?"
"Old woman, close your mouth," Peterluk bellowed, as if he thought Eevvaalik had said something. "She lies. No star fell here."
"A star? If a star fell here years ago, where is the iron?" Dr. West was thinking of a meteorite.
"No star. Bad candles made my navel of power," Peterluk laughed defiantly at Dr. West's face. "Iron box of bad candles."
"This crater was not made by sticks of dynamite," Dr. West retorted, trying to twist his hand free --
"You think this person lies?" Peterluk shouted like a madman. "Then you don't believe the Egg of God fell here. You don't believe a whitemen's ship poked up its eye on a stick. Like a whale with many whitemen but this person was stronger than -- you!"
Peterluk lunged against Dr. West, his other hand seizing the barrel of Dr. West's rifle. As Dr. West strained backward, struggling to free his rifle, Peterluk's head slammed his chest, ramming him backward off balance. Peterluk's massive head with an upward heave like an uppercut struck Dr. West's jaw. Staggering back, Dr. West still managed to cling to his rifle with his left hand. Peterluk was crushing his right hand as they struggled, and Dr. West gasped at Edwardluk: "Help -- "
He glimpsed Edwardluk simply standing there with a worried expression like a pacifist. He glimpsed Eevvaalik stepping forward, raising the harpoon.
With that jolt of adrenal fear, Dr. West violently twisted, trying to turn Peterluk for a shield against her harpoon. Both men fell to their knees. Dr. West bounced up so quickly his other knee struck Peterluk's rising face. With new strength in his left arm, he yanked his rifle up, slamming it down at Peterluk's ducking face. Its steel receiver clanged against Peterluk's forehead. Peterluk sank to his knees like a wounded musk-ox.
His rifle freed, Dr. West whirled to face Eevvaalik, who already was running away. Her harpoon had vanished.
Warned by Edwardluk's shout, Dr. West looked down at Peterluk rising with blood streaming over his forehead and into one eye. His huge face lurched straight at the rifle's muzzle, and Dr. West stepped back.
His face contorted, Peterluk took one forward step. With a howl of rage like an injured child, Peterluk whirled, running away toward the rocks from which he had emerged.
Edwardluk was running after him, shrilly shouting: "Father, don't do it. Grandfather Bear does not allow -- "
Edwardluk ran back as if shielding Dr. West. "Run, because his rifle is louder then yours -- "
Dr. West raised his rifle, looking at the silhouetted rocks along the rim. He didn't want to shoot Peterluk, who was the one person who seemed to know what had happened on the Boothia Peninsula. If Peterluk really had a rifle which still operated, he would have the advantage of firing from cover. Dr. West ran, overtaking Edwardluk. He could feel a cold .30 caliber spot on the back of his neck as he ran toward the cliff. Over the edge, they went sliding down toward the tiny sled below. With instant efficiency, Edwardluk freed the sled. Looking up over the sights of his rifle, Dr. West saw no movement or sign of Peterluk against the sky.
When they finally reached the cover of the next promontory, Dr. West mentally was berating himself. That damned Eskimo almost took away my rifle. I failed to learn anything from him except what a treacherous -- No, I learned there's plenty to tell when I make Peterluk talk.
"I'm not through with him!" Dr. West muttered in English, looking at Edwardluk and wondering what this smiling savage would tell Marthalik. That I ran? The hell with it! She loves me. She'll understand.
Dr. West looked back where the promontory of the Burned Place, of the Navel of the World, already was hidden by the next projecting point. That crazy Peterluk, inside his greasy head is what happened in this Sanctuary.
Trying to short-cut across the bay ice while the wind was shifting, Edwardluk finally had to admit they were cut off from shore. "Soon-soon we see our camp."
Day after day, Edwardluk led them south, east, north, west among the open leads, the cliffs always visible on their left hand. Far to the right gleamed ice islands. Beyond like gray mist lay a real island. "Over there," Edwardluk laughed cheerfully, "Peterluk says whitemen. Guard Station."
Dr. West was too tired to answer. In this continuous ice glare, his eyes were killing him. His dark glasses weren't enough protection from this needle-sharp brightness as his body weakened. His sighting eye blurred so much he missed his one shot at a seal. Each day Edwardluk failed to harpoon a seal, Dr. West's hungry stomach tightened and his temper grew shorter but he tried to act cheerful, at least half as cheerful as Edwardluk.
Vaguely, Dr. West thought eight or ten days had passed as they struggled toward the cliffs, parallel to the cliffs, below the cliffs, along the slippery ice foot with the sea gurgling below. In all that time Edwardluk seemed as strong as ever, and as cheerful. The man is a saint , Dr. West thought with exhaustion.
From the one seal Edwardluk had managed to kill somehow, Edwardluk ate little. "You big man. You need to eat more." But Edwardluk insisted on feeding the dogs. "So few dogs, so many of us."
One blinding day there were distant shouts. Children ran to meet them.
"Where is my wi -- Where is Marthalik?"
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br /> "She coming. We run faster," they laughed, "faster than your wife."
Dr. West's face cracked in a chapped smile as he finally recognized Marthalik jogging toward him. Surprisingly, she ran as heavily as a little hippo, he thought, and stumbled to meet her. With joy he squeezed her to him. He thought they had been separated more than two weeks. Feeling her belly pressing against him as he nuzzled her hair, he clasped her swollen waist.
My god! he thought in shock. She's developed some sort of gigantic fast-growing watery tumor -- in just two weeks. She had swelled up like a balloon. He didn't want to frighten her, but he'd have to take her Outside. To get help, first he'd have to cross all that ice to the Guard Station on the gray island. He'd have to get an aircraft, a gynecologist, get her to a hospital. In the month since he first saw Marthalik kneeling naked in the tent she'd swelled up like --
Inside the blessed dimness of the tent, Marthalik giggled proudly. "This person is going to have a baby."
Dr. West didn't want to contradict her. There was no use frightening her yet. He laid his hand on her belly. He couldn't feel the baby kicking. Two weeks ago when he left her, she had been nicely plump. Before he left, he thought perhaps she had put on some weight during those two weeks while they were making love, but even if she'd been a few months pregnant then, such a suddenly advanced pregnancy now was physiologically impossible. Got to get her to a hospital. In exhaustion on the sleeping platform, Dr. West lay resting his head against her while she whispered so happily to him.
He was awakened by the knocking of floor stones being moved, by the scraping of gravel. Marthalik and her mother both were on their knees, digging a shallow pit in the floor of the tent. As he sat up, he stared at Marthalik lining the basin-sized hole in the gravel with a caribou skin, her body jerking as if with surges of pain.
My god. This has gone too far. How can I explain to her about a false pregnancy? Surely her mother knows a pregnancy takes nine long months -- Dr. West's thoughts trailed off.
Marthalik was kneeling above the hole when her mother bent behind her with the stone knife. As Dr. West opened his mouth to cry out and lunged forward, her mother sawed up at the seam of Martbalik's fur pants between her legs.
"Eh!" the mother laughed, with her hands tearing the seam open, her own young face gleaming at Dr. West. "She is your wife. -- This person believes more sons are born if the father helps."
Like a sleepwalker, Dr. West knelt beside his wife. Gynecology was not his specialty. The mother pushed him over behind Marthalik. "Put your strong arms around her. Higher! On top of your son, help push him out."
He felt Marthalik's contractions.
Matching his rhythm to hers, Dr. West went through the motions of pressing down his spread hands. He was afraid to press hard. Marthalik never moaned. Feeling more and more tired, Dr. West felt like moaning on and on.
Exhausted, Dr. West heard a small mewing sound beneath them, and the two women were chattering happily. Dr. West lay down. The slippery baby gave one loud cry as Marthalik's mother bit through the umbilical cord. She knotted it while Dr. West worriedly watched, realizing any interference from him simply might hurt their feelings. Happily Marthalik licked her baby clean. Proudly, Marthalik smiled down at Dr. West: "You have a hunter!"
Cradling her baby out of sight inside her parka, Marthalik crouched beside the seal carcass. With one hand she tore loose a great chunk of fat and meat.
"You must eat," she said, seriously peering at Dr. West's face. "You are tired. But this is best piece."
Dr. West grinned, taking the meat and putting it aside. He helped her up onto the sleeping platform.
"This person is a little bit tired from scraping seal skins this morning," she murmured, snuggling beside him under the caribou skin and lovingly stroking his neck. "This person wants to thank you -- "
While she slept beside him, Dr. West lay on his back with his son squirming on his bare chest inside his parka. Encouraged by Dr. West's finger, this strong little hunter even managed to raise his head.
"My name is Joe, Joseph," Dr. West whispered, grinning. "Your name should be Speedy."
Exploring, Dr. West stroked with his finger around the rim of the baby's ear. In the cartilage on the top he could feel the little bump, and on the other ear the same. Proudly he fingered his own ear. "That's a West family trait. A dominant genetic characteristic."
Without waking his wife, he fingered the rim of her ear, which was smoothly rounded, no cartilaginous bump. I doubt any of these Eskimos have that characteristic so -- nine months or one month -- "You speedy little devil, you are my son."
The terrible global significance of what he'd just experienced had not hit him yet.
Turning his head toward the lamp, he saw Marthalik's mother was suckling her own new baby. This baby must have been born while Edwardluk and he were on their journey to the Burned Place. "How many days old?" he whispered.
She held up one hand, spreading her fingers and thumb. Five days. Her baby squirmed strongly, getting a better grip.
Dr. West was no pediatric specialist, but he thought her baby appeared very fat and sturdy for only five days of feeding. "How long does it take -- inside?"
"To make a baby?" The woman smiled at him as if he were stupid or something. "Perhaps a woman begins when the moon is thin. After the moon is fat and becomes thin again, a woman has a baby."
"All women?"
"Of course, all women. Are whitewomen so different?"
Dr. West closed his eyes. Who is more right? Why should it take nine months? He thought of hospital premies who emerged fairly successfully after five months. They weren't really ready. But why not a full-term baby in five months? Or four months, three months, two months, one month? Nine months must have been normal for hundreds of thousands of years. Prehistorically it may have become most advantageous for survival millions of years ago when species of manlike animals and their environments were so different.
Why nine months? He knew that many mammals have much shorter gestation periods. Growth from fertilized ovum to embryo to fetus to fully formed baby could proceed more rapidly than nine months, he pondered, if the prehistorically programmed hormone signals proceeded faster and more efficiently.
How do I know? I've just seen it demonstrated. My son is here wiggling strongly on my chest.
Smiling at that perfect little red face, Dr. West thought that part of a nine-month gestation period must be a waste of time anyway, particularly during the early embryonic stages. How much growth-energy does a human embryo waste while growing its tail and then absorbing it again? "And our embryonic gills -- ridiculous. Obsolete recapitulation."
A one-month gestation period really is more logical from a uterine standpoint, he thought. Approximately once a month an ovum descends a Fallopian tube toward the uterus, and the walls of the uterus thicken in preparation. If the ovum isn't fertilized, fails to attach itself, the uterus sloughs off a bloody discharge which is a signal of failure. The womb is unfulfilled and its menstrual flow simply reveals a wasted month, a physiological failure, an inefficiency of the civilized female, he thought to himself, grinning. Ovarian efficiency would mean a baby every month.
For we Homo sapiens, a nine-month gestation period may have been one of our prehistoric survival advantages, he thought, when we were in competition with other manlike species. We don't know how long was the extinct Neanderthal woman's gestation period? Or Peking woman's? Nine months happened to be a characteristic of our winning species long ago.
But conditions on Earth now are so different in the same competition for food and living space, he thought. Perhaps people with a one-month gestation period will have the advantage?
The Eskimo Invasion Page 6
