"No, they're quite human," Cortland broke in. "And it's not a matter
of immunity. I wondered about it for a long time--and got quite
disgracefully drunk a couple of times, keeping up with them, before I
figured it out." He sipped at his own cup. "No, the secret of their
success is the dancing."
Kirk looked at the light, whirling figures, puzzled.
Cortland smiled at his bewilderment. "It's the exercise. It burns
up the alcohol as fast as they drink it. When they're having a real
feast, they dance and drink all night, till they collapse from pure
exhaustion. They wake up feeling fine--not a sign of a hangover. Of
course, tonight they'll only dance for a little while, so they'll only
drink a little...."
* * * * *
"Sensible, aren't they?" The voice came out of the air behind them,
sardonic, feminine. The language was Terran.
Kirk whirled and peered through the dusk, which was gathering rapidly.
He saw a slightly amused pair of brown eyes, brunette hair, and a trim
body dressed in chic good taste in expensive Terran clothes.
Cortland stood up. "Mrs. Sherrin ... our new Planetary Administrator,
Cyril Kirk."
She lowered herself to the ground, spreading out a small mat under her
as she did so. "Jeannette, if you don't mind." She folded her legs
under her carefully. "I don't mean to be disrespectful. But there's
such a small number of us here, we need to be friends and stick
together."
Cortland, who had been looking away for a moment turned to them. "If
you'll excuse me, someone wants to talk to me." Kirk nodded.
"Did I meet your husband this afternoon?" he inquired politely, as
Cortland strode off.
"No; I'm a widow."
"Oh, I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Don't be. Not for me, I mean. We'd been coming to a parting of the
ways for a long time. But let's not talk about that. How do you like
the dancing?"
He looked at the firelit figures, whirling in the growing dusk. "I
don't know. I'm sort of overwhelmed by everything. It's all so new.
I've heard so many confusing things--"
She nodded. "If you manage to make sense out of the Nemarians, you'll
make history. It's better not to worry about it too much. Immerse
yourself in their gay, happy life."
"What do you mean?"
She gave him a sharp look. "You'll find out what I mean. Didn't
Cortland tell you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, you might as well go in cold at that. Form your own conclusions
as you go along. No use giving you prejudices before you start. Maybe
you're the man who'll cut the Gordian knot. No use telling you it can't
be done."
"What can't be done?"
"We'll all be rooting for you." She poured herself a drink and downed
it quickly. "Great stuff, this. Makes you forget the petty annoyances
of the garden-spot of the galaxy." She poured another. "To Nemar," she
said, lifting it. "Now tell me about Terra. What's been happening back
home?"
He could get nothing more out of her.
* * * * *
Kirk struggled to control his irritation as the last Nemarian on his
list walked in, poised and self-confident, casually unconcerned about
his lateness. Something would have to be done about their sloppiness
and lack of discipline, but now wasn't the time. It wouldn't do to lose
his temper at the first official meeting he called.
First he needed to stir some ambition in them, prod them out of their
lethargy.
He looked around at the assembled members of his joint Terran-Nemarian
staff. The Terran members were making an attempt to stand stiffly at
attention, somewhat awkwardly as though they were out of practice. They
threw rather disconcerted looks at his stern, impassive young face.
The Nemarians stood casually erect or lounged against the wall.
Once more, he found himself troubled by a faint sense of incongruity.
Something about these natives was not primitive. Without saying a word,
just by standing and looking at him, they made him feel awkward and
insecure.
He straightened his shoulders and tried to make his expression even
more stern. He wished he looked older.
A sense of the power of his position overwhelmed him for a moment.
He glanced at the speech he'd prepared, then at the faces before
him. Slowly he pushed it aside. Somehow he couldn't use those formal
sentences with these people. Diplomatic phrases didn't sound right in
Nemarian.
"Good morning," he said abruptly. "I won't waste time on
preliminaries." He paused. "I've only been here a day, but so far I've
seen very few signs of Terran influence--a more or less obsolete type
of ground transportation, a few tools and household conveniences, some
art objects. Very little else. I don't fully understand why conditions
are so backward here on Nemar when it has been part of the Galactic
Union for forty years."
The Terrans in the group stirred uneasily.
"The important thing, however, is that the situation be changed so that
Nemar may be given the benefits of galactic culture."
He paused and looked around. The natives were listening courteously
and looking slightly bored. The Terrans looked uneasy or embarrassed.
"What prevents this change," he went on, "is the fact that there is
nothing of value to export." He leaned forward. "But I don't believe
that this or any planet can possess nothing of value. It's simply a
matter of finding it. It's a matter of looking into new places, with
new techniques, or for new things. If a sufficiently thorough search
is made, something will turn up." He tried to ignore the signs of
restlessness in his audience.
"I'm going to organize research groups for this purpose immediately.
Each of you will head a committee to investigate the possibilities
in a particular field--fuels, plants, animal products, etc. You will
bring the reports to me, and I will check them and indicate further
directions of search."
He continued, outlining his plans in detail, stressing the great
advantages to be gained, the wonderful things galactic culture had
to offer them--the marvelous machines and labor-saving devices, the
rich fabrics and jewels, the vidar entertainments, the whole fabulous
technology of a great, advanced civilization. He spoke with enthusiasm,
but as he continued, a growing sense of apprehension began to creep
into his energetic, determined mood.
Something was wrong with their reactions.
He puzzled over it as he watched them file out of the room after he
finished. The voice of one of his younger subordinates drifted back to
him from the hall outside: "Made me homesick for good old Terra. I'd
give a lot to see a good vidar-show right now...." Cortland pressed his
arm lightly as he passed, nodding his approval of the proceedings.
One of the Terrans lingered a moment as the last of the group left. His
expression was serious. "I'd like you to know that I'm all for you,
sir, and I'm glad to see a man of your stature in the PA's office," he
said nervously. "I hope we'll see some changes in the attitude of these
Nemarians. I've never liked their attitude." He ran a hand through his
sandy-colored hair. "They're funny people, sir. You've only been here
a day, and nobody may have warned you yet. They're very courteous, but
don't let it fool you. You're going to have trouble with them."
Kirk looked after him as he followed the others out, a sense of
confusion and discouragement beginning to settle over him. He wandered
slowly into the flowered patio adjoining the office.
The reaction of the Nemarian officials was the strangest. They had
shown no open opposition. On the other hand, there had certainly been
no cheering. Their attitude had been one of courteous interest, plus
some quality he couldn't quite define. He searched for the right
word ... something almost like compassion, as if they were humoring a
child's enthusiasm for a naive, impractical project.
He sat down by a clump of blue-green flowers. Maybe he was just nervous
because of his inexperience, he thought. He'd had plenty of practice
experience (supervised, of course), but it was a different matter
managing an isolated planet, completely on his own. And he'd had the
bad luck to come after a guy who'd apparently let discipline go to
pieces. Maybe it was just the newness of the whole thing. Maybe--
But he knew better.
He had given them a good, efficient, well-organized plan of action.
They should have been impressed--impressed and respectful. They should
have been grateful he was plunging so enthusiastically into an effort
to improve their situation. They should have been excited and hopeful.
There was something strange here, something he didn't understand.
He knew so little about Nemar.
The Terrans in the group had not reacted as they should have, either,
he thought. Some of them had shown the sort of reaction he expected,
but most of them had remained quiet, too quiet, with a peculiar,
tolerant look. As if they knew something he didn't.
There was something disturbing about their whole manner. They were
respectful and deferential, but not quite respectful enough. Their
attitude was just a shade too casual. Something was wrong.
They even looked different, somehow, from the usual Terran on space
duty. The dedicated look was gone and a softness had crept in.
Somehow, the planet had infected them.
* * * * *
The clear-eyed old Nemarian he'd been talking to had just turned away
when she came up.
"Good evening. How do you like bird's eggs a la Nemar?" Jeannette
pointed to the shells beside him.
"Hello. They're very good." He motioned her to sit down.
"The youngsters here gather them out of the trees. They make a sport of
it." She reached for one from the pile near them and tapped it open.
"Sentimental creatures--they always leave one or two so the mother bird
won't be unhappy."
Kirk was trying to draw his eyes away from the young Nemarian mother in
the group near him who was complacently nursing her baby in full view
of everyone. Jeannette stared in the direction of his look.
"Oh, you'll get used to that soon enough."
He wondered if he would. They made a rather touching picture, though,
he realized through his embarrassment. There was a lot of tenderness in
the woman's gestures.
"They spoil their children rotten."