Пол Андерсон: Orbit 1

“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, louder there, did not sound quite right. Well, an overhaul was due, 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.) 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 said.

“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 expedition had compared the autochthones to kangaroos with bird heads and with 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 Strongtail 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 Tree-quad. 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 could not 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 were not vigorous, merry, and all that. You could not ask for a better companion than Strongtail. But he lacked ambition. He had 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.

“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 rode 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 said. “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 that must go ashore. That went quickly, because several Mithrans stopped their dockside fishing to help. They seemed agitated about something, but would not 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. The few customers 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.

“You have not heard?” she caroled.

“No, our radio went out on the way back,” Thrailkill replied. “What’s happened?”

She spread her hands. They had three fingers apiece, at right angles to each other. “But so wonderful!” she exclaimed. “A ship has come from your country. They say you can go home.” As if the implications had suddenly broken on her, she stopped. After a moment: “I hope you will want to come back and visit us.”

She doesn’t realize, flashed through the stupefaction in Thrailkill. He was only dimly aware of Leonie’s tight grasp on his arm. That’s a one-way trip.

Sunset smoldered away in bronze and gold. From the heights above Treequad, Kahn and Thrailkill could look past the now-purple hills that flanked the Door, out to a glimpse of the Weatherwomb Ocean. The xenologist sighed. “I always wanted to build a real sea-going schooner and take her there,” he said. “Coasting down to Gate-of-the-South — what a trip!”

“I am surprised that the natives have not done so,” Kahn said. “They appear to have the capability, and it would be better for trade than those toilsome overland routes you mentioned.”

“I suggested that, and my father before me,” Thrailkill answered. “But none of them cared to make the initial effort. Once we thought about doing it ourselves, to set an example. But we had a lot of other work, and too few of us.”

“Well, if the natives are so shiftless, why do you care about improving their lot?”

Thrailkill bristled at the insult to his Mithrans, until he remembered that Kahn could not be expected to understand. “ ‘Shiftless’ is the wrong word,” he said. “They work as hard as necessary. Their arts make everything of ours look sick. Let’s just call them less adventurous than humans.” His smile was wry. “Probably the real reason we’ve done so much here, and wanted to do so much more. Not for altruism, just for the hell of it.”