Nimisha held out her hand and suggested that they examine the cluster of pods a few meters from the ship.
“What’re in these, Helm?” she asked when they got to the first weathered and intact unit. First she had to scrape off the mud and ingrained dirt from the stenciled coding.
“Clothing,” was Helm’s prompt response.
“Keep a running account, please, Helm,” Nimisha said. Next it was Timmy who found the markings on a pod of blankets.
By the time Syrona had rejoined them, without having found any suspicious tracks, Nimisha and Tim had found that fiber tents occupied a third, then more clothing and blankets, and bolts of fabric. The next few were marked “Miscellaneous,” but Helm’s probing determined that some of the miscellany was metallic.
“Scissors? Needles? Pins?” Syrona exclaimed, her eyes widening with pleasure. “I got to be a pretty good furrier, you know, when we found bone that wouldn’t splinter. Casper kept experimenting because he was sure he’d find one that would make a good needle.”
Nimisha grinned, thinking that optimism brings its own success.
They walked on, checking the strewn pods. Some had burst open, with little left in them but blown dust and debris: the contents had either deteriorated open to the weather or been removed.
Syrona examined the closing mechanism on an unopened crate. “Well, I suppose the little folk might have figured out how to open them—if they had enough strength in their digits.”
“Digits, Syrie?” Timmy asked, confused. “Digits are numbers.”
“Digit is another word for finger,” Syrona said.
“Confusing. You always said numbers for numbers, not digits.”
“True, but digit is a synonym. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you about them soon, Tim,” his mother said.
“Oh.” He frowned. “I’m getting hungry, Syrie. Do we have to look at all of ’em?” He made an expansive gesture toward the long line leading several kilometers beyond them.
“I’m feeling a little empty, myself,” Nimisha said. “Let’s go back and see what the men have found, and we’ll all have a snack on the Fiver.”
Timmy brightened and skipped ahead of them on their return.
“It’s so . . . so reassuring to know there are supplies on hand,” Syrona said, running her fingers across the sides of the pods they passed as they retraced their steps.
“Oh, we’ll be rescued before we need to tap into any of this,” Nimisha said, cocksure.
Syrona gave her an odd glance. “You’re counting on it?”
Nimisha regarded her frankly. “I,” she said, placing a self-deprecating hand on her chest, “am not that important, but the Fiver is. Vegan Fleet and Rondymense Ship Yard will spare no effort to locate it, and me. And now you.”
Syrona let out a sigh. “There is no record of that wormhole at those coordinates, Nimisha. Don’t get your hopes up no matter how valuable that ship is. We’re a very long way from Vega, or Altair, or any of the other settled areas of space.”
“That’s all too true, Syrona, especially as that wormhole makes such sporadic entries,” Nimisha agreed, gesturing toward the wrecked freighter. “However, while you were marooned here, there’ve been many technological advances. I’ll bet anything that Vegan Fleet and the FSP Navy will set up the very latest equipment at the Mayday beacon I managed to get off. They’ll find us.”
Syrona did not comment and they walked on in silence and were almost to the wreck, where Timmy was squatting and looking up through holes in the hull.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Nimisha,” Syrona said at last.
“I’m not upset, Syrona, but it doesn’t hurt to have two optimists in this expedition, does it? I’ve a particular reason to need to be back at Vega in another—” She counted. “—eighteen months.”
“Your daughter’s Necklacing?” Syrona asked.
“That’s it.”
“Even at the best speed your Fiver can do, you might be late.”
“You’re as bad as Jon,” Nimisha said, keeping rancor and exasperation out of her voice. She told herself firmly that Syrona had suffered a lot in sixteen years: She had been forced to be a realist.
The two men came swinging down, feet first, from the larger of the holes Timmy had been looking up at.
“There’s a lot salvageable aboard her,” Casper said cheerfully. “And with what Helm says is available in prefab units, both on the ship and spread out across the landscape, we could each have our own private quarters.”
“That’s what you think,” Syrona said with some asperity.
“Yes, ma’am,” Casper said, pretending to avoid a blow.
“When,” Jon said, pausing for emphasis, “we have found the best possible spot to set up a more permanent colony.” He grinned at Nimisha, and she realized she must not have concealed her dismay at that abrupt remark. “I include the other two unexplored worlds, which we definitely should investigate now that we can,” he said with a placatory bow in her direction. “At least we have plenty of stores to start off with.”
“I hesitate to mention this,” Casper said with a rueful smile, “but I’m . . . hungry.”
“Me, too, Cas, me, too,” Timmy exclaimed, grabbing Casper’s hand and swinging himself about. Syrona nodded agreement.
“Unanimous?” Jon asked, looking at Nimisha.
“No question of that,” she said and led the way back to the Fiver.
When Timmy was engaged in eating and watching a vid, the two men told the women what they had discovered in the rest of the ship.
“I don’t think there were any survivors, not with the damage to the bridge area. Below, we found skeletons—practically every bone in their bodies had been broken,” Jon said soberly. “Helm augmented our findings by his sensor readings. The log data he’s accessed so far indicated that they’d dumped fuel in the hope of surviving a crash landing. Maybe one or two did. Crew complement was eighteen on a vessel this size. We found twelve skeletons. We figure the other six would have been on duty on the bridge. Nothing could have got into the crew quarters. The doors were still shut. In fact, we had trouble prying them open.”
“Helm reports accessing their names and home ports,” Casper said. “Their families will benefit.”
“If we can get a report back,” Jon said with a diffident shrug.
Nimisha waited a moment, controlling her irritation. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Syrona give Casper an anxious look.
“You really are a pessimist, aren’t you, Captain?” It took Nimisha all her self-control not to color that remark with her true feelings.
“I’ve had to be . . . ma’am.”
“Hey, you two, there aren’t enough of us to be at each other’s throats,” Casper said, a placatory smile on his face.
Jon laughed and waved toward Casper. “The eternal optimist.”
“I came, didn’t I?” Nimisha said. She smiled all around the table. “The point is, we can improve our situations now, can’t we? We can make a serious attempt at cultivating another alien species. We can investigate the other two M-type worlds. I’d rather one that didn’t have as many predators if we want to be safe until . . . help . . . comes!” She stressed those words. “Because help will come.” She glared at Jon and then at Syrona. “I am proof.”
“Of what?”
“Oh . . .” Nimisha’s patience was strained. “Proof that our technology is capable of finding us, no matter how far away our home worlds are.”
“You, you mean,” Syrona said almost angrily.
“I’ve heard enough of this,” Doc said in a stern voice. “You do not need to wrangle with each other. You’re all you have. So hear this, loud and clear. The euphoria of discovery has dissipated and you’re all experiencing a quite logical swing toward depression. There is no need for acrimony. My programming tends for me to side with you optimists, but then I am aware, as an extensively programmed Artificial Intelligence, how far our technology has progressed from state-of-the-art as
you would have known it, Captain Svangel. Message pulse sending is now highly refined, and a pulsed message will reach some listening ear, if it hasn’t already. I highly recommend that you finish your meals and get a good night’s rest. You’ll need it tomorrow for clear thinking in dealing with the small people. Understand?”
“My apologies,” Jon said formally, and bowed to Nimisha.
“Mine as well,” Syrona said meekly.
“None are needed,” Nimisha said and rose. “Helm, has the remote shown any activity at tomorrow’s meeting site?”
“There has been peripheral movement in the area, but no alien was visible, nor were there sounds that could be recorded and added into the base for semantical analysis.”
“Maybe they’re just not curious,” Casper said, getting to his feet. “C’mon, Tim, we’re all having an early night to be rested for tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Can I finish watching this adventure? It’s exciting.”
“A soothing nightcap might be advisable,” Doc said charmingly. “Cater, do provide us with an appropriate beverage.”
“My pleasure. What may I serve you, Lady Nimisha? A tea perhaps?”
Whatever it was, herbal and tasty, had undoubtedly been laced with a mild sedative, Nimisha decided the next morning when Helm’s chimes roused her. She had slept like the proverbial log.
Helm announced that there were significant movements at the proposed site, so everyone climbed into the gig after Jon carefully exited the Fiver’s garage. They had patched in both Doc and Helm to the gig and, through that control board, to their wrist units, which would be recording the proceedings. Nimisha fixed a comunit to Tim’s belt, rather than wrapped about his much smaller wrist. Jon suggested an earring, so that Tim could receive advice from his mentors during the interview; a small receiver was found and planted behind his right ear. He strutted about, pleased with his equipment.
“A reception committee,” Nimisha murmured when the gig, coming in at an angle over the obscuring bluff, showed them the throng that had gathered.
“They’ve set us a table, too,” Timmy cried excitedly, pointing.
When the adults saw the rest of the carefully set scene, they exchanged amused glances. There were four stools set well back from the table, just as they had been positioned to allow Timmy to make the initial contact on the Fiver. There were little piles of what were obviously samples of edibles on pottery plates, as well as cups and several pottery jugs.
“Nice design on the pottery. Looks painted on with fine brushwork,” Jon murmured. “Glazed, too.”
“The best china for the visitors?” Nimisha replied.
“No diagnostic unit though,” Syrona remarked with a sigh of relief.
“They are showing a nice degree of intelligence by reproducing our first encounter as well as they have,” Jon said.
“All right, Tim, you’re our resident ambassador,” Casper said. “You go first.”
“Me?” Tim went all wide-eyed and nervous.
“They’ve set everything up for you, honey,” Syrona said encouragingly, giving him a little shove toward the gig’s open hatch.
“They have no weapons with them,” Helm said, his low reassurance making Tim square his shoulders and advance. “Based on Doc’s medical reports, they are at ease and waiting. No elevation of pulse or heartbeat.”
“We’re right behind you, cadet ensign,” Jon said.
“So long as you are,” Tim muttered, but he took the step forward. Then he paused and gulped as he reached ground level and began to appreciate just how many were assembled up the hill beyond the meeting place. “There’s an awful lot of them, isn’t there? What do I say? What do I do?” Apprehension made his voice quaver.
“Walk up to the table, Tim,” Jon said. “We’ll prompt you. Put your left hand behind your back if you want suggestions. I suggest that you point to yourself and say your own name. Then ask for Ay and Bee. Let’s see if they remember the names we gave them.”
“Shouldn’t one of us go with him?” Syrona asked anxiously.
“Tim’s a brave lad,” Nimisha said, assessing the rows and rows of quiet gray aliens seated in their odd cross-legged position. “He’ll do the ambassador very well indeed.” She made certain her voice was loud enough to reach Timmy’s ears as he advanced. He must have heard her, for he suddenly stood a little straighter.
Four aliens rose and came forward to the table, bowing to Tim, and then bowing again to the larger humans and gesturing to the seating provided. Timmy bowed back.
Obediently the adults sat down, though the stools were more suited to smaller rear ends than theirs.
“Notice the much darker coats of two of them,” Nimisha said softly. “Would that indicate age?”
Jon shrugged. “We should have painted Ay and Bee on the two while we had them. They all look exactly alike.”
“They won’t when we get used to them,” Casper said. “I think they mean to get used to us.”
Nimisha firmly hoped so. That would be a plus for the Poolbeg crew, and for herself and the achievements of the Fiver. She tried to settle on her stool, but it was too unstable on the soft ground for her to really relax or even put her full weight on it.
“Tim,” the boy said, pointing to himself. “Ay? Bee? Oh, hey, they know who they are!” As two of the four aliens took an additional step forward, he turned about to grin at the adults.
Ay bowed again and said quite plainly, pointing to itself, “Ay.”
“BbbbbEEEE,” the second one managed to get out, having a lot of trouble with “b,” which sounded more like “bubbubb,” as it stepped forward. It took a plate carefully in both three-fingered hands and held it out to Tim. Then it took one of the unevenly chopped pieces and popped it into its mouth, chewing vigorously and making a thing of swallowing.
“I don’t know what it is,” Tim asked plaintively, eyeing the dish with anxiety.
“Doc says the offered food will not harm you but he can’t guarantee the taste, Tim,” Helm said softly, using the earring amplifier.
Tim reached hesitantly, but he took the food, sniffed it as the aliens had done, licked it. “Not so bad.” He popped the morsel into his mouth. “Chewy,” he added. “Like the nuts we found, Syrie.”
He smiled, then rubbed his stomach and licked his lips. The two who stood beyond Ay and Bee recoiled slightly.
“Whaddid I do wrong?” Tim asked anxiously.
“I don’t think you did anything wrong,” Jon said quietly. “Take another piece and don’t make faces.”
“I thought it’d help if I showed ’em I liked it,” Tim replied, but he took another morsel, chewed it, and swallowed. Ay offered him a pottery cup with water in it. Then Bee picked up another cup, took a careful sip, and handed it to Tim. He sniffed at it, since that seemed to be acceptable behavior. “Some sort of sweet-smelling stuff, like the fruit you picked last year, Cas.”
“Doc says neither will harm you, Tim,” Helm said through the earring.
“Hey, the juice is good,” Timmy said after the first sip, and drained the cup. Bee was quick to refill it, and Ay presented a different plate of small brown balls that Nimisha thought might have been cooked. Ay ate a ball before offering the plate to Tim.
“Doc says it’s a meat product and harmless,” Helm informed him.
Tim popped a ball into his mouth, closed his mouth, and then reacted in distress, opening his mouth wide, fanning it.
“Harmless?” Tim drained the fruit juice with a sigh of relief. “Hot stuff—not hot to touch, hot to eat. Wooof!”
His antics seemed to amuse not only Ay, Bee, and the other nearer aliens, but all those observing. Muted hoots and ooos rippled through the audience.
Bee said something liquid in sound to Ay, who changed plates to some green sprouts.
“I know what these are,” Timmy said and crammed a handful into his mouth, nodding enthusiastically. Another ripple of hoots circulated the audience.
Ay picked up another plate and,
after showing it to Tim, waved its free hand in front of its mouth and put the plate to one side.
“Thanks, Ay. That was hot all the way down,” Tim said. “I wouldn’t mind some more of the first stuff,” he said, and picked up two more morsels from the plate. This appeared to please the audience.
“Is it possible to get samples of all they have offered?” Helm asked.
“Tim, why don’t you load some of the food on the greens plate and bring it back to us,” Jon suggested.
“Shouldn’t I ask first?”
“Make gestures,” Jon said, and Tim went through an elaborate pantomime, of filling a plate, taking it to the adults, and bowing as he pretended to serve it.
Ay and Bee turned to the other two, sound rising and falling in the ensuing conversation.
Ay made the selection itself and indicated that it would like to do the serving. Timmy shrugged and gestured for him to proceed.
Bee produced more cups and filled them with the fruit juice. It used the largest plate to convey the cups to the adults, following after Ay.
“It is tasty,” Nimisha said.
“Tim’s right about having had it,” Syrona said, “but it’s not in season right now. So where did they get it from?”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Nimisha said.
“Weapons, pottery, food preservation technique,” Casper said, grinning. “And smart.”
“Now, if we can only figure out how to exchange—” Jon stopped as the two very gray aliens came forward, bowing not quite as deeply as Ay and Bee did.
Jon rose carefully and bowed at the same angle. Casper, Syrona, and Nimisha followed his example.
Ay and Bee stepped back, out of the way, as if they had done their part in introducing one species to the other. Two others came out of the crowd, carrying stools similar to the ones provided for the humans. When the legs of these were firmly pushed into the ground, the dark grays gestured for the humans to sit. Jon indicated that they should be seated first. They motioned for the humans to sit.
Jon held up his fingers. “One, two, three.” He mimed that they should all be seated at once. “Sit.” He matched action to the word.
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