Hal Clement - Fossil

A single wingbeat carried him to the door, and his small hands operated the opening mechanism. This was purely mechanical and should work even if the power had failed or been shut off. It did; the door swung out and downward, and Rekchellet was inside the lock instantly. He hit the switch which should close the door again, much less certain that this would work.

The portal promptly closed, however; there was power. He groped in the darkness for the controls of the forward inner door — he had been in this vehicle only once before, and never in another like it, so he was not familiar with its detailed operation — and presently found them. Warm air, good air, with detectable traces of ammonia and hydrogen cyanide, enough to be homey without being dangerous to Erthumoi or Naxians, swirled around him as the way to the control room opened. The air had not been like that before, and he had no trouble guessing what sort of person would be in the control room.

As he shuffled forward on his stumpy legs, lights suddenly went on. They were neither numerous nor very bright, but adequate to let his eyes confirm his sense of smell. A Crotonite stood by the controls Whether it was the same one who had robbed him a little while before Rekchellet couldn’t tell, since he had never had a good look at the thief, but he was wearing the same sort of clothing.

There was no sign of the Locrian, but the room was orderly; loose equipment was all where Rekchellet remembered its being. He could hope there had been no violence. There seemed only one way to be certain, however.

“Where’s Third-Supply-Watcher, my driver?” he asked.

There was a brief answer, of which he understood no word. The other gestured with a wing tip, however, toward the rear of the truck. It could be hoped this meant that the question had been understood and that the Locrian was back in the cargo section. It could also be hoped that she was unharmed; it should not have been necessary to use real violence on the relatively frail being. Of course, a typical Crotonite might not have been very careful with a nonflier; Rekchellet turned aft, determined to make sure. Third-Supply-Watcher was not a personal friend, but her welfare and safety were part of his job.

A snarled monosyllable whose transmitted feeling was clear enough even if its precise meaning were not made him turn back to face the intruder. Two or three more sentences hissed and clacked from the other’s beak; then all question of his identity disappeared. A flight harness was dragged into view from a shelf which had been hidden by one of the film-covered wings. A hand groped in the pouch attached to it, and Rekchellet’s own translator unit was pulled into sight. He reached for his property, but the other gestured him back with another snarl, and groped once more in the pouch. A module was pulled out, examined in the dim light, and inserted in the equipment in place of one which the Crotonite extracted from its socket and tossed aside, to drift unregarded to the floor. Then the unit was handed to Rekchellet, who clipped it back in place on his own harness. It began to speak at once.

“You will stay and listen to me until I dismiss you, crawler with aliens. I know who you are.”

“I have never denied who I am, and never expect to,” snapped Rekchellet. His indignation was mixed with another emotion. In the improved though still dim light, he could see that the other’s wings were not clothed but were partly prosthetic; the polymer film he had glimpsed in flight was not covering the membranes but replacing them.

“Don’t talk to me as though you had self-respect. I tell you I know who you are. I have heard you deny your own hatch right. You have spoken of the Seventh Race as though you were a Cephallonian or a Samian, denying that there are only Six Races Between the Stars. You deny that your own people are the ones whose ancestors left the cities and machines we find on so many worlds, and to which we are entitled because we are their descendants.”

“I deny only that it’s been proved,” Rekchellet replied firmly. “I’d like to believe it as much as anyone would.”

“It’s obvious! They were fliers…”

“Possibly.”

“Certainly!”

“There are many flying people. The natives of this world are one set, for example.”

“But the Habras are not related to us! They can’t possibly be descended from the same ancestors!”

Rekchellet was about to point out the fallacy of this reasoning, but paused. He had never encountered a religious or political extremist, though Trueliners had been described to him, and only now began to realize what he was getting into. He could not bring himself to agree with someone he suspected of being from Wildwind, but he could see that outright disagreement would certainly interfere with his own job. He still wanted to know what had become of Third-Supply-Watcher.

Rekchellet had developed rudiments of the art of tact in the last Common Year or so, trying to keep on living terms with his own people and on friendly ones with Janice and Hugh Cedar.

“That’s true enough, I must admit,” he made a gesture indicative of accepting a social superior’s opinion. “I didn’t mean to deny such an obvious fact. I was worried about the Locrian who was driving this vehicle a short time ago; her safety is part of my assigned duty, and you wouldn’t ask me to shirk a responsibility.”

“I could easily criticize your accepting responsibility for the welfare of creepers.” The other did seem mollified. Rekchellet noted thankfully. “However, your charge is unharmed. I removed it from the controls of my vehicle and placed it in the passenger section. I fear there is no Locrian food there, but it will do for a time.”

“Your vehicle?”

“For the time being. I and a colleague arranged with the Guild for its use, and it is my responsibility. You wouldn’t interfere with that, of course.”

“Of course not. If it’s yours, we have nothing to worry about — or disagree about, I hope. It arrived unmanned at Pitville, and our safety people were worried about those who had obviously been aboard. We had reason to believe that a Crotonite and two Erthumoi, and possibly others, were missing. It was assumed at first to be one of our own supply carriers, until we studied the record of its autodriver. Some of our crawler-workers even started to remove supplies.” Rekchellet deliberately avoided mentioning the frozen Habra corpse which had been aboard; he wanted to hear what, if anything, the other would say about it on his own. He was not really suspicious yet, but increasingly curious.

“You spoke of knowing my name,” he added after a moment. “You probably know also that my world of hatching is Tekkish. Is it at all likely that I have heard of yours? I am most known and active in the visual communication field, as you must be aware.”

The other stared at Rekchellet silently for several seconds, making him wonder what could have been tactless about such a question. Surely this fellow didn’t expect the whole galaxy of Crotonite worlds to know his name — or did he?

There was no sign of anger or other emotion in the answer when it finally came, however.

“My name is Ennissee. I feel sure you can guess my hatching world, but lest I embarrass you, it is Wildwind. You have heard of it.”

“I have,” agreed Rekchellet. “More relics of the — the Ancient Ones have been found there than anywhere else in the galaxy, I understand.”

“Quite right. One of our reasons for being sure we are their descendants, naturally.”

“I see.” Rekchellet refrained from pointing out that Wildwind was known, on the basis of well documented history, to be a third-stage colony world and not the one on which the Crotonites had originally evolved. That planet had been well and solidly identified from its fossil record, besides being covered by documented history extending back before star travel.