It was an hour-long narrative dance, vastly monotonous, a picture of
war. Some of those most cruelly wounded pranced into solo pantomimes
bragging of how the injuries had been received. In climax, a straw
figure of a woman was dragged to the center of the clearing: an image
carefully made, brightly painted, the face hideous, the sexual
features grossly exaggerated. Shrilling what seemed to be a name
("Lantis! Lantis!"), the soldiers swarmed on this effigy, squealing,
stabbing, defiling, tearing it into shreds, which they carried away as
treasures or mementos.
When the soldier women had finished in yawning exhaustion, a crowd of
dainty men performed another sort of dance, purely an erotic show,
indicating that the role of the male was seductive, half infantile,
submissive all the way. Occasionally a soldier pulled a dancer out of
the line, slapping his face until he stopped the squealing that was
evidently required of him, and wandered away with him; but most of the
soldiers were too tired, gorged, or wounded to be interested. Later,
some twenty soldiers formed a group, and men brought them babies to be
nursed, morsels of humanity, quite silent, far smaller in proportion
than Earth's newborn. The mothers' arms were careful and competent,
without tenderness; they held the infants two at a time, examining
them shrewdly, often exchanging them with other soldiers. There were a
few cooing demonstrations of affection by the men toward these
infants, demonstrations which the soldiers ignored. Ann whispered, "I
could spend a lot of time hating these little devils."
"Try not to."
"I know, Paul, but--"
"At least they have a civilization." Spearman was arguing with
himself. "A potential technology. That's good gardening. Good tools,
weapons."
"Nan, see if you can ask Mrs. President to show us the town."
Pakriaa caught on swiftly and was delighted....
The first of the tree-sheltered areas contained all the dwelling
houses, dulled by the splendor of Pakriaa's. Ann was invited to enter
this blue palace, Pakriaa making it clear that the men must not
follow. Ann emerged, red-faced. Later, when it would not be so patent
that she was talking of Pakriaa's house, Ann said, "Couldn't make out
much detail. Dim, and no lamps burning, though I think I saw some clay
things like old Roman lamps. Clean, funny perfume smells. I met--her
mother maybe. Incredibly old anyway, and almost black. Their skin must
change color with age."
"Dirt more likely," Spearman said.
"Not a bit of it. Very clean. Just a dry little ghost in a fancy room
of her own, with a--a male slave manicuring her toenails. We haven't
seen any old women out in the open."
"Sheltered and reverenced, maybe," Paul said. "Natural."
"Her Highness has a--I suppose you'd have to call it a harem. Ten
little husbands, or maybe eleven."
"What a girl!" said Spearman.