Alan Foster: Cyber Way

“I don’t think anything will notice us for a while,” he murmured. “After all, we don’t count for much on the cosmic scale. But eventually we’ll make ourselves known.”

“That might be a good thing,” Ooljee declared slowly, “or it might not.”

“Hozho.” Moody grinned at his partner. “We’ll have to proceed cautiously, much more carefully than did Gaggii. But proceed we must. It’s the way we’re programmed. The curious bytes, that’s us. I don’t think we’ll be excised for exercising our internal programming. We might even surprise some people.”

“What people?”

Moody nodded at the monitor, with its silently twisting rainbow threads and soft explosions and pulsing fractal patterns waiting to be understood.

“Whoever is responsible for that.”

He glanced up and over his shoulder. A pair of skycutters were coming toward them, muttering out of the south. Grayhills scrambled to her feet and started waving while Ooljee

stood next to her, resting his hands on his hips.

Moody rose slowly, bending to brush dirt and sand from his pants. While his companions watched the approaching aircraft, he ambled over to the mated spinners and gazed down into the depths of the screen, staring thoughtfully at the foot-square image of infinity. If he raised his foot again and put it down, would he fall in, fall forever? Or would something eventually materialize to halt his plunge?

Kneeling, he sang softly to the monitor, was delighted when the dark display gave way to a picture of a sandpainting. He admired it for a moment, the regularity of it, the neat lines and clean schematics. Then he traced outlines with a finger, nodding with satisfaction when the lizards moved and the painting was replaced by a blank screen.

He turned off the power to Grayhills’ spinner, then his partner’s. The monitor folded neatly back into place. A quick finger-twist disconnected the units. Hefting one in each hand he rejoined his companions. The purr of the skycutters was loud in his ears now.

Grayhills took her spinner without a word. Moody turned to his friend and handed over the other. The two men exchanged a long look of understanding. Paul Ooljee turned the device over in his fingers, inspecting it, appreciating it anew. A smile spread over his face. It wasn’t as broad or open as Grayhills’, but it could not be denied.

Standing alongside the big man from Florida as they monitored the descent of the nearest skycutter, the sergeant deftly and matter-of-factly clipped the universe back onto his belt.

While the spelling Navajo is most common in the Southwest, Navaho is also used. I have used the latter, since the correct pronunciation is “Nah-vah-hoh” not “Nah-vah-joe.”

Sandpainting is often referred to as “drypainting.” The former is a more literal description of this unique Native American artform. For readers who would like to view excellent samplings of sandpainting both modern and traditional accompanied by nontechnical text, the following slim volumes are recommended:

Reichard, Gladys, Navajo Medicine Man Sand Paintings . New York, Dover Publications, 1977.

Joe, Eugene Baatsoslanii (with Mark Bahti), Navajo Sandpainting Art . Tucson, Ariz., Treasure Chest Publications, 1978.

McCoy, Ronald, “Summoning the Gods.” Plateau magazine of the Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff, Ariz., Vol. 59.

The Navaho phrase “doo ahashyaa da” means “I am stupid.”