[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Trading with the natives was like taking candy
from a kid--but which were the natives?
Ppon lowered himself hastily to the orlop and ran toward me. "Hurry
up, Qan!" he projected on a sub-level, trying to escape my mother's
consciousness. "They're coming! All the others are up already."
"Who's coming?" my mother wanted to know, but her full interest was
absorbed by her work, and she gave us only the side of her mind. "You
youngsters really must learn to think clearly."
"Yes'm." Ppon projected suitable youthful embarrassment, but on a lower
level he was giggling. Later I must give him another warning; we young
ones could not yet separate the thought channels efficiently, so it was
more expedient not to try.
"The _zkuchi_ are coming," I lied glibly, knowing that the old ones
accept inanity as merely a sign of immaturity, "on hundreds of golden
wings that beat faster than light."
Grandfather removed a part of his mind from his beloved work. "The
_zkuchi_ are purely mythological creatures," he thought crossly.
"You're old enough to know better than that.... Qana," he appealed to
my mother, "why do you let him believe in such nonsense?"
"The _zkuchi_ are part of our cultural heritage, Father," she
projected gently. "We must not let the young ones forget our heritage.
Particularly if we are to be here for some time."
"It seems to me you're unnecessarily pessimistic," he complained. "You
know I've never failed you yet. We shall get back, I promise you. It's
just that the transmutation takes time."
"But it's taken such a long time already," she thought sadly.
"Sometimes I begin to have doubts." Then she apparently remembered that
serious matters should not be discussed before us young ones. As if
we didn't know what was going on. "Run along and play, children," she
advised, "but don't forget to check the atmosphere first."
Grandfather started to excogitate something about how it would be
better if Ppon went and helped his father while I stayed and did
my lessons--you never seem to escape from lessons anywhere in the
Universe--but we got away before he could finish.
* * * * *
Topside, the others were jumping up and down in their excitement.
Ztul, the half-wit, was so upset he actually _spoke_: "Hurry, Qan, the
tourists are coming!"
"Ztul, you must never, _never_ make words aloud!" I thought fiercely.
"The old ones might hear and find out about the game."
"It's a harmless game," Ppon contributed. "And useful, too. Your
grandfather needs the stuff."
"Yes," I agreed, "but perhaps the old ones wouldn't see it that way.
They might even stop the game. Adults have funny ideas, and there's no
use asking for trouble."
There was a chorus of assenting thought from the others. All of us had
our family troubles.
We got to work. Quickly we arranged the interiors of the shelters which
we had cleverly built out of materials borrowed from below when the old
ones' perceptions were directed elsewhere. The essential structure
of the materials had not been changed and could easily be replaced
when the time came, but there was no use having to give involved
explanations. The old ones never seemed to understand anything.
At first we had just built the shelters as play huts, but when the
first tourists had misunderstood, we had improved upon the original
misconception. Now we had a regular street full of rude dwellings.
Lucky for us the old ones never came topside.
As the little spaceship landed, Ppon and I and four of the others were
ready at its door to form a welcoming committee. The rest dispersed to
play villagers. The others took turns alternating the two roles, but I,
of course, was always leader. After all, I'd made up the game.
Two members of the crew dropped lightly out of the ship and slid a ramp
into place. Then the passengers--there was a sizable group this time, I
noted with satisfaction--came, followed by Sam, the guide, a grizzled
old human. He grinned at us. We were old friends, for he'd been leading
these tours for ten of their Earth years.
The passengers stopped at the foot of the ramp and Sam ran forward
to face them. By now we were used to the appearance of the human
beings--small, binocular, with smooth, pasty skins--although they had
really frightened us when we first laid eyes on them.
* * * * *
"Now, you see, folks," Sam bellowed through his megaphone, "the
scientists don't know everything. They said life could not exist out
here in the Asteroid Belt--and, behold, life! They said these little
planets were too small, had too little gravity to hold an atmosphere.
But you just breathe in that air, as pure and fresh and clean as the
atmosphere of our own Earth! Speaking of gravity, you'll notice that
we're walking, not floating. Matter of fact, you'll notice it's even a
little hard to walk; you seem a bit heavier than at home. And they said
there would be hardly any gravity. No, folks, those scientists know a
lot of things, I won't deny that, but they sure don't know everything."
"Amazing!" a small, bespectacled male passenger said. "I can hardly
believe my own senses!"
"Watch out for him," Ppon projected to me. "I think he's a scientist of
some kind."
"Don't teach your ancestor to levitate," I conceptualized back.
Of course what struck the passengers first was neither the atmosphere
nor the gravity; it was us. They never failed to be surprised,
although the travel folders should have shown them what to expect.
One of the folders had a picture of me, amusingly crude and
two-dimensional, it's true, but not entirely unflattering. I'm not
really purple, just a sort of tender fuchsia, but what could you expect
from the rudimentary color processes they used? Sam had let me have the
original and I always wished I could show it to Mother, but I couldn't
without having to explain where it had come from.
"They're so cute!" a thin female screamed. "Almost like big squirrels,
really, except for all those arms." Her teeth protruded more than those
of the small rodent she was thinking about, or than mine, for that
matter.
"Be careful, ma'am," the guide warned her. "They speak English."
"They do? How clever of them. Why, they must be quite intelligent,
then."
"They are of a pretty high order of intelligence," the guide agreed,
"although their methods of reasoning have always baffled scientists.
Somehow they seem to _sense_ scientists, think of them as their
enemies, and just clam up entirely."
"I think they're just simply too cute," she said, gazing at me fondly.
"Ah, _srrk_ yourself, madam," I excogitated, confident that humans
were non-telepathic.
* * * * *
She looked a little disturbed, though; I'd better watch myself. After
all, as leader I had to set a good example.
"This here is Qan," the guide introduced me. "Headman or chief or
something of the tribe. He is always on hand to greet us."
"Welcome, travelers from a distant star," I intoned, wrapping my
mother's second-best cloak more impressively about me, "to the humble
land of the _Gchi_. Come in peace, go in peace."
"Why, he speaks excellent English," the scientist exclaimed.
"They pick up things very fast," Sam explained.
"Natives can be very, very shrewd," a stout female commented, clutching
her handbag tightly.
"And now," Sam said, "we will visit the rude dwellings of this simple,
primitive, but hospitable people."
"_People!_" Ppon projected. "You better mind your language, Buster!
People, indeed!"
"Our friend Qan will lead the way." Sam waved toward me.