Monument. Lloyd Biggle jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ felt exhausted—had there been time, he gladly would have slept—but when the Elder touched his arm he dutifully swung to his feet. Escorted by the jubilantly singing dancers, the two walked to their places of honor on the beach.

      Except for the chefs and the escorting dancers, the entire village had assembled there. Around the fires, enormous, elongated gourds had been placed in circles, and these served as platforms for the dancing. In the position of honor amidst the waiting villagers was a triple throne with a high seat in the center and lower seats on either side.

      Obrien and the Elder took the two lower places, and the dancers returned to the village oval and began to escort the chefs to the beach. They came a few at a time, each carefully carrying his culinary masterpiece on a gourd platter that was lined with colorful leaves and encircled with flowers. The natives’ existence depended absolutely on the whims of the koluf. When they caught enough, they ate well; when they didn’t, they went hungry. But no matter how much or how little food they had, they lavished on it all of the care and skill at their command.

      The chefs formed a line at the edge of the beach, and the dancers took the dishes, one at a time, and with great ceremony they moved to the place of honor and presented them to Obrien. The thumming, twanging music and rhythm continued; dancing about the beach fires was now a contortion of violent movement; now a sedate gliding; now a vigorous leaping from gourd to gourd.

      Obrien inspected each dish in turn, broke off a crumb of meat, tasted solemnly, meditated, shook his head. The dish was passed to the waiting villagers, and its hopeful author retired in disappointment. Another took his place at the head of the line, and the dancers brought the next dish for Obrien’s approval. Obrien tasted, rejected, and turned his attention to the dancing until another dish arrived.

      The villagers watched avidly as Obrien tasted dish after dish. The Langri was no novice, and the chef who prepared the portion he found out of the ordinary would be honored indeed.

      Suddenly Obrien, having tasted a crumb of koluf, tilted his head thoughtfully and broke off a larger morsel. He tasted again, smiled, nodded, and offered some to the Elder, who tasted it and smiled his own approval. Obrien accepted the platter of meat from the dancers, who returned to the line of waiting chefs to proclaim the winner. They escorted her to the throne, a plump, middle-aged woman delirious with delight. Obrien and the Elder arose and handed her up to the highest seat while around them the villagers slapped bare legs in enthusiastic approval. For with the natives, as with any people revering good food, the ultimate place of honor at any feast belonged to the cook.

      * * * *

      In the morning, Obrien and the Elder walked together along the shore and seated themselves on a knoll overlooking the sea. Sweet-scented blossoms crowded up about them, nodding in the breeze. The morning light sparkled on the leaping water. Brightly colored sails of the hunting fleet were pinned flowerlike to the horizon. To their left, the village rested sleepily on its hillside, with a single thin plume of smoke wafting skyward. Children of both sexes romped in the surf or walked timidly along the shore to stare up at the Elder and the Langri.

      “I am an old man,” Obrien observed wearily.

      “The oldest of old men,” the Elder agreed promptly.

      Obrien smiled wanly. To a native, “old” meant “wise.” The Elder had paid him the highest of compliments, and he felt only bitterness and frustration. “I am an old man,” he said, “and I am dying.”

      The Elder turned quickly and looked at him with concern.

      “No man lives forever, my friend,” Obrien said, “and you and I have been cheating the fire of death for a long time.”

      “The fire of death never lacks for fuel. Let those cheat it who can. You spoke of a need.”

      “Your need. The need of all of your people and of my people.”

      The Elder nodded thoughtfully. “As always, we listen well when the Langri speaks.”

      Obrien got to his feet, walked forward a few paces, and stood looking at the sea. “You remember that I came from afar and stayed because the skyship that brought me could fly no longer. I came to this land by chance and because I had lost my way and my skyship had a serious sickness.”

      “I remember.”

      “Others will come,” Obrien said, “and then more others. There will be good men and bad, but all will have strange weapons.”

      “I remember. I was there when you slew the maf.”

      “Strange weapons,” Obrien repeated. “Our people will be helpless. The men from the sky will take this land—whatever they want of it. They will take the hills and the forests and the beaches and even the sea, the mother of life. There will be boats that sail above and below the waters and poison them, and the koluf, the staple of life, will be driven into deep waters where the hunters can’t find it. Our people will be pushed back into the mountains where there is no food. The strangers will bring strange sicknesses, and entire villages will lie in the fire of death. They will lay waste to the shores, they will hunt the waters and swim, and their dwellings will be taller than the tallest trees and their numbers on the beaches thicker than the marnl at hatching. Our own people will be no more.”

      The Elder was silent for a time. Then he said, “You know this to be true?”

      “It will not happen this day or the next, but it will happen.”

      “It is indeed a terrible need,” the Elder said quietly.

      Obrien looked at the awesome beauty of the curving shore and thought, “This beautiful, unspoiled land, this wonderful, generous, beautiful people—” A man was so damned helpless when he was dying.

      The Elder got to his feet, and for a time they stood side by side in silence, two old men in bright sunlight waiting for darkness. The Elder placed his hand gently on Obrien’s shoulder. “Cannot the Langri prevent this thing?”

      Obrien walked a short distance down the slope and knelt in the lush vegetation. He plucked the flowers, one at a time, and as each glistening, multicolored blossom turned dark in his hand he crushed it, tossed it aside, and plucked another.

      The Elder followed and knelt beside him. “Cannot the Langri—”

      “The Langri can prevent it—I think—if the men from the sky come this day or the next. If they delay longer the Langri cannot prevent it because the Langri is dying.”

      “Now I understand. The Langri must show us the way.”

      “The way is strange and difficult.”

      “What we must do shall be done. The Langri’s wisdom will light the way.”

      “Strange and difficult,” Obrien repeated. “Our people may not be able to follow it, or the path the Langri chooses may be the wrong one.”

      “What does the Langri require?”

      Obrien got to his feet. “Send the young people to me, two hands at a time. I will make my choices. There must be a village for them, in a place apart. They must eat, though they neither hunt nor gather, and the burden of their food and its preparation must be fairly divided among all the villages.”

      “The first will come to you this day, and your wishes will be my wishes.”

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