Gogledh said: “It’s too bad there is no method by which our workers and yours could both fight the Arsuuni at once.”
“Yes, isn’t it? But that is the way of things. They are too shrewd to attack both our Communities at the same time.”
On the afternoon of the third day, after Gogledh had left them, the five Elhamny workers entered the valley of Gliid.
Iinoedh cried: “Oh, look!”
Down near the center of the valley, dull-gleaming in the sunshine, rose a cylindrical object that could only be the sky ship, standing upon its base like the Memorial Pillar of Khinam, and tapering to a blunt point at the upper end.
Even Rhodh, normally a stranger to such emotions, seemed stirred. She said: “Let’s hurry!” and cracked her whip.
The five vehicles filed down the winding road into the valley. Vardh said:
“I’m so excited; I’ve never been to Gliid! What’s that strange-looking pinnacle springing out from the cliffs?”
She pointed. Iroedh explained:
“That’s Survivors’ Point.”
“What does the name mean?”
“It refers to the last survivors among the bisexual Avtini, two thousand years ago.”
“You mean when Queen Danoakor rationalized the diet of the race?”
“Yes,” said Iroedh.
Iinoedh asked: “What became of the survivors?”
“They were besieged sixty-fours of days. One account says that when Danoakor’s army reached the Point, the bisexuals were all dead of starvation; another asserts that they leaped off the cliff to their deaths.”
“How dreadful!” said Vardh.
“Served them right,” snapped Rhodh over her shoulder. “We should forget about those bestial savage days. If I had my way I would destroy every historical record. If it weren’t for dronish sentimentalists like Iroedh, we should have done away with all that rubbish long ago.”
The three younger workers subsided, as prudent juniors do when a quarrel impends among their seniors. Iroedh for her part said nothing because her mind was too full of reveries about the survivors and their tragic fate, of speculations about the impending meeting with the men, and the ever-present nagging worry over the doom of Antis.
As the sky ship loomed nearer, Iroedh was struck by the vast size of the thing. You could crowd a whole Community into it, assuming it was all hollow and not filled with the magical machinery of the men.
Things moved around the base of the sky ship. Evidently, Iroedh thought, those within had seen the column of chariots from afar. Rhodh, with Queen Intar’s guidon whipping at the head of her spear, drove along the overgrown road to the open space where the thing had alighted. This space looked as though it had been cleared by the landing itself, for trees and shrubs were burned to ashes in a wide circle around the object.
One of the men stood where the burned circle touched the edge of the road. Iroedh looked it over as Rhodh, with a clang, jumped down from her chariot and the rest followed suit. Iinoedh gathered up the reins of the five uegs while the rest crowded forward.
The man was about Iroedh’s height, quite Avtiny-looking despite its other-worldly origin. It was of slim build like a worker or princess, not burly like a drone or fat like a queen. It was covered with a substance that Iroedh at first thought to be a queer loose skin, but which closer scrutiny showed to be clothes, cut and stitched in various intricate ways to hug the body: boots not unlike those of the Avtini, but higher; a garment like a tunic with short sleeves; and another garment which Iroedh could only have called a leg tunic, or forked kilt, covering the creature from waist to calf where the legs of the garment disappeared into the boots. The whole was held together by an assortment of buttons and belts so complicated to Iroedh’s eye that she wondered how the man had any time left after putting on and taking off these intricate vestments.
Though Rhodh had spoken of the men as having “hair all over the tops of their heads,” this one had no hair on top at all, but a bare pink scalp with a fringe of brownish hair around the sides and back and another smaller fringe on the upper lip. Iroedh found the blue of its eyes startling, since most of the eyes she was familiar with were yellow.
In the crook of one arm it held an object something like a large version of the flute she had found in Khinam: a wooden stock or handle whence a dark metal rod or tube projected, the whole thing about as long as the man’s arm, with mysterious knobs and projections. Then Iroedh remembered: This must be one of the men’s magical weapons. She hoped the man would not be seized with an urge to point it at her and cause it to make a hole in her one could stick one’s head into.
The man’s cheeks drew back, exposing teeth of a surprising yellow-white. Rhodh, Iroedh thankfully remembered, had warned her not to be alarmed by this gesture. It meant, not that the man was going to bite, but that it was pleased; the act was in fact the Terran equivalent of a smile, which among the Avtini was of course made by rounding the mouth into an O.
The man spoke: “Hello, Rhodh! I did not expect you back so soon. Another worker was just here, from a place called Ledhwid. I see you have brought company.”
It spoke Avtinyk slowly, with a thick accent and many mistakes. Iroedh was a little puzzled by the statement about “bringing company,” which anybody could see for herself. Perhaps such a meaningless statement was a ceremonial gesture, of which the men employed many. Just as a worker meeting a queen said: “Many eggs!”
Rhodh said: “This is my next junior, Iroedh,” and went on to introduce the rest.
The man said: “I am Bloch—Winston Bloch, and I am surely pleased to know you.”
Vardh spoke: “Do you mean Winston of Blok? Is Blok your Community?”
“No; it is my—uh—one of my names.”
“You mean you have more than one?”
“Yes. Three, in fact.”
“Why?” asked Vardh.
“Too complicated to explain now.”
“At least tell us the proper manner of addressing you.”
“On Terra they call me Dr. Bloch. What can we do for you?”
“Iroedh will tell you,” said Rhodh. “The rest of us will set up a camp nearby, if you have no objections.”
“None at all,” said Bloch with a wary air. “My dear Iroedh, would you care to—uh—step into our ship?”
“Thank you. I should like to see the whole ship,” said Iroedh, not knowing quite how to handle the situation but plunging ahead anyway.
Bloch gave its head a shake. “I fear that is impossible. We are overhauling for the return trip, and you would get—uh—what do you call grease?—dirt all over your pretty pink skin. But come on; we will have a cup of coffee.”
“Kothi?” said Iroedh, walking beside him toward the ship.
“Coffee, with a ff. You shall see.”
“Has your ship a name?”
“Sure; do you see those letters? They spell Paris, the name of one of our—ah—Communities.”
“Are you really a functional male?”
Bloch looked at her with a curious expression. “Of course!”
“And yet you work?”
“Certainly. Our males are not at all like your drones, who exist for one purpose only. Though I dare say there are those among us who would not find that such a bad deal.” He tilted his head back and shouted in his own tongue: “Ahoy! Let down the hoist!”
Though she did not understand the words, Iroedh was taken with a desire to run away, for it had just occurred to her that these creatures might seize her for a hostage, or for a specimen to take apart. It would be just her luck. Yet Rhodh and her squad were over on the far side of the clearing. Having taken off their armor and the loose wrap-around tunics they wore under it to keep it from chafing, they were setting up their camp in apparent unconcern. And here came a thing like an oversized bucket dangling down on the end of a chain of gray metal. No doubt Iroedh was serving her Community by risking her life in the clutches of the men, but…
Bloch swung his legs
over the side of the bucket, saying: “Hop in!”
Oh well, thought Iroedh, what did anything matter if Antis would be dead when she returned? She climbed in. The hoist rose.
Iroedh glanced over the side, then seized the edge of the car in a frenzy of panic. Her eyes bulged. She tried to speak but could only croak. Her stomach heaved so that she thought she would lose her hours-old brunch. With a little moan she curled up on the floor of the vehicle, hands over eyes.
She had never before been dangled in mid-air without a tree trunk or other support in plain sight, and found the experience terrifying beyond all recollection. As the hoist rose, the hum of the hoisting machinery came louder and louder to her ears.
“Cheer up,” said Bloch’s voice; “the chain has never broken yet. Here we are.”
Iroedh, feeling a little ashamed, forced herself to rise. Clutching the handrail with a deathly grip and refraining from looking down, she climbed after Bloch onto the platform against which the bucket now hung.
She went through the entrance, observing that the ship was built of the same gray metal as the hoist. She asked:
“What is the ship made of, Daktablak?”
“We call it steel—or rather iron. It is the common metal that is harder than copper and its—what would you call a mixture?”
“Alloys? We know no metal harder than cold-worked bronze. We have gold and silver, but they have only a few special uses.”
She fell silent as they ducked through passageways into the little wardroom. It was crowded with other men, both male and female. Iroedh recognized the females by their smaller size and their breasts, despite the fact that, like the males, they were clothed.
She now realized that Bloch must be tall for his kind, for all the others were shorter than he. Their colors ranged from pale yellow-pink through various tans and bronzes to a brown that was almost black. Perhaps, she thought, different races were represented on the ship, though how they associated without trying to exterminate one another, as did the races on Niond, she did not understand.
Bloch introduced her, beginning with a dark brown man almost as tall as he but much fatter, wearing brass buttons on his tunic: “Captain Subbarau; Miss Dulac, my assistant; Mr. O’Mara, our photographer…”
He went on through other names until they ceased to register in Iroedh’s mind: “Norden, Markowicz, el-Jandala, Kang, Lobos, Cody…” Most of them she could not have pronounced even if she could have remembered them.
At last they were all gone but Captain Subbarau, O’Mara, Miss Dulac, and Bloch. The photographer was shorter and thicker than Bloch (though not so stout as Subbarau) with wavy black hair and blunt features. Subbarau looked at him and said:
“O’Mara!”
The man gave the others what Iroedh interpreted as a sour look and went. Bloch and the Dulac female stared at his back, and Iroedh caught an impression of tension.
“Now,” said Subbarau, “we shall have a spot of coffee and cake. I trust, my dear Iroedh, they won’t poison you. They didn’t hurt your friend Rhodh when she was here before. Take off your helmet if you like.”
Bloch translated, and the conversation proceeded creepingly with much fumbling for words. Iroedh was glad to take off her helmet, as she was tired of bumping the crest against the overhead.
Bloch said: “Captain, when I asked them what we could do for them by way of making conversation, their leader said Iroedh would tell us.”
Subbarau gave a thin version of the startling Terran smile. “I take it they want something. How different from the rest of the Galaxy! Say your say, Madame Iroedh.”
Iroedh told of the war with the Arsuuni, feeling her way nervously. For all she knew, these strangers might be the sort who always sided with the stronger party.
“So,” she concluded, pausing between phrases for Bloch to translate, “if you could destroy Tvaarm with your magical weapons, we should be everlastingly grateful and would promise to support your interests among the Communities on Niond.”
The men exchanged glances. Iroedh, feeling that this was not going too well, faltered:
“We could pay you. We have large stores of cereal grains, and of the suroel fibers we make our cloaks from. We even have a fair supply of the gold and silver from which we make our queens’ regalia and other ornaments.”
Subbarau and Bloch conversed briefly and then the latter turned to Iroedh. Though she could not interpret his expression, he sounded sympathetic.
“It is not a matter of payment, Iroedh. If we could we would do it for nothing—that is, if conditions are as you describe them. But while we do not wish to injure your feelings, your grain and gold would be of no value to us unless we were marooned here by a failure of the ship. Our real reason for refusal is that our orders strictly forbid us to interfere in the local affairs of any planet, regardless of our sympathies.”
“Even to help a peaceful Community defend itself against wrongful and unprovoked aggression?”
“Even that. Why are the Arsuuni attacking you?”
“It’s their regular method of providing for their natural increase. Instead of building themselves new Communities, they seize ours and occupy them, and make slaves of such of our workers as survive the fighting.”
“Well, you perceive how it is. Not that I doubt your story, but every combatant always has an adequate justification for his position. When we land on a strange planet, the first people we meet are likely to have hereditary enemies over the hill and to give us a dozen excellent reasons for helping them to exterminate these foes. If we yield to the temptation we are likely to discover that we have destroyed the side with the better cause, at least according to our way of thinking, or that we have antagonized half the inhabitants of the planet. The only sure method of avoiding such gaffes is a rigid rule against interference.”
Iroedh cautiously sipped her coffee. It seemed like a bitter beverage to drink for pleasure, but if it hadn’t poisoned Rhodh it probably would not kill her. She must keep trying to hook the space travelers into some kind of commitment. Not only was the life of the Community at stake, but also she had vague hopes of using diplomatic success as a lever to free Antis.
“Then,” she said, “why not give us some of your magical weapons? A few—even one—might turn the scale.”
Subbarau whistled.
“It need not be a permanent gift,” said Iroedh, not knowing the meaning of the strange sound but suspecting it to be an unfavorable indication, “but a mere loan. You need not fear we should try to use it against you.”
Bloch said: “You do not understand, my dear Iroedh. This is a ship of the Viagens Interplanetarias, the Terran space authority. Off Terra it is subject to the rules of the Interplanetary Council. One of this Council’s regulations forbids introducing to—uh—backward planets inventions or technical knowledge these planets do not already possess.”
“What do they mean by ‘backward’?”
“Planets that have not attained a certain standard of development in science, law, ethics, and politics.”
“What is the purpose of this rule?” asked Iroedh.
“That is a long story, but the gist of it is that they do not wish to arm some warlike race that might then irrupt out of its home planet and cause trouble elsewhere.”
“Why doesn’t our world qualify as civilized? We have an advanced culture, with writing, metalworking, large buildings, and a high degree of social organization. What more do you wish?”
“One of the first requirements is a single government for the entire planet. You do not have that, do you?”
“Great Gwyyr, no! Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“And you have not abolished the institution of war, have you?”
“Nobody has even thought of getting rid of it. It is part of the nature of things.”
“There you are. Speaking of which, why does not your Community combine with some of its neighbors like Thidhem and smash the Arsuuni before they destroy you piecemeal?”
“
Now it’s you who don’t understand, Daktablak. One Community could never combine with another, because the general of one would have to admit that the queen of another was equal or superior in authority to her own. And as the nominal supremacy of each queen in her own Community is the first principle of our society, such a course is out of the question.”
“What do you mean by nominal supremacy?” asked Bloch.
“The actual governing is done by the Council, elected by the workers. The queen reigns but does not rule.”
“Strict constitutional monarchy,” said Bloch to Subbarau; then, to Iroedh: “I am sorry, my dear, but that is the best advice we can give you. If some irrational rule of your society prevents, so much the worse for your society. Now then, what is interesting around here? As a xenologist—”
“As a what?” queried Iroedh.
“A xenologist; an expert on worlds other than my own. Anything is grist to my mill: geology, climate, plants, animals, people, science, history, art—practically anything you could mention. We have already secured a good collection of the plants and animals of this locale, however. Nearly all your land animals seem to be bipeds with no hair except occasional ornamental patches, like that crest on top of your head. Is that the case with the other continents?”
“As far as they are known to us, yes. Why shouldn’t it be? Are things different on other worlds?”
“They certainly are. On our planet most animals walk on all fours and have hair all over, and on Vishnu most land life has six limbs.”
“Why?” said Iroedh.
“Various reasons. For instance, the type of planetary motion and the distribution of land and water on our planet give it a more variable and extreme climate than yours, so the animals had to develop hair to keep warm during the cold seasons. But to get back: Are there any Communities hereabouts that we could see?”
“I don’t think any Communities would admit you until they knew you better—unless you forced your way in, and I hope you won’t do that.”
“Then must we fly off to some other continent where the people are more approachable? We can give each continent only a limited time on a preliminary reconnaissance like this.”
Rogue Queen Page 3
