Second Variety and Other Stories (29 page)

He stealthily darted past a hut, and emerged into an open place, a flat area of beaten earth. In the
shade of the hut a dog lay sleeping with flies crawling over its lean flanks. An old woman was sitting on
the porch of the rude dwelling, combing her long gray hair with a bone comb.

Harl passed by her cautiously. In the center of the open place a group of young men were
standing. They were gesturing and talking together. Some were cleaning their weapons, long spears and
knives of an inconceivable primitiveness. On the ground lay a dead animal, a huge beast with long,
gleaming tusks and a thick hide. Blood oozed from its mouth -- thick, dark blood. One of the young men
turned suddenly -- and kicked it with his foot.

Harl came up to the young men, and stopped. They were dressed in cloth clothing, long leg
garments and shirts. Their feet were bare on top, for they wore loosely-woven vegetable-fiber sandals
instead of shoes. They were clean-shaven, but their skin gleamed almost ebony black. Their sleeves were
rolled up, exposing bulging, glistening muscles, dripping with sweat in the hot sun.

Harl could not understand what they were saying, but he was sure they were speaking one of the
archaic traditional tongues.

He passed on. At the other side of the open place a group of old men was sitting cross-legged in
a circle, weaving rough cloth on crude frames. Harl watched them in silence for a time. Their chatter
drifted noisily up to him. Each old man was bent intently over his frame, his eyes glued on his work.

Beyond the row of huts some younger men and women were plowing a field, dragging the plow
by ropes securely attached to their waists and shoulders.

Harl wandered on, fascinated. Everyone was engaged in some kind of activity -- except the dog
asleep under the hut. The young men with their spears, the old woman in front of the hut combing her
hair, and weaving.

In one corner a huge woman was teaching a child what appeared to be an adding and subtracting
game, using small sticks in lieu of figures. Two men were removing the hide from a small furred animal,
stripping the pelt off carefully.

Harl passed a wall of hides, all hung up carefully to dry. The dull stench irritated his nostrils,
making him want to sneeze. He passed a group of children pounding grain in a hollowed-out stone,
beating the grain into meal. None of them looked up as he passed.

Some animals were tied together in a bunch. Some lay in the shade, big beasts with huge udders.
They watched him silently.

Harl came to the edge of the village and stopped. From that point onward deserted fields
stretched out. For perhaps a mile beyond the fields were trees and bushes, and beyond that the endless
miles of slag.

miles of slag.

He walked on. A group of women were mending broken arrows. Their chatter followed him for
a time, and he found himself wishing he could understand it. Everyone was busy, working rapidly. Dark,
shiny arms rose and fell, and the chattering murmur of voices drifted back and forth.

Activity. Laughter. A child's laughter echoed suddenly through the village, and a few heads
turned. Harl bent down, intently studying a man's head at close range.

A strong face he had. His twisted knotted hair was short, and his teeth were even and white. On
his arms were copper bracelets, almost matching the rich bronze hue of his skin. His bare chest was
marked with tattoos, etched into his flesh with brightly colored pigments.

Harl wandered back the way he had come. He passed the old woman on the porch, and paused
again to observe her. She had stopped combing her hair. Now she was fixing a child's hair, braiding it
skillfully back into an elaborate pattern. Harl watched her, fascinated. The pattern was intricate, complex,
and the task took a long time. The old woman's faded eyes were intent on the child's hair, on the detailed
work. Her withered hands flew.

Harl walked on, moving toward the stream. He passed the bathing children again. They had all
climbed out on the bank and were drying themselves in the sun. So these were the saps. The race that
was dying out -- the dying race, soon to be extinct. Remnants.

But they did not appear to be a dying race. They were working hard, tirelessly chipping at the
hydroslag, fixing their arrows, hunting, plowing, pounding grain, weaving, combing -

He stopped suddenly, rigid, his blast gun at his shoulder. Ahead of him, through the trees by the
stream, something moved. Then he heard two voices -- a man's voice and a woman's voice, raised in
excited conversation.

Harl advanced cautiously. He pushed past a flowering bush, and peered into the gloom between
the trees.

A man and woman were sitting at the edge of the water, in the dark shadow of the tree. The man
was making bowls, shaping them out of wet clay scooped up from the water. His fingers flew, expertly,
rapidly. He spun the bowls, turning them on a revolving platform between his knees.

As the man finished the bowls the woman took them and painted them with deft, vigorous
strokes of a crude brush gleaming with red pigment.

The woman was beautiful. Harl gazed down at her in stunned admiration. She sat almost
motionless, resting against a tree, holding each bowl securely as she painted it. Her black hair hung down
to her waist, falling across her shoulders and back. Her features were finely cut, each line clear and vivid,
her dark eyes immense. She studied each bowl intently, her lips moving a little and Harl noticed that her
hands were small and delicately fashioned.

He walked over toward her, moving carefully. The woman did not hear him or look up. In
growing wonder he realized that her coppery body was small and beautifully formed, her limbs slender
and supple. She did not seem to be aware of him.

Suddenly the man spoke again. The woman glanced up, lowering the bowl to the ground. She
rested a minute, cleaning her brush with a leaf. She wore rough leg garments, reaching down to her
knees, and tied at her waist with a twisted flaxen rope. She wore no other garment. Her feet and
shoulders were bare, and in the afternoon sun her bosom rose and fell quickly as she breathed.

The man said something else. After a moment the woman picked up another bowl and began to
paint again. The two of them worked rapidly, silently, both intent on their work.

Harl studied the bowls. They were all of similar design. The man made them rapidly, building
them up from coils of clay, and then snaking the coils around and around, higher and higher. He slapped
water against the clay, rubbing the surface smooth and firm. Finally he laid them out in rows, to dry in the
sun.

The woman selected the bowls that were dry and then painted them.

The woman selected the bowls that were dry and then painted them.

He watched her closely. She was painting the same design on each bowl, painting it again and
again. A bird, and then a tree. A line that appeared to represent the ground. A cloud suspended directly
above it.

What was the precise significance of that recurrent motif? Harl bent closer, peering intently. Was
it really the same? He watched the skillful motion of her hands as she took bowl after bowl, starting the
design again and again. The design was basically the same -- but each time she made it a little different.
No two bowls came out exactly the same.

He was both puzzled, and fascinated. It was the same design, but altered slightly each time. The
color of the bird would be altered -- or the length of its plume. Less frequently the position of the tree, or
the cloud. Once she painted two tiny clouds hovering above the ground. Sometimes she put grass and the
outline of hills in the background.

Suddenly the man got to his feet, wiping his hands on his cloth. He spoke to the girl and then
hurried off, threading his way through the bushes until he was lost to view,

Harl glanced around excitedly. The girl went right on painting rapidly, calmly. The man had
disappeared and the girl remained alone, painting quietly by herself.

Harl was caught in the grip of conflicting and almost overpowering emotions. He wanted to
speak to the girl, to ask her about her painting, her design. He wanted to ask her why she changed it
each time.

He wanted to sit down and talk to her. To speak to her and hear her talk to him. It was strange.
He didn't understand it himself. His vision swam, twisting and blurring, and sweat dripped from his neck
and stooping shoulders. The girl continued to paint. She did not look up, or suspect that he was standing
directly in front of her. Harl's hand flew to his belt. He took a deep breath, hesitating. Dared he? Should
he? The man would be back --

Harl pressed the stud on his belt. Around him the screen hissed, and sparked.

The girl glanced up, startled. Her eyes widened in swift horror.

She screamed.

Harl stepped quickly back, gripping his gun, appalled by what he had done.

The girl scrambled to her feet, sending bowls and paints flying. She gazed at him, her eyes still
wide, her mouth open. Slowly she backed away toward the bushes. Then abruptly she turned and fled,
crashing through the shrubbery, screaming and shrieking.

Harl straightened in sudden fear. Quickly, he restored his screen. The village was alive with
growing sound. He could hear voices raised in excited panic, and the sound of people running, crashing
through the bushes -- the entire village erupting in a torrent of excited activity.

Harl made his way quickly down the stream, past the bushes and out into the open.

Suddenly he stopped, his heart pounding furiously. A crowd of saps was hurrying toward the
stream -- men with spears, old women, and shrieking children. At the edge of the bushes they stopped,
staring and listening, their faces frozen in a strange, intent expression. Then they were advancing into the
bushes, furiously pushing the branches out of the way --searching for him.

Abruptly his earphones clicked.

"Harl!" Ed Boynton's voice came clear and sharp. "Harl, lad!"

Harl jumped, then cried out in desperate gratefulness. "Dad, I'm here."

Ed Boynton gripped his arm, yanking him off balance. "What's the matter with you? Where did
you go? What did you do?"

"You got him?" Turner's voice broke in. "Come on then -- both of you! We have to get out of
here, fast. They're scattering white powder everywhere."

Saps were rushing around, throwing the powder into the air in great clouds. It drifted through the
air, settling down over everything. It appeared to be a kind of pulverized chalk. Other saps were
sprinkling oil from big jars and shouting in high-pitched excitement.

air, settling down over everything. It appeared to be a kind of pulverized chalk. Other saps were
sprinkling oil from big jars and shouting in high-pitched excitement.

Harl hesitated. "But --"

"Come on!" his father urged, tugging at his arm. "Let's go. We haven't a moment to lose."

Harl gazed back. He could not see the woman, but saps were running everywhere, throwing their
sheets of chalk and sprinkling the oil. Saps with iron-tipped spears advanced ominously, kicking at the
weeds and bushes as they circled about.

Harl allowed himself to be led by his father. His mind whirled. The woman was gone, and he was
sure that he would never see her again. When he had made himself visible she had screamed, and run off.

Why? It didn't make sense. Why had she recoiled from him in blind terror? What had he done?

And what did it matter to him whether he saw her again or not? Why was she important? He did
not understand. He did not understand himself. There was no rational explanation for what had
happened. It was totally incomprehensible.

Harl followed his father and Turner back to the egg, still bewildered and wretched, still trying to
understand, to grasp the meaning of what had happened between him and the woman. It did not make
sense. He had gone out of his mind and then she had gone out of her mind. There had to be some
meaning to it -- if he could only grasp it.

At the egg Ed Boynton halted, glancing back. "We were lucky to get away," he said to Harl,
shaking his head. "When they're aroused they're like beasts. They're animals, Harl. That's what they are.
Savage animals."

"Come on," Turner said impatiently. "Let's get out of here -- while we still can walk."

Julie continued to shudder even after she had been carefully bathed and purified in the stream and
rubbed down with oil by one of the older women.

She sat in a heap, her arms wrapped around her knees, shaking and trembling uncontrollably.
Ken, her brother, stood beside her, grim-faced, his hand on her bare, coppery shoulder.

"What was it?" Julie murmured. "What was it?" She shuddered. "It was -- horrible. It revolted
me, made me ill, just to look at it."

"What did it look like?" Ken demanded.

"It was -- it was like a man. But it couldn't have been a man. It was metallic all over, from head
to foot, and it had huge hands and feet. Its face was all pasty white like -- like meal. It was -- sickly.
Hideously sickly. White and metallic, and sickly. Like some kind of root dug up out of the soil."

Ken turned to the old man sitting behind him, who was listening intently. "What was it?" he
demanded. "What was it, Mr Stebbins? You know about such things. What did she see?"

Mr Stebbins got slowly to his feet. "You say it had white skin? Pasty? Like dough? And huge
hands and feet?"

Julie nodded. "And -- something else."

"What?"

"It was blind. It had something instead of eyes. Two black spaces. Darkness." She shuddered
and stared toward the stream.

Suddenly Mr Stebbins tensed, his jaw hardening. He nodded. "I know," he said. "I know what it
was."