Stringer couldn’t remember exactly when he had first realized he was still alive. The first thoughts were slow in crossing that nebulous dividing line between the unconscious and the aware. They were simple thoughts, direct verbalizations of feelings: the ground was hard; there was a great pain in his leg. And it was hot. Did he have a fever? After a few seconds Stringer had convinced himself that he did not have a fever, but he had convinced himself that it was indeed very hot.
Stringer turned toward his right hand. It was resting on a clump of moss. No, it was not moss. It felt like moss but looked liked miniature ferns, only a few centimeters long and almost completely unfurled.
Valyavar was gone. The thought hit him suddenly and he jerked himself
aright, only to scream aloud as the pain shot up from his leg. Now he saw
the blood staining his brown pant leg. Broken. He looked again to his right
and saw a brief message scrawled into the hard dirt: Remember, the road to God is a lonely one and perhaps
never-ending.
Stringer managed a slight smile but didn’t like the
implication of the message with blood trailing off the last
letters. Clearly Val was dead, the great priest who had somewhere lost his
face and found it again somewhere else. Val, the one and only. But where
was the body? Stringer glanced toward Number One on his left. It
lay at the base of the cliff, cockeyed, skewed over toward him. Had he been
thrown clear? That didn’t seem likely. The only thing that was clear was
that he was alone.
Stringer wondered if he was brave enough to kill himself. He couldn’t move, and the heat would kill him sooner or later, anyway. There was the sun again. It really was not very high in the sky, barely flirting with the treetops. As far as he could tell, it looked about where he had left it, so he couldn’t have been unconscious very long. But then he remembered the sixty-hour trip up the coast, when the sun had deceived them by hanging motionless in the sky. Maybe it had moved. Stringer couldn’t make up his mind and succeeded in confusing himself.
It didn’t matter. The question was whether or not he should kill himself. The wind was hot over Stringer’s face; the breeze caused a continual rustling of the trees. Were they trees? Tall, yes. The only leaves were at the top, wide, fanning outward like palm leaves. But each tree had three trunks. The leaves sat upon the middle one, and surrounding that central trunk were two others, hollowed like canoes, as if the tree had sprung out of a giant pod and the pod had grown up with the tree.
But should he kill himself? The conflict was between a vague interest in exploring his surroundings and the conviction that Pike would not find him before he died, anyway. The sweat rolled freely off Stringer’s forehead and he reached for his graser, strapped, as always, across his chest. It would be very painless, he thought. Who would care, anyway? Certainly not he.
A pair of arms suddenly grasped him around the shoulders. It was not Valyavar. The graser in Stringer’s hand streaked upward and fired.
Five men and three women, dark in skin like the body lying next to him, stood around Stringer; wide-eyed, they began to back away in an enlarging circle. Stringer’s left hand lay in a growing pool of blood issuing from the still figure beside him. The woman was quite dead. A thud off to the right brought his eyes to rest on an opening hand. A makeshift stretcher fell to the ground. The stretcher…the stretcher…
Stringer remembered the fight in Elswer’s and how easy that had been. He remembered the shooting gallery and the little balls and how easy that had been. He reflected on his speed, which was unequaled by anyone. Then he glanced at the body next to him and realized that this time, perhaps for the first time, he had acted too quickly. I’m dead now, he thought, but it’s what I had planned, anyway. As he thought those words the interest to explore his surroundings became suddenly greater, and he realized, too, that his wish to kill himself had passed.
The strangers were now backed off to the edge of the clearing, talking among themselves. Stringer was surprised by only two things: the delay in action and their looking so human. He looked at the gun in his hand, sat up with a struggle, and flung the pistol several meters in their direction. When the others saw Stringer fling the gun, they jumped back again. Couldn’t they see he wasn’t going to hurt them?
All Stringer could do was sigh as a gray-clad figure ran off through the woods. After about half an hour he heard more voices approaching. Not less than thirty people gathered around him now. When one of the original group came closer, Stringer pointed to his leg. The man seemed to understand and went about splinting the bone. A woman approached, also one of the original group, circled around, touched him gingerly as if he were red-hot, then signaled to the others when she was not burned.
Stringer was lifted onto the stretcher. Off they went through the woods. The sunlight filtered easily through the trees and provided a continual variation of light and dark on the backs of his porters. Stringer looked closely at the suits they were wearing. They were thick and shone dully. Leather flasks, two per person and slung from their shoulders, bounced on their flanks with each step. The cowl they all wore looked funny to Stringer. It covered their heads, coming to a slightly pointed rim over their eyes, and, in back, fell over their necks and shoulders in three pieces of loose cloth. Stringer wished he had one. It was very hot.
The company stopped once, changed carriers, and continued out of the woods past some farmland. Now Stringer saw the town beyond. It sat overlooking the fields from its citadel, a large flat hill, steep and maybe thirty meters high. Beyond the hill the ground leveled off but rose once more in less than a kilometer to other hills that were even higher.
In a few moments he was being carried up one of the many stairways that led to the top of this acropolis and into the town. To the thirty people in his retinue more continually added themselves, always pointing and chirping like children. Stringer did his best to ignore them and concentrated on the town itself. He was surprised to see it dotted with windmills. (Actually, Stringer had never seen a windmill before, but that was what he was looking at.) He opened his mouth to ask about this but closed it again abruptly when he realized that in many ways he was now a prisoner. The vanes of the windmills, resembling not pinwheels but vertical eggbeaters, whirled continuously in the brisk wind that blew dirt into his eyes. Then Stringer noticed that all the roofs of all the buildings were strikingly sloped. Some were sloped on all sides, some just on the northern side. But all were sloped and all had openings in them that pointed north. The fact that everything was also painted bright white did not hit Stringer until a few minutes later.
Now the party was approaching a large central park that was covered with that strange grass or moss. A number of pod-trees were arranged in an immense circle that circumscribed the ring shape of the park itself. At the center of this ring was a huge circular plaza that must have had a radius of at least one hundred and fifty meters. It was almost flat, rising to a slight mound in the middle, and was made of something like concrete; across it ran four curves of metal inset into the ground. The metal bands stretched from one end of the plaza to the other on the northern half, following long oval paths that were streaked with etched-in markings. The plaza surface itself was cracked with fine lines and the metal was tarnished and smooth. Stringer looked up to see a large, tent-like building sitting exactly in the center of the circle, higher than anything else in the town. It was as if a great, solid tepee had been mounted on huge wooden pillars so that one could walk freely beneath. Then Stringer looked down and saw the shadow, diffused by the clouds, cutting across the ground, stopping at the outermost band. He traced the shadow back to its origin, a slender rod on top of the tent. The plaza was a sundial, of course, and the rod its gnomon, but Stringer didn’t know what that was. And it was past midday.
For a brief moment Stringer could see virtually the entire town from this vantage point; then he was taken inside the tent and set down on the floor. Several fires were burning, sending curls of smoke shooting up around a large square map that hung from ropes above his head, and out a small hole in the apex. Nearly seventy people were in the tent, and at his entrance, the noise level shot up. The thirty who had brought him stood around him in a semicircle facing a row of older men and women. Stringer felt as if he were between the jaws of a vise.
He thought an argument was in progress involving the man and woman who had carried him most of the way from the wreck. Stringer did not hear raised voices and screams. The volume stayed nearly constant, but pitches traversed octaves and speeds modulated quickly. This went on for a long while. Finally the woman turned to her male counterpart and shrugged. They picked up the stretcher and carried Stringer out of the tent.
Not far away—beyond a large archway that stood at the edge of the plaza,
and beyond the park—they passed an old man sitting with a baby on a
doorstep and entered a prismatically shaped building. Stringer was
deposited in a small conical room that adjoined the main structure. Soon
the woman brought him some food, shoving the bowl into his hands, and
Stringer ate voraciously. When he asked for more, the woman refused and put
the bowl away. Then she pointed to herself and said, Taljen.
Benjfold,
the man said, pointing at his own
chest.
Stringer,
Stringer said, and the language
lesson had begun.
For about the next month that queer conical room was Stringer’s home. He had a large mat for sleeping. There was a basin with a pipe leading to it that let in a rush of water when opened and a leaky dribble when stoppered, which disturbed Stringer’s unpleasant dreams. Taljen checked frequently to make sure no water was lost. Stringer even had a toilet of sorts that emptied somewhere beneath the house. Two stools and a fireplace, whose dented metal chimney rose through the sloping walls, completed the furnishings. The walls themselves were made of the leathery, smelly wood of the pod-trees, and the three windows out into the wall looked trapezoidal when viewed straight on because of the slant. Finally, a continual hot breeze was let in through the hole in the roof and was cooled somewhat by the leaves and branches placed in the flow. As the month went by, Stringer thankfully noticed that the breeze became noticeably cooler but unthankfully stronger.
During that same month his leg healed enough so that he could begin
exercising it again, and he learned the language of Ta-tjenen. Taljen and
Benjfold would sit and drill him to hours on end, teaching him as they
would a child and showing no mercy. When they finished a session, he would
be sent out into the streets with his crutch. The streets of Ta-tjenen were
usually empty. People walked quickly to escape the sun and never seemed
interested in talking to each other, but when they saw Stringer, they, too,
would stop and drill him. He developed violent headaches from
concentration. You can do it,
his dreams told him. You can even
stand up. Stand up.
The first thing that Stringer asked when he knew enough words was what had happened to Valyavar.
There was a Gostum near you and we ate him,
Taljen replied.
Stringer missed some of the words but thought he understood enough. What? You ate him?
You seemed not to mind when we gave you some of him
shortly afterward. We eat our own if they die unsick. Do you think we can
afford to waste food?
Again Stringer missed words but shrugged. No,
he replied, guessing at the question.
At the end of the month, or thereabouts, Taljen returned after a long absence and, sweating, sat down in front of Stringer, cross-legged as usual, chin resting on hands resting on knees, staring straight into his eyes. Stringer stared back, but not, he guessed, for the same reason. Taljen was beautiful and he enjoyed watching her. Her mahogany hair hung in loose curls over her shoulders and breasts and swayed heavily when she turned her head or when the wind caught it just right. Her complexion was dark, as dark as her hair, and her eyes, set deeply, were blue. Stringer had never seen blue eyes before, but even so, they seemed out of place on such a face, much as his own apple-green eyes were out of place on his own olive skin. The most disconcerting thing on her very human body was her six fingers, two of which seemed to be thumbs.
Taljen shrugged and his stomach growled. Can I
have something to eat?
You’ve eaten eight times with the beclad. No
more. You’ve had your ration, and the fields aren’t to be strained for the
likes of you, Alien.
Stringer pressed his stomach inward with his fingers. Well,
he said slowly, I
suppose you want to begin the drill.
He sighed, not wanting another
drill now. You know,
he went on, trying to
start a conversation with his still-crippled tongue, you have a beautiful language. I like it.
I wouldn’t know,
Taljen replied, It is the only one I have ever heard. But why do you
mention it, Stringer?
Stringer shrugged. I never liked Bitter very
much. It’s flat; there is no variation in sound. Your language uses the
voice. Speed changes and volume and pitch. It is like a song. It’s
nice. But it is hard, though. My voice isn’t used to making so many
different sounds.
Taljen shook her head with a regal toss, as she so often did. Well, Stringer Murderer, I am not sure you will have
much time to speak Tjenen. You should understand the mixture of fear and
respect you cause. You should understand that most of Ta-tjenen wishes you
killed. However, since violent death is so unusual for us, no one is
exactly sure what to do with you. Now the nestrexam will decide its own
mind.
What is the nestrexam?
You will find out soon enough. Come on, Alien.
Stringer stood and turned away from Taljen. He opened the shades covering
the windows, which he had fashioned himself. The Tjenens could sleep in the
light. Stringer hadn’t yet managed that. Please
don’t call me that.
Alien? Why? That is what you are, simply. An Alien
Murderer.
Yes, I suppose so. Then why have you been taking
care of me?
Not to widen my ears, of that you can be sure. I
found you when I was counting trees for a tree survey. So I am taking care
of you.
Thank you. You have been kind. Now I suppose we
should see the nestrexam. Tell me, will it matter what I say to them?
No.
Stringer puzzled about that as he stood in the meeting tent while it gradually filled, very gradually and even more quietly. People straggled in, and the elders who evidently made up the nestrexam wandered in similarly unconcerned with keeping the rest waiting, as if they were not aware that they were keeping the rest waiting. Finally a bell sounded from outside, and what little talking there was ceased as the last to enter took their places.
An old woman whose face was marked with the signs of years, winds, and sun took her place on a circle painted on the floor in the exact center of the tent. Over her head, hanging from ropes, was that large square map which Stringer took to be the local area. The others sat in a row behind her and faced Stringer as Taljen led him forward.
I stand in the Center for this house-change and the
next. My name is Kenken Wer, although hopefully you won’t be here long
enough to use it. We must decide what to do with you. Are you
Polkraitz?
I don’t think so.
Whatever that was.
He would know if he was,
said one of the elders,
leaning forward to Kenken Wer.
She turned on him. This is the Golun-Patra. Remember
that.
I had forgotten.
Ask the Time Keeper, then, if you cannot remember
such things yourself.
The old man sat back meekly, obviously having made a grave slip. Kenken Wer
turned her attention to Stringer again. You killed a
woman shortly after you arrived. This is serious. Life is precious at
Ta-tjenen, not to be wasted. This is the first k…killing that I know of
since the revolt. It is unclear what is to be done. Do you have an
explanation?
I was confused,
Stringer said I thought I was being attacked.
You were being helped.
I realize that now. Where I come from one isn’t
helped.
I am not interested in your excuses. You acted as I
would expect a Polkraitz to act. There is, however, some question as to
whether you are Polkraitz or not. The opinion is divided. If you turn out
to be Polkraitz, we will have to act immediately. Until then…
Stringer began to think that they were more concerned about whether he was Polkraitz than about the murdered woman. He lost track of what Kenken Wer was saying until he heard:
…so we have decided to do nothing. You may stay
until the Patra. The teclads are shortening, as are the beclads themselves,
and the Patra will come. If you are gone by then, you are gone; if not,
then the Patra will embrace you. Taljen, you will be responsible for him
until then. Let us know his decision.
Can I go to my ship now?
Stringer asked.
Go,
said Kenken Wer, her long fingers
interlocked beneath her breast. I hope the Center
does not see you again.
I’ll take you,
Taljen offered. She led Stringer
out across the plaza, streaked with markings and small pylons, out of
Ta-tjenen itself, and to his ship. It was as it had been a month earlier,
at the base of the cliff—not so high, it seemed now!—tilted toward the
right. The fern-moss underneath had turned brown, and a purple fungus had
begun to creep up on the hull.
Stringer circled around the craft and instantly saw that it would fly
nowhere. The left wing had been largely sheared off, leaving a ragged gash
at the stump. It would require a factory to repair that wound. Well, I half suspected that.
Taljen regarded the huge gash and ran her finger across one edge. Does this mean that you cannot fly away?
Stringer chuckled. Of course—no, I guess you
wouldn’t know. Yes, that’s what it means. The plane is broken.
So what will you do now, Alien?
I’ll show you.
Stringer grasped the latch and
pulled his hand back with a violent jerk. Taljen laughed. This time
Stringer covered his hand with the cowl from his sun suit and yanked the
hatch open. After waiting a few minutes for the cabin to ventilate, they
climbed in. Taljen unstrapped her water flask and gave Stringer a drink. Just one,
she said, smiling, when he asked for a
second. Now he saw that the cockpit window had been shattered. Dust covered
the console.
As he sat at the communications desk, he explained while he flipped
switches, mixing both Bitter and Tjenen words when the latter language—or
his vocabulary—lacked the words he needed. We have
a large rocket in orbit around this planet. Inside there are several more
ships like this one. I should be able to connect the controls of this craft
to one of the others left in orbit. Then I will be able to pilot the other
here by remote control.
Taljen said nothing. Stringer did not know how much she understood of his Bitter-Tjenen mixture, or even how much she understood of the concepts. But she did not seem surprised. Stringer began his task.
You are unhappy,
Taljen said after a few minutes
of observation, and she sat down on the floor behind Stringer. You should dance.
I can’t get any picture from the craft in
orbit. Either it’s out of range or something is wrong.
Can you fix it?
Stringer continued to work. I don’t know what’s
wrong. Nothing is coming through, that’s all. It might simply be that the
ship is on the other side of the planet. In that case, I’ll just have to
wait. Otherwise it might take—
Then Stringer realized he had no word
for day.
Stringer,
Taljen said slowly, but in one of her
higher voices, I don’t understand what is wrong,
what an
orbit
is, or how you are doing what you are doing, but I
think you are in much trouble if you do not leave Ta-tjenen.
Stringer gazed at her, as he always found himself doing before he talked to
her. He did not understand the intonation in her voice, a mixture of
concern and anger. I know,
he said, tapping
his forefinger on the panel. Tell me, the old
woman said life was precious here, that I had committed a serious crime. On
my world that just isn’t true. But if it is here, then why isn’t any action
being taken against me now? No one seemed to care about the woman, only
about Polkraitz.
Taljen looked puzzled at the question. The woman is
gone. I currently knew her as well as any, I suppose. But soon I would not
have known her, as with everyone here. It is just as if that time came
sooner. Everything would have changed, anyway, and she would be just as
gone.
Stringer didn’t understand any of that.
Taljen went on. But if you are Polkraitz, that is a
continuing problem. When they come, we do not know what they will do. If
they are allies of the Gostum, the danger could threaten us all. So what
will you do? Where are the other Aliens you told me about?
I don’t know. One you ate. Two we left a long way
south—about a hundred thousand kilometers. Why they haven’t followed the
beacon I don’t know.
So what will you do now, Stringer Lost?
I must go south. It will take
—no word for
years—a long time. But I can’t stay at
Ta-tjenen. I didn’t understand most of what Kenken Wer said, but it’s clear
that they’ll kill me sooner or later.
Taljen laughed, but the laugh turned quickly into a frown. I’m sorry, Stringer, but to go south is
impossible. Why, one hundred thousand kilometers! I don’t even believe the
world is that big. Even if you went, you would never survive.
Why not? If I built a boat—
If the heat didn’t kill you on such a trip, you
would freeze to death.
Now Stringer laughed. What? This place is hotter
than an impossible summer, and you tell me I’ll freeze to death?
Taljen studied his face, scanning every centimeter of it with her eyes. You don’t understand, do you?
No. I suppose I don’t.
Taljen began to comprehend that perhaps Stringer really didn’t understand
what she had always taken for granted. This Alien must come from a very
strange world indeed. Now she spoke slowly and her voice was low. Why do you think we call our world Freeze-Bake?
Stringer laughed again. Freeze-Bake?
Why, yes, did we forget to tell you?
Taljen did
not see the humor that Stringer (and undoubtedly we also) found in the
world’s name.
He shook his head and saw a drop of sweat turn the dust on the console a
darker brown. All right, why is this place called
Freeze-Bake?
The sun! Stringer, look at the sun!
Stringer peered out of the cockpit and saw the sun. He blinked his eyes. The sun was below the tops of the nearby pod-trees.
Has it moved?
Yes!
But so slowly that he hadn’t been conscious of it. Indeed, the sun, far
south, was several, though not many, degrees east of its position when he
had arrived and somewhat lower, too. So it does
get dark here. No one bothered to tell me. And, of course, why else would
it be getting cooler?
Now you see. Foolish Stringer, that the sun is going
down and the teclads themselves are shortening. In less than two teclads
the Freeze will begin. if you went south now, how far could you get before
the rains became heavy, then snow and the winds like a crazed Verlaxchi?
And then the dark. It is a Short Patra, this Patra-Bannk, the Time Keeper
has told us. Nonetheless, it is longer than this Bannk. And it will get so
cold that the air itself, I am told, is on the verge of falling out of the
sky. If you started south now, you might make it as far as the next town;
otherwise you would freeze to death in two teclads. You see, action is
being taken against you. It makes things very simple, Stringer.
Yes.
It was simple. The sun was going down and
taking the temperature with it. What is a
teclad?
Taljen tossed her heavy hair, as she so often did. A
teclad? One teclad is not like another, but there are six in the Patra and
six in the Bannk. A Patra-Bannk is one pass of the sun, or suns. After all,
it could be a new sun each Bannk.
Stringer ignored the last remark. But you just
told me that Patra-Bannk is the name of your world.
Patra-Bannk, yes. It makes much sense, don’t you
think?
Yes, Patra-Bannk, Freeze-Bake; it makes much
sense.
Stringer looked up from the panel to Taljen. Even he detected
the weariness in his own voice. Why didn’t you
tell me this before?
I’m sorry,
Taljen said slowly. I thought everyone knew about things like that.
What we assume!
Stringer muttered. But now he
knew, at least, what Kenken Wer had meant when she said, The Patra will embrace you.
Besides,
Taljen continued, I wasn’t teaching you for your information, but for
ours. Tell me truthfully, Stringer,
she said, recrossing her legs, why did you come to Ta-tjenen?
What difference can it make now?
I would like to know, that’s all.
It would seem because I’m Polkraitz—
Taljen jumped up. You are?
No, no.
Stringer quickly retracted when he saw
her reaction. I don’t even know what
Polkraitz is. We came to find a great city that was on Patra-Bannk.
Ta-tjenen?
The question was asked with perfect
innocence.
No,
laughed Stringer softly. I doubt that very much, even though Hendig is a
liar.
Hendig? Who is Hendig?
He is the man who had been on Patra-Bannk and then
came to my world to tell us about the city. When we found Ta-tjenen we
thought you might be able to tell us where it was, but we crashed.
Taljen sat down once more and propped up her arms on her knees. I am sorry that you crashed. You see, other than
Ta-tjenen, there is little else to find. But tell me, why did you want to
find this imagined city you speak of?
Stringer was about to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He flicked
away some of the dust on the console with his fingers. They left a smeared
trail behind. I…I think it’s time to get up,
he said, and pushed himself to his feet. Stand up. Stand up. You can even
stand up. You can even stand up! The words flashed back to him again, as
they had many times earlier. Sarek! Why didn’t I
think of this before?
Stringer, what is it this time?
Nothing.
Why don’t you say anything? If you want to learn how
to talk like a Tjenen, you’ll have to learn how to talk. Those of Ta-tjenen
talk a lot, certainly compared to you.
Why should I want to talk like a Tjenen?
Stringer!
All right.
Taljen had helped him even though
he was under a death sentence. Wait a moment and
let me think this through.
Stringer stood silently for a minute with
his hand on his chin, staring absently in the direction of the cabin
wall. Then he looked up and said, It’s
impossible.
What is, Cryptic Alien?
Tell me, what do you know about science?
I have been the Time Keeper’s assistance on certain
free shifts. I was also his pupil during the Patras.
You never told me you study science.
What have I ever told you, Stringer?
True. I used to study science some, but no more
than any kid, and that was a long time ago. I’m not a scientist, that’s for
sure. But I just remembered an exclamation that I heard on Two-Bit long
ago, in a place I’d rather forget. I ignored it the first time I heard it;
it made no sense to me then and I let it go. Pike never mentioned it to me;
either he didn’t believe it, which is most likely as Hendig is a liar, or
he never thought of it. I don’t know. But it’s bothered me in my dreams
ever since that first time, and now it popped into my head again. Now I
know what bothered me.
Go on.
You see,
said Stringer, I come from a world very much smaller than
Patra-Bannk, more than fifty times smaller in diameter—
That makes Patra-Bannk very large or your world very
small, doesn’t it?
Patra-Bannk certainly is very large, by any
standards I’ve ever heard of. It’s more than six hundred thousand
kilometers in diameter.
Taljen shook her head resolutely. I don’t believe
you, Stringer Who Tells Stories. I can’t conceive of that.
It is. And yet I am standing up. Doesn’t that
bother you?
No, should it?
Don’t you see? The gravity should be dozens of
times greater than it is on my world. But it isn’t. It’s about the same,
only a little more. I’m standing up; I should be crushed.
I know of gravity, of course, but I still don’t
understand what you are saying.
Now Stringer was perplexed. The problem must be easy if he could figure it
out. After all, he knew only the simplest science and those occasional,
spectacular discoveries that filtered down to the level of Elswer’s. Why
didn’t Taljen understand? What do you know of
gravity?
It pulls things to the ground.
Nothing more?
What else is there to know about gravity?
Well, Stringer though, how do I answer that? I guess we start from the
beginning, since I don’t know much more about gravity than the beginning
myself. He began pacing the cabin back and forth, trying to remember,
trying to form an explanation. Finally he looked up and said, Do you know that the weight of me, or of any object
on this planet, depends on how massive the planet is and on the radius, how
big it is?
Stringer held up his hands, shaping a ball.
Something in that explanation disturbed Taljen, and she rested her head on
her knuckles. After a few moments of thought she asked, But what if the world is very thin? If the gravity
depends on the radius, shouldn’t it also depend on the thickness?
Thickness?
Yes, of course, the thickness of the edge.
Stringer himself was very confused now. What
edge?
Stringer,
Taljen asked in a sharply modulated
voice, what do you think this planet looks like?
What do you think this planet looks
like?
I assume the model you were proposing was circular,
like a pancake, but as we have never seen the edge, that might not be the
case. I always thought a square was the most reasonable shape; there are
four directions.
What? A planet is round.
Fine. What about the thickness?
I mean, spherical, like a ball.
Taljen looked at him in total disbelief. You can’t
be serious. People would fall off the other side from being upside
down. And, Stringer, look at the ocean. Does it curve like a ball
would?
But Patra-Bannk is so huge.…When your ships go
out—you have ships, don’t you?
Yes, of course.
When they go out, what happens to them? Doesn’t it
look as if they sink into the ocean?
No, they get smaller and smaller and fade out.
Indeed, Patra-Bannk was huge. Look at the sun; it’s
a ball—
A disk in the sky.
Oh, what’s the use, Stringer though. Aloud he said, And I suppose you think Patra-Bannk is the center of
the Universe, too.
Of course. Ta-tjenen itself, as a matter of
fact.
Stringer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Doesn’t the fact that an Alien came here do anything
to upset that belief?
Aliens came once before to the Center. That is why
we are here. There is no contradiction.
Now Stringer threw up his hands in defeat, his great discovery useless, unexplainable to this stupid woman. How could she believe that he should be crushed by a gravity dozens of times that which obviously existed if she didn’t even believe the planet was round? And now what was he going to do?
Taljen answered that. I think the nestrexam will
want to know that you are to be here for some time to come.
They walked back in silence. The shadow on the plaza crossed the four oval curves fashioned of metal and inst into the concrete. At one, the outer one for the lowest sun, stood a marker at the intersection of that low sun’s shadow and the metal scale.
The tent was still filled. The elder looked up with some surprise when
Taljen and Stringer entered. Kenken Wer rose and faced him. Her face was
old, too old for Stringer to make a guess at her age, too old for Stringer
to be interested. You are still here.
That was obvious. My ship needs repair. It will
take time.
As we have said, you, Called Stringer, will be
allowed to remain until the Going Under. By then you will have departed or
the Patra will embrace you. Do you understand?
Enough,
Stringer replied, and left the tent.
A hand grabbed hold of him and yanked him about. Where are you going, Stringer?
Taljen asked.
That small red pylon marks the beginning of the
Patra, doesn’t it?
As you see, the scale ends there.
The pylon rising out of the pavement at the end of the curve was still many
meters away from the sun’s shadow, but the shadow itself had moved many
meters since Stringer had arrived. A cloud suddenly passed across the sun
and cooled the air momentarily. Stringer wanted to laugh. In less than two teclads—whatever they are—I freeze
to death. What exactly happens to Ta-tjenen I don’t know. But I think I’d
better get to work.
His voice trailed off and he walked, hunched over,
down the hill.
Kenken Wer appeared and put her hand to Taljen’s shoulder. Beware of that Alien, Taljen. Stay away from him as
much as possible. There is no good in him.
Taljen sighed as she turned away from Kenken Wer and watched Stringer
walking away slowly, a slight limp still present in his stride. Ah, Stringer from Elsewhere, you come as a murderer,
are as silent as an escaping prisoner, claim you have never had an
education beyond a Patra-Bannk, learn our language in a teclad, and ask
questions of which we ourselves cannot dream. Ah, Stringer…