"I'll recite it for you: mustn't lose my temper. We mustn't divide;
mustn't quarrel; Doc's word is holy at all times--"
"No one says that."
Spearman wasn't listening. "Goddamn it, why do you think I've gone
away alone so often? To explore, sure, to find things we need. By God
I've found 'em too, haven't I? Also to get away from the Sunday
school. Beating my brains out to win a little advance--you people
can't see--"
"What do _you_ think we should do? I mean right now--Lantis."
Spearman fretted in silence, striding as if speed and heavy steps
could ease his distress. "Why, we ought to have gone to live at
Pakriaa's village a year ago, after the reconciliation, while they
were still dizzy from the fall of the idol. You remember--Pak was
almost humble. Ready for big changes. We could have done anything with
her--then. Eliminated the witches. Taught and trained the best of her
followers. We'd have ironworking now. We'd have a competent army. Why,
we could take the initiative, drive south, break up anything Lantis
may have while she's on the march. Yeah--a year ago. Sure--Mijok
wouldn't approach the village, so _we_ mustn't move there. Every day
is an opportunity thrown away, wasted."
"You think we should have abandoned the giants?"
"What've they _got_?" Spearman cried. "Don't even understand
work--throw things around at a great rate, and then somebody sees a
new bug or has a funny idea or starts singing. Or asks Doc to explain
a point in philosophy. Or they decide to just sit and look at nothing
for two hours. Fight? Mijok talks a good fight. You couldn't make 'em
fight with a kick in the rear."
"Never tried it."
Spearman smiled miserably. "One doesn't, with a critter eight feet
tall.... All right, they're people. They're intelligent. If we had all
the time in the world and nothing threatening I'd like to study 'em
myself. But look at the numbers. Three on the island. Six grown women
here. Twelve flutterbrained children. Elis, Surok, Mijok, and the two
tenderfeet they brought in today. Is that an army? As for right
now--Hell, I've given up making suggestions." He tensed and stopped
short. Paul glanced behind; Sears and Abara were catching up. "Thought
I heard something."
"What?"
"Drums.... Guess I imagined it.... Lantis must have a terrific
organization. Bound to, Paul, in a community of sixty thousand. Hadn't
you thought of that at all? Communications, laws, disciplined army, a
forest agriculture at least as good as Pakriaa's. Why, from something
Pak said, I think they even have a monetary system--anyway something
more elaborate than the barter that's good enough for Pak's little
cluster of villages. Stone Age--but that's partly an accident of
ecology, isn't it? I mean, they have to avoid the hills and open
ground--wouldn't be easy to get a start in metalworking when you have
to stay in the woods. I believe they're a people under strong internal
pressure toward the next stage of civilization. With labor,
organization, a few modern ideas, there would be ways to clean the
kaksmas out of the hills. Then metals. We know the omasha breed on
rock ledges wherever the kaksmas can't climb. They could be
exterminated too. There's a whole world for the taking. Doc is right
that the new culture has to be a blend of ours and theirs. Oh, the
giants too, maybe, sometime. But it won't be done by piddling around
with the kind of pretty idealism that never worked even on Earth."
Paul groped for the unspoken thing. "You'd have us join forces with
Lantis?"
Spearman halted to stare at him. There was a flush of blood around his
eyes, the visible pain of frustration that never gave him rest. He
waited till Sears and Abara had come up. "I'm a minority. I haven't
suggested a damned thing." He was silent until they reached the camp.
Abro Pakriaa was there, with seven of her soldiers. All seven wore
purple skirts, insignia of leadership--"captains" was the nearest
word. With makeshift pigments and brittle whitebark, Paul had recently
painted such a group. The effort was for Pakriaa; she had been gravely
delighted with it, seeing how prominent in it were her own vivid blue
skirt and taller stature. To Paul's eyes the colors had sworn
horribly, and he had been glad when the princess carried the daub
away, balanced joyfully on her bald head.
Pak's seven captains made it a visit of state. Wright was soberly
intent, and Ann stood by him, regally silent; play-acting for
Pakriaa's benefit, but Ann sardonically enjoyed the pose. Pakriaa had
gradually accepted the fact of Tocwright's leadership, but her view of
the status of Charin women remained addled by contradictions; the idea
of social and mental equality between the sexes eluded her completely.
Dorothy sat watchful at the opening of the "home" room--Helen would be
sleeping inside; Dorothy's fists were pushed into her cheeks, dark
eyes upturned to Pakriaa's explanatory monologue. Abara effaced
himself. Mijok loomed with folded arms on Wright's other side. The
rest of the giants kept to the background.
"Abro Samiraa, Abro Kamisiaa, Abro Brodaa--" Pakriaa was naming the
heads of the five northern villages. A loose alliance, but those
villages had fought powerfully against Lantis a year ago and each
could provide a hundred and fifty first-line soldiers and fifty of the
skittish male bowmen. "They are with me, my sisters," Pakriaa said,
with sad gravity and not much of her natural swagger. "The wormseed
Lantis has broken custom--her own people must spit on her. For the
death of my messenger I spit on her heart and loins, I spit on her
footprints."
The arithmetic was simple, Paul thought. A scant twelve hundred
fighters against a three-sided attack from over ten thousand. Four
Charin men with rifles, automatics, scanty ammunition, heavy bows. A
handful of giants who knew nothing of war but theory and whose basic
nature would revolt at the reality. Spitting wouldn't help. He forced
himself to attend to what Wright was saying: "There must be one
commander."
"I give no orders to Abro Samiraa and her sisters, my equals."
"Would you and she and the others accept direction from one of us?"