O Pioneer!

XVI

A few months of being a public figure had done one thing for Evesham Giyt. It had taught him all the ways in which private was better. A public person had no hidden humiliations. They were all right out in the open and, in a community as small as Tupelo’s, there seemed to be no person of any age, gender, or species who didn’t know all about Giyt’s. Not that most people were hostile—that is, not counting the Kalkaboos, who unanimously froze him with silent glares of loathing at every chance. But most of the rest of the population, human and eetie, seemed to think the whole situation was just a pretty good joke.

It was a joke Giyt tired of pretty quickly. So although Mrs. Brownbenttalon’s party was within reasonable walking distance, Giyt called a cart to take them there. Walking would mean that passersby could say things to him along the way that Giyt didn’t want to hear. He wondered briefly if they were still welcome at the Centaurians’. Rina, thrilled at the idea of a party, did her best to reassure him. “Don’t sweat it, hon,” she coaxed. “You made a mistake, but nobody warned you, did they?”

Nobody had. “Least of all the one person who should have, Hoak Hagbarth; and one of these days, Giyt thought as they got out of the cart, he ought to talk to the man about that.

Mrs. Brownbenttalon’s home was a lot more lavish than anything else Giyt had seen on Tupelo. As the official residence of the Centaurians’ Divinely Elected Savior it was built on the grand scale. It consisted of four or five smallish but brightly colored one-story structures, connected by breezeways. Like an ancient Roman villa, the whole thing surrounded a pretty garden with a reflecting pool and a stand of bamboo-like trees rustling against each other in the breeze. The whole thing looked more California than Tupelo to Evesham Giyt, and he was surprised to see how many guests were present. Ten or twelve of them were Centaurian matriarchs like Mrs. Brownbenttalon herself: another several dozen were their most favored husbands along with a fair number of young ones; but the mayor equivalents of most—though, conspicuously, not quite all—of the other races were also on hand. The only Tupelovian race wholly absent was the Kalkaboos, and Giyt had a good idea of why.

Miss Whitenose came to greet Rina and Giyt as they got out of their cart. It was her party, and she was enjoying being the center of attraction. “Most excellently nice you come,” she said. “You eat something? Good Centaurian edibles here, all checked by Ex-Earth chemists many long times since, quite okay for your species to process and excrete.” She clicked her front talons together without looking over her shoulder. Immediately two or three males leaped forward bearing the sort of bamboo joints, sealed at both ends, that Giyt had seen at the firemen’s fair. Miss Whitenose took the two largest, held them to her ears for a moment, then expertly opened one end of each and offered them to the Giyts. “Dopey Earth-human meal-handling utensils,” she said to the air, and two more males eagerly proffered tapered ceramic spoons. “You eat this excellent provision,” she ordered.

The joint was warm, and when Giyt sniffed at its contents they smelled faintly Italian—some kind of Parmesan-like cheese, he guessed, though as far as he knew Centaurians kept no dairy animals. He glanced at Rina, who smiled at him, dipped her spoon into the open top of the joint, and tried it out. “Oh, nice,” she said appreciatively. “Give it a try, Shammy. You’ll like it.”

As a matter of fact he did. What was inside the bamboo joint was a sort of pudding, the texture of an avocado but with crunchy little sticklike things in it. It tasted, as much as anything, like a well-prepared risotto, with a few spices he could not identify.

“Delicious,” he said. Miss Whitenose nodded graciously.

“I tell you this already,” she said, and clicked her talons again. Whereupon the hovering males dashed away to a row of cooking pots, returning to their task of helping other males boil up additional segments. Miss. Whitenose didn’t look after them but made a soft, snickering noise. “They new husbands just purchased for me,” she explained proudly. “Work asses off, hope to be picked for great honor of to be first to do me. Now come meet other guests.”

She led the way to where Mrs. Brownbenttalon was holding court, reclining on an elevated cushion and chatting with five or six other beings at once—a pair of other Centaurian matriarchs, plus two half-grown females younger than Miss Whitenose, and several members of other races. Giyt recognized the Principal Slug, the Delt General Manager, and the Petty-Prime Responsible One and his wife—well, one of his wives, anyway; Giyt was not very dear on Petty-Prime mating customs.

To his surprise, the tiny Responsible One climbed up on one of the seats and thrust his paw toward him for a handshake. “Excellent see you. Earth Mayor,” he piped. “Interesting combat this day at meeting.”

Giyt swallowed a spoonful of the pudding. “I can explain—” he began.

“What explain? You bitch damn Kalkaboo up, about time. Make too goddamn much noise every dawning, get sick and tired of it.”

“Have awful bad breath, too,” the Principal Slug said—or slurped; Giyt could hear the slushy, wheezy sound of his voice even above the translation in his ear. And Mrs. Brownbenttalon said, “Kalkaboos pissed off in major way now, you know. Won’t come Miss Whitenose First Fuck party because you here. Who care? Of course,” she added casually, “now they tell everyperson you trying steal everyperson private secrets, take good stuff, send home to Earth-human planet.”

That made Giyt blink. “Are you talking about the proposals I made at the commission meeting? But that’s not what I was suggesting at all. I simply proposed that everybody get together, all six races, and make a systematic survey of what this planet has to offer. I’m sure we’d find resources that could be exploited for everybody’s benefit.”

“Yes, idea is quite preposterous, have understood completely,” Mrs. Brownbenttalon agreed, and the Petty-Prime said, “Preposterous, naturally, but also very sweet. Obviously you are being quite kindly person Earth Mayor Giyt. Too bad so ignorant.”

It was Rina who rescued Giyt from that conversation; they had to circulate, she said, and they circulated. A couple of subadult Centaurian males were beating softly on sacks of something or other that gave off a muffled sound—not a very pleasing sound to Giyt’s ears, but at least Centaurian music wasn’t loud. The Giyts paused by the refreshment tables, studying the contents. Rina ventured to try what appeared to be a canapé—a sort of pale lavender rosebud capped with a dab of what looked like brown sugar—but grimaced at the first bite and looked for a place to put it down. Giyt accepted a bamboo tube of something to drink from an eager male servant; it was more like prune juice than anything else, but mildly alcoholic and not too awful to drink. He was still brooding over the conversation with the others. “But I was only suggesting mutual cooperation,” he muttered in Rina’s ear, and she shook her head.

“We’ll talk about it later. Shammy, okay? This is a party. And, look, I think the bride is about to make a choice.”

At the center of the atrium Mrs. Brownbenttalon had moved over on her dais and her daughter had joined her. The two females whispered to each other, glancing and pointing at one or another of the prospective bridegrooms, all of them belly-down on the ground before the dais, their eyes closed and their whole bodies quivering.

There was a ritual to the selection process. Miss Whitenose was juggling a mittful of objects, some ordinary pebbles along with one of those lavender rosebuds. After a considerable amount of whispering with her mother she abruptly tossed one of the pebbles at a male, who turned and crept mournfully away. Another pebble; another disappointed suitor. Then when only one was left, she threw the rosebud hard and clean at the remaining one, who yelped in joy, leaped up onto the dais and burrowed into the curls of her fur.

Giyt glanced wonderingly at Rina, who returned his look; but after a moment of applause from the audience Miss Whitenose gracefully came down from the dais and headed for one of the smaller buildings. Mrs. Brownbenttalon turned to Giyt, cackling. “I know what you think,” she said. “You think she going do it right in front of us, correct? But no, not at all, young couple don’t need bunch people hanging around staring at them when they do all-important first fuck. Take mind off serious business they busy at, you see? But we naturally got cameras in private doing-it room, keep-record in family database so children can someday see actual impregnation which produced selves. You Earth humans do similar ritual, wedding album thing, right? So everybody come along, we observe performing on the TV!”

When the party seemed to be ending the guests lined up to take their leave of Miss Whitenose—no, Giyt realized, she was Mrs. Whitenose now, a full matriarch in the Centaurian community. Giyt absently joined the end of the line, Rina’s hand in his. At least one question had been settled. He had wondered how somebody the size of Mr. Brownbenttalon was able to stick it to somebody the size of Mrs. Brownbenttalon, but the TV screen had given him the answer. It turned out that the biggest part of a Centaurian male was his sexual organ. Like a whale’s, it was invisible in normal life, because he kept it rolled up inside him until needed, but then—

He stole a glance at Rina, and was not surprised to see that she was wearing a faint, contemplative smile. “Jealous?” he murmured.

She blinked and looked up at him, but before she could respond, Giyt became aware that something was tugging at his trouser leg. It was Mr. Brownbenttalon. “You don’t go yet,” he whispered. “Honored wife say please you stick around, we talk on assorted subjects, get to know each other better, okay? Just have patience few ten minutes while junior males and kids clean up.”

So the Giyts dropped out of the line and sat quietly, watching the cleaning-up procedure. One of Mrs. Whitenose’s lesser husbands brought them stalks of the pruney beverage and offered more of the foods. Rina declined hers. “Shammy, hon? Mr. Brownbenttalon invited me to look at their kitchens,” she said. “All right if I snoop around a bit?”

“Snoop away.” Giyt comfortably sipped from his bamboo tube—yes, the liquid definitely was alcoholic—as he watched her chatting with the males and subadult females as they bustled around cleaning up. The whole household was busy. One group of males was burning the debris, another thriftily carrying away the uneaten food, a third sawing sections from the stacked bamboo stalks. Giyt wondered absently if their own child would be as helpful around the house. Then he wondered what it was going to be like to have a child in the house in the first place. He hoped the de Mirs would stay on as neighbors. That way their own child would have playmates right next door, and teenage babysitters handy when they reached that point…

A voice piped in his ear: “Are you being done okay, Large Male Giyt? Plenty food, plenty beverage? You want more, easily got.” Giyt turned to see Mr. Brownbenttalon gazing up at him, his little claws poised to click for service. Giyt forestalled him.

“No, I’m fine.” He thought for a moment, then decided it was a good time to apologize. “Listen, I’m sorry if my being here kept the Kalkaboos away.”

Mr. Brownbenttalon reared back on his hind legs, snout elevated toward Giyt. He was hissing faintly in embarrassment. “Please!” he begged. “Extreme discourtesy to revered wife if have substantive talking in absence of her beloved presence, okay?”

“Well, of course, but I only meant—”

“Please! All right discuss weather, extreme handsomeness of Mrs. Whitenose new husbands, unpleasant odor of Delts, sports events. Things that nature. Not thing of significance.”

Giyt sighed. “Sure,” he said. And when all the things of no significance had been used up, Mr. Brownbenttalon was satisfied. He went away, furiously clicking at the way the lesser males were doing their housekeeping.

Giyt was content to be left alone. He found talking about nothing hard work. Being abandoned in solitude wasn’t all that much better, though. It gave him time to reflect on his numerous blunders, and about what sort of unforeseen unpleasantness was likely to strike next, and most of all about the—not exactly unpleasant, but certainly worrying—fact of Rina’s pregnancy. He wondered if the excitement of the party was really good for her. There was no point in asking Rina about it, of course. She would just laugh at him. Fondly, to be sure, but still—

He heard her call his name and saw her threading her way among the busy male Centaurians toward him. She had a bamboo segment in her hand and a faintly startled, mostly amused expression on her face. One of the younger Centaurian males was tagging patiently after her. “Look at this. Shammy,” she ordered.

He took the piece of bamboo in his hand, turning it over. It seemed to be filled with some green, pith-like plant substance, but—

He yelped and almost dropped the segment. The Centaurian male darted quickly in to catch it and scuttle away. “Did you see?” Rina asked. “That little thing like a lizard in it? The cook just took it out of a cage and put it in there; now he’s going to cap it off with the lizard thing inside. And then, when it’s eaten everything, they boil up everything that’s left in the tube.”

Giyt felt his stomach go queasy. “And that’s what we’ve been eating? Lizard shit?”

“Weil, that’s one way to put it,” she admitted. “Tasted good, though, didn’t it?”

Giyt was spared answering because Mrs. Whitenose appeared. You could not say she was sprightly—that sort of step did not go with the low-slung Centaurian anatomy—but there was something self-satisfied about the way she moved.

“Thank you to wait so long,” she said. Giyt caught a glimpse of two little eyes peeping out of the fur on her back: her new husband, silent, perhaps exhausted from his recent efforts. Mrs. Whitenose added; “My mother asks you come talk a bit now. Present moment is time of feeling-good relaxation. You know saying about parties? Extraordinarily delighted see guests come, even more extraordinarily delighted see them go away again—but listen, not meaning present company, of course.”

Mrs. Brownbenttalon was lying comfortably on a mossy mound of earth, with her main husband now affectionately grooming the fur above her eyes and a lesser husband pouring little glass cups of a beverage for the guests. When Giyt took a sip he almost choked; this wasn’t the juice he’d had before. It was distilled, had to be close to a hundred proof, and not bad.

Mrs. Brownbenttalon was solicitous. “You like? This good stuff. Don’t serve at party, guests get too rotten drunk, make fights, especially stinky Slugs.”

“Also Earth-human Large Male Hagbarth,” Mrs. White-nose put in.

“Oh, yes, bad guy, Hagbarth. When he here he awful, you know? He act like he think he hot waste product. Very contemptuous of races wiser far than, excuse me, Earth humans. We do not do that way. Our practice is always judging individuals, not races, even stinky Kalkaboos,” she said grandly. “You okay Earth human, Large Male Giyt. We think.”

“Well, thank you,” Giyt said, looking around. More Centaurians were showing up as their chores were finished, lesser males and subadults, silently congregating at a respectful distance around the matriarchs to listen.

“You are welcomed. Well, what about party? Have good time? You like food?” When both the Giyts expressed admiration for the food, she bobbed her long nose in agreement. “Always good have plenty fine food. When Pentagon is full, bellies fill themselves.”

“Pentagon?”

“Sure, Pentagon. That what you Earth humans call building with five sides,” she instructed him. “Is place where us five Divinely Elected Saviors on Joint Governance Commission congregated before large-male Earth humans arrived. Much debate about what do with you guys when you dumb little machine ship arrive, you bet!” she said, cackling. All the males and children cackled too; only Mrs. Whitenose, seemingly lost in a dreamy reverie, was silent. “Then decided purpose of peace-treaty planet was to learn peace, right? Needed for survival of rest of us? Probably needed for survival with you large-male persons, too, so voted in, no dissent.”

The male on her back giggled and squealed, “Much dissent, actually.” But Mrs. Brownbenttalon reached up with her hind leg and swatted him amiably.

“Not dissent,” she corrected. “Discussion, of course. For many days—Slugs objected at first, too many vertebrates—but finally unanimous. So sent you guys portal thing so you come here.”

Giyt frowned in surprise. “You sent the portal?”

“Of course sent portal. What else?”

“But . . . Professor Sommermen . . .”

“Ah,” she said, her snout wrinkling in comprehension. “That large-male Earth-human guy—what he just do, Mrs. Whitenose?”

Addressed, her daughter roused from her fond daydream. “He die.”

“Sure, he die. Remember myth now. Like Santa Claus, you know? Like myth of non-Earth-people persons coming to Earth planet in crockery dishes, abducting Earth humans for sexual games.”

“Yuck,” said Mrs. Whitenose.

“Yes, typical Earth-human myth,” her mother said. “Bizarre but very sweet. You didn’t know?”

Giyt glanced at his wife to see how she was taking all this. Better than he was, he thought. She looked interested and amused. Doing his best to control himself, he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Didn’t Dr. Sommermen invent the portal?”

“Him? Large-male Earth human? Invent portal?” She was giggling at the idea, and so were her husband and daughter. “No way! Take damn good wizardly science knowledge for building portal, you don’t have. Can’t get, either,” she added complacently, “because portal constructed so you guys can’t open up, else biggest damn bang ever. Of course, now all are most glad your people are here,” she added hospitably. “Most your people, anyway.”

“Not counting Large Male Hagbarth, we mean,” Mrs. Whitenose put in.

Giyt didn’t know what sort of expression his own face was displaying until he saw the way Rina was looking at him. She patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, hon,” she said.

It was certainly good advice. The trouble with taking it was that he was indeed hard hit. Giyt did not think of himself as a naive person. He was not startled to learn that people in power told lies.

But this lie? What was the point of it? Only out of some kind of Earthie vanity, some refusal to admit to the rest of the human race that somebody was smarter than they?

Mrs. Brownbenttalon was still talking. “You come to all-six-race confabulation talk in Hexagon when it begin,” she advised. “When people from all home planets meet here, you know? Good thing. You learn much. Also big pain, because they scoot us mayoring persons all the hell out of said place, but this cannot be helped. No Joint Governance Commission meeting possible then because place full of peace treaty people. You know Treaty of Perpetual Peace document yourself?”

“I’m afraid not,” Giyt admitted. “There’s been so much I had to catch up on.”

“You do such! Most important. Peace treaty is reason Peace Planet exists. Very tedious document, sure, but very important. Is in database and very valuable for survival. With treaty now, persons, husbands, and young on home planets live in security, no more wars.”

“Old times of war horrible,” Mrs. Whitenose squeaked. “Much destruction, cities in ruin.”

“But long, long ago, even before us great ancestors born. And all repaired now,” said Mrs. Brownbenttalon. “Home planet completely restored to state of great beauty and prospering, not counting radioactive waste areas.”

“It must be a wonderful place,” Rina said politely. “I’d love to see it.”

“Never happen,” Mrs. Whitenose said positively, and her mother gave her a reprimanding look.

“What Mrs. Whitenose mean,” she said, “is of course humans don’t come to Centauri planet, Centaurians don’t come to human Earth planet, not ever. Meet only here. Much better that way.”

“Had experience of other races visiting our planet,” Miss Whitenose said, shaking her pointy nose. “Other races come first in dumb little fire-squirting rocket ship thing. I am talking Slug here, you understand? Long, long, long ago. At first all friendliness, talk trade, talk friendship, talk all kinds animal excrement stuff but don’t mean; come next time in battle fleets, you know? Bang-bang-bang bombing, shooting, killing. Very much killing in which many, many persons die, also males. No good. Know better now. You stay your place, we stay our place, everybody happy.”

“And no shooting,” added Mr. Brownbenttalon.