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Herbert George Wells was the author of many books and stories. He died in 1946.
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Serial Stories
The Ancient Ones, Part 2
Author: David Brin
Illustrated by Rob Dumuhosky
Consciousness returned in fits and starts, accompanied by a rhythmic, irritating, "plinking" sound—the repetitious dripping of water into some pool. Even before I opened my eyes, mineral aromas and stony echoes told me that I must be underground, lying on some cold, gritty floor.
Spikes of yellow light stabbed when I cracked my eyelids, but I tried not to move or make a sound as blurry outlines gradually formed into steady images—a stretch of rocky wall; a smoldering torch set in an iron cresset; stacks of wooden crates covered with frayed tarps; a rough wooden table, where lay a platter, stacked with raw meat steaks. A glass tankard frothed with some kind of brownish ale.
A pair of pale, squinting eyes peered over the tankard's rim as it raised to meet a broad face, nearly covered by a riot of dark fur.
The meniscus level of ale dropped swiftly, accompanied by slurping gulps as the tankard swung horizontal, draining down that hairy gullet. With a deep, satisfied sigh, the furry drinker licked the goblet's rim with a prodigious tongue. Where Earl Dragonlord had possessed canine uppers even pointier than a Demmy's, this fellow had huge, heavy lower tusks, jutting up to graze his shaggy cheeks.
The flagon slammed down and he started toward the pile of steaks, salivating prodigiously . . . then he stopped, sniffing the air. A matched pair of splendidly huge eyebrows arched as he turned toward me, grinning impressively.
"Snarsh glimp? Naggle scraggle. Yowzuh nowzuh, whutchuh-briggle. . . ."
My captor must not have come into contact with the translator-converter. Or else the device was knocked out during the ambush. No matter. I never believed in that method of dealing with language differences, anyway. "When in Rome . . ." begins an old human expression that's good advice for any traveler.
I tongued one of my molars, turning on the interpreter nanos in my own ear canal.
"Grimble gramble gnash . . . so-o-o it's no-o-o yoosh pretending-g-g," rumbled the deep, slurred voice, which grew steadily easier to understand. "I ken when a man's scannin' me, though 'is gaze be narrow as a nomort's charity."
I opened my eyes fully and sat up on one elbow, wincing just a little from sharp twinges.
"I suppose I'm your prisoner," I said, subvocalizing first in my own language, then relaxing to let my laryngeal nanos fashion the equivalent in local dialect.
The hirsute fellow replied with what I took to be a shrug, using shoulders the size of hamhocks. When he next opened his mouth, what emerged was a hearty, majestic belch.
I made certain to look impressed.
"Hmm. Well said. I take it you are what they call a lican."
If he winced at my use of the term, it was hidden by the mat of hair covering all but his nose and eyes.
"This week I seek no relief, 'xcept to be what I be, and am what I am. You should see me elsetimes. Handsome bugger, or so says my mirror. An' what about you? What's your fate? To eat, or be ate?"
A queer question. It made me glance, against my better wishes, at the stack of bloody cutlets on his plate.
"My name is Dr. Alvin Montessori. And I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Someone recently told me that I looked like a . . . a standard."
My host grunted expressively. "So does a corpambulist, when he's new an' not too smelly. So's a nomort, in daylight. Heck-o, you should see me most days. Smooth as a baby an' don't say maybe!" He guffawed heartily, a friendly sound that would have cheered me, were not beads of saliva running down his yellow tusks and pooling on his lower lip before they spilled onto the tabletop.
Questions had been swirling in my head ever since we met Earl Dragonlord, about the social class structure on this world. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like the answers.
"Let's say I am a standard. Does that automatically mean I'm slated for somebody's dinner table?"
My host sniggered, as if amused by my ignorance.
"In some measure that's up to the standard hisself."
"And I suppose licans and corpsic—"
"Corpambulists," he corrected. "Though they prefer bein' called Zoomz. T'is easier to pronounce, especially in their condition."
"Zooms?" I'm afraid I rolled my eyes. "Then licans and zooms are devourers of—"
"Hey. Don't pin the whole rap on us! There's nomorts, too, y'know."
Nomorts . . . such as Earl Dragonlord. The native I last saw guiding my captain and crewmates toward his home. His lair.
I felt a chill that had little to do with the dank, underground cold. Turning toward the torch, I squinted so that its light pierced between my eyelids in sharp, diffracting rays. My nose began to tickle.
"So," I asked. "What must a standard do in order to keep from being someone's dinner?"
The furry humanoid grinned, his tusks gleaming. "You mean you really don't know? Then as we suspected—"
The tickling light beams struck a nerve at last. I gasped . . . then bellowed a ferocious sneeze.
The abrupt noise sent my captor toppling backward, off his chair. If my intent had been to jump him, that would have been the time. But I only took the occasion to gather myself up to one knee, pulling in my collar tab.
A fleecy, dark mane reappeared in view, rising above the table, followed by peering eyes.
"Wha . . . what was that?"
"Just a sneeze. It's freezing down here, don't you think? Doesn't a solitary captive like me deserve a blanket, after being attacked on the darkened streets of your urb district, knocked out, and dragged underground, away from my friends?"
"That was a sneeze? It sounded like a cross 'tween a hellion howl and a razortooth's roar." He blinked some more. "I thought you said you was a standard."
I divided my attention, as another voice buzzed in my ears.
"Advisor Montessori, this is Commander Talon, on the bridge of the Clever Gamble. Thank Avery you're all right! I assume from your phrasing that you're alone underground, under some type of coercion, and out of contact with the captain. Is that correct?"
I shivered to reinforce the impression that I must keep my hand on my collar. Facing the lican, I spoke sharply, as if to answer his question.
"I never said I was a member of the planetwide social class that's apparently preyed upon by three other sub-races of humanoids . . . those three groups being called the corpambulists, whom I've never seen; and the elegant nomorts, one of whom I last saw guiding my comrades toward castlelike structures on a hill west of the park, presumably into a trap; or licans like you my captor, who seem to grow abundant lower bicuspids and facial fur during certain times of the month, and relish beer with their raw meat."
The lican stared at me, rising the rest of the way. "Uh, why are you talkin' like that?"
"How should I talk to a fellow who has taken away my belt pouch and all my tools, and now holds me captive in a subterranean chamber, a little over two meters in height and roughly three meters long by four wide, with a tunnel exiting along the long axis? There you are, standing about a meter and a half tall, though a bit crouched, on the other side of a table piled high with raw steaks, and you have the nerve to ask—"
"We're homing in on your signal now, Advisor. I don't think we can read the kind of detail you're giving us. Not through solid rock. But the room dimensions should help us track you down."
"—have the nerve to ask why I'm talking like this? You really don't know why I'm talking like this?"
The lican shook his head vigorously, eyes betraying growing worry. "Look, Doc, maybe we got off to a bad start. My name's Lorg, by the way. He hurried over to a pile of tarps in the corner. "Here, let me get you that blanket—"
"Got it!" The voice of the ship's exec cut in. "Hold on, Advisor, we've found your locus, in a cavity undern
eath one of their streets. I'm warming up the blasters right now. Just give us a few seconds. We'll rip away thirty meters of rock and have you outta there in a jif—"
"No!" I cried out, leaping to my feet so fast that I lost contact with the throat mike. Lorg jumped back in dismay, yelping like a puppy with its tail caught in a door.
I pressed my uniform collar once more. "Don't you dare!" I reiterated. My heartbeat raced, knowing how quickly Demmies can work when they think they're coming to the rescue of a friend. Any moment now, the planetary crust over my head might start boiling into the atmosphere, surgically peeled in molten sheets by a terrawatt laser.
"Just . . . just hold it right there," I added, in a lower tone. "Hold it and stay calm."
Lorg stared at me, clutching the blanket in front of him, his jaw quivering, tusks and all.
"I'm calm. I'm calm!"
Commander Talon also replied—"Roger, Doctor Montessori. Understood. Standing by."
I tried to think. So far I'd been improvising . . . a technique which isn't taught much here at Earth's Advisor Academy, since that skill is usually left to Demmies. (It is their strongest trait.) But sometimes a human has to do the Demmiest things. At this point I had my captor intimidated, but I knew that would give way when he realized my loud bark wasn't backed up with bite.
I took an assertive step towards him. "Where are we now? In the sub-urb?"
Lorg nodded. "Under my own place. You were closest to the manhole, so I grabbed you before the renks grabbed ever'body else."
This confused me. "You mean the captai—my friends aren't here too?"
"Naw. The renks laid a trap for 'em. Me an' my friends were lucky to get you."
"Renks? Who are they? Are they nomorts?" My suspicions of Earl Dragonlord flared. Had he led our party into an ambush?
But that didn't make sense! We had been following Earl toward the hill of castles he called home. Why should he abduct victims who were already heading into his lair?
"Renks is a kind of zoomz," Lorg said, with a shiver and a shake of his head. "They swarmed over y'all. We hardly had time to—"
"Shut up, Lorg!"
A new, harsh voice cut in, making us both startle and turn. At the entrance to the underground chamber, three more licans had appeared, even larger than my host. Foremost among the newcomers was a giant figure, bulging out of his makeshift, burlap clothes. Pale yellow fur stood on end with rage, and his curling tusks made Lorg look like a poster boy for Orthodontia Monthly.
"Besh!" Lorg cried out . "I was just—"
"Playing with your food, I know." The bigger lican sauntered in—if one can "saunter" with treelike arms that almost brush the floor. "How many times do I haveta tell you? If you talk to it, that only makes it harder to eat."
The other two licans leaned against the door and chortled, a sound vaguely like what an engine might say, after being fed a treat of corundum sand. Lorg turned red—in those few bare patches showing through his matted pelt.
"Uh, Besh, I don't think this's food at all. It . . . he ain't like any standard I ever seen."
"Nonsense! Look at him! X'cept for that funny nose, and those flattish eyes, and smooth fore'ead—"
What funny nose? I thought, a bit put out.
"Besides, what were renks doing out there? Hunting for partners in a game of spin the skull? They must want this meat pretty bad, risking a foray into our urb like that."
"Exactly!" Lorg said, gaining some feeling in his voice. "You ever see that happen before? Or for that matter, you ever see standards come strolling through the urb at night? With a moon full? I tell you, them renks wanted somethin' more'n just standard flesh."
Besh seemed torn between affront at Lorg's daring to talk back, and interest in the possibilities he'd raised.
"Not a regular standard, eh? Maybe something tastier?"
"Maybe something a whole lot more dangerous," I interjected, speaking with more steadiness than I felt inside.
Besh looked me over, and barked a savage laugh. He ambled toward me with an air of relish . . . and mustard and mayonnaise, I'd wager.
"I don't scare off easy, meat. I'm Besh, night-howler and hill-loper! Runner in the woods and bed-lover of all three moons! My yowl curdles milk in far counties. It shatters windows in the standards' armored high rises. Nomorts take a sunburn, before they face Besh. Little baldie, you dare try to out-bluff me?"
As he moved closer, flexing hands like the scoops at the end of a steam shovel, Lorg tugged at his sleeve.
"Watch out, Besh. He makes this noise."
I had been getting ready for a fight, relaxing into Judo stance . . . as if that would help much against four such demons. But Lorg's words gave me an idea. I pressed my collar again.
"Did that noise impress you, Lorg? Why, I wouldn't insult Besh with anything so puny."
This time the big lican stopped, clearly intrigued.
"Oh yeah?" he asked.
"Yeah! Besh calls himself night-howler? Why, I can out-bellow him anytime, anywhere. I can make clamor that'll rattle your gums and shake your teeth out of their sockets. I can make water rise up and stones fall from above. You want noise? I'll give you noise!"
Would Commander Talon understand what I wanted? By sonic induction, it should be easy enough to transmit vibrations directly into the bedrock all around this chamber—something loud and awe-inspiring. It would only be a matter of timing, triggering it to coincide with my surreptitious cue. Just the sort of improvised trick I had seen the captain pull, plenty of times.
I felt a moment's triumph from the facial expressions of Besh and the others. Clearly, bravado and bluster were components of lican character, part of how they sorted out their own pecking order. Now to back up my bravado with something that would turn them into jibbering converts, eager to help me any way they could.
"Right!" I took a step forward, brandishing a fist. "I'll make these rock walls tremble with such a din, you'll think the world is ending!"
The licans stared at me, wide-eyed and nervously expectant.
Seconds passed, measured by the slow plinking of condensation droplets, falling unhurriedly into a nearby puddle. With each "plunk" my heart sank. Where was Talon? Why didn't he answer, to confirm my request?
Besh blinked once. Twice. Scratching his shaggy, blond mane, he ran his tongue back and forth a few times between his tusks, making a thoughtful clicking.
He glanced at Lorg, who looked back at him and shrugged.
"Okay, I'll bite," Besh said, facing me once more. "What noise is it you were thinkin' of impressin' us with?"
"Yeah," Lorg added, a little eagerly. "Will it hurt?"
I pressed the collar mike against my throat, with desperate urgency.
"Hurt? Why . . . I can make a racket that will shiver these chambers and rattle your soul! A cacophony to show you I'm nobody's meat. It'll petrify your very bones, shrivel your guts, shake your teeth—"
"We heard that part already," Lorg complained, a little churlishly. I really was doing my best, under the circumstances.
"Enough!" Besh roared, setting off his own reverberations and sweeping the plate of cutlets off the table, crashing to the floor.
"Enough braggin'! Just do it, meat. Give it a shot."
He crossed his arms, waiting.
My mind whirled. What had gone wrong? Was it a problem with my microphone or nanos? Or had something gone amiss with the Clever Gamble, in orbit?
The eyes of the lican chieftain told me, I had but seconds left.
Improvise! Part of me insisted.
But I'm no Demmie! Another part replied. I'm a logical Earthman!
That thought cheered me, just a little. Enough to find some saliva in my dry mouth, to wet my lips.
I brought them together . . . and blew.
This isn't going to work, I thought, as I began a softshoe tap-shuffle, to my own whistling accompaniment.
I had never been so right in all my life.
****
The next t
ime I awoke, it was under a vast canopy of stars, damp, bruised, and in pain. Still, I gasped foremost in surprise at still being alive. My last recollected image hadn't been all that promising.
After the ship didn't answer, and the licans called my bluff, what else could I do but wing it? Starting with the very first thing to come to mind. The "Colonel Bogie March" was followed by a brief rendition of "I Got Rhythm," which seguéd into a blues version of that ancient, venerated Earth melody, "Zippedee-doo-dah"—attended by every sound effect I could muster with hand in armpit.
Slack-jawed, the four licans had stared in astonishment while I moved on through a half-dozen of my best animal calls, then a syncopated chant of "The Ballad of Eskimo Nell"—in some faint hope they'd like the raunchy bits. Or else, perhaps, that sheer tedium would put them to sleep.
No such luck. The two silent licans had stared with glazed expressions. And while Lorg seemed willing to give me points for effort, the giant leader simply glared..
At last, Besh told Lorg—"I guess you're right, after all. This meat's no good. I'll help you throw it out."
With that, four huge creatures—each about the size and density of a Harley space scooter—buried me under a blurry avalanche of hair and burlap.
In fact, I must have made a good account of myself during the brief fight, since it lasted longer and was even more painful than I expected. Finally, as the world spun and I blacked out, the last words I heard were—"Let's' toss him to the zoomz, if they want him so bad."
Universe Vol1Num2 Page 43
