Mack Reynolds: The Space Barbarians

The first voice, heavier than the others and with a note of command in it, said. “Well, it goes both ways. I’ve never heard of them either. They must go so far back that you’d have to go deep into the archives to even check on the possibilities.”

The third voice said, “I just thought of something. They must go so far back that they might have had trouble with the warp. One of the very earliest colonizing ships, before the bugs were all ironed out. They must have had trouble with the ship’s warp, and the ship was thrown all the way in here.”

“Maybe,” somebody else growled in disgust. “They’re certainly primitive. Look at this. Look at these plumbing fixtures over here.”

A fourth voice spoke up for the first time. “What’re you complaining about? We’re lucky they’ve got plumbing at all. Did you notice those overgrown stickers all the men carry? Good grief, swords, in this day and age.”

“They also carry rifles,” the second voice said. “We’re lucky we weren’t assassinated before we ever got the chance to tell them who we were.”

“Single shot rifles,” the second voice said. “Krishna! Look at these plumbing fixtures.”

“What about them?”

John of the Hawks drew back from the door and stared at it. He was tired to the point where his mind was half blank or the reality of the situation would have come home to him quicker. He scowled his puzzlement and put his ear back to the door.

A voice was saying, “They’re platinum .” “Platinum? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I think Harmon’s right. Look at this, Skipper.”

“Who’d ever use platinum for faucets?” Another voice, the second one John had heard, broke in. “A people who have so much of it that it’s comparatively worthless, that’s who.” There was an element of awe in the tone.

“Here, let me scratch it with this knifeblade.” John had removed his belt with its skean and claidheammor, but now he went over to his bed and picked the harness up again and belted it about his waist, still scowling. He went back to the door and pressed his ear against it once more.

The voice that had disclaimed knowledge of ethnology, whatever that was, was saying, “A really primitive culture. They must have an unbelievable system of rituals and taboos.”

He who was addressed as Skipper said, “Why do you say that?”

“Because their language has changed, over a period that must amount to centuries, so little from Earth basic. And they still retain so many customs of the original Earth. Only very strict adherence to taboos and rituals would maintain such institutions so well. It’s too bad we’re not a larger expedition with a few anthropologists and such along.”

“Oh, no it isn’t.”

The skipper’s voice said, “What do you mean, Harmon?”

“I mean platinum. Probably mountains of it. There are only eight of us. Four back on the ship, and us. Good. Only that number to split it with.” There was a long pause.

John could stand it no longer. He opened the door and walked through, staring.

There were four of them, and he’d never seen such dress in his life. It was evidently some sort of uniform, and all were garbed almost identically, so undoubtedly they were fellow clannsmen. The dress was colorless, drab by any kilt standards, and each leg was completely sheathed. Above everything in strangeness was that though all were obviously adult, none wore claidheammor or even a skean.

It came to him then that these, of course, were the travelers from Beyond, in short, men from another world. Until this very moment, John had never really believed in such, in spite of the Holy Books and the preachings of the bedels and the Keepers of the Faith.

And It came to him also that although the others wore no swords or daggers, the bolstered devices on each hip were undoubtedly weapons, and weapons that would have mine under the bann in any phylum John of the Hawks had even heard of.

Two were seated in the most comfortable chairs the room provided, and two were leaning against the fireplace. All eyes turned to John when he entered.

He blurted, “What are you doing in this home?”

The youngest of the four, one of those leaning against the fireplace, let his hand drop nonchalantly to the bolstered object on his hip. It was, John decided, probably some sort of gun, though he had never seen a gun smaller than a carbine.

The eldest, who was seated, scowled at the intruder. “Who in the name of Krishna are you?”

Although their voices were heavily accented to John’s ear, the words were almost all understandable, although he didn’t know what Krishna meant.

He said, “I am John of the Hawks, and these are my assigned quarters.”

The other seated man said, “Oh. Of course. Sorry, John, uh, of the Hawks. The… what did they call him? The head man.”

One of those at the fireplace said, “The sachem.”

“That’s right. The sachem offered us this apartment. Your family has been moved in with one of your cousins, I think he said. You were away. We’re very grateful, of course.”

John of the Hawks flushed. “I am shamed. My home has been honored by being chosen to provide hospitality for travelers.”

The oldest, a heavyset, heavy faced man, said, “I am Skipper William Fowler of the exploration Spaceship Golden Hind . And these are three of my officers.” He indicated them. “First Officer DeRudder; Perez, First Engineer; and Mr. Harmon, my second.”

Harmon, who had put his hand on his weapon when John had entered, was seemingly not very much older than John himself, possibly twenty-five, and notable largely for a somewhat twisted, sardonic mouth.

Perez was a little man, and nervous of movement. De-Rudder, next in age to the one they called Skipper, was the largest of the four, which wasn’t saying much. None were more than six feet tall, so that even John, who hadn’t reached his full growth, towered above them.

Still flushing embarrassment, John said, “May the bards sing your exploits. My family is honored. My excuses for bothering you. Undoubtedly, you rest before the council of the muster. My claidheammor is at your command.” He turned to leave.

The one named DeRudder said, “Just a moment, son.”

Son? This was a term that could be used only to a fellow clannsman, and from an elder. Certainly the otherworlder couldn’t claim to be kyn of the Hawks. John was taken aback. However, he turned politely.

The other said, “In there. I suppose it’s a bathroom. That metal the faucet’s made of. What is it?”

John looked at him blankly, but now the conversation he had eavesdropped upon came back to him. It wasn’t quite clear just what the excitement had been about.

“Why, it’s called platinum, I believe. The Hawks are herdsmen, not scrabblers in the dirt or metalworkers. However, it is called platinum.”

There seemed to be a narrow eyed quality in all four of the strangers now.

DeRudder said carefully, “And it is in good supply on this planet, uh, Caledonia?”

John said blankly, “Why, honored guest, it is certainly the most common of metals, is it not?”

The other licked his lower lip unconsciously. “Your sword, there, is steel, isn’t it?”

John nodded, still uncomprehending of this bent of conversation.

“Ah, is platinum more common than iron? Cheaper?”

“Cheaper?” John said blankly.

The skipper was leaning forward, and John again got the impression of narrowed eyes, though he didn’t know why. The older man said, “We don’t know anything about your means of exchange, but this platinum is so abundant that you use it instead of iron for such things as household fixtures?”

“Why yes, honored guest. I suppose so. As I say, we Hawks are herdsmen, not metalworkers. I know little about it.”