To his surprise, the translation of this was greeted by unmistakable
twitterings of gladness. The members of the adulterous group turned to
each other with excited gestures, and Weaver saw a pairing-off process
begin, with much discussion.
He asked Mark about it later, as they were leaving the village. "How is
it that they did this thing before--for more variety, as you say--and
yet seem so glad to stop?"
Mark's answer was: "They very glad to do whatever thing you say. You
bring them new thing, they very happy."
Weaver mused on this, contentedly on the whole, but with a small
undigested kernel of uneasiness, until they reached the next village.
Here he found a crowd of Terranovans of both sexes and all ages at a
feast of something with a fearful stench. He asked what it was; Mark's
answer had better not be revealed. Feeling genuinely sick with
revulsion, Weaver demanded, "Why do they do such an awful thing? This is
ten times worse than the other."
This time Mark answered without hesitation. "They do this like the
other, for more change. Is not easy to learn to like, but they do, so
not to make themselves have tiredness."
* * * * *
There were three more such incidents before they reached the village
where they were to sleep that night; and Weaver lay awake in his downy
bed, staring at the faint shimmer of reflected starlight on the carved
roof-beams, and meditating soberly on the unexpected, the appalling
magnitude of the task he had set himself.
From this, he came to consider that small dark kernel of doubt. It was
of course dreadful to find that his people were so wholly corrupt, but
that at least was understandable. What he did not understand was the
reason they could be so easily weaned from their wickedness. It left him
feeling a little off-balance, like a man who has hurled himself at his
enemy and found him suddenly not there. This reminded him of ju-jitsu,
and this in turn of the ancient Japanese--to whom, indeed, his
Terranovans seemed to have many resemblances. Weaver's uneasiness
increased. Savage peoples were notoriously devious--they smiled and then
thrust knives between your ribs.
He felt a sudden prickling coldness at the thought. It was improbable,
it was fantastic that they would go to such lengths to gratify his
every wish if they meant to kill him, he told himself; and then he
remembered the Dionysian rites, and a host of other, too-similar
parallels. The king for a day or a year, who ruled as an absolute
monarch, and then was sacrificed--
And, Weaver remembered with a stab of panic, usually eaten.
He had been on Terranova for a little over a month by the local
calendar. What was his term of office to be--two months? Six? A year,
ten years?
* * * * *
He slept little that night, woke late in the morning with dry, irritated
eyes and a furred mouth, and spent a silent day, inspecting each new
batch of natives without comment, and shivering inwardly at each motion
of the clawed arms of Mark, Luke or John. Toward evening he came out of
his funk at last, when it occurred to him to ask about weapons.
He put the query slyly, wording it as if it were a matter of general
interest only, and of no great importance. Were they familiar with
machines that killed, and if so, what varieties did they have?
At first Mark did not understand the question. He replied that their
machines did not kill, that very long ago they had done so but that the
machines were much better now, very safe and not harmful to anyone.
"Then," wrote Weaver carefully, "you have no machines which are made for
the purpose of killing?"
Mark, Luke and John discussed this with every evidence of excitement. At
last Mark wrote, "This very new idea to us."
"But do you have in this world no large, dangerous animals which must be
killed? How do you kill those things which you eat?"
"No dangerous animals. We kill food things, but not use machines. Give
some things food which make them die. Give some no food, so they die.
Kill some with heat. Some eat alive."
Weaver winced with distaste when he read this last, and was about to
write, "This must stop." But he thought of oysters, and decided to
reserve judgment.
After all, it had been foolish of him to be frightened last night. He
had been carried away by a chance comparison which, calmly considered,
was superficial and absurd. These people were utterly peaceful--in fact,
spineless.
He wrote, "Take the aircar up farther, so that I can see this village
from above."
He signaled John to stop when they had reached a height of a few
hundred feet. From this elevation, he could see the village spread out
beneath him like an architect's model--the neat cross-hatching of narrow
streets separating the hollow curves of rooftops, dotted with the myriad
captive balloons launched in honor of his appearance.
The village lay in the gentle hollow of a wide valley, surrounded by the
equally gentle slopes of hills. To his right, it followed the bank of a
fair-sized river; in the other three directions the checkered pattern
ended in a careless, irregular outline and was replaced by the larger
pattern of cultivated fields.
It was a good site--the river for power, sanitation and transportation,
the hills for a sheltered climate. He saw suddenly, in complete, sharp
detail, how it would be.
"The trip is over," he wrote with sudden decision. "We will stay here,
and build a city."