Poul Anderson - New America

Kahn’s fist smote the arm of his chair. He bounced a little in his harness, under the low deceleration pressure. “The Directorate is governed by idiots,” he said roughly. “Terminating the whole interstellar program just because some cost accountant machine says population has grown so large and resources so low that we can’t afford to keep on learning. My God, we can’t afford not to! Without new knowledge, what hope have we for changing matters?”

“Could be the Directors had that in mind also,” Redfeather grunted.

Kahn gave the co-pilot a sharp glance. Sometimes Redfeather surprised him.

The houseboat came down the Benison River, past Riptide Straits, and there lay the Bay of Desire. The sun was westering, a huge red-gold ball that struck fire off the waters. Kilometers distant, on the opposite shore, the Princess reared her blue peak high over the clustered, climbing roofs of Withylet village; closer at hand, the sails of boats shone white as the wings of the sea whistlers cruising above them. The air was still warm, but through an open window David Thrailkill sensed a coolness in the breeze, and a smell of salt, off the Weatherwomb Ocean beyond the Door.

“Want to take the helm, dear?” he asked Leonie.

“Sure, if you’ll mind Vivian,” said his wife.

Thrailkill went aft across the cabin to get a bottle of beer from the cooler. The engine throb was louder there, and didn’t sound quite right. Well, an overhaul was overdue, after so long a time upriver. He walked forward again, with his seven-year-old daughter in tow. (That would have been three years on Earth, an enchanting age, though already he could see that she would have her mother’s blond good looks and a touch of his own studiousness.) Leonie chuckled at them as they went by.

Strongtail was on the porch, to savor the view. They were following the eastern bayshore. It rose as steeply as the other side, in hills that were green from winter rains but had begun to show a tinge of summer’s tawniness. Flameflowers shouted color among pseudograsses and scattered boskets. Thrailkill lowered his lanky form into a chair, cocked feet on rail, and tilted the bottle. Cold pungency gurgled past his lips, like water cloven by the twin bows. “Ahhh!” he said. “I’m almost sorry to come home.”

Vivian flitted in Strongtail’s direction, several balls clutched to her chest. “Juggle?” she begged.

“Indeed,” said the Mithran. The girl laughed for joy, and bounced around as much as the balls. Strongtail had uncommon skill in keeping things aloft and awhirl. His build helped, of course. The first expeditipn had compared the autochthons to kangaroos with bird heads and arms as long as a gibbon’s. But a man who had spent his life among them needed no chimeras. To Thrailkill, his friend’s nude, brown-furred small form was a unity, more graceful and in a way more beautiful than any human.

The slender beak remained open while Strong-tail juggled, uttering those trills which men could not imitate without a vocalizer. “Yes, a pleasant adventure,” he said. “Fortune is that we have ample excuse to repeat it.”

“We sure do.” Thrailkill’s gaunt face cracked in a grin. “This is going to rock them back on their heels in Treequad. For nigh on two hundred and fifty years, we’ve been skiting across the world, and never dreamed about an altogether fantastic culture right up the Benison. Won’t Painted Jaguar be surprised?”

He spoke English. After an Earth century of contact, the Mithrans around the Bay understood even if they were not able to voice the language. And naturally every human kid knew what the flutings of his playmates meant. You couldn’t travel far, though, before you met strangeness; not surprising, on a planet whose most advanced civilization was pre-industrial and whose natives were nowhere given to exploration or empire building.

Sometimes Thrailkill got a bit exasperated with them. They were too damned gentle. Not that they weren’t vigorous, merry, et cetera. You couldn’t ask for a better companion than Strongtail. But he lacked ambition. He’d helped build this boat, and gone xenologizing on it, for fun and to oblige his buddy. When the mores of the riparian tribes became evident in all their dazzling complexities, he had not seen why the humans got so excited; to him, it was merely an occasion for amusement.

Thrailkill dismissed that recollection. Mithras is their planet , he reminded himself, not for the first time. We’re here simply because their ancestors let us establish a base. If they seldom take any of the machines and ideas we offer; if they refuse chance after chance to really accomplish something, that’s their own affair. Maybe I just envy their attitude.

“I do not grasp your last reference,” said Strongtail.

“Hm? Painted Jaguar? An old story among my people.” Thrailkill looked toward the sun, where it touched the haze around the Princess with amber. Earth’s sun he had watched only on film, little and fierce and hasty in heaven. “I’m not sure I understand it myself, quite.”

Point Desire hove in view, the closest thing to a city that the region possessed, several hundred houses with adobe walls and red tile roofs on a headland above the docks. A dozen or so boats were in, mainly trading ketches from the southern arm of the Bay.

“Anxious though I am to see my kindred/’ the Mithran said, “I think we would do wrong not to dine with Rich-in-Peace.”

Thrailkill laughed. “Come off it, you hypocrite. You know damn well you want some of her cooking.” He rubbed his chin. “As a matter of fact, so do I.”

The houseboat strode on. When it passed another craft, Strongtail exchanged cheerful whistles. That the blocky structure moved without sails or oars was no longer a cause of wonder, and never had been very much. The people took for granted that humans made curious things.

“Indeed this has been a delightful journey,” Strongtail mused. “Morning mists rolling still and white, islands hidden among waterstalks, a fish line to trail aft, and at night our jesting in our own snug world.… I would like a houseboat for myself.”

“Why, you can use this one any time,” Thrailkill said.

“I know. But so many kin and friends would wish to come with me, years must pass before they have each shared my pleasure. There should be at least one other houseboat.”

“So make one. I’ll help whenever I get a chance, and you can have a motor built in Treequad.”

“For what fair value in exchange? I would have to work hard, to gather food or timber or whatever else the builder might wish.” Strongtail relaxed. “No, too many other joys wait, ranging Hermit Woods, lazing on Broadstrands, making music under the stars. Or playing with your cub.” He sent the balls through a series of leaps that made Vivian squeal.

The boat eased into a berth. There followed the routine of making fast, getting shipshape, packing the stuff which must go ashore. That went quickly, because several Mithrans stopped their dockside fishing in order to help. They seemed agitated about something, but wouldn’t say what. Presently everyone walked to the landward end of the dock. Planks boomed underfoot.

Rich-in-Peace’s inn was not large, even by local standards, and few customers were present. Those sat on their tails at the counter, which had been split from a single scarletwood log, and talked with more excitement than usual. Leonie let the door screen fold behind her. “Hello,” she called. “We’re back for some of your delicious chowder.”

“And beer,” Strongtail reminded. “Never forget beer.”

Rich-in-Peace bustled around the counter. Her big amber eyes glistened. The house fell silent; this was her place, she was entitled to break the news.