The Search for Zei

CHAPTER V

In charge of the Viagens boathouse was a tailed man from the Koloft Swamps, hairy and monstrously ugly. Eileen Foley handed him a chit from Commandante Kennedy and inquired: "Any robbers on the Pichide lately, Yerevats?"

"No," said Yerevats. "Not since great battle. I there. Hit robber on head, like this…"

"He tells that story to everybody who'll listen," said Eileen Foley. "Let's take this boat."

She indicated a rowboat with semicircular hoops stuck in sockets in the thwarts, forming arches over the hull.

"Why not that one?" asked Tangaloa, pointing to a motor-boat.

"Good heavens, suppose it fell into the hands of the Krishnans! That's for emergencies only."

Barnevelt stepped into the boat and held out a hand to Miss Foley. Vizqash climbed in holding his scabbard. The boat settled markedly as Tangaloa added his weight to the load. Yerevats handed down the lunch basket, untied the painter, and pushed them out of their slip with a boathook.

As they emerged into the open, Tangaloa said: "While I'm no ringer on the local meteorology, I should hazard a conjecture that rain in the near fut…"

A crash of thunder drowned the rest of the sentence, and a patter of large drops made further comment unnecessary. Vizqash got a tarpaulin out of a compartment in the bow, and they wrestled it into place over the arches.

"The wettest summer since I was hatched," said the Krishnan.

Tangaloa said: "Whoever takes the tiller will get wet, I fear."

"Let Vizqash," said Barnevelt. "He knows the way."

Grumbling, the Krishnan wrapped himself in his cloak and took the tiller while the Earthmen unshipped the oars. Tangaloa took off the camera ring he was wearing and put it in his pocket. He said: "This reminds me of a picnic I attended in Australia."

"Is that a place on your planet?" asked Vizqash.

"Right-o. I spent some years there—went to school there in fact."

"Did it rain on this picnic too?"

"No, but they have ants in Australia: that long, with a sting at both ends…"

"What is an ant?"

By the time the Earthmen had explained ants, the rain had stopped and Roqir was again shining in a greenish sky crowded with deeply-banked clouds. They threw back the tarpaulin. The current had already carried them down the Pichide out of sight of the Novorecife boathouse. Presently they came to the end of the concrete wall that ran along the north bank of the river and protected Novorecife from surprise.

Tangaloa said: "Tell us about Qirib, Senhor Vizqash, since you come from there."

"Stay out of it," rasped Vizqash. "A—how do you say?— lousy country. The women's rule has ruined it. I escaped many years ago and don't intend to go back."

The terrain along the south bank became lower until all that could be seen between water and sky was a dark-green strip of reeds, with odd-looking Krishnan trees here and there.

"That's the Koloft Swamp, where Yerevats' wild relatives live," said Eileen Foley.

Tangaloa looked at his hands, as if fearing blisters, and said: "It will not be so easy rowing back upstream as down."

"We shall come back along the edge of the river, where the current is weak," said the Krishnan.

A V-shaped ripple, caused by some creature swimming under water, cut swiftly across their bow and disappeared in the distance.

Barnevelt asked: "Are we going all the way to Qou?"

"No," said Vizqash, "there is a landing on the south side before we reach Qou."

A pair of aqebats rose squawking from the reeds, circled on leathery wings to gain altitude, and flew away southward. Vizqash now and and then let go the tiller ropes to slap at small flying things.

"One nice thing," said Miss Foley, "the bugs don't bother us. Our smell must be different from poor Vizqash's."

"Maybe I should go to your planet, where they would not bother me either," said the sufferer. "I see our landing."

The reeds along the south side of the river had given place to low brown bluffs, two or three times the height of a man.

"How d'you tell time?" said Barnevelt. "Castanhoso wouldn't let us bring our watches."

Vizqash unclapsed a bracelet from his arm, clicked it shut again, and dangled it from a fine chain. "It is the ninth hour of the day lacking a quarter, or as you would say three-quarters of an hour past noon, though since your days and hours are different from ours I do not know what the exact equivalent would be. The sun shines through this little hole on these marks on the inside, as it did through the arrow slot in the haunted tower in the romance of Abbeq and Dangi. Perhaps I could sell you one of these back at Novorecife?"

"Perhaps" Barnevelt shipped his oars and hunkered forward.

A simple pier, made of a stockade of short logs with a gravel fill, extended out into the river at this point. Two other boats, of obvious Krishnan design, were tied to it with large padlocks. From the pier, a narrow dirt road ran back inland through a notch in the bluff. As the Viagens craft nosed in to shore, a couple of small scaly things slipped into the water with slight splashes.

When they had climbed out and secured the boat, Viz-qash led them up the road, which curved left towards Qou. Something roared in the distance, and the small animal noises, the rustlings and chirplings from the vegetation lining the road, stopped.

"It is all right," said Vizqash. "They seldom come this close to the village."

Barnevelt said: "Don't you wish you'd bought a sword now, George? Without mine I'd feel like a lawyer without his briefcase."

"With you and Vizqash to protect me I'm sweet enough. Here, you carry the basket."

Barnevelt took the basket, wishing he had the gall always to hand the heaviest burden to somebody else. The heat and the roughness of the path soon left them little breath for chatter.

Finally Vizqash said: "Here we are," and pushed through the shrubbery on the left side of the road.

They followed him. Since the country was of open savannah type, they found the going not too difficult.. After some minutes they came to an area like a terminal moraine, strewn with stones and boulders. As Barnevelt looked, he perceived that the stones were of unnaturally regular sizes and shapes and arranged in rows and patterns.

"Up here," said Vizqash.

They climbed a conical heap, the remains of a circular tower long fallen into a mass of rubble but affording a view of the whole area. The ruins extended to the river. A fortress or fortified camp, Barnevelt surmised…

"Here," said Vizqash, pointing to the remains of a statue thrice life size. The pedestal and one leg still stood, while among the rocks and boulders scattered about the base Barnevelt could make out a head, part of an arm, and other pieces of the statue. He remembered:

"What are you muttering?" said Eileen Foley.

"Sorry," said Barnevelt. "I was just remembering…" and he recited the sonnet.

Tangaloa said: "That's by those English blokes Kelly and Sheets, is it not? The ones who wrote The Mikado?"

Before Barnevelt had a chance to straighten out his colleague, Vizqash broke in: "You should know the great poem of our poet Qalle, about a ruin like this. It is called Sad Thoughts …"

"How about some tucker?" said Tangaloa. "That row has given me an appetite."

"It is called," said Vizqash firmly, "Sad Thoughts Engendered by Eating a Picnic Supper in the Moss-Covered Ruins of Marinjid, Burned by the Baalhibuma in the Year of the Awal, Forty-Ninth Cycle After Qarar."

Tangaloa said: "With all that title, I'm sure we shan't need…"

But the Krishnan burst into rolling, gutteral Gozashtandou verse, with sweeping Delsartean gestures. Barnevelt found that he could catch perhaps one word in five.

Tangaloa said to Eileen Foley: "That's what we get for going out with a pair of bloody poetry enthusiasts. If you'd care to take a walk with me while they get it out of their systems, I'm sure I can find some more entertaining…"

At that moment Vizqash ran down, saying: "I could go on for an hour, but that gives you the idea."

He then elected himself chef and rummaged for dry wood. Although his pile of twigs did not look promising, he picked some weedy plants with pods. He broke these open and shook a fine yellow dust onto his heap of sticks.

"The yasuvar. We use this powder for fireworks," he explained.

He got out a small cylinder with a piston that fitted closely into it and bore a large knob at its upper end. From a small box he shook a pinch of tinder into the cylinder, inserted the piston into the open end of the cylinder, and smote the knob with his palm, driving the piston down into the cylinder.

"I like these better than those mechanical flint-and-steel lighters such as the one you bought," he said. "There is less to get out of order."

He took the piston out of the cylinder and shook smoldering tinder onto the fire. The fragments lighted the yellow powder, which blazed up with crackling sounds and ignited the rest.

Meanwhile Eileen Foley laid out the contents of the basket. From among these, Vizqash took a package wrapped in waxed paper. When the paper was unwrapped, there came into view four jointed creatures something like small crabs and something like large spiders.

"This," said Vizqash, "is a great delicacy."

Barnevelt, gulping, felt Tangaloa's amused eyes upon him. The Samoan ate everything; but he, Barnevelt, had never developed the catholicity of taste that marks the true traveler. However, he controlled his features; they might have to eat odder things yet. If he had thought of this aspect of interplanetary exploration sooner, though, he might have put up a stouter resistance to the project.

"Fine," he said with a weak smile. "How long will they take?"

"Five or ten minutes," said Vizqash. He had fitted together a wire grill so that his four bugs were inclosed between the two grids. They sizzled and sent up a sharp smell as he toasted them.

From the direction of the road, a dozen flying creatures rocketed up out of the shrubbery with hoarse cries. Barnevelt idly watched them fly away, wondering if some prowling carnivore had disturbed them. The small animal noises seemed to have died down again.

"Vizqash," he said, "are you sure there are no more bandits around here?"

"Not for years," said the Krishnan, jiggling his grill over the fire and poking additional twigs into the flames. "Why do you ask?" he added sharply.

Tangaloa, aiming his Hayashi at bits of ruins, said: "Let's walk down towards the river, Dirk. There is some solid-looking masonary at the end of the lock."

"These will be ready soon," said Vizqash in tones of protest.

"We're not going far," said Tangaloa. "Call us when they're nearly done."

"But…" said Vizqash, in the manner of one who struggles to put his wishes into words.

Tangaloa started for the river, and Barnevelt followed. They picked their way among the rocks to the north end of the ruin, on the top of a low bluff sloping down to the water. Near the line of the boundary wall stood a big slab, half sunk in the earth and leaning drunkenly, its face covered with half-obliterated carvings.

Tangaloa shot a few centimeters of film, saying: "In a couple of hours the sun will bring out these carvings…"

Barnevelt looked back toward the fire, and paused. Vizqash was standing up and waving an arm.

"I think he wants us…" Barnevelt said, and then realized that the Krishnan was waving his far arm as if beckoning to somebody on the other side, towards the road.

"Hey!" said Barnevelt. "Look, George!"

"Look at what?"

"What's that moving in that copse?"

"What? Oh, I suppose some local friends of his . . ."

A group of men had come out of the copse and were running up towards the fire. Vizqash was saying something to them. Barnevelt could hear his voice but could not make out the rush of Krishnan words.

"They don't look friendly to me," said Barnevelt. "We may have to fight or run."

"Nonsense, cobber. You're being romantic…"

All the men, including Vizqash, started running towards the two Earthmen, swords in hands, all but one who carried a bow instead.

"Blind me," said Tangaloa, "it does look like trouble!" He picked up a couple of softball-sized stones.

Barnevelt put his back to the wall and drew his sword. Although the blade came out with a satisfying wheep, it occurred to Dirk that reading a historical adventure story about a dauntless hero fighting with archaic weapons against desperate odds is by all means a more satisfactory occupation than trying to enact the role in person.

It also struck him that something was drastically wrong with the picture. Eileen Foley had been standing across the fire from Vizqash when he beckoned his friends out of the bushes. She had continued to stand there, without sign of alarm or excitement, as they ran past her, paying her no more heed than one person pays another in a subway crush. Now she was trailing them towards the river at a walk.

"Drop your sword!" cried Vizqash. "Put down those stones and you shall not be hurt!"

"What kind of picnic d'you call this?" asked Barnevelt.

"I said, give up your weapons! Otherwise we will kill you."

The men—nine counting Vizqash—halted out of reach of Barnevelt's blade. After all, he and his companion were both well over average Krishnan stature.

"And if we do?" said Tangaloa softly.

"You will see. You must go with these men, but no harm shall come to you."

"Please give up," said Eileen Foley from behind the Krish-nans. "It's the best way."

"We have given you your chance," said Vizqash. "If anybody is hurt it will be your fault."

Barnevelt said: "What's your connection with this, Eileen?"

"I-I…"

"Manyoi chi!" cried Vizqash in his harsh voice, switching from Portuguese to his native Gozashtandou.

However, instead of all rushing in at once—which would have ended the encounter right then—the men inched forward, looking at one another as if each were waiting for the other to take the first shock.

Tangaloa let fly one of his stones with a mighty heave.

"Moho raj!" shrieked Vizqash.

Crunch! The stone struck the archer in the face just as he was reaching back over his shoulder for an arrow. He fell backwards, his face a mask of blood.

Barnevelt, scared but determined, remembered the old platitude about the best defense. He accordingly launched a furious attaque-en-marchant at the nearest Krishnan. Eileen Foley screamed.

Tangaloa threw his second stone at Vizqash, who ducked and stooped to pick up another.

Barnevelt caught his opponent's blade in a whirling prise and drove him backwards. The Krishnan stumbled on a stone and fell sprawling. As he started to sit up, Barnevelt ran him through the body.

At this instant Barnevelt felt a sharp pain in his left side, towards the rear, and heard the sound of tearing cloth. He spun. He had driven right through the line of foes, one of whom had thrust at him from behind. He parried a second thrust and knocked up a blade coming at him from still another direction. He knew that even a much abler fencer than he would stand no chance against two at once.

Tangaloa had thrown another stone and vaulted to the top of the wall. Three Krishnans were running towards him and in a couple of seconds would skewer him.

"Run!" bellowed Tangaloa, dropping off the wall to the slope below.