They seemed curious about Charityville and would hang over a work site, turning slowly around as if to see everything. But they never got within reach. Some of the settlers wanted to shoot one down and examine it; Mayor Daigler forbade it.
There was another animal too—or might be. They were called “peekers” because all that anyone had seen was something that ducked quickly behind a rock or tree when anyone tried to look. Between the possibly mythical peeker and the ubiquitous balloons, the colonists felt that their new neighbors took a deep but not unfriendly interest in what they were doing.
Maggie Daigler—she was “Maggie” to everyone now—had put away her jewels, drawn dungarees from ship’s stores, and chopped off her hair. Her nails were short and usually black with grime. But she looked years younger and quite happy.
In fact, everyone seemed happy but Max.
Ellie was avoiding him. He cursed himself and his big mouth thrice daily and four times at night. Sure, Daigler had spoken out of turn—but was that any reason for him to open his mouth and put his foot in it? Of course, he had never figured on marrying Ellie—but shucks, maybe they were stuck here forever. “Probably,” not “maybe,” he corrected. The ban on joining the colony would he let up in time—in which case, what was the sense in getting in bad with the only eligible girl around?
An astrogator ought to be a bachelor but a farmer needed a wife. Mighty nice to have someone cooking the turnip greens and jointing a chicken while a man was out in the fields. He ought to know—Maw had let it slide often enough. Ellie wouldn’t be like Maw. She was strong and practical and with just a little teaching would do all right.
Besides she was about the prettiest thing he ever saw, if you looked at her right.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dumont, by special dispensation, joined the colony, it caused him to act. Since the steward and stewardess would have no duties in a ship without passengers, no one could reasonably object—but it gave Max an approach. He went to see the First Officer.
“Probationary Apprentice Jones, sir.”
Walther glanced up. “I think I’d say ‘Assistant Astrogator Jones’ if I were you. Closer to the facts. Come in.”
“Uh, that’s what I wanted to speak with you about, sir.”
“So? How?”
“I want to revert to my billet.”
“Eh? Why would you rather be a chartsman than an astrogator? And what difference does it make—now?”
“No, sir. I’m electing to resume my permanent appointment, steward’s mate third.”
Walther looked amazed. “There must be more to this. Explain yourself.”
With much stammering, Max explained his trouble with Simes. He tried to be fair and finished with the dismal feeling that he had sounded childish. Walther said, “You’re sure about this? Mr. Simes has said nothing to me about you.”
“He wouldn’t, sir. But it’s true. You can ask Kelly.”
Walther thought for a while. “Mr. Jones, I wouldn’t attach too much importance to this. At your age, these conflicts of personality often seem more serious than they are. My advice is to forget it and do your work. I’ll speak to Mr. Simes about his keeping you out of the control room. That isn’t proper and I am surprised to hear it.”
“No, sir.”
“‘No, sir’ what?”
“I want to return to steward’s mate.”
“Eh? I don’t understand you.”
“Because, sir, I want to join the colony. Like Chief Steward Dumont.”
“Oh… A light begins to dawn.” Walther slapped the desk emphatically. “Absolutely no! Under no circumstances.”
“Sir?”
“Please understand me. This is not discrimination. If you were a steward’s mate and nothing else, I would consider your request—under the special circumstances which I believe pertain. But you are an astrogator. You know our situation. Dr. Hendrix is dead. Captain Blaine—well, you have seen him. He may recover, I cannot plan on it. Mr. Jones, as long as there is any faint hope that this ship will ever lift again, as long as we have crew to work her, no astrogator, no chartsman, no computerman will be relieved from duty for any reason whatsoever. You see that, don’t you?”
“I guess so, sir. Uh, aye aye, sir.”
“Good. By the way, keep this to yourself, but as soon as the colony can get along without us temporarily, I want the ship placed in a parking orbit so that you specialists can maintain a search. You can’t work very well through this atmosphere, can you?”
“No, sir. Our instruments were designed for open space.”
“So we must see that you get it.” The First Officer sat silent, then added, “Mr. Jones—Max, isn’t it? May I speak to you man to man?”
“Uh? Certainly, sir.”
“Mmm… Max, this is none of my business, but treat it as fatherly advice. If you have an opportunity to marry—and want to—you don’t have to join the colony to do it. If we stay, it won’t matter in the long run whether you are crew or a charter member of the village. If we leave, your wife goes with you.”
Max’s ears burned. He could think of nothing to say.
“Hypothetical question, of course. But that’s the proper solution.” Walther stood up. “Why don’t you take the day off? Go take a walk or something. Fresh air will do you good. I’ll speak to Mr. Simes.”
Instead, Max went looking for Sam, did not find him in the ship, discovered that he had gone dirtside. He followed him down and walked the half mile to Charityville.
Before he reached the building that was being worked on, he saw a figure separate itself from the gang. He soon saw that it was Eldreth. She stopped in front of him, a sturdy little figure in dirty dungarees. She planted her feet and set fists on her hips.
“Uh, howdy, Ellie.”
“Up to your old tricks! Avoiding me. Explain yourself.”
The injustice of it left him stuttering. “But… Now see here, Ellie, it’s not that way at all. You’ve been…”
“A likely story. You sound like Chipsie caught with her hand in a candy dish. I just wanted to tell you, you reluctant Don Juan, that you have nothing to worry about. I’m not marrying anyone this season. So you can resume the uneven tenor of your ways.”
“But, Ellie…” he started desperately.
“Want me to put it in writing? Put up a bond?” She looked fiercely at him, then began to laugh, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, Max, you large lout, you arouse the eternal maternal in me. When you are upset your face gets as long as a mule’s. Look, forget it.”
“But, Ellie… Well, all right.”
“Pals?”
“Pals.”
She sighed. “I feel better. I don’t know why, but I don’t like to be on the outs with you. Where were you going?”
“Uh, nowhere. Taking a walk.”
“Fine. I’ll go too. Half a sec while I gather in Chipsie.” She turned and called, “Mister Chips! Chipsie!”
“I don’t see her.”
“I’ll get her.” She ran off, to return quickly with the spider puppy on her shoulder and a package in her hand. “I picked up my lunch. We can split it.”
“Oh, we won’t be gone that long. Hi, Chipsie baby.”
“Hi, Max. Candy?”
He dug into a pocket, found a sugar cube that he had saved several days ago for the purpose; the spider puppy accepted it gravely and said, “Thank you.”
“Yes, we will,” Ellie disagreed, “because some of the men saw a herd of those centaur ponies the other side of that ridge. It’s quite a hike.”
“I don’t think we ought to go that far,” he said doubtfully. “Won’t they miss you?”
“I’ve been doing my share. See my callouses?” She stuck out a grimy paw. “I told Mr. Hornsby that I was suddenly come down with never-get-overs and he would have to find somebody else to hold while he hammered.”
He was pleased to give in. They went up rising ground and into an arroyo and soon were in a grove of primitive conifers. Mr. Chips jumped down from E
llie’s shoulders and scurried up a tree. Max stopped. “Hadn’t we better catch her?”
“You worry too much. Chipsie wouldn’t run away. She’d be scared to death. Chipsie! Here, honey!”
The spider puppy hustled through branches, got directly above them, dropped a cone on Max. Then she laughed, a high giggle. “See? She just wants to play.”
The ridge was high and Max found that his hillbilly’s wind had been lost somewhere among the stars. The arroyo meandered slowly upwards. He was still woodsman enough to keep a sharp eye out for landmarks and directions. At weary last they topped the crest. Ellie paused. “I guess they’re gone,” she said disappointedly, staring out over flatter country below them. “No! Look over there. See them! About two dozen little black dots.”
“Uh huh. Yeah.”
“Let’s go closer. I want a good look.”
“I wonder if that’s smart? We’re a far piece from the ship and I’m not armed.”
“Oh, they’re harmless.”
“I was thinking of what else might be in these woods.”
“But we’re already in the woods, and all we’ve seen are the hobgoblins.” She referred to the balloonlike creatures, two of which had trailed them up the arroyo. The humans had grown so used to their presence that they no longer paid them any attention.
“Ellie, it’s time we went back.”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m responsible for you. You’ve seen your centaurs.”
“Max Jones, I’m a free citizen. You may be starting back; I’m going to have a close look at those underslung cow ponies.” She started down.
“Well—Wait a moment. I want to get my bearings.” He took a full look around, fixed the scene forever in his mind, and followed her. He was not anxious to thwart her anyhow; he had been mulling over the notion that this was a good time to explain why he had said what he had said to Mr. Daigler—and perhaps lead around to the general subject of the future. He wouldn’t go so far as to talk about marriage—though he might bring it up in the abstract if he could figure out an approach.
How did you approach such a subject? You didn’t just say, “There go the hobgoblins, let’s you and me get married!”
Ellie paused. “There go the hobgloblins. Looks as if they were heading right for the herd.”
Max frowned. “Could be. Maybe they talk to them?”
She laughed. “Those things?” She looked him over carefully. “Maxie, I’ve just figured out why I bother with you.”
Huh? Maybe she was going to lead up to it for him. “Why?”
“Because you remind me of Putzie. You get the same puzzled look he does.”
“Putzie?” Who is Putzie?”
“Putzie is the man my father shipped me off to Earth to get me away from—and the reason I crashed out of three schools to get back to Hespera. Only Daddy will probably have shipped him off, too. Daddy is tricky. Come here, Chipsie. Don’t go so far.”
She continued, “You’ll love Putzie. He’s nice. Stop it, Chipsie.”
Max despised the man already. “I don’t like to fret you,” he said, “but it’s a long way to Hespera.”
“I know. Let’s not borrow trouble.” She looked him over again. “I might keep you in reserve, if you weren’t so jumpy.”
Before he could think of the right answer she had started down.
The centaurs—it seemed the best name, though the underparts were not much like horses and the parts that stuck up were only vaguely humanoid—clustered near the foot of the hill, not far out from the trees. They weren’t grazing, it was hard to tell what they were doing. The two hobgoblins were over the group, hovering as if in interest just as they did with humans. Ellie insisted on going to the edge of the clearing to see them better.
They reminded Max of clowns made up to look like horses. They had silly, simple expressions and apparently no room for a brain case. They appeared to be marsupials, with pouches almost like bibs. Either they were all females or with this species the male had a pouch too. Several little centaurs were cavorting around, in and out the legs of their elders.
One of the babies spied them, came trotting toward them, sniffling and bleating. Behind it the largest adult pulled out of the herd to watch the young one. The colt scampered up and stopped about twenty feet away.
“Oh, the darling!” Ellie said and ran out a few feet, dropped to one knee. “Come here, pet. Come to mama.”
Max started for her. “Ellie! Come back here!”
The large centaur reached into its pouch, hauled out something, swung it around its head like a gaucho’s throwing rope. “Ellie!”
He reached her just as it let go. The thing struck them, wound around and held them. Ellie screamed and Max struggled to tear it loose—but they were held like Laocoön.
Another line came flying through the air, clung to them. And another.
Mr. Chips had followed Ellie. Now she skittered away, crying. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and shrilled, “Max! Ellie! Come back. Please back!”
18
CIVILIZATION
Ellie did not faint nor grow hysterical. After that involuntary scream, her next remark was simply, “Max, I’m sorry. My fault.”
The words were almost in his ear, so tightly were they tied together by the clinging ropes. He answered, “I’ll get us loose!” and continued to strain at their bonds.
“Don’t struggle,” she said quietly. “It just makes them tighter. We’ll have to talk our way out of this.”
What she said was true; the harder he strained the tighter the pythonlike bonds held them. “Don’t,” Ellie pleaded. “You’re making it worse. It’s hurting me.” Max desisted.
The largest centaur ambled up and looked them over. Its broad simple face was still more ludicrous close up and its large brown eyes held a look of gentle astonishment. The colt approached from the other side and sniffed curiously, bleated in a high voice. The adult bugled like an elk; the colt shied sideways, then rejoined the herd on a dead run.
“Take it easy,” Ellie whispered. “I think they were scared that we would hurt the baby. Maybe they’ll just look us over and let us go.”
“Maybe. But I wish I could get at my knife.”
“I’m glad you can’t. This calls for diplomacy.”
The rest of the herd came up, milled around and looked them over, while exchanging calls that combined bugling, whinnying, and something between a cough and a snort. Max listened. “That’s language,” he decided.
“Of course. And how I wish I had studied it at Miss Mimsey’s.”
The largest centaur leaned over them, smoothed at their bonds; they became looser but still held them. Max said sharply, “I think they are going to untie us. Get ready to run.”
“Yes, boss.”
Another centaur reached into its built-in pouch, took out another of the ropelike things. It dropped to its fore knees, flipped the end so that it curled around Max’s left ankle. The end seemed to weld into a loop, hobbling Max as effectively as a bowline knot; Ellie was treated the same way. The biggest centaur then patted their bonds, which fell off and writhed gently on the ground. It picked them up and stuffed them into its pouch.
The centaur that had hobbled them wrapped the ends of their tethers around its upright trunk, they merged into a belt. After an exchange of sour bugle calls with the leader, it patted the leashes which then stretched like taffy, becoming quite twenty feet long and much more slender. Max pressed his knife on Ellie and said, “Try to cut yourself loose. If you can, then run for it. I’ll keep them busy.”
“No, Max.”
“Yes! Dawggone it, quit being a brat! You’ve made enough trouble.”
“Yes, Max.” She took the knife and tried to saw through the strange rope near her ankle. The centaurs made no attempt to stop her, but watched with the same air of gentle astonishment. It was as if they had never seen a knife, had no notion of what one was. Presently she gave up. “No good, Max. It’s like trying to slice durapl
astic.”
“Why, I keep that knife like a razor. Let me try.”
He had no better luck. He was forced to stop by the herd moving out—walk or be dragged. He managed to close the knife while hopping on one foot to save his balance. The group proceeded at a slow walk for a few steps, then the leader bugled and the centaurs broke into a trot, exactly like ancient cavalry.
Ellie stumbled at once and was dragged. Max sat down, managed to grab his hobble and hang on while shouting, “Hey! Stop!”
Their captor stopped and looked around almost apologetically. Max said, “Look, stupid. We can’t keep up. We’re not horses,” while helping Ellie to her feet “Are you hurt, kid?”
“I guess not.” She blinked back tears. “If I could lay hands on that hay-burning oaf, he’d be hurt—plenty!”
“You skinned your hand.”
“It won’t kill me. Just tell him to slow down, will you?”
Seeing them on their feet the monster immediately started to trot again. Down they went again, with Max trying to drag them to a halt. This time the leader trotted back from the main herd and consulted their custodian. Max took part, making up in vehemence what he lacked in semantic efficiency.
Perhaps he was effective; their keeper slowed to a fast walk, letting the others go ahead. Another centaur dropped back and became a rear guard. One of the animated balloons, which had continued to hover over the herd, now drifted back and remained over Max and Ellie.
The pace was just bearable, between a fast walk and a dogtrot. The route led across the open, flat floor of the valley and through knee-high grass. The grass saved them somewhat, as the centaur leading them seemed to feel that a fall or two every few hundred yards represented optimum efficiency. He never seemed impatient and would stop and let them get up, but always started off again at a clip brisk for humans. Max and Ellie ceased trying to talk, their throats being burned dry by their panting efforts to keep up. A tiny stream meandered through the bottom of the valley; the centaur jumped easily across it. It was necessary for the humans to wade. Ellie paused in midstream, leaned down and started to drink. Max objected, “Ellie! Don’t drink that—you don’t know that it’s safe.”
Starman Jones Page 18
