No Sharks in the Med and Other Stories (50 page)

Later:

I’ve managed to fix up a remote from some of the electrical kit I took from the
Albert E
. Now I can switch on my defensive perimeter from outside. Not that the man-likes have been intrusive—well, except for my man Friday—but I like to think that my few personal possessions are secure, and that I’m retaining at least a semblance of privacy…

Today I went fishing with a bamboo pole and line I managed to fix up. Friday went with me, showed me the grubs in the sand that I could use as bait. I brought in an eight-inch crab-thing that Friday danced away from. It had an awful lot of legs and a nasty stinger, so I flipped it back into the sea. The fish that I caught were all small and eel-like, but they taste fine fried and make a welcome change from ship’s rations. I offered one to Friday, which he didn’t hesitate to accept and eat. So it seems these small fish are another pink staple.

Later: (evening.)

I had a sleep, woke up in the afternoon feeling much refreshed, and went walkabout with Friday. We chose to walk a forest trail I never used before; Friday seemed okay with it so I assumed it was safe enough. When we passed a group of pinks gathering root vegetables, I paused to point at a small pile of these purplish carrot-like things and raise a questioning eyebrow. Friday must have understood the look; he pointed to his mouth and made chewing motions. Going to the pile, he even helped himself to three of the carrots. None of the gatherers seemed to mind. So I have to assume that these tubers are yet another pink staple.

Then, because it was getting late, we headed for home. But, did I say home? I must be going native!

Back at the habitat as we were about to enter, I witnessed something new. Or if not exactly new, different. First off, as I went to use the remote to cancel the electrical perimeter, I noticed Friday looking up into the sky above the clearing. And Friday wasn’t the only one. As if suddenly aware of some imminent occurrence, all the other man-likes were sneaking back into the shadows to hide under the fringing foliage. Several of them had taken up spears from somewhere or other, and they were all peering up into the sky.

I went into the habitat with Friday, and we both looked out from under the awning. At first I couldn’t see anything of interest. But then, on a level with the highest of the treetops, I saw a small shape drifting aimlessly to and fro. It was a young aerial pink; (I immediately thought of it as a fledgling, which if it had any feathers I suppose it would have been.) Whatever, it was a pink flyer getting nowhere fast, looking all confused and lost up there.

Then, much higher overhead, I spotted something else. Spiralling down from the dusky indigo sky there came a black speck, faint at first but rapidly increasing in size. Its wings—real wings this time—gradually folded back, becoming streamlined, until in the last moment the hawk-buzzard-vulture dropped like a stone and stooped on its prey…and itself
became
the prey!

In the instant before it could make deadly contact with the young floater, a great flock of adult aerials launched themselves from the high canopy, converged on the buzzard and slammed into it from all sides. Squawking its pain, winded and flapping a broken wing, the thing tumbled into the clearing. Even before it hit the ground there was a spear through its neck and it had stopped complaining. And up in the treetops, the aerial ambushers were already drifting back to their various roosts.

Now, if I hadn’t witnessed this event with my own eyes, I’d
never
have believed that the adult flyers could move so fucking fast and with such deadly intent! Not only that, but to my mind the incident formed a perfect parallel with what had happened to the black hog: both had been examples of deliberate entrapment. And I wasn’t in the least surprised as night came on once again to hear the mournful ceremonial wailing, rattling, thumping and piping of the man-likes…

Another staple? Possibly. Another grave in the morning? I’d bet my shirt on it—if I hadn’t already given it to Friday…

Day Nine: (midday.)

I’m getting a bit lax with this. But the less I have to do, the more I feel like doing nothing! The last two days I’ve spent my time on the beach fishing, dozing, getting myself a tan that my old shipmates would have killed for. It’s alarming how pasty we used to get in space, keeping away from naked sun and starlight and all the gamma radiation. But this is a friendly sun and I’m protected by atmosphere. Friday’s skin must be a lot more fragile than mine; he made himself a shelter from spiky palm fronds and spent most of his time in the shade.

Then again, he has been looking kind of droopy just lately, all shivery and sweaty. Since my human routines, activities and such aren’t naturally his, I think it’s possible that Friday’s been spending too much time in my company and that it’s beginning to tell on him. I find I can’t just shoo him off, though, because now it seems I’ve grown accustomed to his face. (Ugh!)

Day Twelve: (early to mid-morning.)

For breakfast I sliced and fried up some of the purple carrots that Friday has been bringing in for me. Wary at first, I took just a single small bite. Not at all bad, they taste something like a cross between chilli peppers and green onions; but like an Indian curry, they do cause internal heat and lots of sweating. Maybe Friday has been eating too many of them, because he gets sweatier day by day! Then again, I’ve seen quite a few of the man-likes with the same condition: their skin glistens and moisture drips from their long-nailed fingers, especially when they cradle the dead before burial.

And speaking of the dead:

Just an hour or so ago, a hunting party of five pinks went out into the forest. In a little while they were back, four of them carrying the fifth between them. He’d been torn up pretty badly—gutted in fact, I expect by a black hog—and he died right here in the clearing. His hunter buddies at once took up his body again, headed off down one of the tracks with it, and the regulation party of mourners and “musicians” went trooping after. So they obviously have a special burial place for their own kind somewhere in the woodland…

Later: (towards noon.)

Friday’s veggies have given me bad indigestion. Maybe I should have left them alone, but I was trying to show my appreciation of his generosity. Anyway, since I know I’ll have to start living on local stuff sooner or later, it probably makes sense to start eking out my dwindling stock of ship’s rations right now with anything I can forage—or whatever Friday can forage for me.

Later: (mid-afternoon.)

Midday, after Friday went off on his own somewhere, I took the opportunity to sneak into the forest along the same track taken by the man-like burial party. This was after they had returned, because I didn’t want them to get the idea that I was spying on them, which I was. Maybe a mile along the track I chanced upon their village and discovered something weird and wonderful!

For some time I had been wondering about biped society: did they have a communal place—I mean other than the clearing—where they lived and brought up their kids?…stuff like that. Because until now I hadn’t seen any man-like children. Only now I had found just such a place. But it wasn’t only man-like kids that I saw.

The track ended at a limestone cliff that went up sheer for perhaps eighty, ninety feet. And there were ladders, ledges and even tottery-looking balconies fronting the hollowed-out caves. The cliff face was literally honeycombed with these troglodyte dwellings. And that was it; the biped pinks were cave-dwellers. But that wasn’t what was weird and wonderful.

I’ve told how these pink species seem to parallel the various types you might more reasonably expect to find on a burgeoning world: feathered birds, wild forest tuskers, even dolphins. Now I saw that there was something more to it than that, though exactly what I couldn’t say. But the extensive cleared space at the foot of the cliffs was like a pinks playground watched over by a handful of adults, and they weren’t just looking after the man-like kids who were playing there. No, for there were little pink hogs running around, too, also being cared for. And on the lower ledges, and in the many creepers climbing the cliff face, that’s where gatherings of infant pink floaters roosted. What’s more, in a freshwater pool fed by a gentle waterfall, I thought I could even make out a young pink dolphin practicing “walking” on his tail! The whole place was a pinks kindergarten, but for
all
pink species, not just man-likes! And hiding behind a tree, suddenly I knew my being there wasn’t in order and my presence wouldn’t be appreciated.