"Funny his folks never showed him to me for a compliment-present!" Then
he stares at me, hard. "How good is the likeness?"
"If he is wearing your clothes," I tell him, truthful, "I'd swear he is
you."
Then Brooks--slow, very slow--turns white. "Remember the time you went
off with Deeth and his folks, hunting? That was the time a Moklin got
killed. You were wearing guest garments, weren't you?"
I feel queer inside, but I nod. Guest garments, for Moklins, are like
the best bedroom and the drumstick of the chicken among humans. And a
Moklin hunting party is something. They go hunting _garlikthos_, which
you might as well call dragons, because they've got scales and they fly
and they are tough babies.
The way to hunt them is you take along some cacklebirds that ain't
nesting--they are no good for anything while they're honeymooning--and
the cacklebirds go flapping around until a _garlikthos_ comes after
them, and then they go jet-streaking to where the hunters are, cackling
a blue streak to say, "Here I come, boys! Hold everything until I get
past!" Then the _garlikthos_ dives after them and the hunters get it
as it dives.
You give the cacklebirds its innards, and they sit around and eat,
cackling to each other, zestful, like they're bragging about the other
times they done the same thing, only better.
"You were wearing guest garments?" repeats Brooks, grim.
I feel very queer inside, but I nod again. Moklin guest garments are
mighty easy on the skin and feel mighty good. They ain't exactly
practical hunting clothes, but the Moklins feel bad if a human that's
their guest don't wear them. And of course he has to shed his human
clothes to wear them.
"What's the idea?" I want to know. But I feel pretty unhappy inside.
"You didn't come back for one day, in the middle of the hunt, after
tobacco and a bath?"
"No," I says, beginning to get rattled. "We were way over at the
Thunlib Hills. We buried the dead Moklin over there and had a hell of a
time building a tomb over him. Why?"
"During that week," says Brooks, grim, "and while you were off wearing
Moklin guest garments, somebody came back wearing your clothes--and got
some tobacco and passed the time of day and went off again. Joe, just
like there's a Moklin you say could pass for me, there's one that could
pass for you. In fact, he did. Nobody suspected either."
I get panicky. "But what'd he do that for?" I want to know. "He didn't
steal anything! Would he have done it just to brag to the other Moklins
that he fooled you?"
"He might," says Brooks, "have been checking to see if he could fool
me. Or Captain Haney of the _Palmyra_. Or--"
He looks at me. I feel myself going numb. This can mean one hell of a
mess!
"I haven't told you before," says Brooks, "but I've been guessing at
something like this. Moklins like to be human, and they get human
kids--kids that look human, anyway. Maybe they can want to be smart
like humans, and they are." He tries to grin, and can't. "That rival
trading post looked fishy to me right at the start. They're practicing
with that. It shouldn't be there at all, but it is. You see?"
I feel weak and sick all over. This is a dangerous sort of thing! But
I say quick, "If you mean they got Moklins that could pass for you and
me, and they're figuring to bump us off and take our places--I don't
believe that! Moklins _like_ humans! They wouldn't harm humans for
_anything_!"
Brooks don't pay any attention. He says, harsh, "I've been trying to
persuade the Company that we've got to get out of here, fast! And they
send this Inspector Caldwell, who's not only female, but a redhead to
boot! All they think about is a competitive trading post! And all she
sees is that we're a bunch of lascivious scoundrels, and since she's a
woman there's nothing that'll convince her otherwise!"
Then something hits me. It looks hopeful.
"She's the first human woman to land on Moklin. And she has got red
hair. It's the first red hair the Moklins ever saw. Have we got time?"
He figures. Then he says, "With luck, it ought to turn up! You've hit
it!" And then his expression sort of softens. "If that happens--poor
kid, she's going to take it hard! Women hate to be wrong. Especially
redheads! But that might be the saving of--of humanity, when you think
of it."
I blink at him. He goes on, fierce, "Look, _I'm_ no Moklin! You know
that. But if there's a Moklin that looks enough like me to take my
place.... You see? We got to think of Inspector Caldwell, anyhow. If
you ever see me cross my fingers, you wiggle your little finger. Then I
know it's you. And the other way about. Get it? You swear you'll watch
over Inspector Caldwell?"
"Sure!" I say. "Of course!"
I wiggle my little finger. He crosses his. It's a signal nobody but us
two would know. I feel a lot better.
* * * * *
Brooks goes off next morning, grim, to visit the other trading post and
see the Moklin that looks so much like him. Inspector Caldwell goes
along, fierce, and I'm guessing it's to see the fireworks when Brooks
sees his Moklin double that she thinks is more than a coincidence.
Which she is right, only not in the way she thinks.
Before they go, Brooks crosses his fingers and looks at me significant.
I wiggle my little finger back at him. They go off.
I sit down in the shade of Sally and try to think things out. I am all
churned up inside, and scared as hell. It's near two weeks to landing
time, when the old _Palmyra_ ought to come bulging down out of the
sky with a load of new trade goods. I think wistful about how swell
everything has been on Moklin up to now, and how Moklins admire humans,
and how friendly everything has been, and how it's a great compliment
for Moklins to want to be like humans, and to get like them, and how no
Moklin would ever dream of hurting a human and how they imitate humans
joyous and reverent and happy. Nice people, Moklins. But--
The end of things is in sight. Liking humans has made Moklins smart,
but now there's been a slip-up. Moklins will do anything to produce
kids that look like humans. That's a compliment. But no human ever sees
a Moklin that's four or five years old and all grown up and looks so
much like him that nobody can tell them apart. That ain't scheming.
It's just that Moklins like humans, but they're scared the humans might
not like to see themselves in a sort of Moklin mirror. So if they did
that at all, they'd maybe keep it a secret, like children keep secrets
from grownups.
Moklins are a lot like kids. You can't help liking them. But a human
can get plenty panicky if he thinks what would happen if Moklins get to
passing for humans among humans, and want their kids to have top-grade
brains, and top-grade talents, and so on....
I sweat, sitting there. I can see the whole picture. Brooks is worrying
about Moklins loose among humans, outsmarting them as their kids grow
up, being the big politicians, the bosses, the planetary pioneers,
the prettiest girls and the handsomest guys in the Galaxy--everything
humans want to be themselves. Just thinking about it is enough to make
any human feel like he's going nuts. But Brooks is also worrying about
Inspector Caldwell, who is five foot three and red-headed and cute as a
bug's ear and riding for a bad fall.
They come back from the trip to the other trading post. Inspector
Caldwell is baffled and mad. Brooks is sweating and scared. He slips
me the signal and I wiggle my little finger back at him, just so I'll
know he didn't get substituted for without Inspector Caldwell knowing
it, and so he knows nothing happened to me while he was gone. They
didn't see the Moklin that looks like Brooks. They didn't get a bit of
information we didn't have before--which is just about none at all.
Things go on. Brooks and me are sweating it out until the _Palmyra_
lets down out of the sky again, meanwhile praying for Inspector
Caldwell to get her ears pinned back so proper steps can be taken, and
every morning he crosses his fingers at me, and I wiggle my little
finger back at him.... And he watches over Inspector Caldwell tender.
* * * * *
The other trading post goes on placid. They sell their stuff at half
the price we sell ours for. So, on Inspector Caldwell's orders, we cut
ours again to half what they sell theirs for. So they sell theirs for
half what we sell ours for, so we sell ours for half what they sell
theirs for. And so on. Meanwhile we sweat.
Three days before the _Palmyra_ is due, our goods are marked at just
exactly one per cent of what they was marked a month before, and the
other trading post is selling them at half that. It looks like we are
going to have to pay a bonus to Moklins to take goods away for us to
compete with the other trading post.
Otherwise, everything looks normal on the surface. Moklins hang around
as usual, friendly and admiring. They'll hang around a couple days just
to get a look at Inspector Caldwell, and they regard her respectful.
Brooks looks grim. He is head over heels crazy about her now, and she
knows it, and she rides him hard. She snaps at him, and he answers her
patient and gentle--because he knows that when what he hopes is going
to happen, she is going to need him to comfort her. She has about wiped
out our stock, throwing bargain sales. Our shelves are almost bare. But
the other trading post still has plenty of stock.
"Mr. Brooks," says Inspector Caldwell, bitter, at breakfast, "we'll
have to take most of the _Palmyra's_ cargo to fill up our inventory."
"Maybe," he says, tender, "and maybe not."
"But we've got to drive that other post out of business!" she says,
desperate. Then she breaks down. "This--this is my first independent
assignment. I've got to handle it successfully!"
He hesitates. But just then Deeth comes in. He beams friendly at
Inspector Caldwell.
"A compliment for you, ma'am. Three of them."
She goggles at him. Brooks says, gentle, "It's all right. Deeth, show
them in and get some presents."