by John Maclay
Indeed, all of those who approached her seemed wide-eyed, their gazes sliding from the overarching green of the immense trees that bowed above the stream to the miraculous brook itself. Nothing in all their constricted lives had prepared them for the vibrant livingness of this forest. They came, all of them, from the Colonies; this was Jonah’s first glimpse of the world that had given birth to his grandparents.
He followed the Guide to the brook with the line of holiday-makers. He found himself wondering, as he waited his turn, why he had felt so compelled to make a pilgrimage back to the home world, when he had everything he could possibly need was there on the Station.
If there was no sky, blue or otherwise, there was always the constant reassurance of the pressurized hull. If there were no trees, there were always the plants in the hydroponics gardens. He felt a sudden surge of agoraphobia. His head spun, and his heart began pounding.
The Guide seemed to sense any problem among his charges; he was beside Jonah at once. The prick of the injector fed tranquilizer directly into Jonah’s bloodstream, and he felt himself settle into his usual calm. Yet that sudden and unexpected panic unsettled him.
“Don’t let this worry you,” the Guide was saying. “Almost every visitor from the Colony Satellites feels this, sooner or later. The transition from a Station to the open world is a shock. Breathe deeply and turn up your flow of oxygen.”
The filter-mask that protected those without immunity to this rampant jungle of organisms began to hiss, as the Guide opened the oxygen tube a bit more. Jonah nodded his gratitude and turned again toward the Seller of Indulgences.
Her long brown arm reached for a metal box sitting upon a stone beside her in the water. She turned a knob, and something clicked loudly.
“Have your credits ready,” said a mechanical voice. “It is required that all visitors to Terra purchase Indulgences in the amount of all possible damages that they might inflict upon this planet while visiting here. The rates are now being posted.”
The voice paused, and a hologram formed in the air above the box. The symbols that had replaced the clumsy written language centuries ago began to become visible. Jonah studied them carefully.
POLLUTION FROM NATURAL PHYSICAL FUNCTIONS
One hundred credits, mandatory, non-refundable
CONSUMPTION OF FOODSTUFFS AND POTABLE WATER, WINE, AND OTHER BEVERAGES
One thousand credits, mandatory and nonrefundable
DESTRUCTION OF FLORA/FAUNA
Fifty thousand credits, refundable if not used,
to be prorated if not used in full
INJURY TO NATIVE INHABITANT
FATAL: Five hundred thousand credits
INCAPACITATING: One hundred thousand credits
TEMPORARILY PAINFUL: One thousand credits
Refundable if not used
* * * *
Jonah felt his waist-pouch, which was fat with hoarded credits that had been saved for this once-in-a-lifetime adventure. He calculated the total on his watch/calculator, and he had the proper amount in his hand when the Guide moved him up beside the Seller of Indulgences.
She extended a packet of plastic slips, as he passed her the payment. She smiled, so automatically and meaninglessly that he knew she had to be an automaton.
When Jonah turned away from her, he was fully authorized to move about this world, which was no longer the birthright of his own variant of the human species. His ancestors had ceded all rights in their native world to those remaining behind.
Jonah had to admit that those hardy holdouts, remaining on a world that was stifling in the aftereffects of over-industrialization, had done a remarkable job of restoring things to their pristine condition. The sky was unstained except with natural clouds, and the air was intoxicating, even through the filters.
He emerged from the forest, still at the end of the line, into the edge of a meadow on which stood a circle of pavilions. Those were gaily colored and made, he thought, of silk. The effect was that of a field of flowers in the sunlight, and he was immediately charmed. Beauty was not a priority on the Stations.
He examined his packet. The topmost slip assigned him to a bright blue pavilion with pale green stripes. He went carefully, trying not to dislodge the grass or to tread on the small yellow blossoms growing in the meadow. The remarkable business minds that had made a tourist haven of a world given up as ruined would, he felt certain, would charge him for every bruised sprig.
Jonah stepped around an earthworm and a dung beetle, rolling its egg-filled ball along a tiny path amid the grass stems. He had studied for years in preparation for this trip, and he felt some satisfaction at his ability to identify such minor creatures. But by the time he reached his tent he was exhausted with his efforts to avoid damaging anything.
If earlier generations had taken such care, he thought wryly, they might not have pushed their world to the verge of systems failure. They might not have overbred and reached the point at which it was leave or die. It was apparent that those remaining behind were not the cowards that Station history made them seem. They were heroes who stayed behind on a sinking ship and kept her afloat.
Once inside the tent, Jonah paused, his eyes widening. On a white wicker table lay a snowy cloth edged with lace. Fruit was piled in a glass dish, and a carafe of purple juice sat beside a tumbler that refracted the sunlight into rainbows of light and color.
He sank into a wicker chair and poured cool liquid into the glass. It was as refreshing as it looked. A plum and a peach sent his taste buds, used to bland Station fare, into shocked ecstasy. He leaned back and put up his feet on the embroidered cushion evidently there for that purpose.
This could not possibly be the standard of living for those who lived on Earth all the time. That would seem unreasonable. But he had never dreamed even of such color. And this kind of flavor and comfort were outside anything he had ever considered in all his forty years.
From the shuttle he had seen clusters of bright domes nestled into woodland, and the Guide had said those were the homes of the native population. Those had looked, from above, very neat and well arranged. Jonah found himself contrasting his life, which had seemed perfectly orderly and satisfactory, with that of the earthlings who now owned the home world.
Did they walk, every day, in halls painted gray and vibrating with the voices of the machines that made life possible? No, they walked beneath flowering trees and picked fruit off the branches. They moved on grass and picked flowers and saw, probably, living animals in the meadows and the forests.
Jonah’s eyes closed, and he drifted half into sleep. The juice had not seemed alcoholic, but he felt somewhat removed from himself.
Someone entered the tent, and he was lifted carefully from the chair and laid on a couch. His clothing came off smoothly and he felt himself being bathed in scented water. A robe so silken that it was an erotic experience was wrapped around him.
He kept trying to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. He listened hard, but only the sounds of quiet movement came to him. Not a whisper, not a word—until....
“Now he is ready,” someone breathed, at the very limit of his perceptions.
The robe was slipped aside, and a warm body moved against him. This had to be a dream! But if it were one, it was the most satisfactory dream ever known to man.
He let himself go, sinking into an experience that he knew, even in this exalted state, would warm his memory for the rest of his life. There came a peak, higher than anything to which he had dreamed his flesh could go. Then he sank into total relaxation and sleep.
Jonah awoke feeling incredibly fit. There was a lightness to his bones, but he did not at once recall the dream. He ate, when food was brought, and even the snack of the night before did not compare with this for flavor.
The day was fascinating, spent at the heels of the Guide marveling at the antiquitie
s in museums, the glories in the arboretum and the gardens. Art works, ancient and modern, astonished him. On Station, there was no time for such personal expressions of creativity. He had been fortunate that his beloved theoretical mathematics was a technically viable creative outlet.
Day flowed into day, and the week passed smoothly, filled with interest but never allowed to become exhausting. The group was whisked deftly from meals to points of interest, to amusement and to rest in a well-conceived round. Jonah found himself dreading the day that would take him away from this enchanted world, returning him to Station IV, which now seemed sterile and confining by contrast.
Of course that day came at last. He had no idea which, if any, of the indulgences he might have used as he waited, with some trepidation, at the terminal computer for his transgressions to be tallied. Now that the holiday was over, he was again the thrifty and practical person he had always been.
The computer did not provide the same exotic atmosphere that the Seller of Indulgences had done. He had already been separated from his money, and this was a simple business transaction. The return of refunds was strictly mechanical.
A packet spat from the rectangular mouth of the machine, and he took it, releasing the packet of plastic slips. Those were whisked away instantly.
He stepped back to let the next comer approach the machine, as he looked down at the packet. It seemed very thick—as thick as it had been when he handed the credits to the Seller of Indulgences, in the beginning.
Curious, he opened the thin film enclosing the packet and flipped through the stack. All of it was there, even those amounts that had been listed as nonrefundable!
There was a strip of symbols printed on the film, which he had been about to discard. He flattened the strip and read it once, then again. And then he began to chuckle.
ALL CHARGES WAIVED as payment for GENETIC DONATION RECEIVED: Mechanical abilities, mathematical skills, logical thought processes, calm nature, creative ability.
DNA SCAN POSITIVE TO 999.9
THANK YOU for your contribution to the genetic health of our population.
* * * *
Jonah boarded the shuttle filled with a warm sense of well-being. It had indeed been a holiday worth waiting for.
HUNTING TRUCE
Occasionally the Humane Society has been known to go overboard. This is what might happen, if pushed to the extreme.
The Cagodot warrior tensed. His blue cranial plume came erect, warning the rest of the party that game had been sighted .The other blue-feathered warriors melted into the tall tan grasses, leaving the honor of the first run to the finder of the game. He, Tado, stood proudly erect, waving his plumed arms in the traditional patterns, in order to attract the beast’s attention.
The zdin moved his horned and tusked head uneasily, as he sought with short-sighted eyes for the source of the scent which troubled him. When the form of the slight blue warrior came into his field of vision, he snorted, and his neck bristles rose threateningly. Then, ponderously, he began to move his great bulk toward the Cagodot, who stood unmoved as the huge beast thundered toward him.
Tado waited until the zdin was almost upon him before beginning his flight across the broad savannah. The beast veered after him, pounding along like a mountain gone mad. The Cagodot led his prey in an immense circle, returning almost to his starting place. There, one of his comrades took up the race, and Tado disappeared into the grass to rest.
In a small copse at the edge of the savannah waited the Blgat, their great, orange-haired forms blending so well with the tawny grass and foliage that they were almost invisible, as they waited their move in the drama of the hunt. With the infinite patience of the primitive, they watched the marathon in the meadow, gripping their broad-bladed spears and blowing out their lips in puffs of anticipation. Once or twice, when it appeared that the fleeing Cagodot would be caught and trampled, their eyes blazed red with glee, for they never forgot their traditional hatred for the feathered ones, even during the great fall truce. It would be great sport to see an enemy smashed beneath those tremendous hooves. So long as enough Cagodot survived to run the zdin into exhaustion, their temporary hunting partners would have enjoyed seeing one of them die on every lap.
Grkh, the leader of the Blgat, grinned savagely at the thought of the impending battle with the zdin. His broad, four-fingered hand caressed the haft of his spear. His shrewd little eyes flickered after the relays of Cagodot, without the spark of hatred that was common to his kind. A little more intelligent and a great deal older than the others, he had seen enough of the feathered people, during his twenty hunts, to realize that they were a brave and resourceful race. He grunted, thinking of the Blgat who would have had to die in order to kill even one zdin, had the Cagodot not run him to the ragged edge of exhaustion first. No Blgat could ever move fast enough to do the work that Tado and his friends were doing, and the old chief was fully aware of the fact. The zdin was slowing perceptibly now, and Locot, the present runner, seemed to float effortlessly before him, leading him nearer and nearer to the copse where the Blgat waited.
With a grunt of command, Grkh lifted his heavy weapon, and his companions, moving very quietly for such large creatures, grouped themselves about him, their waiting nearly at an end. Grunting again, Grkh slid, crawling, into the grass, and soon there was not a single orange-haired Blgat to be seen.
* * * *
“There!” Miss Pirtle-Smith’s skinny finger snaked past Gambel’s large shoulder, quivering with triumph.
Gambel said nothing, noted everything, and brought the observation car gently to rest on the savannah, some half mile from the hunt, settling on a hillock, so that he could see above the grasses. The zdin had taken refuge on another such hillock, and now stood snorting heavily and heaving with fatigue, while the Cagodot runners faded into the grass and a great circle of Blgat spearmen rose, like magic, about him.
The woman’s mosquito-like voice whined past Gambel’s ear, and he flinched. “You see, Observer! They are going to kill that unfortunate animal. You must stop them at once!”
Gambel’s broad face turned a shade darker than its usual sun-burnt hue. His voice, when he answered, was under careful control. “My dear lady. Your function—prescribed by your own society—is that of protecting native fauna from undue persecution by us. They explained that to you. I have explained that to you. Why won’t you understand that it is not our purpose to interfere in any way with the native people? Our only purpose is to observe, to contact, if it may be done without upsetting them overmuch, and to report our findings to the Intergalactic Service. Only that.” But his tone was hopeless.
“I am here, Mr. Gambel, to protect animals.” Her voice rose frenziedly, “All animals—from persecution and death. If you don’t stop that revolting massacre, I will!” Her thin, empurpled nose twitched determinedly, and she reached for the door-release.
“Dammit, woman, get your hand off that door!” roared Gambel, reaching across her and slamming down the lock. He secured the safety-lock beside his control panel and took a gulp of air, then turned to his flabbergasted passenger.
“Miss Pirtle-Smith. Your Society forced you upon us, through that ridiculous law they lobbied through the Universal Congress. We have borne you quietly, even though your presence, on a six-person craft, meant that we had to make do with my first-aid and emergency medical training, instead of having a medical officer. I am willing to endure your blather, but I refuse to die in a hopeless attempt to save the life of a mangy boar-ox.”
Miss Pirtle-Smith’s long face grew scornful. “Cowardice,” she began, smugly.
“Cowardice, my foot!” exploded the Observer. “You saw the Cagodot hide in the grass. They’re still there, between you and the zdin. And those big, orange-haired creatures are carrying spears.” His words slowed and simplified, as though he were speaking to an unintelligent child. “Spears wi
ll kill almost anything. Even if it is from Earth and its name is Samantha Pirtle-Smith. I couldn’t allow them to kill you without attempting to save you. Then they would kill me too. Because, if you will recall your indoctrination lectures, we are not allowed to kill or injure any alien intelligence, even to save our own lives.”
He paused with a heavy sigh. “Those people may not be wearing the latest in fashions nor carrying the most modem weapons, but they are hunting for food to keep their families from starving during the ‘time of cold winds’. They hunt each other all the rest of the year, but now, in order to survive at all, they make common cause in the fall hunt. They won’t let you stand in their way.”
The woman said nothing, but he knew that her shell was impervious to logic. Experience had taught him how hopeless it was to try to get through to her. He sighed again and turned to see how the hunt was going.
The zdin was turning slowly in his tracks, trying to keep his enemies in front of him, but the Blgat had encircled him and were pressing him closely. Gathering his energy desperately, the animal made a lunge at the nearest warrior. Old Grkh, seeing his chance, rushed in upon the left flank, driving his spear beneath the heavy rib-cage, thrusting with all his mighty strength. The reddish hide was dappled with a darker red, and still Grkh strained at his task, his orange pelt reddening with the blood of the beast. For a long moment, they were still, then the breath went from the zdin, and he gave a groan and died. Grkh, panting, withdrew his spear from the creature’s heart and raised a dripping hand. The Cagodot rose gracefully from the grass and moved toward the giant corpse, their skinning-knives ready in their hands. Like bright vultures, the two peoples descended upon their fallen prey, to prepare it for the preservers.
Gambel thumbed a button on the control panel, and the car rose quietly from the plain and moved away over the countryside, He hoped that his passenger would preserve her silence. His difficult task had been made considerably harder by her unreasonable attitude, and he found himself thinking wistfully of the report he could have written: “Our SPAF representative was unfortunately killed while trying to preserve the life of one of the local fauna, a zdin....”
