Obviously any culture that can produce an axe is capable of
inventing the hammer.
The quronos are not using their hammers in front of me. I am
producing a change in their routine.
Where will it end?
What are they saving their hammers for?
_800: Eighth Day_
Barnhart had written that just before dawn, but as usual the aliens had
continued to ignore him. For all he knew the ritual might go on for
years--before they used their hammers. Or whatever they were planning.
It was drawing near time for his nap, but he felt completely wide awake
even inside the safety of the force field. His throat hurt and the
backs of his legs ached with the waiting, the waiting for the natives
to come out and begin xenogutting.
He wiped his hands together and forced a smile. Why should he worry
what the natives did? He was completely safe. He could live out his
life in immutable security.
But this wasn't his world. No part of it was his ... or at least only
the part he had brought with him. Sanity lay in holding to what was
left of his own world. But sanity didn't always mean survival.
What if he could make the quronos' world his own?
Barnhart wiped at the tiny stings against his face and his fingertips
came away moist with beads of perspiration.
The aliens began marching out of the houses, in twos from the ten-foot
doors, singly from the foot-square openings of every other facing wall.
It wasn't his world of fire-works-streaked Ohio summers and bold green
hills, this planet cowled with nun-like secrecy, looking acrid, tasting
violet and transmitting a beauty and confusion only a trio of physical
scientists could solve.
But there was only one thing to do.
Barnhart let down his force field and went out.
The human body wasn't well-adapted for it but Barnhart did his best to
join the quronos in xenogutting.
Instantly the cry welled up.
"_Master._"
Barnhart stood up and faced the aliens, deeply disturbed.
* * * * *
He was even more disturbed when, later, he wrote again in his journal:
_Ninth day_
"Qurono," I have learned from the Leader, is a term referring to a
particular type of sub-human android. The synthetic process used
in manufacturing these men does not allow them to develop beyond a
certain point--a built-in safety factor of their creators, I can
only suppose. Thus they were given the concept of the axe and have
retained it, but they were able only to devise the idea of using
the axe to hammer things with and are not capable of thinking of a
special hammering tool.
With almost complete lack of creative ability they are bound to
the same routine, to which they adhere with an almost religious
fanaticism.
Since last night I have been treated as virtually a god. I have
been given one of their buildings entirely for my own use.
I find this turn of events absolutely surprising. I intend to
discuss this with the Leader today. (Note to any ethnologist who
may see these papers: Since all quronos are built to the same
standards none is superior to another. But, recognizing the need
for one director, each of the one hundred has an alternate term
as Leader.)
_900: Ninth day_
Despite the upsetting turn of events Barnhart decided he was more
comfortable in his familiar role of command.
He glanced at his wristwatch and was surprised to note that he had
overslept. The time for both breakfast and chronopting was past. He
made himself ready and left the building.
The alien was waiting just outside the door. He looked as if he hadn't
moved all night. Yet, Barnhart thought, he seemed a trifle shorter.
"Are you the Leader?" Barnhart asked.
"I am the Leader. But you are the Master."
As an officer of a close-confines spaceship that sounded a little
stuffy even to Barnhart. The fellow _still_ looked shorter. Maybe they
had changed Leaders the way he had been told the night before. Or
maybe quronos shrank when left out in the night air.
"Let's go someplace where we can sit down. And, incidentally, just call
me 'sir' or 'captain.'"
"Yes, sir."
Barnhart nodded. He had been expecting: Yes, Master, I will call you
'captain.'
But the alien didn't move. He finally decided that the Leader thought
they could sit on the ground where they were standing.
Barnhart squatted.
The Leader squatted.
Before they could speak a muffled explosion vibrated the ground and
Barnhart caught a fleeting glimpse of an unstable chemical rocket
tearing jerkily into the maroon sky.
"Celebration for my arrival?" Barnhart asked.
"Perhaps so. We are putting the un-needed ones in status."
He decided to let that ride for the moment.
"Tell me, why didn't you recognize me before I joined you in
your--ritual, Leader?"
The alien tilted his head. "What was there to recognize? We thought you
were some new variety of animal. Before you xenogutted how were we to
know you were rational life?"
Barnhart nodded. "But how did you so cleverly deduce that I was your
Master?"
"There are one hundred of us. You were the one hundred and first. You
had to be the Master returned."
The Master had been some friendly lifeform in the Federation,
obviously. Otherwise the qurono androids wouldn't speak Galactic.
Barnhart nibbled on his under lip.
"I want to find out how much you still know after the Master has been
away so long," the captain said. "Tell me, how do you communicate with
the Master?"
"What for?" The Leader began to look at Barnhart oddly.
"For anything. Where's the sub-space radio?"
The direct approach produced a rather ironic expression on the qurono's
narrow face but no answer. But if there was a radio on the planet
Barnhart meant to find it. Spacemen forced to abandon their craft
were required to report to the nearest Federation base as quickly as
possible. Besides, he meant to see that Simmons and his Anglo stooge
and all the others paid for their mutiny. But, he decided, perhaps he
had better not press the matter at the moment.
Another rocket punctuated the moment of silence.
"Take me to your launching area," Barnhart said.
The android stood up and walked. But he walked at Barnhart's side,
forcing the captain to catch his stride a half-step to let the alien
lead him. He wasn't sure if it was a mark of respect not to get ahead
of the Master or an attempt to see if he knew where the launching site
was located. The quronos were limited, but just _how_ limited Barnhart
was beginning to wonder.
* * * * *
They rounded the clump of drooping lavender trees and Barnhart saw the
eight men laying on the ground in the transparent casings. Not men, but
quronos, he corrected himself; in a molded clear membrane of some sort.
"They are in status," the Leader explained, answering the captain's
unasked question.
"This is how you keep your population at one hundred," Barnhart thought
aloud, removing his glasses to rest his eyes and to get a better look
at the bodies. Despite regulations he could still see better without
his spectacles.
"It is how you arranged it, Master. But as you know we are now ninety
and one."
The captain put his glasses back on. "I'll test you. Why are you now
ninety and one?"
"Naturally," the Leader said emotionlessly, "you required a whole
shelter unit to yourself. We had to dispose of the ten who previously
had the unit."
Barnhart swallowed. "Couldn't you think of anything less drastic? Next
time just build a new unit."
"But master," the alien protested, "it takes a great deal of work to
construct our units. Our lumber escapes so badly no matter how often
we beat it into submission. Our work capacity is limited, as you are
aware. Is it really desirable to overwork us so much?"
The captain was a little shocked. Was this humorless, methodical
android really protesting a command from his Master? "How do you
suppose the ten you are putting in status feel about it?" he managed.
"They would doubtlessly prefer not to be overworked. Our fatigue
channels can only stand so much."
But it wasn't the work, Barnhart suddenly knew. It was the idea that
there could be _eleven_ houses, instead of ten. The concept of only
ninety quronos and a master must be only slightly less hideous to them.
They couldn't really be so overjoyed to see him.
A third rocket jarred off, rising unsteadily but surely in the low
gravity. It was a fairly primitive device--evidently all they retained
from the original model supplied them by the Master.
Barnhart looked at the figures on the ground. Only seven.
"The ones in status go into the rockets!" Barnhart gasped.
"And circle in the proper orbits," the Leader agreed.
This time he saw the quronos lifting a stiff form and taking it to the
crude rocket. It looked entirely too much like a human body. Barnhart
looked away.
But at the edge of his peripheral vision he saw the quronos halt and
stand up their fellow in status. He glanced at his wrist. Fifteen
hundred hours. The aliens began geoplancting.
Barnhart ran his tongue over his teeth, noting that they needed
brushing. He came to himself with a start.
Of course. He had almost forgot.
Barnhart faced the others and joined them in geoplancting.
A hideous cry built from one plateau of fury to another.
"_He's no better than us!_" the Leader screamed.
_Ninth day_