* * * * *
We arrived back at Alpha without trouble. I shooed Bergdorf back to
Varnel with the one oyster and a promise that I'd back him up in any
requisitions he cared to make. After that I checked up on the BEE
business I had neglected for the past couple of days and, finally, late
that night took one of the Base's floaters and drove slowly down the
trail to Kron's village.
While Earth-style civilization had done much to improve transport and
communication on Niobe, it hadn't--and still hasn't for that
matter--produced a highway that can stand up to the climate. Roads
simply disappear in the bottomless mud. So whatever vehicular transport
exists on Niobe is in the form of floaters, whose big sausage-shaped
tires give enough flotation to stay on top of the ooze, and sufficient
traction to move through the morass that is Niobe's surface. They're
clumsy, slow and hard to steer. But they get you there--which is
something you can't say about other vehicles.
Kron's village had changed somewhat since I first visited it. The
industrial section was new. The serried ranks of low dural buildings
gleamed metallically in the glare of the floater's lights, glistening
with the sheets of water that ran from their roofs and sides. The
power-broadcast station that stood in the center of the village hadn't
been there either. But other than that everything was pretty much the
same as it always had been, an open space in the jungle filled with
stone-walled, thatch-roofed houses squatting gloomily in the endless
rain.
The industry, such as it was, was concentrated solely upon the
production of viscaya concentrate. It had made little difference in the
Niobian way of life, which was exactly as the natives wanted it.
It was odd, I reflected, how little change had taken place in Niobian
society despite better than two decades of exposure to Confederation
technology. Actually, the Confederation could leave tomorrow, and would
hardly be missed. There would be no cultural vacuum. The strangers would
simply be gone. Possibly some of our artifacts would be used. The atomic
power-broadcast station would possibly stay, and so would the
high-powered radio. Perhaps some of the gadgetry the natives had
acquired from us would be used until it was worn out, but the pattern of
the old ways would stay pretty much as it had always been. For Niobian
culture was primarily philosophical rather than technological, and it
preferred to remain that way.
I parked my floater beside the house that had sheltered Kron as long as
I had known him. I entered without announcing myself.
As an old friend I had this privilege, although I seldom used it. But if
I had come formally there would have been an endless rigmarole of social
convention that would have had to be satisfied before we could get down
to business. I didn't want to waste the time.
* * * * *
Kron was seated behind a surprisingly modern desk, reading a book by the
light of a Confederation glowtube. I looked at its title--_The Analects
of Confucius_--and blinked. I'd heard of it. It and Machiavelli's
_Prince_ are classics on governmental personality and philosophy, but I
had never read it. Yet here, hundreds of light years from the home
world, this naked alien was reading and obviously enjoying that ancient
work. It made me feel oddly ashamed of myself.
He looked up at me, nodded a greeting and laid the book down with a
faint expression of regret on his doglike face. I found a chair and sat
down silently. I wondered how he found time to read. My job with the BEE
kept me busy every day of the 279-day year. And his, which was more
important and exacting than mine, gave him time to read philosophy! I
sighed. It was something I could never understand.
I waited for him to speak. As host, it was his duty to open the wall of
silence which separated us.
"Greetings, friend Lanceford," Kron said. "My eyes are happy with the
pleasure of beholding you." He spoke in the ancient Niobian formula of
hospitality. But he made it sound as though he really meant it.
"It's a double joy to behold the face of my friend and to hear his
voice," I replied in the same language. Then I switched to Confed for
the business I had in mind. Their polite forms are far too clumsy and
uncomfortable for business use; it takes half a day to get an idea
across. "It seems as though I'm always coming to you with trouble," I
began.
"What now?" Kron asked. "Every time I see you, I hope that we can relax
and enjoy our friendship, but every time you are burdened. Are you
Earthmen forever filled with troubles or does my world provoke them?" He
smiled at me.
"A little of both, I suppose," I said.
Kron hummed--the Niobian equivalent of laughter. "I've been observing
you Earthmen for the past twenty years, and I have yet to see one of you
completely relaxed. You take yourselves much too seriously. After all,
my friend, life is short at best. We should enjoy some of it. Now tell
me your troubles, and perhaps there is no cause to worry."
"You're wrong, Kron. There is plenty of cause to worry. This can affect
the well-being of everything on this world."
Kron's face sharpened into lines of interest. "Continue, friend
Lanceford."
"It's those oysters the BIT sent you a few years ago. They're getting
out of hand."