Dorothy said quickly, "_My_ decision." Holding the locket up for the
sun to gleam on it, she walked into the meadow and waited in the
brightness. Paul's hand sweated on the rifle stock. He saw Wright
patting Mijok's arm, heard his restraining murmur: "Quiet, Mijok--keep
your shirt on, Mijok, old man--man...." Mijok searched the face of his
god with a mute desperation and remained as he was.
The pygmy woman halted fifty feet away in still-faced musing. As Paul
had seen through the binoculars, she was elaborately tattooed and
young. The pause was long. Dorothy stepped nearer to the place where
Wright had left the bones, displaying the locket, her open left hand
waving down at her body to demonstrate that she carried no weapons.
For the first time Paul realized she had left her holster belt behind.
The blue-skirted woman shrilled a word; her two followers fell back.
She thrust the blunt end of her spear in the ground and came forward
steadily until she was only a few feet from the woman of the
twenty-first century; mask-faced, she met Dorothy's smile with a long
scrutiny. Now and then the green eyes shifted to study the clearing,
the lifeboat, the quiet shapes of Paul and Wright. And Mijok. Perhaps
she stared longest at Mijok, but by some heavy discipline her face
refused to tell of anything but dignity and caution.
She spoke at last. It was complex, in a tone like the piping of a tree
frog. There were pauses, studied inflections, no gestures: her
seven-fingered hands hung limp against the blue grass skirt. The
closing words seemed to have a note of questioning and of sternness;
she waited.
Dorothy's contralto was startlingly deep in contrast: "Darling, I
would like to know where you picked up that perfectly adorable
wrap-around, only I don't think it would suit me. I'm, to put it
frankly, a shade too hippy for such. In case you're wondering, I'm a
female sample of man"--she touched herself and pointed to the pygmy
lady--"man--"
"Oh!" Wright whispered. "Good girl, good--"
"--and it does seem to me us girls ought to stick together,
because"--she held out the locket--"well, just because. And anyway
look: I have only ten toes, fastened on to the ends of my feet, and if
I had more, Heaven knows (just count 'em and _see_ how each grows!)
I'd have trouble in keeping them neat. Pome. There now, sweetie pie,
please take it, huh?" And she opened the locket--Paul remembering in
lessening panic how much the unknown portrait did resemble her--and
held it face out to the woman of Lucifer. A tiny palm came up
dubiously; Dorothy placed the locket in it. "It won't bite, baby." The
pygmy woman turned it about, puzzling at the hinge. Dorothy stooped to
demonstrate the mechanism a few times. "I'm Dorothy, by the way, more
widely known as the Dope, which is a title of uncommon distinction
among my people, achieved only after long study of the art of saying
the right thing at the wrong time, burning the bacon, and preserving
at all times an air of sweet and addled dignity--Dorothy...." She
indicated herself plainly and pointed, with questioning eyebrows.
The tree-frog voice, with no sternness, but a hint of friendliness:
"Tor-o-thee...?" She imitated Dorothy's motions. "Abro Pakriaa--"
"Pakriaa."
"Abro Pakriaa." There was sternness again in that correction.
"Abro Pakriaa...."
Wright muttered, "Royalty, I believe. Don't dare do any coaching.
Trust Dot's instinct. Ah, here we go--"
The pygmy woman had taken off her shell necklace. She crushed the
dainty blue and yellow against her upper right breast; she set it for
a moment on her shining hairless skull, and then offered it. Wright
sighed, shaken, "It _had_ to work--exchange of gifts--a universal--"
When Dorothy dropped on one knee to take it, the mask relaxed for the
first time in a wintry smile. Over the proud bald head went the chain
of the locket, and Abro Pakriaa watched Dorothy put the necklace
on--fortunately it was long, even drooping a little below Dorothy's
throat. A flutter of red hands seemed to mean that Dorothy was to
stand back; another motion brought forward the woman who carried the
hide, her face a chip of red stone. The hide was unrolled, and the
bones placed on it. There was more intricate speech, with touching of
the locket and graceful, apparently kindly waving of thin arms.
Dorothy responded: "Four score and seven years ago...." She went on to
the end without mirth or hesitation, fondling the shell necklace,
giving the words the power of music that belongs to them even apart
from knowledge of their meaning. When she was silent, Abro Pakriaa
motioned the woman with the hide to go and held up her two hands
clasped together, the Chinese salutation. She waited till Dorothy had
done the same and strode away, recovering her spear without a backward
look, vanishing under the trees.
Dorothy collapsed in the shadow of the barrier. Tentatively she
groaned: "How'm I doing?"
Wright snarled; "Suppose you know that damn bowman had an arrow
trained on you the whole time?"