For a few minutes the Baxters stared in silence. Then Adele said, “Oh, Steve.”
Steve said, “I know.”
“It’s our new land,” Adele said.
Steve nodded. “It’s not very—pretty,” he said hesitantly.
“Pretty? What do we care about that’“ Adele declared. “It’s ours, Steve, and there’s a whole acre of it! We can grow things here, Steve!”
“Well, maybe not at first—”
“I know, I know! But we’ll put this land back into shape, and then we’ll plant it and harvest it! We’ll live here, Steve! Won’t we?”
Steve Baxter was silent, gazing over his dearly won land. His children—Tommy and blonde little Amelia—were playing with a clod of earth. The US marshal cleared his throat and said, “You can still change your mind, you know.”
“What?” Steve asked.
“You can still change your mind, go back to your apartment in the city. I mean, some folks think it’s sorta crude out here, sorta not what they was expecting.”
“Oh, Steve, no!” his wife moaned.
“No, Daddy, no!” his children cried.
“Go back?” Baxter asked. “I wasn’t thinking of going back. I was just looking at it all. Mister, I never saw so much land all in one place in my whole life!”
“I know,” the marshal said softly. “I been twenty years out here and the sight of it still gets to me.”
Baxter and his wife looked at each other ecstatically. The marshall rubbed his nose and said, “Well, I reckon you folks won’t be needin’ me no more.” He exited unobtrusively.
Steve and Adele gazed out over their land. Then Adele said, “Oh, Steve, Steve! It’s all ours! And you won it for us—you did it all by yourself!”
Baxter’s mouth tightened. He said very quietly, “No, honey, I didn’t do it all alone. I had some help.”
“Who, Steve? Who helped you?”
“Someday I’ll tell you about it,” Baxter said. “But right now—let’s go into our house.”
Hand in hand they entered the shack. Behind them, the sun was setting in the opaque Los Angeles smog. It was as happy an ending as could be found in the latter half of the twenty-first century.
THE VICTIM FROM SPACE
Hadwell stared at the planet below. A tremor of excitement ran through him, for it was a beautiful world of green plains and red mountains and restless blue-gray seas. His ship’s instruments quickly gathered their information and decided that the planet was eminently suited for human life. Hadwell punched a deceleration orbit and opened his notebook.
He was a writer, the author of White Shadows in the Asteroid Belt, The Saga of Deepest Space, Wanderings of an Interplanetary Vagabond, and Terira—Planet of Mystery!
He wrote in his notebook, “A new planet looms below me, inviting and mysterious, a challenge to the imagination. What will I find here, I, the vagabond from beyond the stars? What strange mysteries lie beneath the verdant green cover? Will there be danger? Love? Fulfillment? Will there be a resting place for a weary wanderer?”
Richard Hadwell was a tall, thin, redheaded young man. He had inherited a sizable fortune from his father and had invested it in a CC-Class Space Schooner. In this elderly craft, he had voyaged for the past six years and had written ecstatic books about the places he had seen. But most of the ecstasy had been counterfeit, for alien planets were disappointing places.
Aliens, Hadwell had found, were remarkably stupid and amazingly ugly. Their foods were impossible and their manners deplorable. Nevertheless, Hadwell wrote romances and hoped some day to live one.
The planet below was cityless, tropical, beautiful. His ship was already homing on a small thatch-hut village.
“Perhaps I’ll find it here,” Hadwell said to himself as the spaceship began braking sharply.
Early that morning, Kataga and his daughter, Mele, crossed the bridge of vines to Ragged Mountain, to gather frag blossoms. Nowhere on Igathi did the frag bloom so lustily as it did on Ragged Mountain. And this was as it should be, for the mountain was sacred to Thangookari, the smiling god.
Later in the day they were joined by Brog, a dull-faced youth of no importance whatsoever, except possibly to himself.
Mele had the feeling that something very important was about to happen. She was a tall, slender girl, and she worked as though in a trance, moving slowly and dreamily, her long black hair tossed by the wind. Familiar objects seemed imbued with unusual clarity and significance. She gazed at the village, a tiny cluster of huts across the river, and with wonder looked behind her at the Pinnacle, where all Igathian marriages were performed, and beyond that, to the delicately tinted sea.
She was the prettiest girl in Igathi; even the old priest admitted it. She longed for a dramatic role in life. But day after day passed monotonously in the village, and here she was, picking frag blossoms under two hot suns. It seemed unfair.
Her father gathered energetically, humming as he worked. He knew that the blossoms would soon be fermenting in the village vat. Lag, the priest, would mumble suitable words over the brew, and a libation would be poured in front of Thangookari’s image. When these formalities were concluded, the entire village, dogs included, would go on a splendid drunk.
These thoughts made the work go faster. Also, Kataga had evolved a subtle and dangerous scheme to increase his prestige. It made for pleasant speculation.
Brog straightened up, mopped his face with the end of his loincloth, and glanced overhead for signs of rain.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Kataga and Mele looked up.
“There!” Brog screamed. “There, up there!”
High overhead, a silver speck surrounded by red and green flames was descending slowly, growing larger as they watched, and resolving itself into a shiny sphere.
“The prophecy!” Kataga murmured reverently. “At last—after all the centuries of waiting!”
“Let’s tell the village!” Mele cried.
“Wait,” Brog said. He flushed a fiery red and dug his toe into the ground. “I saw it first, you know.”
“Of course you did,” Mele said impatiently.
“And since I saw it first,” Brog continued, “thereby rendering an important service to the village, don’t you think—wouldn’t it be proper—”
Brog wanted what every Igathian desired, worked and prayed for, and what intelligent men like Kataga cast subtle schemes for. But it was unseemly to call the desired thing by name. Mele and her father understood, however.
“What do you think?” Kataga asked.
“I suppose he does deserve something,” Mele said.
Brog rubbed his hands together. “Would you, Mele? Would you do it yourself?”
“However,” Mele said, “the whole thing is up to the priest.”
“Please!” Brog cried. “Lag might not feel I’m ready. Please, Kataga! Do it yourself!”
Kataga studied his daughter’s inflexible expression and sighed. “Sorry, Brog. If it was just between us…But Mele is scrupulously orthodox. Let the priest decide.”
Brog nodded, completely defeated. Overhead, the shiny sphere dropped lower, toward the level plain near the village. The three Igathians gathered their sacks of frag blossoms and began the trek home.
They reached the bridge of vines which spanned a raging river. Kataga sent Brog first and Mele next. Then he followed, drawing a small knife he had concealed in his loincloth.
As he expected, Mele and Brog didn’t look back. They were too busy keeping their balance on the flimsy, swaying structure. When Kataga reached the center of the bridge he ran his fingers beneath the main supporting vine. In a moment he had touched the worn spot he had located days earlier. Quickly he sawed with his knife and felt the fibers part. Another slash or two and the vine would part under a man’s weight. But this was enough for now. Well satisfied with himself, Kataga replaced the knife in his loincloth and hurried after Brog and Mele.
The village came alive at the news of the vis
itor. Men and women could talk of nothing but the great event, and an impromptu dance began in front of the Shrine of the Instrument. But it stopped when the old priest hobbled out of the Temple of Thangookari.
Lag, the priest, was a tall, emaciated old man. After years of service, his face had grown to resemble the smiling, benevolent countenance of the god he worshipped. On his bald head was the feathered crown of the priestly caste, and he leaned heavily on a sacred black mace.
The people gathered in front of him. Brog stood near the priest, rubbing his hands together hopefully, but afraid to press for his reward.
“My people,” Lag said, “the ancient prophecy of the Igathi is now to be fulfilled. A great gleaming sphere has dropped from the heavens, as the old legends predicted. Within the sphere will be a being such as ourselves, and he will be an emissary of Thangookari.”
The people nodded, faces rapt.
“The emissary will be a doer of great things. He will perform acts of good such as no man has ever before seen. And when he has completed his work and claimed his rest, he will expect his reward.” Lag’s voice fell to an impressive whisper.
“This reward is what every Igathian desires, dreams about, prays for. It is the final gift which Thangookari grants to those who serve him and the village well.”
The priest turned to Brog.
“You, Brog,” he said, “have been the first to witness the coming of the emissary. You have served the village well.” The priest raised his arms. “Friends! Do you feel that Brog should receive the reward he craves?”
Most of the people felt he should. But Vassi, a wealthy merchant, stepped forward, frowning.
“It isn’t fair,” he said. “The rest of us work toward this for years and give expensive gifts to the temple. Brog hasn’t done enough to merit even the most basic reward. Besides, he’s humbly born.”
“You have a point,” the priest admitted, and Brog groaned audibly. “But, “he continued, “the bounty of Thangookari is not only for the highborn. The humblest citizen may aspire to it. If Brog were not suitably rewarded, would not others lose hope?”
The people roared their assent, and Brog’s eyes grew wet with thankfulness.
“Kneel, Brog,” said the priest, and his face seemed to radiate with kindliness and love.
Brog knelt. The villagers held their breath.
Lag lifted his heavy mace and brought it down with all his strength on Brog’s skull. It was a good blow, squarely struck. Brog collapsed, squirmed once, and expired. The expression of joy on his face was beautiful to behold.
“How lovely it was,” Kataga murmured enviously.
Mele grasped his arm. “Don’t worry, Father. Some day you will have your reward.”
“I hope so,” Kataga said. “But how can I be sure? Look at Rii. A nicer, more pious fellow never lived. That poor old man worked and prayed all his life for a violent death. Any kind of a violent death! And what happened? He passed away in his sleep! What kind of a death is that for a man?”
“There are always one or two exceptions.”
“I could name a dozen others,” Kataga said.
“Try not to worry about it, Father,” Mele said. “I know you’ll die beautifully, like Brog.”
“Yes, yes…But if you think about it, Brog’s was such a simple ending.” His eyes lighted up. “I would like something really big, something painful and complicated and wonderful, like the emissary will have.”
Mele looked away. “That is presuming above your station, Father.”
“True, true,” Kataga said. “Oh well, some day…” He smiled to himself. Some day indeed! An intelligent and courageous man took matters into his own hands and arranged for his own violent death, instead of meekly waiting for the priest to make up his feeble mind. Call it heresy or anything else; something deep within him told Kataga that a man had the right to die as painfully and violently as he pleased—if he could get away with it.
The thought of the half-severed vine filled him with satisfaction. How fortunate that he had never learned to swim!
“Come,” Mele said. “Let’s welcome the emissary.”
They followed the villagers to the level plain where the sphere had landed.
Richard Hadwell leaned back in his padded pilot’s chair and wiped perspiration from his forehead. The last natives had just left his ship, and he could hear them singing and laughing as they returned to their village in the evening twilight. The pilot’s compartment smelled of flowers and honey and wine, and throbbing drums seemed to echo still from the gray metal walls.
He smiled reminiscently and took down his notebook. Selecting a pen, he wrote:
Beautiful to behold is Igathi, a place of stately mountains and raging mountain streams, beaches of black sand, verdant vegetation in the jungles, great flowering trees in the forests.
Not bad, Hadwell told himself. He pursed his lips and continued.
The people here are a comely humanoid race, a light tan in coloration, supple to behold. They greeted me with flowers and dancing, and many signs of joy and affection. I had no trouble hypnopeding their language, and soon felt as though this had always been my home. They are a lighthearted, laughter-loving people, gentle and courteous, living serenely in a state of near-nature. What a lesson there is here for Civilized Man!
One’s heart goes out to them, and to Thangookari, their benevolent deity. One hopes that Civilized Man, with his genius for destruction and frenetic behavior, does not come here, to turn these folk from their path of joyous moderation.
Hadwell selected a pen with a finer point, and wrote, “There is a girl named Mele who—” He crossed out the line, and wrote, “A black-haired girl named Mele, beautiful beyond compare, came close to me and gazed deep into my eyes—” He crossed that out, too. Frowning deeply, he tried several possible lines: “Her limpid brown eyes gave promise of joys beyond—” “Her small red mouth quivered ever so slightly when I—” “Though her small hand rested on my arm for but a moment—” He crumpled the page. Five months of enforced celibacy in space was having its effect, he decided. He had better return to the main issue and leave Mele for later.
He wrote:
There are many ways in which a sympathetic observer could help these people. But the temptation is strong to do absolutely nothing, for fear of disrupting their culture.
Closing his notebook, Hadwell looked out of a port at the distant village, now lighted by torches. Then he opened the notebook again.
However their culture appears to be strong and flexible. Certain kinds of aid can do nothing but profit them. And these I will freely give.
He closed the notebook with a snap and put away his pens.
The following day, Hadwell began his good works. He found many Igathians suffering from mosquito-transmitted diseases. By judicious selection of antibiotics, he was able to arrest all except the most advanced cases. Then he directed work teams to drain the pools of stagnant water where the mosquitoes bred.
As he went on his healing rounds, Mele accompanied him. The beautiful Igathian girl quickly learned the rudiments of nursing, and Hadwell found her assistance invaluable.
Soon, all significant disease was cleared up in the village. Hadwell then began to spend his days in a sunny grove not far from Igathi, where he rested and worked on his book.
A town meeting was called at once by Lag, to discuss the import of this.
“Friends,” said the old priest, “our friend, Hadwell, has done wonderful things for the village. He has cured our sick, so they too may live to partake of Thangookari’s gift. Now Hadwell is tired and rests in the sun. Now Hadwell expects the reward he came here for.”
“It is fitting,” said the merchant, Vassi, “that the emissary receive his reward. I suggest that the priest take his mace and go forth—”
“Why so stingy?” asked Juele, a priest in training. “Is Thangookari’s messenger deserving of no finer death? Hadwell deserves more than the mace! Much more!”
“You ar
e right,” Vassi admitted slowly. “In that case. I suggest that we drive poisonous legenberry quills under his fingernails.”
“Maybe that’s good enough for a merchant,” said Tgara, the stonecutter, “but not for Hadwell. He deserves a chiefs death! I move that we tie him down and kindle a small fire beneath his toes, gradually—”
“Wait,” said Lag. “The emissary has earned the Death of an Adept. Therefore, let him be taken, tenderly and firmly, to the nearest giant anthill, and there buried to his neck.”
There were shouts of approval. Tgara said, “And as long as he screams, ancient ceremonial drums will pound.”
“And there will be dances for him,” said Vassi.
“And a glorious drunk,” said Kataga.
Everyone agreed that it was a beautiful death.
So the final details were decided, and a time was set. The village throbbed with religious ecstasy. All the huts were decorated with flowers, except the Shrine of the Instrument, which had to remain bare. The women laughed and sang as they prepared for the death feast. Only Mele, for some unaccountable reason, was forlorn. With lowered head she walked through the village and climbed slowly to the hills beyond, to Hadwell.
Hadwell was stripped to the waist and basking under the two suns. “Hi, Mele,” he said. “I heard the drums. Is something up?”
“There will be a celebration,” Mele said, sitting down beside him.
“That’s nice. Okay if I attend?”
Mele stared at him, nodding slowly. Her heart melted at the sight of such courage. The emissary was showing a true observance of the ancient punctilio, by which a man pretended that his own death feast was something that really didn’t concern him. Men in this day and age were not able to maintain the necessary aplomb. But of course, an emissary of Thangookari would follow the rules better than anyone.
“How soon does it start?”
“In an hour,” Mele said. Formerly she had been straightforward and free with him. Now her heart was heavy, oppressed. She didn’t know why. Shyly she glanced at his bright alien garments, his red hair.
The People Trap Page 3
