Barnhart received the information unenthusiastically. He had never
before encountered the term. The sign might as well have told him the
place was a town of jabberwockies.
The single scarlet sun with its corona of spectrum frost was drawing
low on the forest-covered horizon. Barnhart, dry of mouth and sore of
foot, had not encountered yet a single one of the hundred inhabitants.
He had missed his nap and his dinner, and now (he ran his tongue over
his thick-feeling teeth) he was about to miss his nightly brushing of
his teeth. He had taken only a minimum survival kit with him--which did
not include a smaller personals kit.
His wristwatch, still on good, reliable ship's time, recorded nearly
fifteen hundred hours straight up. His body chemistry was still
operating on the Captain's Shift, whereby he spent part of the time
with both the day and night shifts. It was nearly time for him to go
to bed. Fortunately it was almost night on the planet.
He was searching out his portable force field projector from some loose
coins and keys when the one hundred quronos came out of their houses
and began geoplancting.
_Fifth Day Marooned_
_The Journal of
Captain T. P. Barnhart,
Late of the U.G.S. Quincey_
It becomes apparent that I may never leave alive this planet whose
name and co-ordinates have been kept from me. By reason, justice
and regulations, the men who put me here must pay (see formal
attached warrant against First Mate O. D. Simmons and the remainder
of my crew). For this reason and in the interest of science I am
beginning this journal, to which I hope to continue contributing
from time to time, barring sudden death.
At this writing I am in a village of ten houses identified as a
settlement of quronos. These tall, hairless humanoids have
performed an intricate series of indescribable actions since I
first encountered them. My problem, as is apparent, is to decide
whether these actions constitute their normal daily routine or
whether I have instigated this series of actions.
If the latter is the case: where will it all end?
_1700: Fifth day_
Barnhart was not used to being ignored.
It was certainly not a part of his normal routine. Often in his life
he had been scorned and ridiculed. Later, when he earned a captaincy
in the exploration service, the men around him had to at least make a
show of respect and paying attention to him. Being ignored was a new
experience for him. While it was a strange thing to say of an explorer,
Barnhart didn't particularly like new experiences ... or rather he only
liked the same kind of new experiences.
He kicked the wine-colored soil in red-faced impotence the first few
dozen times quronos went silently past him on the way to gather fruit
from the forest, or hew logs to keep the buildings in repairs (which
seemed to be a constant occupation.)
However, when the twenty-fifth alien shouldered past him the morning
after he first discovered the village, Barnhart caught him by the
shoulder, swung him half around and slugged him off his feet with a
stabbing right cross.
The alien shook his head foggily a few times and slowly climbed to his
feet.
Barnhart bit at his under lip. That hadn't been a wise thing to do at
all. He should know that unorthodox moves like that led only to certain
disaster. He fumbled for his force-field projector, and with a flush
of adrenalin discovered he had lost it.
Now, he thought, the alien will signal the rest of them. And they, all
one hundred of them (now does that include the one I first saw in the
clearing or not?) they will converge on me and--
The qurono marched off into the forest.
Everyone was still ignoring Barnhart.
* * * * *
Barnhart munched on a steak sandwich listlessly and watched the aliens
through the faint haze of the force field.
He had found the projector half stamped into the earth and he was
testing it. But even a test was foolish. None of them was close enough
to him to harm him with so much as a communicable disease. He might as
well quit roughing it and get back to the cottage.
In the last few days he had had time to think. He took up his journal.
_Eighth Day_
I can only suppose that these actions of the aliens represent some
kind of religious ritual. Again I am presented with the problem of
whether these rituals are a part of their normal, daily life, or
are they a special series instigated by my presence?
Yesterday I observed two of the quronos repairing one of the
village houses. The native lumber seems to be ill-suited to
construction purposes. Several times I have noticed logs tearing
themselves free and crawling back into the virgin forest. Due to
the instability of their building materials the aliens are
constantly having to repair their houses.
In watching the two quronos at work I observed something highly
significant.
The humanoids worked smoothly as a team, splitting and planing down
the reluctant logs with double-bladed axes. Then, putting the
lumber in place, they fastened it down with triangular wooden pegs.
They pounded these pegs home awkwardly with the flat side of the
axes.
The axes are crude and obviously indigenous to the culture.