Planet of Adventure Omnibus (69 page)

Woudiver
occupied himself with tat-work, now and then holding it up to admire the
pattern-the very essence of patient affability. Traz, coming into the
warehouse, scowled toward Woudiver and asserted the philosophy of the Emblem
nomads, his forebears: “Kill him this moment; kill him and have an end!”

Reith gave an
equivocal grunt. “He’s chained by the neck; he does us no harm.”

“He’ll find a
means. Have you forgotten his tricks?”

“I can’t kill
him in cold blood.”

Traz gave a
croak of disgust and stamped from the warehouse. Anacho the Dirdirman declared,
“For once I agree with the young steppe-runner: kill the great beast!”

Woudiver,
divining the substance of the conversation, displayed his gentle smile. He had
lost weight, so Reith noticed. The once-bloated cheeks hung in wattles; the
great upper lip drooped like a beak over the pointed little chin.

“See him
smirk!” hissed Anacho. “If he could he’d boil us in nerve-fire! Kill him now!”

Reith made
another sound of moderation. “In a week we’ll be gone. What can he do, chained
and helpless?”

“He is
Woudiver!”

“Even so, we
can’t slaughter him like an animal.”

Anacho threw
up his hands and followed Traz outside the warehouse. Reith went into the ship
and for a few minutes watched the technicians. They worked at the exquisitely
delicate job of balancing the power pumps. Reith could offer no assistance.
Dirdir technology, like the Dirdir psyche, was beyond his comprehension. Both
derived from intuitive certainties, or so he suspected; there was little
evidence of purposeful rationality in any aspect of Dirdir existence.

Long shafts
of brown light slanted through the high windows; the time was almost sunset.
Woudiver thoughtfully put aside his fancy-work. He gave Reith a companionable
nod and went off to his little room against the wall, the chain dragging behind
him in a rattling halfcatenary.

The
technicians emerged from the ship as did Fio Haro the master mechanic. All went
off to their supper. Reith touched the unlovely hull, pressing his hands
against the steel, as if he could not credit its reality. A week-then space and
return to Earth! The prospect seemed a dream; Earth had become the world remote
and bizarre.

Reith went to
the larder for a chunk of black sausage, which he took to the doorway. Carina
4269, low in the sky, bathed the salt flats in ale colored light, projecting long
shadows behind every tussock.

The two black
figures which of late had appeared at sunset were nowhere to be seen.

The view held
a certain mournful beauty. To the north the city of Sivishe was a crumble of
old masonry tinted tawny by the slanting sunlight. West across Ajzan Sound
stood the spires of the Dirdir city Hei and, looming above all, the Glass Box.

Reith went to
join Traz and Anacho. They sat on a bench tossing pebbles into a puddle: Traz,
blunted-featured, taciturn, solid of bone and muscle, Anacho, thin as an eel,
six inches taller than Reith, pallid of skin, long and keen of feature, as
loquacious as Traz was terse. Traz disapproved of Anacho’s airs; Anacho
considered Traz crass and undiscriminating. Occasionally, however, they
agreed-as now, on the need to destroy Aila Woudiver. Reith, for his own part,
felt more concern for the Dirdir. From their spires they could almost look
through the portals of the warehouse at the work within. The Dirdir inactivity
seemed as unnatural as Aila Woudiver’s smile, and to Reith implied a dreadful
stealth.

“Why don’t
they do something?” Reith complained, gnawing at the black sausage. “They must
know we’re here.”

“Impossible
to predict Dirdir conduct,” Anacho replied. “They have lost interest in you.
What are men to them but vermin? They prefer to chivy the Pnume from their
burrows. You are no longer the subject of
tsau’gsh
[xiii]
:
this is my supposition.”

Reith was not
wholly reassured. “What of the Phung or Pnume
[xiv]
, whatever they are, that come to
watch us? They aren’t there for their health.” He referred to the two black
shapes which had been appearing of late on the salt flats. Always they came to
stand against the sunset, gaunt figures wearing black cloaks and wide-brimmed
black hats.

“Phung go
alone; they are not Phung,” said Traz. “Pnume never appear by daylight.”

“And never so
close to Hei, for fear of the Dirdir,” Anacho said. “So, then-they are
Pnumekin, or more likely Gzhindra.
[xv]
“

On the
occasion of their first appearance the creatures stood gazing toward the warehouse
until Carina 4269 fell behind the palisades; then they vanished into the gloom.
Their interest seemed more than casual; Reith was disturbed by the surveillance
but could conceive of no remedy for it.

The next day
was blurred by mist and drizzle; the salt flats remained vacant. On the day
following, the sun shone once more, and at sundown the dark shapes came to
stare toward the shed, again afflicting Reith with disquietude. Surveillance
portended unpleasant events: this on Tschai was an axiom of existence.

Carina 4269
hung low. “If they’re coming,” said Anacho, “now is the time.”

Reith
searched the salt flats through his scanscope.
[xvi]
“There’s nothing out there but
tussocks and swamp-bush. Not even a lizard.”

Traz pointed
over his shoulder. “There they are.”

“Hmrnf,” said
Reith. “I just looked there!” He raised the magnification of the scanscope
until the jump of his pulse caused the figures to jerk and bounce. The faces,
back-lit, could not be distinguished. “They have hands,” said Reith. “They are
Pnumekin.”

Anacho took
the instrument. After a moment he said: “They are Gzhindra: Pnumekin expelled
from the tunnels. To trade with the Pnume you must deal through the Gzhindra;
the Pnume will never dicker for themselves.”

“Why should
they come here? We want no dealings with the Pnume.”

“But they
want dealings with us, or so it seems.”

“Perhaps they’re
waiting for Woudiver to appear,” Traz suggested.

“At sunset
and sunset alone?”

To Traz came
a sudden thought. He moved away from the warehouse and somewhat past Woudiver’s
old office, an eccentric little shack of broken brick and flints, and looked
back toward the warehouse. He walked a hundred yards further, out upon the salt
flats, and again looked back. He gestured to Reith and Anacho, who went out to
join him. “Observe the warehouse,” said Traz. “You’ll now see who deals with
the Gzhindra.”

From the
black timber wall a glint of golden light jumped and flickered.

“Behind that
light,” said Traz, “is Aila Woudiver’s room.”

“The fat
yellow shulk is signaling!” declared Anacho in a fervent whisper.

Reith drew a
deep breath and controlled his fury: foolish to expect anything else from
Woudiver, who lived with intrigue as a fish lives with water. In a measured
voice he spoke to Anacho: “Can you read the signals?”

“Yes;
ordinary stop-and-go code. ‘... Suitable ... compensation ... for ... services
... time ... is ... now ... at ... hand...”

The
flickering light vanished. “That’s all.”

“He’s seen us
through the crack,” Reith muttered.

“Or he has no
more light,” said Traz, for Carina 4269 had dropped behind the palisades.
Looking across the salt flats, Reith found that the Gzhindra had gone as
mysteriously as they had come.

“We had
better go talk to Woudiver,” said Reith.

“He’ll tell
anything but the truth,” said Anacho.

“I expect as
much,” said Reith. “We may be informed by what he doesn’t tell us.”

They went
into the shed. Woudiver, once again busy with his tat-work, showed the three
his affable smile. “It must be close to suppertime.”

“Not for you,”
said Reith.

“What?” exclaimed
Woudiver. “No food? Come now; let us not carry our little joke too far.”

“Why do you
signal the Gzhindra?”

Beyond a
lifting of the hairless eyebrows, Woudiver evinced neither surprise nor guilt. “A
business affair. I occasionally deal with the under-folk.”

“What sort of
dealings?”

“This and
that, one thing and another. Tonight I apologized for failing to meet certain
commitments. Do you begrudge me my good reputation?”

“What
commitments did you fail to meet?”

“Come now,”
chided Woudiver. “You must allow my few little secrets.”

“I allow you
nothing,” said Reith. “I’m well aware that you plot mischief.”

“Bah! What a
canard! How should I plot anything trussed up by a chain? I assure you that I
do not regard my present condition as dignified.”

“If anything
goes wrong,” said Reith, “you’ll be hoisted six feet off the ground by the same
chain. You’ll have no dignity whatever.”

Woudiver made
a gesture of waggish distaste and looked off across the room. “Excellent
progress seems to have been made.”

“No thanks to
you.”

“Ah! You
minimize my aid! Who provided the hull, at great pains and small profit? Who
arranged and organized, who supplied invaluable acumen?”

“The same man
that took all our money and betrayed us into the Glass Box,” said Reith. He
went to sit across the room. Traz and Anacho joined him. The three watched
Woudiver, now sulking in the absence of his supper.

“We should
kill him,” Traz said flatly. “He plans evil for all of us.”

“I don’t
doubt that,” said Reith, “but why should he deal with the Pnume? The Dirdir
would seem the parties most concerned. They know I’m an Earthman; they may or
may not be aware of the spaceship.”

“If they know
they don’t care,” said Anacho. “They have no interest in other folk. The Pnume:
another matter. They would know everything, and they are most curious regarding
the Dirdir. The Dirdir in turn discover the Pnume tunnels and flood them with
gas.”

Woudiver
called out: “You have forgotten my supper.”

“I’ve
forgotten nothing,” said Reith.

“Well, then,
bring forth my food. Tonight I wish a whiteroot salad, a stew of lentils,
gargan-flesh and slue, a plate of good black cheese, and my usual wine.”

Traz gave a
bark of scornful laughter. Reith inquired, “Why should we coddle your gut when
you plot against us? Order your meals from the Gzhindra.”

Woudiver’s
face sagged; he beat his hands upon his knees. “So now they torture poor Aila
Woudiver, who was only constant to his faith! What a miserable destiny to live
and suffer on this terrible planet!”

Reith turned
away in disgust. By birth half-Dirdirman, Woudiver vigorously affirmed the
Doctrine of Bifold Genesis, which traced the origin of Dirdir and Dirdirman to
twin cells in a Primeval Egg on the planet Sibol. From such a viewpoint Reith
must seem an irresponsible iconoclast, to be thwarted at all costs.

On the other
hand, Woudiver’s crimes could not all be ascribed to doctrinal ardor. Recalling
certain instances of lechery and self-indulgence, Reith’s twinges of pity
disappeared.

For five
minutes longer Woudiver groaned and complained, and then became suddenly quiet.
For a period he watched Reith and his companions. He spoke and Reith thought to
detect a secret glee. “Your project approaches completion-thanks to Aila
Woudiver, his craft, and his poor store of sequins, unfeelingly sequestered.”

“I agree that
the project approaches completion,” said Reith.

“When do you
propose to depart Tschai?”

“As soon as
possible.”

“Remarkable!”
declared Woudiver with unctuous fervor. Reith thought that his eyes sparkled
with amusement. “But then, you are a remarkable man.” Woudiver’s voice took on
a sudden resonance, as if he could no longer restrain his inner mirth. “Still,
on occasion it is better to be modest and ordinary! What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”

“True,” said
Woudiver. “That is correct.”

“Since you
feel disposed for conversation,” said Reith, “why not tell me something about
the Gzhindra.”

“What is
there to tell? They are sad creatures, doomed to trudge the surface, though
they stand in fear of the open. Have you ever wondered why Pnume, Pnumekin,
Phung and Gzhindra all wear hats with broad brims?”

“I suppose
that it is their habit of dress.”

“True. But
the deeper reason is: the brims hide the sky.”

“What impels
these particular Gzhindra out under the sky which oppresses them?”

“Like all
men,” said Woudiver, somewhat pompously, “they hope, they yearn.”

“In what
precise regard?”

“In any
absolute or ultimate sense,” said Woudiver, “I am of course ignorant; all men
are mysteries. Even you perplex me, Adam Reith! You harry me with capricious
cruelty; you pour my money into an insane scheme; you ignore every protest,
every plea of moderation! Why? I ask myself, why? Why? If it were not all so
preposterous, I could indeed believe you a man of another world.”