Fantastic Stories Present the Galaxy Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Edgar Pangborn
Читать онлайн книгу.
that doesn’t,” Bbulas said, “I have other methods of inspiration.”
“All right,” Skkiru answered sulkily. “I’ll go to the edge of the field, and I’ll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I’ll forsake my normal habits and customs, and I’ll even beg. But I don’t have to like doing it, and I don’t intend to like doing it.”
All three of Larhgan’s eyes fuzzed with emotion. “I’m proud of you, Skkiru,” she said brokenly.
Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in a triple silence.
*
“Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,” Skkiru chanted, as the two Terrans descended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet a procession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes, and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as less inspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, just in case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired a smattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed to navigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible.
“Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd,” chanted Skkiru the beggar. His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had been custom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet’s best tailor—now a pariah, of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—and the wind and the rain were joyously making their way through the demolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of the planet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only when taking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport, having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars and self-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficiently primitive.
The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularly in the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetter season. Skkiru’s feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandals worn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them much good, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that the privileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though their costumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the case of the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to be humanoid.
As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had once gotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and had always planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—the weather had always been so weathery, there were so many other more comfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisure hours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, which he’d salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was the matter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way, and get it.
Bbulas couldn’t really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver in his toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of land transport? And even though it took time to get the things, they worked so well that, in spite of the procession’s head start, he was at the Earth ship long before the official greeters had reached it.
*
The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarly pasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennae distinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed much as the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb.
In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms, entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehow expected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he had frequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily those could be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he had always understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus proving beyond a doubt that they had something to hide.
“Look, Raoul,” the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—which the Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed to understand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionable third language on most of the outer planets. “A beggar. Haven’t seen one since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work on that little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch, that’s it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn’t get more than a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough to amass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives tried to eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry.”
“Oh, they were cannibals?” the other Earthman asked, so respectfully that it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. “How horrible!”
“No, not at all,” the other assured him. “They weren’t human—another species entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, it was quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moral considerations seemed less important to us than self-preservation just then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let the missionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know.”
“And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril?”
“They softened up the missionaries, I believe.” Cyril laughed. “Ah, well, it’s all in the day’s work.”
“I hope these creatures are not man-eaters,” Raoul commented, with a polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncoming procession—creatures indeed! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff. “We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it would be indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especially since this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it.”
“Oh, you will, my boy, you will.” Cyril clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I have every confidence in your ability.”
Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite of Bbulas’ asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—which had always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligent life-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn’t human; it wasn’t even humanoid; it wasn’t even polite.
“The natives certainly appear to be human enough,” Raoul added, with an appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for the processional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. “Some slight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, three eyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been my favorite color.”
If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turn bright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normal healthy emerald to a sickly celadon.
*
Cyril frowned and his companion’s smile vanished, as if the contortion of his superior’s face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe the little one’s a robot! However, it couldn’t be—a robot would be better constructed and less interested in females than Raoul.
“Remember,” Cyril said sternly, “we must not establish undue rapport with the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity.”
“Yes, Cyril,” Raoul said meekly.
Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect “I should like to give this chap something for old times’ sake. What do you suppose is the medium of exchange here?”
Money, Skkiru said to himself, but he didn’t dare contribute this piece of information, helpful though it would be.
“How should I know?” Raoul shrugged.
“Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting.”
“Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then?” Raoul suggested grumpily. “The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to be a universal one.”
“Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul!”
Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmurs of gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of the planet’s delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolate were to be found, so, if