by Simon Hawke
"Interesting flavor," Breck said. "What exactly is it?"
"Sort of a cross between a wild boar and a rodent," said Higgins. "It's hunted by the native tribes. It's a staple in their diet."
"Your wife isn't eating with us?" I said.
'Tribal women don't eat with their men," said Higgins.
I raised my eyebrows. "Well, just because they treat their women as second-class citizens, doesn't mean we have to," I said. "Can't we ask her to join us?"
Higgins smiled. "I'm afraid you misunderstood. It isn't a matter of her being a 'second-class citizen,' as you put it. It's the other way around. The tribes of Purgatory are matriarchal. Besides, they never cook their food. They eat it freshly killed. Tyla is as offended at the idea of roasting meat as you might be at the sight of her tearing at her kill, with blood running down her chin."
"Oh," I said, feeling a little foolish. "I see."
"Have many of the people here married natives?" Breck said.
"No, I'm the only one," said Higgins, "which makes me a bit of an outsider. The tribes tend to keep their distance, you see. We're quite a puzzle to them. They don't understand why we want to wall ourselves off from the environment-or at least they didn't until they started seeing what we're doing to it. The people here call them Nomads. That's when they're not calling them something worse. There's not much contact between humans and natives. A lot of the people here think they're little more than animals, primates of a sort. They couldn't be more wrong, but they're not interested in listening to me. I'm just the token treehugger around here. Corporate environmental counselor and xenobiologist. Most of them think I'm crazy. Some of them won't even talk to me. After all, it's my job to make life difficult for them." He grimaced wryly. "A job without much point, actually. It's like pissing in the wind. I keep submitting my reports and recommendations and they keep doing everything they can to ignore them. But, hey, I'm here! That proves their corporate concern for an alien environment."
"I take it you spend a great deal of your time with the natives," Breck said.
"Well, I find there's a lot to be said for their way of life. And I find them fascinating. I have to work here, but I try to spend time with Tyla's tribe whenever I can. Tyla very rarely comes here. She came this time as a favor to me, because you were coming."
"You mean you live apart, you here and Tyla with her tribe?" I said.
"Much of the time we live apart, yes. But Tyla has other husbands. Sixteen, to be exact, not counting me."
"You're one of seventeen husbands?" I said.
"Their females give birth in litters and there are usually more males among the offspring than females," Higgins explained. "In a human society, an imbalance as large as theirs would cause problems, but the Nomads have a very accommodating biology. Their females are fertile virtually all the time, whereas the males have cycles. And since these periods occur at different times, depending on the male's stage of development, the females normally bond with a number of males, usually of different ages."
"You mean the females rotate their males?" I said.
"Well, not exactly, though I suppose you could look at it that way. A female could be mating with several different males simultaneously . . . well, not actually at the same time, but during the same cycle, especially if she is of high rank in the tribe. However, this doesn't seem to cause any trouble among the males. I suspect it's because it takes far more stamina than any one male has to keep a female satisfied."
"You mean she ..." I cleared my throat. "That is, they . . . the females . . . wear the males out?"
"Well, I've only mated with Tyla once and it almost crippled me," Higgins said matter-of-factly, as only a scientist could. "I still have the scars. Since then, as a matter of self-preservation, our relationship has been essentially platonic."
The ensuing silence fell like an anvil.
"Excuse me," Higgins said apologetically. "I didn't mean to be tactless or crude. I tend to be socially awkward on occasion. Tyla's people are a great deal more direct than we are and I sometimes find it difficult to switch modes. You see, my marriage to Tyla isn't quite the same thing as a human marriage, which is not to say that I regard it as anything less. But it's a different sort of relationship.
"By our human standards, I'm not legally married to Tyla, since it was a tribal marriage. And in any case, there's certainly been no legal precedent. The situation poses an ideal opportunity to observe at close hand the customs and lifeway of an alien species. If I weren't an ethical man, then once I was finished with my studies, I could easily leave and not feel in any way bound by the tribal ceremony. However, I recognize that while their marriage customs are different from ours, they don't take them any less seriously than we do. I could even argue that they take their form of marriage a great deal more seriously than we take ours, since they bond for life. They'd never understand the concept of divorce. But while mating is an important part of their bonding, it's by no means an imperative.
"For instance, Tyla's mother is still in the prime of life, yet three of her husbands are well past their prime. The cycle doesn't come upon them anymore. One of them is very old, indeed, the senior husband of another marriage whose matriarch had died. Death of the wife releases a male for remarriage, but in this case, the male was extremely old, no longer capable of reproduction and only minimally capable of sharing in the workload. Tyla's mother married him nevertheless, adopting him, in a manner of speaking, into her marriage. Rather like bringing an orphan into the family.
"You see," he continued, "in a sense, the matriarchal structure of the tribes places every female in a marriage in the role of both wife and mother to her husbands. Which is not to say that the husbands are necessarily subservient. Once you've seen a Nomad male, I don't think you could come to that conclusion. The wife is not an autocrat. She's treated with the respect and veneration we might give an elder, the founder of the family- even though she very often is not the senior in chronological terms. She's the family arbiter. The children are all held in common within a marriage, sharing all the husbands as fathers. Female children within the marriage have a certain share in their mother's ranking."
Higgins grinned. "Imagine what it's like to court a young woman with six fiercely protective older brothers and you might have some idea of what it means to become involved with a Nomad female, only she might have a dozen or more fiercely protective brothers and as many fathers. The female has the final say in the matter-the mother rarely interferes-but if the males in the family are all against you, the odds of your being accepted into the marriage are extremely small. In fact, if their disapproval is strong enough, you may not even survive."
"So, apparently, you made a good impression on the relatives," said Breck, smiling and sipping his wine.
"Well, more specifically, I made a good impression on the tribal matriarch, Tyla's grandmother. The marriage was really her idea, though Tyla volunteered for it."
"I don't follow," I said. "You mean your marriage to Tyla was . . . what would you call it, arranged? I thought you said the senior females didn't interfere."
"Normally, they don't, but in this case, it was different. I had established a rapport with the tribe over a period of time and Dyla, the tribal matriarch, called all the females in the tribe together and asked if any of them would be willing to accept me into marriage. And it was very much a request, not an order. Tyla volunteered."
He grinned. "I've always wondered if she was the only one, but she won't tell me. We both treat the marriage seriously, but we obviously didn't marry for love. We have respect and affection for each other, but even as I'm observing them, they're observing me. They've always kept their distance from humans before, but now it seems they want to learn a little more about us."
"Because they're starting to perceive humans as a threat?" I said.
"Partly," Higgins replied, "but there's another reason, which bears directly on your coming here. Their gods have started appearing to them in physical manifestations,
directing them to increase their contact with humans and learn more about us."
"Their gods?" said Breck.
"The Nomads have a very spiritual relationship with their environment," said Higgins. "They worship nature spirits. To put it in our terms, they believe that each element in nature has a spirit or a soul-plants, animals, minerals . . . Well, there have been reports circulating throughout the tribes of nature spirits manifesting themselves to tribal matriarchs. Animals suddenly standing upright and transforming themselves into the aspect of people-tribal people, that is-speaking to them in their own language and then changing back again before their eyes."
Breck and I exchanged glances.
"The tribes believe each living thing is possessed of a spirit," Higgins continued, "and they extend that definition to things we would ordinarily consider inanimate, such as rocks, water, mist, and the ground itself. To them, everything in nature is imbued with 'spirit force.' Their rituals reflect this sort of anthropomorphism. However, while they believe that one is capable of communing with the elements, there is no basis in their spiritual mythos for a literal communion, where the spirit forces actually start talking back to them. Nor is there any basis in their folklore for manifestations such as I've been hearing about. And it's not in their nature to lie or exaggerate. I'd already started having some suspicions and the recent sabotage at the refinery seems to confirm them."
He paused, watching us carefully for a reaction. "I think the quarantine of Draconis 9 has been broken. I believe there are ambimorphs on Purgatory. Which means there could be am-bimorphs on the colony worlds, as well. Perhaps even on Earth."
Neither Breck nor I said anything.
Higgins refilled our wine glasses, then poured himself another glass, as well. "So ... I made my reports through the necessary channels, and forwarded copies to the corporate headquarters and Bureau of Extraterrestrial Resource Management, discreetly voicing my suspicions, and I was told that I'd become a raving paranoid, that I've been spending far too much time out in the wilderness with the tribes, that I've gone native and started to lose touch with reality, and that what I really needed was a long rest. Perhaps even to be relieved of my post here and sent back home to recuperate."
He sipped his wine and watched us over the rim of his glass. "Only I wasn't relieved, as you can see," he continued, after a brief pause. "In spite of what seemed to me to be a disproportionately strong reaction to my reports. Instead, I received notification of acknowledgment concerning my reports and assurances that they were being carefully reviewed. Now, ordinarily, I might have been inclined to consider this sort of reaction placatory, except for the fact that it was so out of synch with the initial response. And then suddenly I was notified that my reports had been classified 'Top Secret,' and I was to discuss them with no one. I was also informed that I'd be contacted and that I should stand by for further instructions. All this in a military courier pouch, classified, for my eyes only, destroy when read."
He set down the wine glass and gave us a level stare. "And who should turn up but a couple of Psychodrome stars, of all things. Not quite what I expected. Yet one of them is an SS hybreed, a former senior officer with a distinguished military record." He glanced from Breck to me. "And you're a former serviceman, as well. Merely an interesting coincidence, perhaps?"
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "So where exactly do we stand here, gentlemen? Has somebody decided to incorporate my so-called paranoid delusion into an escapist fantasy game scenario or is it all some sort of subterfuge? Are we playing a game here? Is that what this is?"
"Even if it was, we'd probably tell you it wasn't," said Breck. "After all, if this was merely a game, a Psychodrome fantasy adventure, then part of our job would be to make it appear as realistic as possible for the benefit of our home audience." He shrugged. "On the other hand, if this was a 'subterfuge,' as you put it, and we were actually dealing with reality here, then we'd probably want to make it seem as if it were nothing but a game, because we wouldn't want to panic everyone, would we? You see, any answer I gave you would be suspect."
Higgins sat silent for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Are you telling me that Psychodrome is actually going to broadcast all this as a game scenario? Is that what you're saying?"
"We could be live on the psy-fi channels at this very moment," Breck said. "Which doesn't mean that we're not taking you seriously. You did receive your orders in a military courier pouch, didn't you?"
Higgins shook his head, frowning. "I don't understand. You mean the game scenario is just a cover? How can you possibly hope to keep something like this a secret, especially if you're incorporating it into a psych-fidelity broadcast? Do you seriously expect to convince people that none of this is really happening? That's crazy!"
"Perhaps," said Breck, "but there's a certain logic to this particular form of insanity. You see, people are to a large extent conditioned by what they experience through psy-fi. They often tend to confuse it with reality. You have no idea how many times people have approached me, strangers acting as if we were old comrades in arms, clapping me on the back and wanting to reminisce about some adventure we had shared. Of course, they never actually shared any adventures with me, but they 'experienced' it with me through psy-fi. It seemed real to them, not only because the feelings they experienced-albeit passively-were real, but because they wanted it to seem real. And they really did experience my feelings and perceptions vicariously. They're reacting based on those vicariously shared feelings and perceptions and it's part of my job as a psycho to play along. Yes, I tell them, as if they really were old comrades in arms, certainly I remember, wasn't it something? Didn't we have a hell of a time?"
"But this is no game," protested Higgins. "This is really happening."
"All the adventures we psychos have really do happen," Breck said, with a slight smile. "Except for the hallucinacts, of course. However, we always treat those as if they were actually happening too, because we usually don't have any way of knowing if they're really happening or not. So if it's real to us, it seems real to the home audience and only later on we might find out that it was all an elaborate illusion. The home audience might never know. In fact, what we're experiencing right now may be nothing more than an elaborate psychocybernetic illusion, yourself included, only we won't know that for certain unless we wake up when it's all over."
"Bullshit, Breck," Higgins said. "I know I'm real and no amount of head games will change that. I know what's really happening."
"I'm sure you do," said Breck, with a mocking smile, "but what difference does that make?"
Higgins frowned. He had no appreciation for Breck's cynical sense of humor. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"Well, ask yourself," said Breck, "what has more impact-an event that takes place, or the way that event is reported to have taken place? I will give you an updated version of an old Zen koan. Imagine that a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it fall except yourself and a psy-fi crew. You hear the tree fall with a not terribly dramatic thud, but the psy-fi crew enhances the effects considerably and the world hears it fall with a resounding, roaring, echoing crash. Which of the two 'realities' will the world accept?"
Higgins said nothing.
"You see?" said Breck. "Under such circumstances, your knowledge of reality wouldn't mean a thing. The public would know what 'really' happened, wouldn't they? After all, they were there, they experienced it through psy-fi. And the interesting thing about psy-fi reality is that it's very pliable. By now, we've been interacting with you long enough for Game Control to have created an effective computer vocal matrix for you. That means as we're sitting here having this discussion, Game Control could be running a computer-generated simulsynch and the home audience would see us sitting here, only they might hear us talking about the weather or the dinner we've just had. Our psychocybernetic engineers are rather good at editing reality. On the other hand, they might decide to run it as is. After all, this is
only a game. Isn't it?"
"You people are scary," Higgins said softly.
"For whatever it's worth," I said, "I find it pretty scary, too."
"But you go along with it."
"That's right."
"Why?"
It was a good question. "I'm honestly not sure I could explain that to you, Mr. Higgins."
I wasn't all that sure I could explain it to myself. For one thing, I wasn't convinced I had a choice. Maybe it was all a matter of momentum, play or pay. Once you were in, you were never really out again, like all those people who had biochips implanted in their brains that Coles could access anytime he chose. But that was only part of it. Another part of it was my gambler's instinct and the fever of the game. I had bought into the game the moment I walked into The Pyramid Club and sat down at that table with Hakim Saqqara. Or maybe it had started even earlier, when I enlisted in the service and left Mars, looking for a way to get out of the giant shadow cast by Scan O'Toole. Either way, the cards had been dealt and there was nothing left to do but play them. Just the way they fell.
"What happens if more incidents like the explosion at the plant occur?" said Higgins. "Are innocent people going to be blamed? Surely you can't control the news media? How can things like that be covered up?"
"Once again, you're asking questions I really don't know how to answer," Breck said. "For one thing, such decisions are not ours to make. After all, we're only here to play the game." He smiled. "However, one might suppose that if am-bimorphs were responsible for the explosion at the plant, it could be because they wanted to announce their presence and were trying to see how far we can be pushed. It's significant that everyone was warned to vacate the premises well in advance of the explosion so that no one was hurt. If the ambimorphs were, indeed, responsible, they also very considerately provided us with a convenient scapegoat. The plant foreman."
