Cluster

1. Flint of Outworld

The old man and the young man lay in the cool of predawn, looking up at the stars. The old man wore a ragged tunic; under it his skin was an off-shade of white. The young man was naked, and was a delicate green all over. He was large and muscular, even for Outworld.

“Can you see Arcturus, boy?” the old man asked.

“Yes, Shaman,” Flint said with good-natured respect. He was no longer a boy, but he made allowances for the old man’s failing vision. If there was one thing the wise Shaman had taught him—and indeed there were many things—it was not to take offense irresponsibly. “Shining as always, about third magnitude.”

“And Vega?”

“Yes, fourth magnitude.” Each distinction of magnitude meant a star was about two and a half times as bright—or dim. It seemed to help the Shaman to be reminded that Vega was dimmer than Arcturus, so Flint always repeated the information. On cloudy nights these magnitudes changed, if the stars were visible at all. He could have called them out from memory, but the Shaman had also taught him never to lie unnecessarily.

A pause. Then: “Sirius?”

“Fainter. Fifth magnitude.”

“And—and Sol?” The old man’s voice quavered.

“No. Too faint.”

“Use the glass, boy,” the Shaman said.

Flint raised the small old telescope, a relic of the first colony ship that had brought his ancestors, over a century ago. He oriented on faint Sirius, then slid toward the nearby region where Sol was to be found. The instrument magnified ten times, which meant that stars of up to eight and a half magnitude should be visible. But magnification was not enough: the scope did not fetch in sufficient light to provide proper clarity at night. So Sol, magnitude seven and a half, was a difficult identification, even for Flint’s sharp eye. For the half-blind Shaman, it was impossible.

Now Flint was tempted to lie, knowing how important it was to the old man to spot Sol, even secondhand, this night and every night of the season it was in the night sky. But the Shaman had an uncanny knack for spotting that sort of thing.

Then, faintly, he saw it. “Twin stars! Sol and Toliman!” he cried exuberantly.

“Sol and Toliman!” the Shaman echoed. The words were like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Flint set down the telescope. The ritual had been honored. They had seen Sol tonight.

There was still an hour until dawn, and the Shaman made no move to rise for the walk down the mountain. Flint had work to do, but he had learned not to hustle the old man. The Shaman had never quite acclimatized to the fifteen-hour days of Outworld. He would sleep one full night, seven and a half hours, then stay up a day and a night, fifteen hours straight, then nap in the daytime. He had, he said, been born to a twenty-four-hour cycle, eight hours asleep and sixteen awake, and this was as close as he could make it on Outworld. Flint had once tried to duplicate that odd rhythm, but it had made him irritable and muddle-minded. No one could adopt Shaman ways except the Shaman.

Sometimes the Shaman liked to talk a bit, as he neared the end of his day-night vigil. Flint pretended to the other tribesmen that he merely humored the old fogey, but the truth was that the Shaman’s words were almost always fraught with meaning and unexpected revelations. He had taught Flint amazing things—and some of the best had been almost by accident. “Shaman, if I may ask—”

“Ask, boy!” the man replied immediately, and Flint knew that this was, indeed, a talking night. Perhaps it would make his early awakening worthwhile, apart from the necessity of helping the old man up the steep hill. “What was it like—on Sol?”

“Not Sol, Flint. Earth. Sol is the star, Earth the planet just as Etamin is the star here, and Outworld the planet. A small star, Sol, and a small planet, ’tis true, but the home of all men and still lord of all Sol Sphere.”

Flint knew. Etamin was a hundred times as brilliant as Sol, and Outworld twice Earth’s mass. That was why Outworld, though ten times as far from its star as Earth was from Sol, had a similar climate. Lower density, heavier atmosphere, and faster rotation brought the surface gravity down to within 10 percent of Earth’s, effectively, so man had been able to colonize and survive here. Of course Outworld’s year was thirty times as long, but what the Shaman called a severe precessional wobble provided seasons similar to Earth’s. All this was but a fraction of the knowledge the Shaman had dispensed in the course of prior conversations. The tribesmen hardly cared, as long as hunting was good—but Flint was fascinated, and always wanted to comprehend more.

“Earth, of course,” Flint said. “But the planet—was it like this? With rains and vines and dinosaurs?”

The Shaman laughed, but had to stop when it triggered off his cough. “Yes and no,” he gasped after a bit. “Rains, yes—every few days in some sections. But no vines—not such as you mean. None you could really climb on. Dinosaurs—not today, only long ago, a hundred million years ago! Only birds and mammals and fish and a few small reptiles and not many wild animals, with the human species overrunning the last wilderness areas. Earth is crowded, boy—more crowded than you can imagine. Hundreds, thousands of people per square mile. Even more!”

Flint had heard this before, too, but he allowed for exaggeration. It would be impossible for the land to support more than ten or fifteen people per square mile; the game would all be destroyed by overhunting. He had had experience hunting; he knew the limits. “Why is there such a difference, Shaman? Why isn’t Outworld just like Earth, since it was colonized directly from Earth?”

“An excellent question! The experts have wrestled with that one for decades, Flint. The answer is, we don’t really know. But we have some educated guesses.”

“There must be a reason,” Flint said complacently. “There’s a reason for everything—as you have told me.”

“Reason, yes. Understanding, no. But the prevailing theory—or it was when I left Earth—is called the Principle of Temporal Regression, and it applies to all Spheres, not just ours. Earth is civilized, but since our fastest ships can achieve only half light-speed, it takes many years to reach the farther colonies. Vega is twenty-six and a half light-years from Sol, so it takes over fifty years to travel between them, one way. Sirius is within nine light-years of Sol; that’s about eighteen years. Even Toliman—it was called Alpha Centauri—was just over four—”

Flint cleared his throat, gently.

The Shaman chuckled ruefully. “I ramble, I know. The point is this: it takes time to communicate between the colonies—so they are always somewhat out of date.”

“Not with mattermission,” Flint objected.

“Matter transmission is prohibitively expensive. It would be ruinous to transport a single man that way, let alone a factory. So we lack the base for an advanced technology.”

“But we should not be more than two hundred years out of date!” Flint protested. “Even without mattermission, Etamin is only a hundred and eight light-years from Sol—”

“Only! It’s Earth’s farthest colony! Oh, there are a few men scattered farther out, and quite a few in the Hyades cluster—but those are really alien Spheres.”

“There are some aliens here,” Flint reminded him. “Polaroids.”

“Don’t call them that. Polarians. Don’t assume they don’t know the difference; they’re as smart as we are, even though they do have trouble with our mode of speaking.” He paused, letting the rebuke sink in. Then: “But they are in our Sphere, subject to our regulations. Just as the few men in Sphere Polaris are subject to Polarian government, according to galactic convention. Such admixture is good; it promotes better understanding between sapient species. We are fortunate that they are so similar to us—”

“Similar!” Flint snorted. “Know what Chief Strongspear calls them? Dinosaur T—”

“Chief Strongspear is a bigoted lout whose time is getting short. There are qualities in Polarians—and in all sapient aliens—well worthy of your respect. Remember that.”

Flint raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll be extra nice to the next Pole I meet.” Then he caught himself before the Shaman could protest. “Polarian, I mean.” Despite his bantering tone, he fully intended to keep his promise. He was curious about the alien residents anyway.

“To return to your question,” the Shaman said. He never lost a thread, no matter how far the conversation might wander. “Why aren’t we within two hundred years of Earth, in culture and technology? That is the crux of dissension. There seems to be a cumulative regression, a logarithmic ratio—”

Flint cleared his throat again.

“All right, all right,” the Shaman said, more than a tinge of petulance in his tone. “In nontechnical language, it gets worse as you get farther out from the center, unless progressive subcenters develop. Somehow that two-hundred-year delay multiplies, until—well, Outworld is frankly Paleolithic. Old Stone Age, to you.”

“And a good thing!” Flint said. “What would I do for a name if there were no stoneworking?”

The Shaman sighed. “What, indeed. Be glad you’re not on Castor or Pollux or Capella, with their Victorian cultures and musket diplomacies!”

“Why did you come here, Shaman? You had so many worlds to choose from…”

The old man gazed at the first faint light of dawn, as mighty Etamin gave herald of his rising. The Shaman’s eyesight improved greatly by day. “I suppose it was because of the challenge. Certainly I didn’t relish the odds for survival—only half the freeze-passengers ever make it, you know.”

“What happens to the others?” This was new to Flint; he had assumed that all ships got where they were going without a hitch.

“Natural attrition. One ship in four is lost—either it is struck by a meteor, or goes astray to perish in uncharted space, or its internal systems fail and destroy it. And one body in three, aboard the intact ships, does not revive.”

“That’s more than half lost,” Flint said.

The Shaman smiled. “That is exactly half.”

“Uh-uh! You taught me fractions, remember? Find the common denominator, add them up. One in four is three in twelve ships lost; one in three is four in twelve bodies dead. That’s seven of twelve dead—more than half.”

The old man chuckled. “Bright boy! But you are mistaken, because you have not really found the common denominator. You can’t add ships and bodies.”

“All right. If one ship in four is lost, all the bodies in it are lost. So that’s still one body in four.”

“But you are now counting bodies twice. Those in the lost ships have to be excluded from the surviving-ship tally.”

Flint wrestled with that, but the concept was nebulous.

“It will come to you in time,” the Shaman said. “The obvious is not always the truth—in mathematics or in life.”

“Maybe so,” Flint said dubiously. “Either way, it’s one hell of a risk.”

“I was not really aware of those statistics at the time I volunteered,” the Shaman admitted. “And there is nothing very personal about it. It is not like fighting a dinosaur. The journey is like an instant—that’s why I was able to leave Earth at age thirty-five and arrive here at thirty-five.” He sighed again. “Thirty years ago!”

“Another freezer is due soon, isn’t it?” Flint asked.

“In a couple of years, yes. They are spaced out about three ships to the century, so that at any given moment half a dozen ships are on their way here. In this way there is a steady, if small, supply of educated Earth natives to guide us and see that Outworld progresses. The same is true for all Earth colonies, of course. Otherwise Sol would not be a true Sphere, but just a motley collection of settlements.”

“Why didn’t my ancestors travel by freezer?” Flint asked. “Then they would all have been Earthborn, and Outworld would have started off civilized.”

“Well, the survival rate is better in the lifeships. And without the complex, heavy freezing and resuscitation apparatus, twice as many people can be shipped in each vessel. So about three times as many make it to the colony, at a fraction the expense. With a program the size of Earth’s, that’s a critical saving. In fact, Outworld would not have been colonized at all, without the lifeships. But there is that one disadvantage: In the course of the seven isolated generations the trip takes, much regression takes place, even though books and tapes are available. The spaceborn just don’t have the inclination to maintain complex systems of knowledge and rigorous skills that aren’t needed aboard the ship itself. And once they emerge on the planet—”

“Who can study dull books when he’s fighting a dinosaur?” Flint asked.

“That’s about it. So I think we have a complex of reasons for the retardation. It starts in the original colony lifeships, and is not corrected by the freezers, because the majority culture is already set. Perhaps the lowered density of population also has something to do with it. As you know, only so many people can survive on a square mile of land by hunting and gathering. Until rising population forces them to change, they take the easy way—and that’s what you have here on Outworld. Enjoy it; it will not endure forever.”

“You know what I said, when I learned I had been apprenticed to you?” Flint inquired mischievously. “ ’What? That old fool?’ ”

The Shaman laughed with him. “Right you were!”

But Flint was abruptly serious. “No, I was the fool! You know so much, I can hardly comprehend it even when you tell it straight. But you’re always right, when I finally figure it out. Compared to you, I know how stupid I am.”

“Never that,” the Shaman said. “Ignorant, yes; stupid, no. There’s another fundamental distinction for you. I chose you because you were by far the brightest and most talented child in the tribe. You have a peculiar, special, intense vitality. I saw real leadership potential in you, Flint—and I see it yet, stronger with every question you ask. You must work, you must learn, you must not be content like the others, for one day this tribe will be yours.”

“But I am no Chief’s son!” Flint cried, flattered.

The Shaman seemed not to have heard. “You will have to lead your people out of the Paleolithic, and into the Mesolithic—even the Neolithic, the New Stone Age! Progress is much faster here than it was on Earth, because now the knowledge exists. I have been teaching you to read; the books are here, waiting to teach you more than I have ever known. You can accomplish in a generation what took millennia on Earth. Centuries from now, Outworld will be civilized…”

Flint let him ramble. He looked through the telescope again, locating Sirius, fainter now with the coming dawn, and then, with special effort, the twin stars of Sol and Toliman. This was his last chance before Etamin blotted them out for the day. Strange to imagine that man had evolved on that far little planet circling that almost invisible star—

“Shaman!” he exclaimed. “Sol’s gone!”

The Shaman started, then relaxed. “That would be an eclipse. One of our satellites. With nine moons, these things happen.” He paused. “Let me see—that would be Joan. She’s the only moon in the Sirius constellation at this hour. I had forgotten.”

“You need a memory bank,” Flint said, smiling. If there was one thing that grew even longer and clearer with time, it was the old man’s memory.

“I need a computer—to figure out all the nine orbits, the patterns of occlusion, so unpredictable by the naked mind. On Earth the early cultures, not so far ahead of you, had a computer. A marvelous device. It was made of stone—huge stones, each weighing many tons, set in a monstrous circle. It was called Stonehenge by the later natives. With that, they could accurately track the phases of the sun—Sol sun, I mean—and predict the eclipses by Earth’s moon, Luna. It was a monstrous moon.”

“A moon covered up the sun?” Flint asked incredulously.

“It happened. Here, the moons are too small and distant. There, its disk appeared to be as large as that of Sol. The ancient astronomers went to extraordinary trouble to chart its cycles—”

“Civilized Ancients!”

“Not the way you mean! It is true that there appears to have been a pattern of early artifacts on Earth, prehistoric yet vast. So vast that the evidences of that primal civilization went virtually unnoticed for millennia, and only recently have they been appreciated for what they are. They—”

“That is the way I mean!” Flint said, growing excited. “Here on Outworld there are artifacts of Ancients, things we can’t understand. Why not the same on Earth?”

“The Earth Ancients dated from four or five thousand years ago,” the Shaman said indulgently. “The Alien Ancients may date from four or five million years ago. There is no comparison! It’s like the common error of putting cavemen and dinosaurs together, because both are prehistoric, when actually—”

Flint burst out laughing. The Shaman seldom made jokes, but when he did, they were beauties! “Cavemen and dinosaurs! It’s an error to put them together, all right!”

The Shaman sighed. “I keep forgetting…” Then he sat up, startled. “Sol? Are you sure? Sol has been obscured?”

“Sol. I see Toliman—”

“An omen! An omen! Clear as the star itself!”

Flint put down the telescope. “Do you really believe in such?”

“On Earth, thirty years ago—I mean, two hundred and thirty years ago—no. I wasn’t superstitious. But here on Outworld, in the Old Stone Age, the people expect it from me. After a while it becomes easier to accept. And I must admit, for those who follow omens, this is as clear as they come. Sol is going to change your life—significantly. And soon. Take it from an old scientist who converted to a medicine doctor to survive among savages: you have been warned by the stars.”

“No!” Flint said. “Sol is nothing to me, and I don’t believe that rubbish.” But he felt a premonitory chill, for despite his denials, he did believe.

“Flint! Flint!” the child cried. “The hunt—you must come!”

Flint stopped in the path, letting the lad come to him. It was a messenger runner. “I’m not involved in hunting anymore; you know that. I’m the stonemason.” He did not need to add that he was also apprenticed to the crazy Shaman.

“Three are dead, five gored, two trampled. We need help!”

“Three dead! That was supposed to be a routine morning hunt! What did they flush?”

“Old Snort,” the boy cried despairingly.

“No wonder! That dinosaur is best left alone. Anyone fool enough to tangle with him—”

“Chief Strongspear—”

“That explains it!” But Flint was on nervous ground, for if word of his insolence reached the Chief there could be unpleasant repercussions.

“Chief Strongspear’s son is dying. Old Snort won’t let them recover the dead. You must come.”

“I told you—I no longer hunt!” But he wondered. The Shaman had spoken of leadership, and now the Chief’s son was dying. The heir was stupid, like the father—but who would fill that office if the muscular Chiefson died? In a year the Chief would be retired. And Sol had been eclipsed. Since Flint had seen it happen, he was the one directly affected by the omen.

“Chief Strongspear says if you don’t come now, he’ll put a pus-spell on Honeybloom.”

The Chief was fighting dirty! The very thought of such disfiguration on the prettiest girl in the tribe turned Flint’s stomach. “I’ll come. Show the way.”

The boy showed the way, running swiftly ahead. These runners were agile and long-winded; they could keep the pace better than any man. Flint followed, pausing only to don his harness and secure his best handax. They left the fruitpalms of the oasis behind, hopped from hummock to hummock through the thornreed swamp—the village’s chief bulwark against predatory dinosaurs—and climbed nimbly up the trailing tentacle of a vine. At first it was only a few inches in diameter, requiring careful balancing, but as they approached the vine’s center web it swelled to more than a yard across.

Out along the opposite tentacle they went, dropping to the firm ground beyond the swamp. They passed a bed of fragrant honeyblooms, the big green-and-red flowers as pretty as they smelled, reminding him poignantly of their namesake: his woman. He and Honeybloom would be wed in midsummer. He would go to her tonight…

The boy slowed. An alien was squatting in the path. A Polarian.

They drew up before the strange creature. It was a teardrop-shaped thing with a massive spherical wheel on the bottom and a limber tentacle or trunk at the top. When that tentacle reached straight up, it would be as high as Flint, and the body’s mass was similar to his. But the Polarian had no eyes, ears, nose, or other appendages.

The Shaman claimed they were similar to human beings because they liked similar gravity, breathed the same air—though they had no lungs—and had a similar body chemistry. Their brains were as massive and versatile as man’s, and they were normally inoffensive. But they looked quite different, and such details as how they ate, reproduced, and eliminated were mysteries.

But Flint had promised himself to treat the next alien he met with special courtesy. He and the boy halted politely. “Greetings, explorer,” Flint said.

The creature’s body glowed with simulated pleasure. It put its stalk down to the ground. In this position it looked more than ever like a dinosaur dropping. Flint stifled a laugh.

A little ball in the tip of the trunk spun rapidly. “Greetings, native,” the ground said.

Flint was not surprised. He had been familiar with the mechanism from infancy. The little ball vibrated against the ground—or any available surface—to produce intelligible sounds. As the Polarian had no mouth, it could not talk as humans did.

“I am Flint, Solarian male.” What was obvious to a human was not necessarily evident to a Polarian—and vice versa. Protocol did not require such an introduction; he could have gone on after the first exchange. The runner boy was already fidgeting at this delay. But Flint had a resolution to fulfill: appreciate an alien.

“Tsopi, Polarian female.”

“Peace, Topsy.”

“Peace, Plint.”

Was this creature laughing back at him? What did the human form resemble, to the alien perception? A bundle of vine splinters? Flint became intrigued. “I go to a dinosaur hunt. Would you like to accompany me?” In one sense, this too was protocol; Polarians liked to be included in activities. But they were appropriately wary of dinosaurs.

“I would be gratified,” the teardrop said.

Now he had done it! He had never suspected the creature would accept! Well, it couldn’t be helped. “It is an emergency. We shall be hurrying.”

“I shall not impede you,” the Polarian replied.

Fat chance! But Flint smiled graciously. He gestured to the boy. “Show the way.”

The runner was off, sensing a race. This was firm, level ground, excellent for making time. Flint followed, stretching his legs.

But Tsopi followed right along, rolling smoothly on her ball-wheel. She was at no disadvantage. Polarians could move rapidly and effortlessly when the terrain was right; their wheel was efficient. Flint had not before appreciated how efficient. On occasion he had wondered how the aliens kept themselves upright. The Shaman had remarked that a man on a unicycle performed the same feat. But there were no unicycles on Outworld.

Then they came to a ravine. One vine crossed it. The boy leaped up, caught a trailing sprout, and hauled himself topside. Flint started to follow, then paused. The Polarian could never make that leap.

“Permit me,” Flint said, extending his linked hands. He had heard of this kind of cooperation, and was curious to see if it worked.

The Polarian looped her trunk around the hands. It was warm; the body temperature was similar to man’s. Flint braced himself and heaved up, hauling the entire weight of almost two hundred pounds into the air. Then he swung—and the torso of the creature bumped against the underside of the vine.

Instantly the trunk disengaged from his hands and whipped about the vine. The bottom wheel spun against the bark, shoving the torso up. The entire body elongated momentarily; the aliens had no bones. In a moment, by a splendid feat of acrobatics, the Polarian stood upright atop the vine, ready to move on.

Flint hauled himself up, and they proceeded, running single file across the chasm. Purple mud bubbled far below; trash was disposed of here, for what dropped into that mud never reappeared.

The vine trailed near the ground on the far side, so the Polarian needed no help. Actually, Flint realized, she could have used a small ramp to hurl herself a few feet into the air at speed, high enough to catch the vine with her upraised tentacle. His assistance had merely facilitated things.

A mile farther along Flint heard the noises of an enraged dinosaur. “Trouble, all right!” he gasped, and tried to run faster. But he was winded.

Tsopi rolled up beside him, effortlessly. The tentacle touched the ground. “Permit me,” she said. Then the trunk reached over, circled around Flint’s waist, and tightened elastically. In a moment he was lifted into the air, head forward.

Then Tsopi accelerated. Faster than any man, she zoomed across the plain, carrying Flint like an elevated javelin. Thirty miles an hour, thirty-five, forty—the wind whistled past his ears and forced his eyes and mouth closed. No wonder the Polarians had no such organs; they were unusable at this velocity. He held himself perfectly rigid, knowing that any upset in the alien’s balance would be disastrous.

In moments they were at the scene of action. Tsopi slowed and set him down. The runner was far behind.

“Thanks, Topsy,” Flint muttered, not entirely pleased at this demonstration of the alien’s superior ability. But he realized that the Polarian might have felt similarly about the climb to the vine. It was a lesson, and a good one, vindicating the comment of the Shaman—yet it galled him that he should have had to learn it this way.

“Welcome, Plint,” the Polarian responded, making a momentary glow of amusement.

Flint turned his attention to the situation. It was a disaster, all right. Two bodies lay in the trampled dirt, and Old Snort paced angrily around them. He had already worn a brown track in the turf. He didn’t want to eat the bodies, for he was herbivorous, but he was intent on killing any other men who approached. Some ancient instinct told him that eventually they were sure to approach their dead.

The dinosaur was old, but neither small nor feeble. He measured thirty feet from snout to tail, and weighed about fifteen tons. His long-range eyesight was poor, but his nose and ears more than made up for this deficiency, and his muscles were huge. He had been wounded by several spear thrusts, but the cuts were superficial and only increased his rage. This hunt had been botched, all right!

“Where is the Chief?” Flint demanded of the nearest warrior, who was cowering behind the stump of a withered vine.

“Wounded,” the man cried. “He watches over his son, who is dying. He calls for you.”

Flint hesitated, remembering the eclipse of Sol. The omen could signify the direct intervention of Sol in his affairs, but an alternate interpretation was that he could face a crisis of leadership. Sol was literally the center of the human empire, but figuratively the symbol of power, anywhere. If he bailed out Chief Strongspear, in the absence of the Chief’s natural son, Flint would become the odds-on favorite for adoptive replacement. The Chief was too old to sire a new son, and too near retirement to raise a young lad to the office. But he had to have an heir, and soon. The custom of the tribe required it.

Flint wasn’t certain he wanted leadership. There were many strictures on the Chief. He had to officiate at all sacrifices, marry all widows, lead all major hunts, and settle all tribal disputes. Any of these could be sticky matters. It was a dangerous, unpopular office, with little occasion for romance or star-gazing. Worst of all, the Chief had to practice magic, to ensure good hunts and fertile tribes-women, and to compel discipline. Just as Strongspear had compelled Flint’s own attendance by the threat of the pus-spell.

Flint did not believe in magic—at least, not for himself. Others could cast spells that worked beautifully, but Flint had never been able to succeed. The Shaman had told him it was a matter of confidence and suggestion, that the spells worked because the ignorant tribesmen really believed in them. And the Shaman had demonstrated this by casting a mass sleep-spell on the entire tribe in the middle of the day. All had either succumbed or pretended to. Flint himself had gone under. The Shaman, figure of ridicule that he might be, knew human nature well, and was the ultimate magician. But Flint’s own efforts didn’t compel sufficient belief, and so failed. Already the others well knew his liability; men Flint could back off in a physical encounter could back him off in magical competition. It didn’t help to have the Shaman explain that their very strength came from their ignorance; the plain fact was their magic worked.

Even Honeybloom had once given him a stiff finger, mischievously. He had been forced to gather three five-leaved thornblooms, at terrible expense to his hide, before she relented and put them in her red hair. “Intelligent people are highly suggestible,” the Shaman had observed, unperturbed.

And there was one crowning drawback to the Chief-ship: retirement. At the end of his term, the Chief was ritually slaughtered and offered up for sacrifice to the Nature Spirits of Outworld. The Shaman, knowledgeable in everything, had explained that though in one sense this represented an unfortunate primitivism, in another it was practical. No Chief had any incentive to store private wealth, and so he was generally honest. “And the hunting does seem to improve the year after such a sacrifice,” the Shaman had admitted.

Naturally, Flint thought. Because the hunters had the fear of extinction goosing them, after witnessing human murder.

No, Flint did not want to be Chief! But as he came into the presence of Strongspear, he realized that he would probably have little choice. The old man’s eyes glittered with grief under his ornate headdress of rank. Blood dripped from a shoulder wound. He was in no mood to be balked. Any trouble from Flint, and there would be much worse than pus-spells as punishment.

Yet the very seriousness of the situation provoked an antisurvival mirth. Here were cavemen and dinosaurs together! Flint bit his tongue to stop the smile, but it burst out anyway.

“What the hell you laughing at, boy?” Strongspear demanded.

“Not a laugh—a grimace,” Flint said quickly. He bared his teeth to amplify his horror—and his horror was real, in its fashion. What a place for a foolish smile!

“What’s that Pole doing here?” the Chief rapped.

Flint had forgotten the Polarian, who had unobtrusively followed him. “This is Topsy of Polaris,” he said hastily. “Topsy, this is Chief Strongspear.” He faced the Chief again. “Topsy is merely observing.”

“Well, let him spin his wheel out of here!” Strongspear snapped. “We don’t need any damned aliens—”

“The Chief means it might be dangerous for you,” Flint told the Polarian. “No offense intended.” It did not seem to be the time to advise Strongspear that he had mistaken the sex of the alien.

The tentacle touched the trunk of a vine. “I quite understand, and appreciate the consideration. But the dinosaur poses no threat to me. Perhaps I can be of help.”

“Perhaps,” Flint agreed politely. He wished Tsopi would get well clear, but she was slow at taking such hints. Already he was regretting his vow to the Shaman to be nice to the aliens. If Tsopi died in the midst of a human dinosaur hunt, there could be Spherical repercussions.

“The Polarians control a Sphere twice the diameter of ours,” the Shaman had explained. “They’ve been in space longer, and they have better organization. And no doubt they’re more advanced technologically in their origin-world than we are at Earth. Out here at the Fringe they’re primitives, just as we are—just as every species is at the edge of its Sphere. But don’t let that fool you. Someday we may need their help. Always remember that.”

This was one of a great many fundamental lessons the Shaman had taught Flint: the respect of alien culture. There were few Polarians on Outworld—but there were billions within their own Sphere. In many respects, Outworld was closer to Polaris than to Sol.

Suddenly Flint had an idea. If the Polarian could be made to seem instrumental in relieving this crisis, there would be little credit due Flint himself, and thus no question of becoming heir to the Chief. Strongspear would never confer honor on an alien!

“Your offer of assistance is much appreciated,” Flint said to Tsopi. “I noticed you move very swiftly. Do you think you could lead Old Snort toward our deadfall, without running the risk of getting trampled or gored?”

“This would be simple,” Tsopi said, glowing with pleasure. Flint wondered whether her constant illumination was a Polarian trait or a female one.

“Get that dino turd out of here!” Strongspear yelled, furious that the alien should witness the human predicament.

“We shall clean up Snort’s refuse as soon as we get him in the trap,” Flint said, hoping that the Polarian would misinterpret Strongspear’s reference. If only it weren’t so apt!

They moved out. Flint showed Tsopi where the deadfall was, then they rounded up the scattered tribesmen and approached the dinosaur.

“The idea is to lure him away from our dead,” Flint explained. “But since he has killed men, he must be killed, not just removed. So we have to lead or drive him over the deadfall. The only problem is—”

“He can outrun us!” a tribesman finished.

“Yes,” Flint agreed grimly. “Therefore the Polarian has kindly agreed to take the lead. Old Snort can’t outrun a Polarian on level ground.”

The men looked dubious, but acceded to Flint’s evident authority. If he muffed it, he would be in trouble, not they. They formed a half-circle around the dinosaur, a wide arc, for they were not eager to provoke him into another devastating charge. The monster would tend to shy away from a large group of men at a distance, unable to see or smell them well enough to attack them with confidence. But this was still chancy.

Flint and Tsopi came near. Old Snort snorted as he became aware of them. He stomped the ground, making it shudder. From up close, he was huge—twice the height of a man. The bones of his head opened out into a massive shield about the neck, and he had three great horns on his nose. “A triceratops,” the Shaman had said. “Not a true reptile, here on Outworld, but close enough for practical purposes. The planet permits larger development. Convergent evolution…” Flint hadn’t cared about the technicalities; all he knew was that Old Snort was about as formidable an opponent as the planet offered. True, there were also predator dinosaurs, but they seldom bothered to go after anything as small as men, and men stayed well clear of them, so there was little contact. There were many of these hornbeasts, in contrast, and their young made good hunting. The sheer stupidity of flushing this one, instead of smaller prey…

Flint shook his head. Old Snort, the most ferocious of the lot, terror of the plain for over a century!

The huge head swung around, attracted by Flint’s motion. The triple horns pointed at man and Polarian. Any notion that the dinosaur was dull or slow was dissipated by that alert reaction; Old Snort was stupid, but fully competent within his province. The opposite of the Shaman, who was intelligent but often incompetent about routine things, like gutting roachpigs for cooking. He tended to shy away from the squirting green juices…

The dinosaur snorted again, the air misting out around his nasal horn with a half-melodious honk, and stamped one mighty hoof warningly. He did not like intruders.

Flint hadn’t brought his own spear, and had no immediate use for his stone handax. The tool was good enough, but not against a standing dinosaur. His only advantage was his brain—and as the creature loomed larger, he was none too sure of that. But the job had to be done, and his perverse pride forced him to see it through, even at the risk of becoming the Chief’s heir.

“Hee-ya, Snorthorn!” he cried loudly, waving his arms.

One moment the dinosaur was standing; the next, he was charging at a good twenty miles an hour. Or so it seemed.

There was only one response to such a charge: to get out of the way. He ran, straining his utmost, hearing the thud thud thud of Old Snort’s tremendous hooves hammering the ground close behind. Too close behind; the animal could catch a man in full flight, and knew it.

Then Tsopi shot past, her tentacle looped down to touch her own body. From the small bearing came a piercing keening noise, as of an animal in terror.

Flint dodged to the side, caught his foot in a vine root, and sprawled headlong. The feet of the dinosaur smashed down—and missed him by a good yard. The turf sank several inches. Old Snort had seen him fall, but was unable to change course on such short notice—and Tsopi was buzzing along immediately ahead, commanding attention.

Flint got up, unhurt. He should have watched his feet better; now all the tribesmen would know of his clumsiness. But perhaps it was just as well, for he was obviously not the hero of this adventure. The Polarian was. He watched the chase with interest.

Tsopi approached the deadfall, dinosaur in galloping pursuit. The trap was a huge pit, ten feet deep and forty in diameter, covered by a network of crisscrossing vine stems. It was not concealed; dinosaurs’ eyes were not so sharp, and their brains not so good as to decipher its menace before putting a foot in it. Natural hazards were one thing; natural selection had bred care. But artificial hazards were only a century old, and the dinosaurs had not had time to learn yet. All that had been necessary was to build it several weeks before the hunt, to give the man-smell time to wear thin. Old Snort would crash through the vine segments and fall in—and though his shoulder was two feet taller than the drop, his mass and musculature were such that he would not be able to climb out. Forward propulsion was not the same as upward movement, as the Polarian’s problem with climbing showed.

Suddenly Tsopi veered away from the deadfall—followed of course by Old Snort. Both skirted the edge, and the dinosaur did not fall in.

“The alien fool!” the man next to Flint exclaimed. “Why didn’t he go over it, the way we planned?”

Why not, indeed? Had the Polarian deliberately sabotaged the hunt?

Now they were looping back—toward the men. Tsopi accelerated right at Flint. If old Snort continued on his course—well, they could scatter, but one or two more men would be trampled.

“Plint!” Tsopi cried, her tentacle touching the ground. “I cannot cross the trap at speed!”

Then Flint realized his mistake. A man would have bounded from one vine to the other automatically, safely, but the Polarian could not jump. Not that way. The crisscrossing vines were an impassable menace.

“Move toward it—then dodge aside!” Flint cried. “Old Snort can’t turn as fast as you can.”

“Right!” The Polarian looped about again, and such was the concentration of the dinosaur that he charged right by Flint without seeing him. One-track body, one-track mind.

But Old Snort was slowing; he could not maintain charge speed for long. That would complicate the trap; he might lose interest in the uncatchable alien and turn to the slower men. “Let him follow close!” Flint called. And wondered how it was that the earless Polarian could hear him.

Tsopi eased off, letting the dinosaur catch up. They headed back toward the deadfall, the small form almost merging with the large one.

“Now she’s playing it too close!” Flint muttered nervously, seeing Old Snort’s horn almost snag the alien. Tsopi dodged aside, right at the brink of the deadfall. Old Snort tried to twist, and he was now going slowly enough so that his body did lurch over. But his front feet were on the vines, and under his weight they snapped like twigs and let him down. He plowed horns-first into the pit.

Vine logs flew up in a momentary splay. A foot-thick piece came down on Tsopi, knocking her into the pit.

“Oh, no!” Flint cried. Suddenly the peace of Spheres was imperiled. He sprinted toward the deadfall.

“Stay clear!” someone called. “There’s no getting out of that hole!”

But Flint ran to the edge. The dinosaur seemed stunned; he was on his knees and not moving. The Polarian was wobbling crazily, but she was alive.

Old Snort shuddered. His head turned, and he struggled to rise from his knees. As he had half-slid over the edge, the dirt had been scraped into a pile at the bottom. That, and the cushioning effect of the vines, had spared the dinosaur from immediate harm. Still, a drop of ten feet was a considerable jolt for fifteen tons, and in other circumstances could have been fatal.

Now the Polarian was in trouble. She could not climb out, even where the edge was broken down, and her gyrations were attracting the notice of the dinosaur. The massive head swung about, the three horns orienting. Half stunned and stupid the monster might be, but in the confines of the pit he would soon smash Tsopi flat.

Flint slid down the broken wall, landing solidly but safely at the bottom. He drew his handax from its harness and rapped Old Snort’s longest nose horn smartly. It clanged like a dry hollow vine. “Hi-ya, stupid!” he yelled.

The dinosaur lunged to his feet, snorting. He had been well named; the blast was deafening. But his little eye was fixed on Tsopi; he had not yet realized that there were now two creatures in the pit with him. The beast bucked his horns forward.

“Permit me!” Flint screamed over the ringing in his ears from the snort. He threw his arms about Tsopi’s torso and heaved the alien into the air. The torso squeezed together like a bag of water. The horns rammed into the wall of the pit, immediately below the Polarian’s hanging wheel.

Old Snort wrenched his head up. Dirt and sand sprayed, and another section of wall collapsed. Flint leaped aside, carrying the alien. The surface of Tsopi’s torso was oddly slick, though dry, as though it had been polished. The large wheel spun slowly.

Flint brushed by the flaring shield of bone that guarded Old Snort’s neck; it was taller than he was, and monstrous muscles were attached to it.

The dinosaur whipped his shield about, trying to smash the two tiny figures. This was one maneuver he was good at! Flint put out one foot. The edge of the shield caught. As it swung through, Flint walked right up over the saddle-shape.

Old Snort bucked his head up and back, and the two were thrown off. They skidded down the corrugated back. They were now above the level of the ground—but there was no way to step across to it.

Flint half-slid, half-stepped on down to the ground beside the dinosaur’s tail. He set Tsopi down. “I think we’re in trouble, friend,” he remarked. “Sorry if I squeezed you too tight”

“I am better now,” the Polarian said. “I shall return the favor.” And she scooted forward.

Old Snort was just turning, unable to maneuver freely because his flanks kept banging into the walls of the pit. They were in danger of being crushed between the hulking body and the hard sand of the wall. Flint made a mental note: if he got out of this, and if he ever had charge of a pit-construction crew, he would dig several man-sized holes in the base. Probably no man would ever again be caught in such a place with a live dinosaur, but…

Tsopi shot past the broad shield and around the blunt beak, making a keening noise. Even to Flint, that sound had an annoying quality. No doubt that was the intent.

The three horns snapped about, going after Tsopi with amazing accuracy. The Polarian squished aside and the horns missed—barely—and plowed into the wall again. More dirt tumbled down. Old Snort wrenched the horns up—apparently this was an automatic goring reflex, an excellent maneuver against a twenty-foot-tall carnosaur—and ripped out a larger section. What had taken the tribe weeks to excavate, this dinosaur was taking only moments to demolish.

But even as that awful armored nose cleared, Tsopi was wheeling back over the loose dirt, leaving cross-hatched treadmarks in the soft surface, taunting the dinosaur with that keening sound. For an instant the tentacle even touched one of the great horns, and the keening became momentarily louder as the hollow horn amplified it. It was like spitting in the face of the monster!

Suddenly Flint realized what the alien was doing. She was making the dinosaur dig their way out of the hole. Every pass meant another gap in the wall, another mound of dirt in the bottom. Already there was a yard of it piled, and a six-foot section of wall had been demolished. Of course Flint himself could have made it out, if Old Snort gave him time. He could jump and catch the edge of the pit and lift himself out, if the turf didn’t crumble. But he couldn’t carry the Polarian out and the alien was too heavy to throw that far up.

But Flint, glad as he was to see a viable exit developing, foresaw one problem: When it leveled out enough to make a passable ramp for Solarian and Polarian, the dinosaur would also be able to climb out They’d be back where they had started: with an enraged colossus charging about the plain.

No, not quite at the start. There had been time to remove the dead and wounded from the field, now. That much had been gained, at least.

Soon the job was done, for the animal was a powerful worker. Maybe someday man would learn to tame dinosaurs, and gain tremendous leverage against the environment. When a fair ramp was made, Tsopi led Old Snort into a half-turn, away from the gap. Then Flint ran around, put out an arm to assist Tsopi, and scrambled up the steep incline. For a moment dirt flew out under the alien’s wheel, making a hole; Flint lifted, and they were over the brink and out.

But now, what of the dinosaur? Flint stood at the brink, uncertain. But Old Snort did not follow them. He just kept turning, looking for the annoyance he had been chasing. He paid no attention to the ramp.

“Friend Plint, we must move!” Tsopi said urgently.

“In a moment,” Flint said. Something was nagging him, and he was unwilling to run before he figured it out.

Then Snort’s eye came up almost level with Flint’s own eye, the powerful neck muscles elevating the head surprisingly. What control the animal had! For a moment they stared at each other. The dinosaur’s muscles bunched—“Plint!”

Old Snort turned away.

He hadn’t even recognized Flint as the quarry—because Flint was not in the pit.

In fact, the dinosaur was trapped. He could climb out, by gouging a wider passage to accommodate his huge body, then tramping up the ramp. But he wouldn’t. Because he was too dull to look that far ahead. It suddenly hit Flint: Stupidity was the greatest trap of all! There was no confine worse than a slow brain. “May I never look my enemy in the eye and not know him,” Flint whispered to himself. “May I never miss the easy way because of slow wit.” There, truly, was the difference between man and dinosaur!

“No offense, Plint,” the Polarian said. Flint was about to explain that he knew there was no present danger, but realized that this was not the question. “No offense,” he agreed. The alien had something of import to convey, perhaps controversial, and now was the time to say it.

“I am not familiar with all your customs. Among my kind, when one entity preserves the life of another, there is a debt.”

“Among mine too,” Flint agreed warily. This pit experience had complicated his perspective of the alien; Polarians did indeed have worthwhile qualities.

“You saved my life, at risk to your own—”

To avoid Spherical complications—but it would be indiscreet to say that. “And you saved mine.”

“We have exchanged debts,” the Polarian said.

“We have.” What was coming next?

“Farewell, debt brother,” Tsopi said. That was all?

“Farewell, debt sister,” Flint echoed. The Polarian departed, zooming across the ground at the incredible velocity of its kind. Flint watched, shaking his head. What a day!

Now the other tribesmen came close. “You did it!” one exclaimed. “You trapped Old Snort!”

“Topsy the Polarian did it,” Flint said. “She led the dinosaur into the trap, and helped me get out of it. The credit belongs to her, and to her alone. Tell Chief Strongspear.”

They looked dubious, but one set off in the direction of the Chief. Flint knew that his statement, plus the evidence of the witnesses, would scotch any question of chiefly adoption. The only thing Chief Strongspear hated worse than an alien was an alien-lover.

Meanwhile, the hunters would be able to finish off Old Snort at leisure, if need be by starving him to death. The tribe would feast royally for many days to come. There would be good leather for sandals, good sinew for tying bundles, and excellent bones for spears. The blood would make puddings and dinosaur-malt; the vertebrae would make clubs. The fat would make tallow for candles and grease for cooking. Almost every part of Old Snort would be used, eventually. Not because the tribesmen were unduly conservation-minded, but because it was easier to use what they had than to go out after another dinosaur one day sooner than necessary. Today’s dead would be long remembered!

Yet it disturbed him, this slaughter. They could never have overcome Snort in his prime. The dinosaur was well over a century old, and generations of men had changed course in deference to this monster’s stamping grounds. His demise was the end of an era, and this was sad.

There were other dinosaurs, of course, and some were larger and more vicious than Old Snort. Snort hadn’t been a bad neighbor, really. He had let the tribe alone just as long as it had left him alone. Soon some other monster would move in to fill the vacuum, for this was prime grazing territory, and then the tribe might discover how well off it had been.

Flint knew that this was merely the standard post-hunt letdown—but still he was depressed. So he did the sensible thing.

He went to see Honeybloom.

She was picking juiceberries beyond the West Thicket. Her red hair was radiantly lovely. Her green breasts were as lush as melonberries, and her skin as soft as a freshly peeled vine.

“Flint!” she cried with mock chagrin. “You’re filthy!”

“I fell in a hole,” he said. He looked at her appreciatively. “I’d like to fall in another.”

She threw a juiceberry at him. The eyeball-sized globe splattered on his chest and dribbled blue juices down his belly. “Let me wash you,” she said, instantly contrite.

She took him to the river pool and washed him thoroughly, in that special way she had. Her hands were marvelously gentle. He thought of the threatened pus-spell, and was supremely relieved that it hadn’t come to pass. After a while he pulled her down with him, dunking her with a pretense of savagery as though he were a real caveman subduing a real cavewoman. Actually few of the tribe lived in caves; it was easier to make lean-tos under vines, and there were no resident predators to oust. But the myths of caveman violence were always good for laughs—and when Honeybloom laughed, it was something to see.

Her breasts floated enticingly, looking even larger than they were. Flint looked forward with a certain wistful regret to the time when he would have to give them up to his baby. That was the problem with marriage…

Eventually, feeling much better, he made his way to his shop in the village. It was now noon; Etamin shone down hotly. He had lost half a day. But it had been worth it, in its fashion; he had learned enough to last him a week.

He brought out a large block of flint. Flint was a unique stone. Other material fractured unreliably, making large chunks, small chunks, pebbles, and dust—all irregular. Flint could be fractured in controlled fashion, to make flakes with sharp edges—knives. A flint knife was sturdy; it could kill a small animal effortlessly. It was durable; it never lost its edge, and it was exceedingly hard. All in all, it was a stone of near-miraculous properties.

But it had to be handled correctly. Strike a block of flint the wrong way, and useless chunks would flake off. Strike it the right way, and anything could be produced: a thin-bladed knife, a pointed speartip, a solid handax, or a scraper. All it required was the proper touch.

It was an inborn talent. Flint was one of the few who had the touch; in fact, he was the finest flint craftsman in the region. His blades were sharper, better-formed than anyone else’s. But most important, he could turn them out rapidly and with very little waste stone. Flint stone was not found naturally in this region; the tribe had to trade for it, so it was precious. Fortunately Flint’s talent had made this trade profitable for the first time in a generation. They could import as much of the stone as they needed in return for half the finished blades. That was why Flint was no longer obliged to hunt or to perform other onerous tasks like burying the tribe’s dung. He was more valuable to the group as a craftsman. Until this morning, when the hunt had flushed Old Snort.

He oriented his master-block carefully, laid a bone buffer against it, and struck the core glancingly with a specially designed club. A long, narrow blade flaked off. He struck again—and another perfect blade appeared.

Flint made no secret of his technique; the skill was in his hands, not his tools. The strike had to be not too hard, not too soft, not too far from the edge, nor too close. Others had tried to copy his motions, but they muffed it because they lacked his coordination and feel for the stone. The material was in his being; when he hefted a piece he could tell at a glance where the key cleavage lay, and he could strike that spot accurately. No one had trained him in this; no one had needed to.

On a good day, he could turn out several hundred assorted blades. A year ago, upon achieving his maturity, he had given a public demonstration. Thus he had earned his name and become the flintsmith. As long as there was flint to be had, and his hands remained uninjured, his position was secure.

That was another reason to marry Honeybloom. She was a sweet girl, and beautiful, always amenable, but not unduly bright The Shaman had tried to argue him out of making the commitment to her, on the grounds that she would become poor company the moment her figure went to fat. But she had a fair talent for magic, and specialized in hands. Even as she had given him the stiff finger—retribution, she had claimed, for what he had done with it one time when he had caught her sleeping—she could ensure that his hands remained strong and supple. That was insurance he had to have.

Crack! Another blade. Crack! Yet another. It always took him a while to get the rhythm of it, the feel, but he was warming up beautifully now. With luck, he would turn out his full day’s quota despite the loss of the morning.

“Flint.” The voice startled him, destroying his concentration, and he muffed a shot. A foully misshapen fragment of stone skittered across the ground. Damn!

He looked up, his upper lip lifting in a silent snarl. But he didn’t speak, for this was no ordinary intruder, no naked tribe child. It was a man wearing the uniform of the Imperial Guard. His skin was so pale as to be virtually white, slug-white, like the Shaman’s, which meant he was Earthborn. From the spaceport, obviously; one of their idle personnel. But the Imperial Guard was not to be ignored.

Flint, like most natives, didn’t care for clothing. It interfered with necessary activity. Only in winter would he don protective gear.

“I am Flint,” he said.

“Come with me.”

Once every five years the Imperials rounded up all the children of the tribe and ran them through a battery of tests. It was a meaningless procedure, but the kids got a kick out of it and it seemed to satisfy the Earthborns. But this was not the year or the time, and Flint was no longer a child. Earth had no present call on him. “Like hell I will!” he snapped. “I’ve got work to do.”

The Guardsman reached for his weapon—a regulation blaster.

Flint was on his feet instantly, poised, a flint blade held expertly between his fingers. “Want to try it, Imp?” he whispered.

Now a crowd of children had gathered, gawking at the scene. The Imperial reconsidered. If he blasted Flint, he would be deemed a murderer, attacking a naked and effectively unarmed primitive. If Flint killed him with that blade, he would be dead. Either way, he would have failed in his mission. “You have to come, Flint,” he said. “It’s by order of the Regent of Earth. The capsule just arrived.”

“What does the Regent want with me?” Flint demanded, not relaxing.

“He wants to send you to Sol. That’s all I know.”

“Sol!” the children cried, amazed.

Flint laughed. “Me to Sol! No one goes to Sol. They come from there!”

But then he remembered the omen. Could this be its meaning?

In that moment of Flint’s hesitation, the Imperial Guard drew his blaster. “Nothing personal,” he said. “But orders are orders. You’re being mattermitted to Earth—today.”

But the resistance was gone from Flint. He could have handled the guard, and hidden from the Earthborns—but how could he fight the omen? His magic was weak, and this sign had reached across 108 light-years to touch him. Against that, there was no defense.