bisexual, viviparous, and homeothermic, though not technically mammalian.
In general, though, I don’t care what image you develop. What matters about a people is technology, thought, art, the whole
pattern of life.
As for technics, the score of hunters who entered our compound were high-level paleolithic. Their weapons were spears, tomahawks,
daggers, and blowguns. Stone, bone and wood were beautifully worked and tastefully ornamented. They went nude except for a
sort of leather harness, which supported a pouch as well as tools and armament. But an older one who seemed to be their leader
had a representation of the galaxy tattooed on his head.
We were relieved to find no obviously alien semantics. These people would be much easier to understand than the Yonderfolk—or
so we thought. For example, they had individual names, and their gestures were the kind humans would make in attempting sign
language. When we fetched gifts—a steel knife for ya-Kela the boss and some bits of plastic and other junk for his followers—they
yelped and danced with delight. They had brought presents of their own, local handicrafts, which we accepted with due dignity.
There came an embarrassing moment, several hours later, when three Azkashi who had slipped out into the woods returned with
a big game animal for us. We were doubtless expected to eat it, and had no idea if it would poison us. But Valland carried
the situation off by soaking the body in camp fuel and setting it alight on a heap of wood. Our visitors got the idea at once:
this was how the strangers who indicated they had come from the galaxy accepted an offering.
“In fact,” Valland remarked to me, “they’re smart fellows. They must’ve watched us from the woods for a long time before decidin’
to send a delegation. My guess is they waited for the galaxy to rise; it’s a god or whatnot to them, and then they felt safer
against our
mana
. But now that they’re hereand know we don’t mean any harm, they’re tryin’ hard for communication.”
Ya-Kela was, at least, and so was Valland. Most of the other hunters left after a while, to take word back home. Man and nonman
squatted in the compound, by firelight, drew pictures and exchanged gestures. Rorn complained about the darkness outside our
hut. I overruled him. “We’ve seen them cover their eyes against our normal illumination,” I said. “We don’t want them to go
away. They may be our labor force.”
“Indeed?” Rorn said. “How’ll you pay them?”
“With metal. I don’t know how many thousands of knives and saws and planes we can make out of scrap from the ship, and you
must have noticed how ya-Kela appreciates the blade we gave him. I saw him holding it up once and singing to it.”
“Nice theory. Only … captain, I’ve dealt with primitives too. Generally they don’t make proper helpers for a civilized man.
They don’t have the drive, persistence, orderliness, not even the capability of learning.”
“Rather like your caveman ancestors, huh, Yo?” Urduga gibed.
Rorn flushed. “All right, call it a culture pattern if you want. It’s still real.”
“Maybe it isn’t in this case,” I said. “We’ll find out.”
With a good bit more hope in me, I started organizing us for work. First we had to jury-rig a better lighting system aboard
the
Meteor
, so we could operate effectively. Next, with spacesuits doubling as diving rigs, we must patch most of the holes in the hull,
seal off the remaining compartments, pump out the water and float her ashore. Then there’d be the construction of a drydock,
or whatever we decided was best. Then we must take a complete inventory, so we’d know exactly what was possible for us to
build; and lay concrete plans; and— The list looked infinite. But we had to begin somewhere. By burning torch and electric
flare, we rafted out to the wreck.
Valland stayed behind, dealing with ya-Kela. That didn’t look
In general, though, I don’t care what image you develop. What matters about a people is technology, thought, art, the whole
pattern of life.
As for technics, the score of hunters who entered our compound were high-level paleolithic. Their weapons were spears, tomahawks,
daggers, and blowguns. Stone, bone and wood were beautifully worked and tastefully ornamented. They went nude except for a
sort of leather harness, which supported a pouch as well as tools and armament. But an older one who seemed to be their leader
had a representation of the galaxy tattooed on his head.
We were relieved to find no obviously alien semantics. These people would be much easier to understand than the Yonderfolk—or
so we thought. For example, they had individual names, and their gestures were the kind humans would make in attempting sign
language. When we fetched gifts—a steel knife for ya-Kela the boss and some bits of plastic and other junk for his followers—they
yelped and danced with delight. They had brought presents of their own, local handicrafts, which we accepted with due dignity.
There came an embarrassing moment, several hours later, when three Azkashi who had slipped out into the woods returned with
a big game animal for us. We were doubtless expected to eat it, and had no idea if it would poison us. But Valland carried
the situation off by soaking the body in camp fuel and setting it alight on a heap of wood. Our visitors got the idea at once:
this was how the strangers who indicated they had come from the galaxy accepted an offering.
“In fact,” Valland remarked to me, “they’re smart fellows. They must’ve watched us from the woods for a long time before decidin’
to send a delegation. My guess is they waited for the galaxy to rise; it’s a god or whatnot to them, and then they felt safer
against our
mana
. But now that they’re hereand know we don’t mean any harm, they’re tryin’ hard for communication.”
Ya-Kela was, at least, and so was Valland. Most of the other hunters left after a while, to take word back home. Man and nonman
squatted in the compound, by firelight, drew pictures and exchanged gestures. Rorn complained about the darkness outside our
hut. I overruled him. “We’ve seen them cover their eyes against our normal illumination,” I said. “We don’t want them to go
away. They may be our labor force.”
“Indeed?” Rorn said. “How’ll you pay them?”
“With metal. I don’t know how many thousands of knives and saws and planes we can make out of scrap from the ship, and you
must have noticed how ya-Kela appreciates the blade we gave him. I saw him holding it up once and singing to it.”
“Nice theory. Only … captain, I’ve dealt with primitives too. Generally they don’t make proper helpers for a civilized man.
They don’t have the drive, persistence, orderliness, not even the capability of learning.”
“Rather like your caveman ancestors, huh, Yo?” Urduga gibed.
Rorn flushed. “All right, call it a culture pattern if you want. It’s still real.”
“Maybe it isn’t in this case,” I said. “We’ll find out.”
With a good bit more hope in me, I started organizing us for work. First we had to jury-rig a better lighting system aboard
the
Meteor
, so we could operate effectively. Next, with spacesuits doubling as diving rigs, we must patch most of the holes in the hull,
seal off the remaining compartments, pump out the water and float her ashore. Then there’d be the construction of a drydock,
or whatever we decided was best. Then we must take a complete inventory, so we’d know exactly what was possible for us to
build; and lay concrete plans; and— The list looked infinite. But we had to begin somewhere. By burning torch and electric
flare, we rafted out to the wreck.
Valland stayed behind, dealing with ya-Kela. That didn’t look
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