by J F Bone
“A fairly stable pattern,” I said.
“They didn’t ingest their victims. They inhumed them.”
“In the soil? Without converting them organically? They must have had all kinds of room.”
“They did. They also had organized combats.”
“Which helped keep the population down?”
Kar chirred agreement. “Their society was workable,” he said. “It did quite well since only the true leader-types reached positions of importance. But Hector Marks changed that. He came to Kalfastoban, studied the ecology, and wrote a book called Murder—A Way of Life. It made him famous. However, some human entrepreneur-types in the video industry read the book and realized that Kalfastoban was the perfect setting for real-life blood-lettings. Since the natives were actors at heart and delighted in being paid for duels and warfare, the orderly chaos of Kalfastobanian life dissolved into an orgy of combat. Today the ICC is desperately trying to keep the remnants from slaughtering each other.”
“Hmm,” I said. “And what about Copenhaver?”
“She triggered the destruction of Alcinaria II. The planet was inhabited by intelligent vegetation which was seasonally sex-oriented and produced magnificent floral displays to attract pollinators. George Banks was the ICC Resident, but despite his protests, Copenhaver published color tri-dis of the flowering rites. Some human commercial-types saw the pictures and found a loophole in the protected species laws. By the time the Council changed the law, Alcinaria II was dead. Virtually all of the mature plants were removed and dispersed into alien gardens. They retained their intelligence, but their intellect vanished with the loss of interaction and disruption of the adult-seed relationship. For the same reason, there was no intellectual recovery on Alcinaria. The germinating seeds grew into plants, but the stimulus to think was gone. Mercifully, exotic viruses have destroyed most of the transplants. The rest are merely intelligent vegetables.” Kar Solq paused.
I twitched my wing cases in a farewell gesture. “Thank you,” I said. “Good eating.” He was surprised at my prompt departure. He should not have been. I dislike prolonged leave taking.
It Was a long walk from the Station Infirmary to my lodgment, but I had dismissed my car and was not particularly eager to jam my aching body into public transport and crouch ocellae to ocellae with the lower classes. I moved at a quick amble through the streets of Kallia Complex, past shops and playgrounds and the soaring domes of lodgments, and the featureless cubes of public record stations and disposal booths. The cul-de-sacs leading off the streets were crowded with my fellow citizens, as it was close to feeding time and the Welfare trucks would soon be in the neighborhood, piled with the carcasses of those who had died that day and were not claimed by their kinsmen. My mind was not on that, however. I was thinking of Marks and Copenhaver. Kar Solq’s account made me realize that our own ecology was delicately balanced, and that news that we were a highly edible species might not be good for our survival.
I was glad to reach my lodgment, and after a refreshing shower and oiling, I visited the pens and selected a plump neuter for the evening meal. Unlike most, it struggled rather than walking with dignity to its fate. It kept trying to escape and stridulated something about my having no right to kill it. Its struggles were futile, of course, since it had neither stamina nor chelae, but its noises annoyed me to the point where I snipped off its head and silenced it. Its mandibles were still moving as I dragged the carcass away. Fortunately it did not bleed a great deal.
My females and young finished it quickly, and the females caught and ate two nymphs who were not sufficiently swift to reach the safety niches in the walls. The others were more agile. From appearances, this clutch had high survival capability. It was edifying to observe the selection process that would gradually eliminate all except the best, cleverest and strongest.
Once the excitement of mealtime was over, I tried to consider ways of putting Banks in my debt. One way was obvious. If I could speed the departure of his unwanted visitors, he would owe me a great deal and I could approach him as an equal. This would give me status, which was essential if I wished to advance farther than a rare earth refinery manager. Status is very important on Mallia. Without it one would be better dead. I retired to my nest and thought about Banks and status and Marks and Copenhaver until the rustlings of my lodgment died in the silence of sleep.
I took over Mallory and Bank’s office the next morning.
It was a shambles; apparently he had resisted deportation.
I later learned that it had taken four humans and six Mallia as to subdue him. Banks confirmed my succession, and I at once began to make some needed reforms. Within the hour I had slain the pit foreman and gave his carcass to the workers and his job to a bright young Solq, thereby discharging my obbgation to the Solq lodgment which I had acquired by questioning Kar. The Solq was young, suggestible, and a hard worker, as could be easily seen from his chitin which was stained a rich violet from contact with zinc-chloride fumes from the extraction process.
Later that day I went over to ICC headquarters to discuss work programs with Banks and to see what the new arrivals were like. Copenhaver was different from other human females I had met. Instead of being angular or thick bodied like female copies of Banks or Mallory ap Banks, she was smoothly curved with a pinched waist that was vaguely similar to that of my species. I had heard that there was considerable sex dimorphism in the human gens, but Copenhaver beggared the reports. One could almost believe she was from a different race. She looked very appetizing, and I understood why members of her type and sex were not allowed on Mallia. The temptation to a gourmet could be too great to endure, and interspecies relations would be badly strained. I made a mental note to tell Banks that she should wear shapeless clothing to hide her succulent curves.
Hector Marks was equally odd. He was paled, soft and fat, and lacked Banks’ abundant facial hair. His eyes were covered by glass lenses. He was somewhat larger than Copenhaver, but his manner of locomotion was oddly like hers. The thought crossed my mind that he was a neuter. This surprised me, since I had never imagined that humans might have an intersex pattern like ours.
I was incapable of evaluating the pair, but Banks was more explicit even though his meaning was obscure. “Marks,” he said “is a swish, but Shirley’s a doll. She’s still a perfect thirty-six.”
The numerical designation eluded me, but he obviously was not referring to her cephalic index. The implications were staggering! I had not realized humans were sex-oriented. But then, I had not known that there were such female types as Copenhaver. I had made it a point to cultivate Banks and consequently received confidences from him that he would not have given his own kind. Apropos of this, I find it interesting that I too, do not feel completely at ease with my fellows and tend to seek out exotic confidantes.
But I disgress . . .
“I’d forgotten she was a cover girl on the Galactic Record,” Banks said. “It was bad on Alcinaria, but on this planet it’s worse. She’s ruining my morale already.”
I chirred agreeably to cover my confusion. The comment was obviously complimentary to Copenhaver, but its meaning eluded me. Nevertheless, it was clear that he was attracted to her.
Even more strange was Copenhaver’s reaction to Banks. She rejected him, and preferred the company of the neuter Marks. At first I could not understand it, but as the days passed I realized that her attentiveness to Marks only occurred when Banks was present. At other times she was friendly to the other human males at the station and treated Marks rather coldly. It dawned on me that her negative attitude might be a cloak for positive feelings. She might, indeed, to be attracted to Banks.
“She is fond of you, I think,” I said to Banks as we watched her walk across the compound arm in arm with Marks.
“Of course she is,” he said, “and I’m in love with her. The hell of it is, she’ll never admit it. She’s a practicing virgin, and that’s the worst kind. She’s twenty-seven years old and has neve
r been in bed with anyone except herself.”
“Incredible,” I said.
“She’s pure poison, but I can’t help being attracted.”
“Like addiction to ethanol?”
“Something like that.”
“Fortunately,” I said, “in my race, the males possess the attraction.”
“You can’t imagine how lucky you are,” Banks said. “With us the female has IT (he capitalized the word verbally) and is usually surrounded by rings of attentive males.”
“A revolting concept,” I said. “But what is this IT you mentioned?”
“Sex appeal. Biological attraction. It’s a fundamental attribute of our race. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m not one of them. Shirley attracts me. She makes my life hideous when she’s close. It was hell on Alcinaria, and it’s starting all over again. Already I’ve started dreaming of her.”
“You are larger and stronger,” I said, “Why don’t you assert yourself?” I twitched my antennae. It was a dreadful thing to do, but fortunately the significance of the gesture was lost on him. Humans do not know the more delicate nuances of Mallian language, which is probably a blessing. It was merely my impatience which triggered this ultimate insult, and I was ashamed of myself. For after all, humans cannot be expected to have Mallian perspicacity.
“My problem is conditioning,” Banks said. “From birth, we Earthmen are taught to respect the law, womanhood, and honor. The moral code is a part of our cultural mystique. We absorb it with our mother’s milk.”
“Milk?” I asked “What’s that?”
He shrugged. “Forget it It’s a figure of speech.”
Nevertheless, I recognized the problem as one inherent in mammalian ecology. After all, what can be said about species that are prenatally and postnatally attached to their mothers. One can only accept the fact that they are an evolutionary mistake.
“Reverence for motherhood is basic,” Banks said. “It’s probably the main reason for our matriarchal government, and it’s certainly responsible for our respect for women.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“Rape is a heinous crime in our society, punishable by commitment to tissuebank—which is a fate worse than death.” He shivered a little.
I wanted to help him, but I had the same disoriented feeling I had experienced when I first met a human; the feeling that they couldn’t possibly exist, let alone perpetuate their race. This was, of course, merely an expression of sex chauvinism that transcends racial barriers and makes functional males brothers under the chi tin.
It was probably that sense of brotherhood that impelled me to leave Banks and follow Marks and Copenhaver as they left the compound and entered Kallia Complex. They separated as soon as Copenhaver was beyond Banks’ visual range, and began to record local activity with portable audiovisual equipment; capturing the sights and sounds of Mallia for some future audience. Copenhaver handled the camera while Marks worked the sound. They were very efficient and as far as I could judge were making a good record of the adults, the vehicular traffic, and the swarm of nymphs who darted about and took care to keep out of the reach of the chelae of their elders, and away from the wheels of the cars.
When I came close, they had stopped recording and Copenhaver was talking. Her voice was loud and I could not help hearing. “I wish I hadn’t come here,” she said. “This place is a constant assault on the emotions. It’s not only George, but the native culture. Somehow I can’t stomach cannibalism.”
Marks winced. “Why not? It’s not your problem. Be objective. Look at their buildings, their art, their structured society, their irrigation, transport and communications network. Consider how they manage their world. This is a civilized and cultured society.”
“A termite builds great buildings and has a highly structured society.”
“Have you ever talked to a termite?”
“No, of course not. But couldn’t this social order be instinctual?”
“Certainly. But the Mallians are rational and intelligent in addition to having instincts. Stop thinking with your viscera. Accept the fact that they’re alien. Maybe they’re not as civilized as we are, but they’re not savages. They’re just different.”
“They eat each other.”
“Why not? They’re pragmatic.”
“You sound like a scientist.”
“I am.”
She laughed. “You’re a sensation-monger.”
“I try to understand my subject. That’s scientific. At least I know why the Mallians eat each other.”
“Why?”
“They have to. They’ve covered this world so thoroughly that they have no enemies except microorganisms and parasites, and they multiply enormously. A healthy female produces forty or fifty eggs in a clutch. Discounting neuters, there will be about three fertile males and twenty females produced each year. If something wasn’t done about the population, in four or five generations the planet couldn’t support its people. So the neuters, the nymphs, and an occasional male and female get eaten.
“Practically, this is as good a way as any to control the population, for only the cleverest, strongest, and quickest survive to breeding age. It works out that in good years there is about a one-tenth of one percent annual rise in population, and a decrease of one-half to five-eighths of one percent in bad years, and since Mallia’s precession gives about one bad year in five, the population stays constant.”
“Where did you learn this?” Copenhaver asked.
“From Banks. Where else?”
“It figures. He wouldn’t worry about cannibalism as long as his precious alien culture was preserved.”
“Oh, use your head. Cannibalism is merely a mechanism that keeps the population in check. Incidentally, educators, political and social leaders, and hereditary nobility seem to be outside of the usual food chain, although they occasionally get killed by accident or assassination. They’re not wasted, of course, but they are not killed primarily for food. This, of course, puts a certain premium on public service and tends to channel the best minds into social management. And their examination and challenge system keeps the structure from crystallizing.”
“But how can they be civilized?” Copenhaver asked. “There is no familial interaction, no parental control, no adult-juvenile informal relationships, no free association, no self expression, no peer groups—”
“They don’t need them. Mallians are different Probably to them our methods of educating our young, preserving our unfit and burying our dead are revolting, idiotic and antisocial. With such a burden on our backs, they might figure that we couldn’t possibly develop civilization. We’re probably more of an enigma to Mallians than they are to us. Mallians expect to be eaten. The only question is how soon.-For them, it’s a good system.”
Neuter or not, I thought with admiration, there was nothing wrong with Hector Marks’ intelligence.
“I can’t believe that,” Copenhaver said.
Marks sighed. “You have no idea what makes these arthropods tick.”
“That was a bad pun,” Copenhaver said. “I don’t think I deserved it.”
“It was no worse than yours about stomaching cannibalism,” Marks said. “Let’s call it even and go to work. All we have to date are a few hundred sollie sequences of Mallians eating each other, and that’s hardly enough to raise an eyebrow in a video audience. They don’t even die messily. It’s all quite clean except at the end when the nymphs begin fighting over the scraps.”
Their voices faded as I became surrounded by a gaggle of curious females who were mildly fascinated by my aura. Although it wasn’t the vernal season, I was quite attractive. Probably it was because I thought too much, and because thinking made me angry and upset. However, their presence caused me to forget human motivations and think of food. I checked to see if they were related to my gens, because one never eats a functional relative except in an emergency. Since they were all from the Aklu lodgment, which was unrelated to mine,
I was on safe ground.
Winter might be hard on some Mallians, but not on me or my clutches. My family was never at a loss for food. Spring was my dreadful time when my biological clock and my hormones conspired to reduce me to a reproductive machine, but with the exception of that unmentionable period, I had triumphed over the seasons.
A female, younger and more curious than the rest, sidled closer. I gauged the distance, leaped and caught her in my chelae. Ignoring her frantic struggles, I fastened my mandibles on the orange bulge of ganglionic tissue beneath her thorax and bit with calculated force. She stiffened briefly and then relaxed as her bruised ganglion refused to conduct impulses from her brain. For the next few hours she would be nothing more than a reflex preparation, a stimulus-response mechanism entirely under my control. And long before that time was passed, she would be gone.
The adults watched me with mild envy and admiration. It isn’t everyone who can secure a succulent young female at the beginning of the winter season when physical activity is high.
I prodded my prize into movement and started toward my lodgment at reasonable speed, since I had no desire to fight some hungry low-class male for her. I overtook the two Earthlings and was about to pass when Copenhaver recognized me.
“Why—it’s Xar Qot!” she said.
“It is,” I said. I slowed my pace to match theirs, and curbed the female with a tap on her proboscis.
“Where are you going?” Copenhaver asked.
“To my lodgment.”
“Is that one of your females?”
“In a sense. I just acquired her.”
“And what do you plan to do with her?”
“Eat her, of course. What else is there to do? It is not the vernal season.”
Copenhaver was shocked. Her small pink mouth opened, exposing her uvula. She began to protest, saying that civilized males didn’t eat females (which was false), and that if I did such a thing I was brutal, uncouth, vicious, bloodthirsty, and immoral (which was silly). I didn’t pause to argue. I simply prodded the female into a trot and moved away at a speed which left Copenhaver behind, yet preserved my dignity.
