Collected Short Fiction, page 492
Which explains why Devall slept badly the night of the red sun. Despite his elegant posture and comportment, he regarded himself essentially as a bookish, un-military man. He had some doubts as to his own possible behaviour in an unforeseen time of crisis. The false front of his officerhood might well crumble away under stress, and he knew it.
He dozed off, finally, toward morning, having kicked the covers to the floor and twisted the sheets into crumpled confusion. It was a warmish night—most of them were, on Markin—but he felt chilled.
He woke late, only a few minutes before officers’ mess, and dressed hurriedly in order to get there on time. As commanding officer, of course, he had the privilege of sleeping as late as he pleased—but getting up with the others was part of the task Devall imposed on himself. He donned the light summer uniform, slapped depilator hastily on his tanned face, hooked on his formal blaster and belt, and signalled to his orderly that he was awake and ready.
The Terran enclave covered ten acres, half an hour’s drive from one of the largest Markin villages. An idling jeep waited outside Devall’s small private dome, and he climbed in, nodding curtly at the orderly.
“Morning, Harris.”
“Good morning, sir. Sleep well?”
It was a ritual by now. “Very well,” Devall responded automatically, as the jeep’s turbos thrummed once and sent the little car humming across the compound to the mess hall. Clipped to the seat next to Devall was his daily morning programme-sheet, prepared for him by the stafI’man-of-the-day while he slept. This morning’s sheet was signed by Dudley, a major of formidable efficiency—Space Service through and through, a Military Wing career man and nothing else. Devall scanned the assignments for the morning, neatly written out in Dudley’s crabbed hand.
Kelly, DorI’man, Mellors, Steber on Linguistic Detail, as usual. Same assignment as yesterday, in town.
Haskell on medic duty. Blood samples; urinalysis.
Matsuoko to maintenance staff (through Wednesday).
Jolli on zoo detail.
Leonards, Meyer, Rodriguez on assigned botanical field trip, two days. Extra jeep assigned for specimen collection.
Devall scanned the rest of the list, but, as expected, Dudley had done a perfect job of deploying the men where they would be most useful and most happy. Devall thought briefly about Leonards, on the botanical field trip. A two-day trip might take them through the dangerous rain-forest to the south; Devall felt a faint flicker of worry. The boy was his nephew, his sister’s son—a reasonably competent journeyman botanist with the gold bar still untarnished on his shoulder. This was the boy’s first commission; he had been assigned to Devall’s unit at random, as a new man. Devall had concealed his relationship to Leonards from the other men, knowing it might make things awkward for the boy, but he still felt a protective urge.
Hell, the kid can take care of himself, Devall thought, and scribbled his initials at the bottom of the sheet and clipped it back in place; it would be posted while the men were cleaning their quarters and the officers ate, and by 0900 everyone would be out on his day’s assignment. There was so much to do, Devall thought, and so little time to do it. There were so many worlds—
He quitted the jeep and entered the mess hall. Officers’ mess was a small well-lit alcove to the left of the main hall; as Devall entered he saw seven men standing stiffly at attention, waiting for him.
He knew they hadn’t been standing that way all morning; they had snapped to attention only when their lookout—probably Second Lieutenant Leonards, the youngest—had warned them he was coming.
Well, he thought, it doesn’t matter much. As long as appearance is preserved. The form.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said crisply, and took his place at the head of the table.
For a while it looked as if it were going to turn out a pretty good day. The sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the thermometer tacked to the enclave flagstaff registered 93 degrees. When Markin got hot, it got hot. By noon, Devall knew by now, they could expect something like 110 in the shade—and then, a slow, steady decline into the low eighties by midnight.
The botanical crew departed on time, rumbling out of camp in its two jeeps, and Devall stood for a moment on the mess hall steps watching them go, watching the other men head for their assigned posts. Stubble-faced Sergeant Jolli saluted him as he trotted across the compound to the zoo, where he would tend the little menagerie of Markin wildlife the expedition would bring back to Earth at termination. Wiry little Matsuoko passed by, dragging a carpenter’s kit. The linguistic team climbed into its jeep and drove off toward town, where they would continue their studies in the Markin tongue.
They were all busy. The expedition had been on Markin just four months; eight months was left of their time. Unless an extension of stay came through, they’d pack up and return to Earth for six months of furlough-cum-report-session, and then it would be on to some other world for another year of residence.
Devall was not looking forward to leaving Markin. It was a pleasant world, if a little on the hot side, and there was no way of knowing what the next world would be like. A frigid ball of frozen methane, perhaps, where they would spend their year bundled into Valdez breathing-suits and trying to make contact with some species of intelligent ammonia-breathing molluscs. Better the devil we know, Devall felt.
But he had to keep moving on. This was his eleventh world, and there would be more to come. Earth had barely enough qualified survey teams to cover ten thousand worlds half-adequately, and life abounded on ten million. He would retain whichever members of the current team satisfied him by their performance, replace those who didn’t fit in, and go off to his next job eight months from now.
He turned on the office fan and took down the logbook; unfastening the binder, he slipped the first blank sheet into the autotype. For once he avoided his standard blunder; he cleared his throat before switching on the autotype, thereby sparing the machine its customary difficulties in finding a verbal equivalent for his Brghhumph!
The guidelight glowed a soft red. Devall said, “Fourth April, two-seven-zero-five. Colonel John F. Devall recording. One hundred nineteenth day of our stay on Markin, World 7 of System 1106-sub-a.
“Temperature, 93 at 0900; wind gentle, southerly—”
He went on at considerable length, as he did each morning. Finishing off the required details, he gathered up the sheaf of speciality-reports that had been left at his door the night before, and began to read abstracts into the log; the autotype clattered merrily, and a machine somewhere in the basement of the towering E-T Affairs Building in Rio de Janeiro was reproducing his words as the sub-radio hookup transmitted them.
It was dull work. Devall often wondered whether he might have been ultimately happier doing simple anthropological field work, as he had once done, instead of taking on the onerous burden of routine that an administrative post entailed. But someone has to shoulder the burden, he thought.
Earthman’s burden. We’re the most advanced race; we help the others. But no one twists our arms to come out to these worlds and share what we have. Call it an inner compulsion.
He intended to work until noon; in the afternoon a Markin high priest was coming to the enclave to see him, and the interview would probably take almost till sundown. But about 1100 he was interrupted suddenly by the sound of jeeps unexpectedly entering the compound, and he heard the clamour of voices—both Terran voices and alien ones.
A fearful argument seemed to be in progress, but the group was too far away and Devall’s knowledge of Markin too uncertain for him to be able to tell what was causing the rumpus. In some annoyance he snapped off the autotype, rose from his chair, and peered through the window into the yard.
Two jeeps had drawn up—the botanical crew, gone less than two hours. Four natives surrounded the three Earthmen. Two of the natives clutched barbed spears; a third was a woman, the fourth an old man. They were all protesting hotly over something.
Devall scowled; from the pale, tense, unhappy faces of the men in the jeep, he could tell something was very wrong. That blood-red sunset had foretold accurately, he thought, as he dashed down the steps from his study.
Seven pairs of eyes focussed on him as he strode toward the group: eight glittering alien eyes, warmly golden, and six shifting, uneasy Terran eyes.
“What’s going on out here?” Devall demanded.
The aliens set up an immediate babble of noise, chattering away like a quartet of squirrels. Devall had never seen any of them behaving this way before.
“Quiet!” he roared.
In the silence that followed he said very softly, “Lieutenant Leonards, can you tell me exactly what all this fuss is about?”
The boy looked very frightened; his jaws were stiffly clenched, his lips bloodless. “Y-yes, sir,” he said stammeringly. “Begging your pardon, sir. I seem to have killed an alien.”
In the relative privacy of his office, Devall faced them all again—Leonards, sitting very quietly staring at his gleaming boots; Meyer and Rodriguez, who had accompanied him on the ill-starred botanizing journey. The aliens were outside; there would be time to calm them down later.
“Okay,” Devall said. “Leonards, I want you to repeat the story, exactly as you just told it to me, and I’ll get it down on the autotype. Start talking when I point to you.”
He switched on the autotype and said, “Testimony of Second Lieutenant Paul Leonards, Botanist, delivered in presence of commanding officer on 4 April 2705.” He jabbed a forefinger at Leonards.
The boy’s face looked waxy, beads of sweat dotted his pale vein-traced forehead, and his blonde hair was tangled and twisted. He clamped his lips together in an agonized grimace, scratched the back of one hand, and finally said, “Well, we left the enclave about 0900 this morning, bound south and westerly on a tour of the outlying regions. Our purpose was to collect botanical specimens. I—was in charge of the group, which also included Sergeants Meyer and Rodriguez.”
He paused. “We—we accomplished little in the first half-hour; this immediate area had already been thoroughly covered by us anyway. But about 0945 Meyer noticed. a heavily wooded area not far to the left of the main road, and called it to my attention. I suggested we stop and investigate. It was impossible to penetrate the wooded area in our jeeps, so we proceeded on foot. I left Rodriguez to keep watch over our gear while we were gone.
“We made our way through a close-packed stand of deciduous angiosperm trees of a species we had already studied, and found ourselves in a secluded area of natural growth, including several species which we could see were previously uncatalogued. We found one in particular—a shrub consisting of a single thick succulent green stalk perhaps four feet high, topped by a huge gold and green composite flower head. We filmed it in detail, took scent samples, pollen prints, and removed several leaves.”
Devall broke in suddenly. “You didn’t pick the flower itself? Devall speaking.”
“Of course not. It was the only specimen in the vicinity, and it’s not our practice to destroy single specimens for the sake of collecting. But I did remove several leaves from the stalk. And the moment I did that, a native sprang at me from behind a thick clump of ferns.
“He was armed with one of those notched spears. Meyer saw him first and yelled, and I jumped back just as the alien came charging forward with his spear. I managed to deflect the spear with the outside of my arm and was not hurt. The alien fell back a few feet and shouted something at me in his language which I don’t understand too well as yet. Then he raised his spear and menaced me with it. I was carrying the standard-issue radial blaster. I drew it and ordered him in his own language to lower his spear, that we meant no harm. He ignored me and charged a second time. I fired in self-defence, trying to destroy the spear or at worse wound his arm, but he spun round to take the full force of the charge, and died instantly.” Leonards shrugged. “That’s about it, sir. We came back here instantly.”
“Umm. Devall speaking. Sergeant Meyer, would you say this account is substantially true?”
Meyer was a thin-faced dark-haired man who was usually smiling, but he wasn’t smiling now. “This is Sergeant Meyer. I’d say that Lieutenant Leonards told the story substantially as it occurred. Except that the alien didn’t seem overly fierce despite his actions, in my opinion. I myself thought he was bluffing both times he charged, and I was a little surprised when Lieutenant Leonards shot him. That’s all, sir.”
Frowning, the colonel said, “Devall speaking. This has been testimony in the matter of the alien killed today by Lieutenant Leonards.” He snapped off the autotype, stood up, and leaned forward across the desk, staring sternly at the trio of young botanists facing him. These next few days are going to be my test, he thought tensely.
“Sergeant Rodriguez, since you weren’t present at the actual incident I’ll consider you relieved of all responsibility in this matter, and your testimony won’t be required. Report to Major Dudley for re-assignment for the remainder of the week.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rodriguez saluted, grinned gratefully and was gone.
“As for you two, though,” Devall said heavily, “you’ll both have to be confined to base pending the outcome of the affair. I don’t need to tell you how serious this can be, whether the killing was in self-defence or not. Plenty of peoples don’t understand the concept of self-defence.” He moistened his suddenly dry lips. “I don’t anticipate too many complications growing out of this. But these are alien people on an alien world, and their behaviour is never certain.”
He glanced at Leonards. “Lieutenant, I’ll have to ask for your own safety that you remain in your quarters until further notice.”
“Yes, sir. Is this to be considered arrest?”
“Not yet,” Devall said. “Meyer, attach yourself to the maintenance platoon for the remainder of the day. We’ll probably need your testimony again before this business is finished. Dismissed, both of you.”
When they were gone, Devall sank back limply in his web-foam chair and stared at his fingertips. His hands were quivering as if they had a life of their own.
John F. Devall. Ph.D. Anthropology Columbia ’82, commissioned Space Service Military Wing ’87, and now you’re in trouble for the first time.
How are you going to handle it, Jack? he asked himself. Can you prove that that silver eagle really belongs on your shoulder?
He was sweating. He felt very tired. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them, and said into the intercom, “Send in the Marks.”
Five of them entered, made ceremonial bows, and ranged themselves nervously along the far wall as if they were firing-squad candidates. Accompanying them came Steber of the linguistics team, hastily recalled from town to serve as an interpreter for Devall. The colonel’s knowledge of Markin was adequate but sketchy; he wanted Steber around in case any fine points had to be dealt with in detail.
The Marks were humanoid in structure, simian in ancestry, which should have made them close kin to the Terrans in general physiological structure. They weren’t. Their skin was a rough, coarse, pebble-grained affair, dark-toned, running to muddy browns and occasional deep purples. Their jaws had somehow acquired a reptilian hinge in the course of evolution, which left them practically chinless, in huge lumps that would strangle an Earthman. Their eyes, liquid gold in colour, were set wide on their heads, allowing enormous peripheral vision; their noses were flat buttons, in some cases barely perceptible.
Devall saw two younger men, obviously warriors; they had left their weapons outside, but their jaws jutted belligerently and the darker of the pair had virtually dislocated his jaw in rage. The woman looked like all the Mark women, shapeless and weary behind her shabby cloak of furs. The remaining pair were priests, one old, one very old. It was this ancient to whom Devall addressed his first remarks.
“I’m sorry that our meeting this afternoon has to be one of sorrow. I had been looking forward to a pleasant talk. But it’s not always possible to predict what lies ahead.”
“Death lay ahead for him who was killed,” the old priest said in the dry, high-pitched tone of voice that Devall knew implied anger and scorn.
The woman let out a sudden wild ululation, half a dozen wailing words jammed together so rapidly Devall could not translate them. “What did she say?” he asked Steber.
The interpreter flattened his palms together thoughtfully. “She’s the woman of the man who was killed. She was—demanding revenge,” he said in English.
Apparently the two young warriors were friends of the dead man. Devall’s eyes scanned the five hostile alien faces. “This is a highly regrettable incident,” he said in Markin. “But I trust it won’t affect the warm relationship between Earthman and Markin that has prevailed so far. This misunderstanding.”
“Blood must be atoned,” said the smaller and less impressively garbed of the two priests. He was probably the local priest, Devall thought, and he was probably happy to have his superior on hand to back him up.
The colonel flicked sweat from his forehead. “The young man who committed the act will certainly be disciplined. Of course you realise that a killing in self-defence cannot be regarded as murder, but I admit the young man did act unwisely and will suffer the consequences.” It didn’t sound too satisfying to Devall, and, indeed, the aliens hardly seemed impressed.
The high priest uttered two short, sharp syllables. They were not words in Devall’s vocabulary, and he looked over at Steber in appeal.
“He said Leonards was trepassing on sacred ground. He said the crime they’re angry about is not murder but blasphemy.”
