Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




Your Haploid Heart. By James Tiptree Jr. ESTHAA (Aurigae Episilon V) Type:
Solterran .98 Dom. race: Human to undet. degree Fed. status: Pending
certification Extraplanetary delegs; embs; missions: None Esthaa, sole
inhabited planet of system, first contact from Aurigae Phi 3010 SP, native
cultural level then approx. Terran Greek city states, grouped around inland
sea on single continental mass. Navigation, wheel, money, protoalphabetic
script, numbers to zero, geometry; smelting, weaving, agriculture. Space trade
route estab. 3100 ST. Esthaan students to Gal. Fed. no perm. emigration.
Progress rapid in light metals extraction, machine tooling, assembly. Exports:
Electronic and mechanical components. Imports: Tool, vehicle and generator
prototypes, scientific instruments. Esthaan workers noted for ability to copy
complex mechanisms. Sociological: Since contact, pop. concentration in urban
complex around spaceport, becoming one-city planet. Political structure
thought to be oligarchy, or council of family heads. Religion unreported.
Language one, agglutinative. No known wars except sporadic police actions
against nomadic tribes of hinterland known as the Flenn peoples. The Esthaan
temperament reported as peaceful and friendly but remarkably
reserved. MacDorra's landsled brought us down fast-Marscots don't waste fuel.
Pax lunged across me to peer out my port. I saw the color on his high
cheekbones and the light in his eyes. His first big job. He had a severe,
luminous eye just like a certain Chesapeake retriever I recalled too
well. Reeling past below was as charming a great garden city as you could wish
for. Miles on miles of honey and cream-colored villas in a froth of
pinky-green flower trees with here and there, an administrative center or
industrial park; like plates of pastel pastry. On the far horizon a gently
glittering sea-one-city world. The spaceport showed beyond a line of wooded
hills, and the pilot finally slammed us into a wallowing stall. Suddenly there
was a blaze of color in the hills below- red, purple, orange-A carnival? No-a
warren of twisted streets alive with people! A hidden village. Then we were
back over spacious suburbs and braking into the field. When the ports cleared
we saw a human-looking figure in a soft gold uniform getting out of a
rollercar. The human-looking part was why I was there. MacDorra's pilot had us
and our equipment out into the dust before you could say "parsimony." Three
clipboards to sign, a handshake that broke my pencil-"See you in six months,
Doc, good luck!"-and we were fleeing for the roller with the field lab while
the sled's turbines howled up. The Esthaan came to help. He was big, and
seemed amused by MacDorra's operation. We sorted ourselves out in Interhuman
while the roller trundled through tree-lined avenues. Reshvid Ovancha had a
well-cultivated Gal   Fed   University   accent. Very human, was my snap
reaction. He came with the same number of fingers and features, joints worked
like ours, and skin texture-a feature on which place great hunch reliance-was
a cream-yellow version of my own brown. His eyes were round, with laugh lines,
and his smile showed human teeth with an extra pair of frontals. All quite
standard, except that his torso looked a trifle thick or blocky. Like me, he
was beardless. I could see nothing to explain why, as of that minute, I would
bet my tour pay that MacDorra's return would find me with a negative report to
file. Wait till we see the women, I told myself. Pax was pointing his profile
like Scouts of the Galaxy as we trundled up endless avenues bright with
suburban shrubbery. Possibly he had much the same idea ... It has always
struck the younger ISB agents as grossly unfair that middle-aged, monogamous
and non-charismatic   types   should   be charged with investigating the
question of alien sex. Bureau Personnel learned that the hard way. The first
ISB agent sent to Esthaa, over a century back, had been a lad called Harkness.
Among other idiosyncrasies, Harkness had had a weakness for
laboratory-fermented brew. The sensitive, reserved Esthaans had been very
unfavorably impressed when a wing of their new university went up with him.
After the investigation and reparations Esthaa had been dropped to the bottom
of the sector list to cool off. A hundred years later Auriga Sector had only
Esthaa left to check, and the Esthaans had been persuaded to accept another
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



Interplanetary Survey team, guaranteed non-explosive. Which was now arriving
as one Pax Patton, mineralogist-stratigrapher, and one Ian Suitlov,
middle-aged ecologist in public and Certified Officer in fact-as Harkness had
tried to be before me. "What's this 'mystery man' bit they give you C.O.s?"
Pax had asked me while we were getting acquainted on the ship. I had looked at
his eager face and cursed Bureau security. "Well, there is the Mystery, you
know. Silly name, to your generation. But when I started work people were
still ready to fight about it. The One-World Crusade was active -in fact, two
of my graduating class got kidnapped and were given the conversion treatment.
One forgets how much energy and money -and blood-got spent over the fact that
human races have been found scattered through the galaxy. It was a highly
emotional thing. Powerful religions were upset. Some people wouldn't believe
it. Nowadays we've just settled down to the job of counting and describing. We
don't call it a Problem. But it is a mystery. Where do we come from? Are we a
statistical peak, a most probable bridge-hand of evolution? Or are we one crop
out of one seed pod that somehow got spilled through the stars? People got
pretty excited over it. I know one or two who still are." "But why the
Security hang-up, Ian?" "Use your head. Look at the human position in the
galaxy. A new race can get all wrought up over whether or not they're
certified human. We know it doesn't really matter-there are Hrattli in top Gal
Fed jobs, and they look like poached eggs. But can you explain this to a
newly-contacted, proud, scared humanoid race? No! They take noncertification
as inferiority. That's why C.O.s are not called C.O.s out loud. We try to get
in and get the data quietly before any uproar can start. Ninety percent of the
time there's no problem anyway, and C.O. work is the dullest kind of routine.
But when you hit one of the emotional ten percent- well, that's why the Bureau
pays our insurance. I'm telling you this so you'll remember to keep your mouth
very carefully shut about my work. Didn't anybody brief you? You do your
rocks, I do my biology-but nothing about humans, humanity,
mystery-right?" "Aye aye, sir!" Pax grinned. "But lan, I don't get it. What's
the problem? I mean, isn't being human basically a matter of culture, like
sharing the same values?" "Curdled Chaos, what do they teach you rock hounds
these days? Look: Shared culture is shared culture. Psychic congeniality. It
is not humanity. What kind of arrogance could label any general ethical value
a criterion of humanity? Being human is nothing so vast. It reduces to one
nitty gritty little point: Mutual fertility!" "What a limited concept of
humanity!" said Pax. "Limited? Crucial! Look at the consequences. When we meet
and mix with a nonhuman race, no matter if they're totally sympatico and look
like the girl next door, the two groups stay separate to the end of time. But
when we meet a human race, even if they look like alligators-and some of 'em
do- sooner or later those genes are going to flow into the human gene pool,
despite any laws or taboos you can set up. Q.E.D. every time -with all the
social, religious, political consequences the mixture entails. Now do you see
why that's the one fact the Bureau has to know?" Pax had subsided, giving me
his Chesapeake stare. I wondered if I had been out too long. Auriga Sector had
caught me a month short of Long Leave and talked me into helping close out the
Sector survey. "A piece of cake," the chief had called it. Well, I had to
admit that it looked like a piece of cake as we rolled up to the palatial
Esthaan guest villa. Reshvid Ovancha's horn brought a squad of servants for
our bags, and he personally showed us about. It was amazingly like a deluxe
version of a Gal Fed faculty residence. Even the plumbing worked the same.
The only alien feature I saw was a diffuser emitting a rather pleasing floral
scent. "This is the home of my cousin who is away at sea," Ovancha informed
us. "I trust you will be comfortable, Reshvidi." "We will be more than
comfortable, Reshvid Ovancha. We did not expect such luxury!" "Why not?" he
smiled. "Civilized men enjoy the same things!" He made a minute adjustment to
the scent dispenser. "When you are ready I will take you to lunch at the
University where you will meet our Senior Councillor." When we rolled through
the University gates Pax muttered, "Looks just like Gal Fed campus before the
Flower Dance." "Ah, the Flower Dance!" said Ovancha gaily. "Delightful! Did
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



you encounter Professor Flennery? And Dr. Groot? Such fine men. But that was
long before your time, I fear. We live long on Esthaa, you know. A most
healthy world!" Pax's face grew longer. I personally was wondering what had
happened to the famous Esthaan reserve. We met it at lunch. Our hosts were
gracious but formal, smiling gently when Ovancha laughed, and gravely
observant while he chatted. Some were in faculty robes; a few, like Ovancha,
in uniform. The atmosphere was that of a staid gentleman's club. "We hope you
will feel at home, Reshvidi," intoned the councillor, who had turned out to be
Ovancha's uncle. "Why not?" laughed Ovancha. "Now come, you must see your
laboratories." The laboratories were very adequate, and by evening we had our
schedules and contacts set. "Do we have to go to all those dinners?" Pax
complained. He was prowling the patio and eyeing the line of distant
mountains, where two pink moons were coming up. Fountains tinkled and a bird
sang. "One of us must. You can start some field work." "While you look into
the fertility. Say, Ian, how-" "With a culture tank," I told him, "and a great
deal of caution. And it is a ticklish business until you know what the taboos
are. How do you think Victorian England, say, would have reacted to a couple
of aliens who demanded a look at people's sex organs and a fresh slice of
someone's ovary? I'd like to get it through your head that this is a very good
subject to shut up about." "Aren't you up too tight, Ian? These people are
very enlightened types." "One of my friends had both feet cut off by some
supposedly enlightened types." Pax grunted. Maybe I had been out too long. Why
did this place give me the feeling of a stage set? It was so insistently
human-norm. Well, I'd know more when I saw the women. Three weeks later I was
still wondering. Not that I hadn't seen Esthaan ladies-at dinners, at lunches,
at merry family picnics, even on a field trip with two lady marine biologists.
Or rather, with what passed for biologists on Esthaa? it had soon appeared
that with all the shiny instruments, science on Esthaa was more an upper-class
hobby than a discipline. People collected oddities and studied what amused
them, without system. It was an occasion for wearing a lab coat, just as their
army seemed to be merely a game of wearing uniforms. My Esthaan ladies were
like everything else here, charming, large, and wholesome. And decorously
mammalian to outward view. But had I seen women? Well, why not? As Ovancha
would say-I needed a closer look. The usual approach on an advanced planet is
through the schools of medicine. But Ovancha had been right in claiming Esthaa
was healthy. Aside from injuries and a couple of imported infections now
controlled by antibiotics, sickness did not seem to exist here. Medicine, I
found, referred to the pathology of aging; arthritis, atherosclerosis and the
like. When I asked about internal medicine, gynecology, obstetrics, I was
stopped cold. One chubby little orthopedist allowed me to take a few measures
and blood samples from his child patients. When I persisted in asking to see
adult females he began to dither. Finally he sent me to a colleague who
reluctantly produced the cadaver of an aged female worker, a cardiac-arrest
case. She had evidently been operated on for hernia in middle life. "Who did
this operation, Reshvid Korsada?" I asked. He blinked. "This is not the work
of a doctor," he replied slowly. "Well, I would like to meet the person who
did this work," I persisted. "Also I would like to meet one of your doctors
who assist in delivering new life." He laughed embarrassedly and licked his
lips. "But-there is no need for doctors! There are certain women-" He ran down
there, and I saw the sweat on his forehead and talked of other matters. I have
not lived twenty years in this job by poking sticks into sore places, and I
wanted to make that Long Leave back to Molly and the kids. "These people are
touchy as a pregnant warthog," I told Pax that night. "Apparently birth is so
taboo they can't mention it, and so easy they don't need doctors. I doubt "
these medicos ever see a woman naked. Like Medieval Europe where they
diagnosed with dolls. This is going to be very ticklish indeed." "Can't you
count chromosomes or something?" "To determine fertility? The interior of the
cell is not called the last fortress of neg entropy for nothing. It's the
pattern, that counts; quantitative DNA analyses and the few gene loci we know
are nothing. The only reliable index we have is the oldest one of all-you
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



bring a male and female gamete together and see if the zygote grows. But how
in Mordor am I going to get an ovum?" Pax guffawed. "I hope you don't expect
me to-" "No, I don't. I'll put in time cataloguing and figure something out.
How are your rocks, by the way?" "That reminds me, lan, I think I've hit a
taboo myself. You remember that village we saw coming in? I asked Ovancha's
wife about it last night, and she sent the kids out of the room. It's where
the Flenni live. She said they were silly people, or little people. I asked
her if she meant childish-at least I think that's what I said. That's when she
sent the kids out. Why | don't they hurry up and invent that telepathic
translator the videos show?" "Maybe it's some tie-up with child ... baby ...
birth." "No, I think it's the Flenni. Because of what happened today. I was
out on that geosyncline back of the port and I heard music- from the village.
I started over, but suddenly here comes Ovancha in the university roller and
tells me to go back. He said there was sickness there. He almost hauled me
into the roller." "Sickness? And Ovancha was right there? Indeed I do agree
with you. Pax. I'm very glad that you thought of telling me about this. And as
nominal head of this mission," I continued in a tone that brought his stare
around to me, "I want you to stay away from the Flenni and any other sensitive
subjects you happen across. I'm responsible for getting us out of here in one
piece, and there's something about this place that worries me. Call me what
you like, but stick to rocks. Right?" For the next two weeks we were model
agents. Pax made a brief coastal profile, and I buried myself in routine
taxonomy. One of my chores was to compile a phylogenetic survey of native life
forms based on the Esthaan's own data. Their archives were a curious jumble of
literary bestiaries, and morphological botany, topped off by a surprisingly
large collection of microscopic specimens. It was abominably muddled and
dispersed. To my astonishment, in a packet of miserable student mounts of
rotifers I came upon what I realized must be Harkness's work. Back at base
they had told me that all Harkness's data vanished with him. I had taken the
trouble to look up the old report of the ISB inquiry. There seemed to be no
doubt that Harkness had been running a still, and that there had been a big
fire. The only note the ISB team found was on a scrap of paper in a drain. In
a large and wavery script were the words, "MUSCI! They are BEAUTIFUL!!!" Musci
are, of course, terrestrial mosses, unless Harkness had been abbreviating
Muscidae, or flies. Beautiful mosses? Beautiful flies? Clearly, Harkness was a
rumhead. But he was also a first-rate xenobiologist when sober, and his
elegant mounts, still clear after a century, saved me a lot of work. The neat
marginal chromosome counts were accurate. There were other brief notations,
too, which began to get me very excited as my data piled up. Harkness had been
finding something-and so was I. The problem of getting human gametes receded
while I chased down the animal specimens needed to fill in the startling
picture. In our free evenings, Pax and I took to cheering ourselves with song.
It turned out we were both old ballad buffs, and we worked up a repertory
including "Lobachevsky," Beethoven's "Birthday Calypso," and "The Name of
Roger Brown." When we added an Esthaan mouth organ and a lute I noticed that
our Esthaan house-factor was wearing small earmuffs. Our reward for all this
virtue arrived one morning in the form of Ovancha with a picnic
hamper. "Reshvidi!" he beamed. "Perhaps today you would like to visit the
Flenn?" We trundled out across the spaceport and over a range of low hills in
bloom. Then the roller lurched into a gorge under a shower of flowers, and
jolted up a stony pass in which there were suddenly adobe walls, brilliantly
colored in hot pink, greens, electric blue, purple, dry-blood color and
mustard. I caught the start of an amazing smell as we burst over the hilltop
and into a village square. It was empty. "They are timid," said Ovancha
apologetically. "The sickness also has been hard." "But I thought you didn't
have-" said Pax, and glared at me for the jab. "We do not," said
Ovancha. "They do, because of their way of life. They have a bad way of life,
bad and silly. They do not live long. We try to help them, but-" He made a
graceful gesture and then tooted melodiously on the roller's horn. We got out.
Shrill orange flowers were blowing across the cobbles. The smell was
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



remarkable. From somewhere a flute blared brilliantly and stopped. Across the
square a door opened and a figure limped toward us. It was an old man, robed
in blue. As he came up I saw he was very delicate-or rather, Ovancha suddenly
became an oversized rubber truncheon. I stared; something about the old man
was sending strongly to my hunch-sense. I had missed Ovancha's
introduction. We began to walk down a side street. It, too, was empty. There
was an overpowering feel of hidden eyes watching, ears listening. A gate
snicked shut like a clamshell. The houses were interspersed with tents,
pavilions, shanties, dark recesses which rustled. We came to a courtyard
covered with a torn green canopy. Under it a dozen frail old people reclined
silently against the curb. Their faces were turned away. I could see their
skeleton hips and ribs under the bright, soiled cloaks. Was this the sickness
of which Ovancha had warned Pax? But he had led us right to it. Suddenly a
side door creaked and out into the silent scene there burst a flock of
children. The old ones roused, held out shaking arms, smiling and murmuring.
Voices were calling urgently from the doorway, but the little ones ran
wild-incredibly tiny and active, fluttering gay silks, shouting high and
sweet. Then a robed figure ran out and herded them inside and the old ones
sank back. Ovancha was making a strange sound. I saw his mouth working in a
greenish face as he marshaled us back toward the roller. But Pax had other
ideas. He strode smartly on around a comer. Ovancha threw me a distraught look
and went after him. I followed with the limping old man. We proceeded thus
around a second corner, and I was about to shout after Pax when a flurry of
silk came shooting out of the wall beside me. I felt my hand clutched by
something tiny and electric. An impossibly small girl was running beside me,
her face turned up to mine. Our eyes met, jokingly. Something was being pushed
into my fist. Her head went down-soft, fierce lips pressed my hand-and then
she was gone. Twenty years of discipline strove to open my fingers. The old
man was gazing straight ahead. We came up to Pax and Ovancha in the square. I
saw Pax's back was rigid. As we said our farewells he gripped both the old
man's hands in his. Ovancha seemed pale. As the roller started, the unseen
flute pealed out again and was joined by a drum. A trumpet answered from
across the square. We drove away in a skirl of sound. "They are fond of
music," I said inanely. My hand felt on fire, and Pax's eyes were
smoldering. "Yes," said Ovancha, and added with an effort, "some do not call
it music. It is very harsh, very wild. But I find ... I find it has some
charm." Pax snorted. "In my home," I said, "we have also an animal like your
Rupo which we use for huni-ing. They have a very strong character and think
only of hunting. Once my friends and I took a certain Rupo on a hunting trip
and, as is also your custom, we drank wine with our lunch and sometimes did
not hunt in the afternoon. The Rupo regarded this as a sin. So one night when
we were many days from base he carried all the wine bottles to a deep swamp
and buried them." They both stared at me and Ovancha finally smiled. The
tension broke. Back at the villa I saw Pax's mouth opening and pulled him over
by a fountain. "Keep it low," I told him. "Ian, those people are human!
They're the only human Esthaans I've seen. These owl-eyed marshmallows-Ian,
the Flenni are the people you should be looking at!" "I know," I said gently.
"I felt it, too." "Who are they? Could they be the survivors of some
wreck?" "They were here before First Contact." "They're terrified of the
Esthaans. I saw them run for cover as we came up. They're in trouble, Ian. It
isn't right. You've got to do something!" He was flushed and frowning. Just
like the Chesapeake the night before he imposed Prohibition. "You, Dr. Patton,
are a professional mineralogist, sent here at enormous cost to do a specific
job your Federation wants done. Same here. And our jobs do not include mixing
into native political or social conflicts. I feel, as you do, that the Flenni
are an appealing native group who are being oppressed or exploited in some way
by the civilized Esthaans. We have no idea what the history of the situation
is. But the point is, we are not free to endanger our mission by intruding
into what is clearly a very tense position. This is something you will have to
face on planet after planet in order to do your job. It's a big galaxy, and
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



you'll see worse things before you're through." He blew out his lips. This was
not like the videodrams. "I thought your job was to find humans." "It is. And
I'll check the Flenni before we're through. And I'll report their condition,
for what good it'll do ... Now let me tell you something I suspect. Did you
ever hear of polyploidy?" "Something about big cells- what has that got to do
with the Flenni?" "Bear with me. I can't be sure until I get a few more
specimens, but I think we've come on something unique: Recurrent tetraploidy
in the higher animals. I've found it in eighteen species so far, including
rodents, ungulates, and carnivores. In each case you find two closely similar
animals, one of which is bigger, stronger and more vigorous. And
tetraploid-that means, by the way, not big cells but an extra set of
chromosomes. It's a mutation. Tetraploidy and higher polyploid mutations have
been used on many planets to produce bigger and better food plants, but it's
almost unknown among animals. Here you have it all over the place-again often
in the tame domestic form. That big cowlike creature they milk has twice the
number of chromosomes the little wild cow has. Same with their wool-bearing
beast and the wild sheep. Their common rodent has twenty-two chromosomes, but
I trapped a king rat-a gigantic brute-with fortyfive. Harkness was working on
it before me. Now, do you see what the possibility is?" "You mean, these
Esthaan jumbos are tetraploid Flenn?" "That's exactly what I expect to find.
And if so, what?" "Well, what?" "A case where nature has set the stage for
genocide, Pax. The two forms compete, and the bigger, stronger, more vital
form wins. The Flenni are weak, short-lived, defect-prone and they are up
against people who are simply more of everything they are. Shocking as it
sounds, you have here almost a quantitative measure of humanity -if they're
human. Under the circumstances, it's a credit to the big Esthaans that the
little race has survived so far. Remember, our species tolerated no living
relatives." "But... if they could be given a place of their own..." "Provided
the mutation isn't a recurrent one. If it is recurrent, the situation will
only repeat. And it looks as if it is ... why does each species have a
tetraploid companion? If there had been only one mutation 'way back, the
separate evolutions would have diverged. Now I suggest we quit talking and
play something. How about 'Hold That Tiger'?" But our hearts weren't in it.
When we turned in I took a look at the note which had been burning a hole in
my pocket. Doctor from the stars come to us! Help us dying we pray. I slept
badly. In the morning we found a sheaf of the vivid orange flowers had been
thrown over the wall by our table. Ovancha joined us after breakfast. With him
was a muscular young Esthaan wearing high boots and imported dark
glasses. "Reshvid Goffafa!" Ovancha announced. "He is ready to guide Reshvid
Pax to the volcanic mountains. Perhaps this is too short notice? But Reshvid
Goffafa has classes beginning just after the rest days and he has returned
specially for you!" With Pax gone I concentrated better and in a few days
steady drudging I had turned up three Harkness slides marked Fl. In a
collection of waterplant tissues I found a firmly stained section marked Fl.
Inf., vascular marrow which gave me what I needed. There were karyokinetic
anomalies, but the chromosome count was clearly half of that on my Esthaan
samples. My involuntary satisfaction gave me a pang of shame; the thing was a
tragic trap for the Flenni. And mixed with the pang was something like a faint
voice saying "Tilt" over the whole beautiful structure. But surely
Harkness- "You study in a trance!" laughed Ovancha, who had entered
quietly. "It is our way," I returned absently. It had just struck me that
Ovancha was unusual in another way. He had gray eyes, the norm was
olive-brown. And the old Flenn also had gray eyes. "I wonder what you see."
There was a hint of seriousness under his light tone. Was it possible that
Ovancha was different enough to be of use to me? "I see something of great
scientific interest on your delightful planet," I began hopefully. He seemed
to follow, but when I tried to show him a chromosome his aristocratic eyelids
drooped, and he barely glanced through the scope. When I spoke cautiously of a
possible genetic difference between himself and unnamed "others" his mouth
twisted. "But one can see the difference, Reshvid lan!" he reproved me. "There
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



is no need to go further. We are not interested in such things in our
science." No help here. I began chewing on the problem of obtaining Esthaan
gametes, while Ovancha chatted on about a Reshvid doctor who perhaps had some
slides, and a Reshvid somebody else who would be delighted to show me his
preserving technique-after, the rest days, of course. Meanwhile, since no one
was really working now, why not come to dinner and view the museum president's
collection of luminous sea bats? The -next day the university blimp-flier went
out to pick up Pax and Goffafa, but they were not there. No one was concerned,
since they had ample supplies. It was decided to try again in three days. The
second try was also unsuccessful, and the third. Ovancha told me tensely that
Goffafa was now late for classes. The orange flowers came over the wall again
that night. At noon next day a uniformed Esthaan appeared in my lab and told
me I was to come to the councillor's office. Ovancha was standing outside. He
acknowledged me with a curt nod and went in, leaving me to stare at the
antiseptic and cylindrical maiden behind the desk. When I was ushered into the
presence of the white-haired senior councillor Ovancha was looking at a wall
map. I was not offered a chair. "Reshvid lan, your colleague Reshvid Pax is a
criminal. He has committed murder. What have you to say?" I stammered my
bewilderment. Ovancha wheeled about. "Reshvid Goffafa is dead. His body was
found buried in an obvious attempt at concealment. He died by strangulation.
Your colleague Pax has fled." "But why should Pax do such a thing? Why do you
believe he was the murderer? He admires and respects your people, Reshvid
Ovancha!" "The murderer was large and strong. Your friend is strong-and he is
excitable, uncontrollable. Disgustingly silly!" "No-" "He quarreled with
Reshvid Goffafa, killed him and fled." "When Reshvid Pax returns," I said,
fighting for anchorage, "I hope you will listen to his explanation of the sad
death of Goffafa." "He will not return!" Ovancha fairly shouted. "He has
sneaked into a camp of Flenni and is hiding there. Do you dare to suggest he
is not guilty?" The councillor cleared his throat sharply and Ovancha's mouth
snapped shut. "That is all," said the councillor. "You will be so good as to
stay in your quarters until transportation is arranged. I regret that your
laboratory here is closed." The next days passed in that agony of boredom and
worry known only to those who have been alone and in jail on an alien planet.
My field kit was returned to me; I set it up and forced myself to study the
garden flora. There was a sentry outside the gates. There was a nocturnal
scuffle, and no more flowers came over the wall. Then one night the almost-cat
had kittens. I had been pacing the terrace. Senior ISB biologists are not
supposed to get the shakes, the horror alieni. Certainly on the surface I was
in no danger. Pax was in serious trouble, but all I faced was grief from the
Sector over a fouled-up mission. And yet I could not get rid of the notion
that an invisible set of jaws were all around me and about to go crunch.
Something here was wrong; something that killed biologists. Harkness had been
a biologist, and he was dead. I became aware of action by my feet, under the
amber ferns. The pet we called the almost-cat was ''rolling on the ground,
among a heap of small, scuffling, squeaking things. I focused my pocket light,
and the "cat" suddenly sat up, yawned in my face and sauntered off, leaving me
gaping at the wiggling heap on the ground. Kits! But how many were there? A
dozen tiny faces turned up to the light- two dozen-four dozen-and how tiny!
Still more were struggling or still among the fem roots. I picked up a
handful and started up to my lab. In my head all the puzzle pieces which had
fitted themselves so neatly into that damned wrong pattern were again in
motion-coming together in a larger, frightening pattern. One of the items in
the new pattern was the great likelihood that I would be killed. As Harkness
had been when he stumbled on the truth. Could I conceal it? No chance; two
sleepy servants had seen me with the kits, and I had said far too much to
Ovancha. I worked carefully. It was gray dawn when the microscope had
abolished all possible doubts. Outside a sweeper-boy with a box was scrabbling
under the amber ferns. He had some trouble-the kits, four hours old, were
running and biting -but he got them all. He took the box to the back gate and
passed it to the sentry. Even unto the least, I thought dismally. More pieces
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



fell into place. Why had I not considered the city more? When I turned Ovancha
was in the room. His gray eyes flicked over my bench. "Good morning, Reshvid
Ovancha. Has there been word from Pax?" Some of the anger fell from his face,
leaving it grave and full of human trouble. Human! How desperately they had
wanted the meaningless certification. How intricately they had built! Ovancha
must have been one of the leaders-exceptional Ovancha, able to dare, to cope
with us. He was speaking with obvious pain. "Reshvid lan, why do you- We ... I
have welcomed you as a friend-" "We, too, wish to be friends." "Then why do
you occupy yourself with revolting, unspeakable things?" He was asking in all
seriousness. It was not just a futile plot! It was a real and terrible
delusion. They had somehow come to hate what they were so unbearably that they
were living a myth of denial-a psychotic fantasy. Had Harkness done it? What
had he told them? No matter-we had punctured it now and there was no hope for
us. But I must answer his question. "I am a scientist, Reshvid Ovancha," I
said slowly. "In my world I was trained to study all living things. To
understand. To us, life of any sort is neither good nor bad. We study all that
lives, all life." "All life," Ovancha repeated desolately, his eyes on mine.
"Life-" Pitying I made my greatest blunder. "Reshvid Ovancha, perhaps you
might be interested to know that in my original world we had once a very great
problem because our people were not all alike. We had not two but many
different peoples who hated and feared each other. But we came to live
together as one family, as brothers-" His eyes had dilated, and I saw his
nostrils flare. His lips rolled back from his teeth-the face of one hearing
the ultimate insult. His hand twitched toward his ornamental side arm. Then
his lids fell. He turned on his heel and was gone. The least likely male can
move with unexpected agility if he is sufficiently motivated, and if his
employers have insisted on regular training courses. As Ovancha went
downstairs, I went out the lab window with a bundle, and over the kitchen roof
to the wall, which was set with broken glass. I landed in the alley on an
ankle that felt severed, and a cheek and arm full of glass. I put on the
Esthaan cloak and hobbled up the alley. Each block had a walled center alley
that concealed one from the sides, but I had to cross the wide avenues between
blocks. Luckily it was just dawn. I had made three crossings when a big roller
full of uniforms whooshed by the end of the block I was in. I limped four more
blocks, my face and arm on fire, and my ankle gave out. There was a trash
recess in the wall. I dodged in-how ^| quickly fugitives connect with
garbage!-and listened to the Esthaan police bell clanging from the direction
of my home. Suddenly a big mustard-colored roller came swishing into my alley
and stopped fifty feet away. I heard the driver get out. A gate bell tinkled,
and the gate opened and closed. Silence. I made it to the roller, pulled open
the tailgate and scrambled inside. It was roomy and dark, with a piercing
odor. I got behind some crates next to the canvas that closed off the driver's
compartment. The tailgate opened and a crate slammed in. Then we were off. I
believe I wept when I heard the sounds coming from the crate. If my luck
held-if the driver didn't take all the crates out-if I could hold out against
what was now clearly poison in my cuts-if... For hours of agony the truck
started and stopped, opened to receive more crates, slammed and jolted on. The
noise inside would have covered a trumpet solo, and the smell was a stench.
Finally came the steady drumming of a highway, and when I had lost almost all
hope, we stopped. The driver got out and came around to open up. This was bad.
I had done some knife work on the canvas curtain, but I wasn't sure I could
move. Frantically, I cut the last threads and pushed and rolled myself through
to the front floorboards. The pain was shocking. There were figures outside
the open cab door, but no one heard me above the uproar. I heard the tailgate
slam-the driver was corning back. I cried out and pitched myself out. I must
have blacked out as I hit. The next thing I heard was the crunch of the
roller's tires by my head. Something filmy was over my face, something was
pressing me down. 1 felt quick hands on me, voices whispering: "Stay down!" I
stayed down, all right. The world went away and didn't come back except as hot
clouds of pain and confusion for several days. My first really clear moment
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



came in the form of an endless plain of grass lurching across my view. I
focused interestedly, and it stayed put. It was I who was doing the lurching,
tied into the saddle of a pack beast. Ahead of me was a small hooded rider. I
gazed contentedly at the saffron robes, reveling in no-pain. We had, it seemed
to me, been traveling thus for some time. The rider ahead looked about, and
suddenly my beast was prodded into violent flight across a stream bed. Then
both beasts were under trees, and the rider was off and racing up the bank in
a whirl of silk. This, too, seemed to have happened many times before-and
there had been night and stars, and hot days in thickets, and pain, and soft
hands. My guide returned, slowly, throwing back the hood. The face I saw was
the flower face of the child who had put the note in my hand. Her eyes were
smiling stars, her hair was the night sky, as she bent over me. I breathed in
her perfume. And then I remembered what I knew. "Friends come now," she
smiled, the voice like a bird's wing. She laid a slight, violently alive hand
over my heart, and we stayed thus until hoof-beats pounded close. There were
three bright-robed Flenni and a larger rider- "Pax!" I croaked. "Ian,
man!" "Where are we?" "You're coming to the mountains. To the camp." But my
little guide was already up and riding away. Of course, I thought, my
knowledge a cold sadness. The men had stayed hooded, too. They got me up and
going, although I kept twisting round against the pain to see her dwindling
across the savannah. Pax did most of the talking. "What happened to Goffafa?"
I asked. "That kralik. We came to a party of Flenn women. He was going to
shoot them down." "Shoot them?" "He got wild, as if they were dangerous
vermin. I had to take his gun away. Like fighting a rubber octopus. He glared
at me and foamed, and believe it or not he threw up his lunch. Agh! I got him
in the roller and he tried to brain me with the Geiger." "So you strangled
him?" "I only choked him a little. Last I saw of him he was crawling. I was
going to come back for him when he cooled off." "He's dead. The Esthaan
Council has you booked for murder." Pax gave a growl of disgust. "Some Flenni
found him during the night. They told me he shot two of them when they offered
him water, and they finished him. I believe it." He smote his boot, and his
mount curvetted. "Those swine, Ian! I can't begin to tell you what I've
learned. The Esthaans won't let them raise food! The Flenni start farms and
the Esthaans come out here in those gasbag fliers and spray poison. They
poison waterholes. Ian, they're forcing the Flenn into those shantytowns where
they can keep them under their thumbs. And I believe they spread that
sickness, they don't cure it. They're trying to kill them off. Ian, it's what
you said. Genocide!" Our guides, hearing the word "Esthaan", had turned their
now unveiled heads to us. It was my first look at young Ftenni males. Handsome
was no word for the intensity of life in their proud beaked faces, their
brilliant eyes and fine nostrils and lips. They had male beauty, and something
more -virility that blazed and yet was somehow vulnerable. I knew I was seeing
human males of a quality none had seen before. Involuntarily I bowed my head
to acknowledge their gaze. They returned my bow and looked away, their
profiles pure and grave against the mountains. "Pax, it's not-" I began, when
my mount careened forward under a Flenn whiplash and we were racing pell-mell
for a clump of scrub. Behind us arose a soft unearthly hooting. I got a
glimpse of a golden contraption about fifty feet up and coming fast. We
careened on. Pax was fighting his mount. A black smoke began belching from the
flier's nose. Pax flung himself to the ground as I was swept into the copse.
There was a roar and a confused crashing, and the Flenni had dragged me off
and were covering my head. For several heartbeats nothing happened. I got an
eye free. The black stuff was blowing past us. The gasbag flier was down on
one side and the pilot was struggling out with a gun in one hand. Pax was
somewhere in the smoke. The gas was making me slightly dizzy, but the Flenni
were out cold. I fumbled around in my swaddling and found the pistol still in
my bundle. The second shot got the pilot's wrist, and then Pax stumbled out of
the smoke and fell on him. We had the pilot nicely trussed up when our Flenni
revived. There was a little difficulty in making them understand that I wanted
him alive, and they threw him behind my saddle with the controlled disdain one
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



shows to a dog who rolls in dead fish. They were enthusiastic about helping
Pax rip out the flier's transmitter and load it on. We rode on in silence. My
captive's face was in rictus and his eyes were rolled up. I reflected on the
curious difference in the hate shown by Esthaan and Flenn. Why was it the big,
victorious Esthaans who panicked like cornered rats? In twenty years of
strange and often pitiable cases I had seen nothing sadder. Pax was outlining
his plan. He had, it seemed, worked up his field kit into a transmitter, which
with the flier's power packs, should be able to contact MacDorra when the
freighter came near. "What makes you think MacDorra will rescue us?" I asked
him. "We're both under murder charges. MacDorra won't offend a planetary
customer. And he'd let his mother drown rather than pay for cleaning his dress
uniform, you know that. The most he will do is slow-signal the Sector
HQ-collect-for instructions ... the very most." "It's not a question of
rescuing| us!" Pax told me indignantly. "I'm going to see the Flenni get
justice. I want MacDorra to send an emergency message to Gal Fedg charging the
Esthaans with genocide and asking for intervention. The Flenni are human
beings, Ian-I don't know what the Esthaans are, but I'm not going to stand by
and watch humans wiped out by| some kind of things!" "Justice?" I asked
weakly. "Genocide?" It was all my fault, but was suddenly too tired. "Not
genocide, Pax," I muttered and blacked out in my saddle. The image of the girl
who had guided| me kept me company in the dark. I woke to find myself in the
Flenni camp. An enormous cavern, sparkling with campfires, rustling with silk
and loud with song. The voices, naturally, were all masculine; only males were
here. I was fed and put to rest against my saddle amidst the quick feet, the
soft fiery voices. The air was pungent with smoke and Flenn. During the night
I found that the pilot had been dumped near me, still trussed like a sausage.
He was the fattest Esthaan I had ever seen. When I cleaned his wrist he
writhed and turned purple, and presently, like Goffafa, he foamed. I gave him
water, which he vomited. Finally he lay with eyes wide and glaring, breathing
loudly and sweating rivers. I checked his circulation and lay down to
sleep. Pax was conferring with a group of young Flenni when I woke. He towered
among them, bronzed and eager. Every inch the guerrilla leader of the
oppressed. There would have to be explanations ... but my head ached very
much, and I took some fruit and went to sit outside the cave. An old man came
quietly to join me. "You are a doctor?" He used a noun meaning also wise
man. "Yes" "Your friend is not," he said. "He is young. He does not
understand. It is only recently that I myself have understood." "Can you help
us?" "I do not know, my friend. There is nothing like this on other worlds I
have seen." He was silent. "About the sickness," I asked. "How is it
done?" "With music," he said grimly. "Can you not block the hearing?" "Not
enough. Not enough. I myself survived three times, but then-" He grimaced,
looking at his hands. Frail, parched, the hands of great age. "I will die
soon," he observed. "Yet only this spring I helped open the Great
Cave." "Where are the women?" I asked after a bit. "To the north, half a
night's ride. Your friend knows the way." We looked at each other in silence.
I dimly recalled Pax's figure against the cave mouth during the night. "You
live long," he mused. "Like the others, the Esthaans. Yet you are like us, not
like them. We knew at once. How is this possible?" "It is thus with all the
worlds we know. And only here is it different." "It is a bitter thing," he
said at last. "My friend from the stars, it is a bitter thing." "Explain to me
a little more, if you will," I said. "Explain how it is with the
sickness." When I went in search of Pax I found him jubilant amidst a tangle
of wiring. "I've made contact!" he announced. "MacDorra's in the system! They
acknowledged my Mayday and the Federation Emergency appeal." I groaned. "The
genocide part, too?" "Right. I requested emergency transport and asylum for
the Flenni." "Have you checked this with the Flenni?" "Why, it's obvious!" I
held my head. "Pax, it's all my fault. Have you ever heard of the general
class of plants called Bryophytes, chief of which are the mosses, or
Musci? Have you ever heard of the Terran animals called Hydrae?" "lan, I'm a
geologist!" "I'm trying to tell you, the Esthaans are not committing genocide,
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



Pax. It's parricide, filicide . . . perhaps suicide-" There was a high-pitched
commotion behind us, and a racing figure that streamed pale gold rounded the
transmitter and materialized before me into the loveliest girl I had ever
seen. I simply gaped at her. Honey and pale flame, high-arched breasts, tiny
waist, full oval haunches, an elf's hands and feet, and the face of a
beautiful child in love-unfortunately, turned on Pax. Then she was in his
arms, her luminous face eclipsed in his chest, her little hands clutching and
caressing him. Having no hope of being included in this communication, I
turned and saw that the camp was in motion. Saddles and bundles were being
hoisted, fires stamped out. Angry voices echoed. My friend the elder was
standing quietly with others. "What is happening?" I asked. "They have
captured the women. The young Flanya, who was with your friend, returned to
her camp to find the soldiers there, and rode to warn us." "What can be
done?" "There is nothing to do but flee. They will come here-they will drive
them here with the music. Against the music we can do nothing. The young men
must be gone. As for myself and these others, we will wait. We will see our
women once more before they kill us. If only ... if only they do not hurt the
women-" "Do they dare?" "It was not always so. But in recent lives I think
they grow mad. It is becoming unthinkable. I fear that when they find the men
gone they will drive the women after them and on-" His voice failed. Pax had
somewhat disentangled himself, and the girl was veiling her face. "How many
Esthaans are there?" "About thirty, lan; it was too dark to see well. I'm sure
we can take them. I've got eight pretty fair marksmen with handguns, plus the
converted ditcher and our two heavy guns. The damnable part is that they
intend to use the women as cover." "Pax, I cannot allow you to shoot g||
Esthaans, and the boys you have trained cannot stay here-they must get out.
Listen, Pax, what's coming here is nothing you can fight with guns. All you'll
see will be the Flenni girls, plus some mobile sound equipment. You've got to
listen! The Esthaans and the Flenni are one-" An ear-splitting screech came
from under our legs. The Esthaan pilot, who had been huddled puffy and
fasting, now lay on his back kicking like a frog. Flenni who were moving
outwards turned at his screams. "Look here. Pax!" I shouted above the din. I
ripped at the pilot's clothes, exposing his swollen body. Two great angry
scars ran from each pubic ligament to above the crest of the pelvis. "He's a
woman!" Pax exclaimed. "No, he's not. He's a sporozoon -an asexual form that
reproduces by budding. Watch." The pilot had collapsed into moans, his body
racked by wavelike contractions. Several Flenni had brought up large baskets
stuffed with silk. "I think most Esthaans are not informed of their true
nature," I told Pax. "This man probably believes he is dying." A supreme
convulsion swept over the Esthaan, and the two gashes in his flanks swelled,
pulsed, and slowly everted themselves like giant pea pods turning inside out.
A mass of wriggling blobs of flesh tumbled down his sides. He was screaming. I
pinioned his flailing legs, and the girl Flanya rushed forward with the
baskets. A high wailing-with which I was very familiar-rose from the mites as
we gathered them. I held one up to Pax. "It's ... It's a Flenn child!" he
exclaimed. It was unmistakable- barely an ounce of male life, with bright gold
eyes, clutching, kicking and keening. I laid it on the silk and showed him
another, an even smaller female with coordinated eyes and the start of a smile
reflex. And a withered leg. There were others with defects, or lying
still. The Flenni were plucking my arm. I stepped back and they ran with the
baskets to mount and go. I threw the pilot's tunic over his empty belly; he
had fainted. We were alone now, the old men, Flanya and Pax. "Do you see, Pax?
A case of alternate generations, with both the sexual and asexual generations
fully developed and complete. Unheard of. It only lasted as far as the mosses
and hydrae on Terra, and then the sporogenetic form took over the
gametes-that's you and I. We're somatic sporozoons, our gametes are reduced to
cells. The Esthaans are not tetraploids, Pax- they're normal diploids. But the
Flenni are living gametes, with a half-set of chromosomes each. They mate and
produce Esthaans-who spore out Flenni, alternately and forever." "You mean the
Esthaans and Flenni are each other's children? But-we saw Esthaan
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



families!" "No. Their Flenn offspring are carried secretly out to the Flenni
village, along with newborn dogs, cats and everything else, and the Esthaan
offspring of the Flenn are brought in for Esthaans to raise. Pseudo-families
roles. It's literally insane-they may have built it up after Harkness told
them they weren't human. Listen!" A throbbing pulse was in the air. One of the
elders caught my eye. "Pax, barricade this transmitter and get the power leads
out of sight. I'm going to try a forlorn hope." He raced off, Flanya behind
him. I turned to my old friend who spoke Esthaan. "This machine will carry
your voice to men like me on other stars," I told him. "First I will speak,
and then you must say what I will now tell you." As I was coaching him, the
throbbing strengthened, and was joined by a rippling, wailing moan which rose
and fell with frightful effect on the ears-no, on the nerves. The other elders
drifted towards the cave mouth, staring blindly. A flash of silk caught my
eye. "Pax! Grab her!" He was deep in wires. I forced my legs into a sprint and
tackled her fifty feet from the door. Her eyes came round on me; staring wild,
and her body plastered itself against me like an electric eel. The drum note
was pulsing through her like a resonator. I finally found a spot on her neck
which put out the crazy life in her eyes. "Take her back and tie her up!" I
howled over the rising hurricane of music. "Do you understand? Tie her tight
if you want her alive!" We made it behind the barricade as the first women
faltered into sight beyond the cave. I grabbed the mike and began sending to
the only source I knew which might get action from the gray remoteness of the
Federation Council. If only Pax's lash-up worked! If only the electronic
bedlam outside wasn't jamming us! I repeated, and passed the mike to the
elder. His whispered, gasping and yet vibrant, voice would melt stone-if
MacDorra had his recorder on. "What's that about the Flenni being human and
the Esthaans not?" Pax hissed. "I thought you said-" "Pragmatic definition.
How can you fertilize something that doesn't have gametes? Ergo, the Esthaans
are nonhuman, right? By the same token, whose child is Flanya carrying?
Ergo-Quick, find us something for ear plugs!" The cave was clanging and
sirening with sound. We crawled to the top of the barrier. It was
terrible. The driven women came like a sea of flowers, limping, stumbling,
holding one another as they fanned out into the great cave. Here and there one
walked alone with blind ecstatic eyes. They fell, crawled, rose again,
magically beautiful even in exhaustion. Around them the music was a punishing
bray. Then they reached the campfires -and began to run, searching among the
rocks, seizing the men's garments to their breasts, their faces. Some weaved
in trance, while others pushed on, picking up and dropping even the sand
itself as if seeking the trace of a particular man. The music was a pounding
ache, relentless slow crescendo of sirens, bagpipes, drums. Beside me I heard
the old men gasping, their eyes aflame. Suddenly one tore the stopples from
his ears and dashed over the barricade to the nearest women. They turned to
meet him, arms wide and faces wild, and he went down under a wave of silk. Pax
suddenly gripped my shoulder. "My boys! My marksmen!" On the far side of the
wall there was an explosion of motion. Three -no, five young Flenn, their
weapons flung to the rocks, their heads thrown back as they called. Then they
were leaping down to the women, the women flying to them. But they did not
fall as the wave met them-they gathered the women in armfuls, spinning on the
crest of the terrible music. Five burning whirlpools in a sea of girls. Behind
us Flanya cried savagely, arched and writhing. An old man pointed to the
entrance. Three dark hulks-the Esthaans come to view their handiwork, not yet
aware that the main body of the men had escaped. Then they saw. A signal
flared, and the music died in reverberating discords. An Esthaan shouted, tiny
and hoarse. All over the cave the women had fallen in heaps. The Esthaan
started down among them, kicking, as they converged on the pile of bodies
around the Flenni boys. The sight of those beautiful naked ones affected the
Esthaans most horribly. Two turned aside, doubled and retched. The third
marched upon them, unhooking a heavy whip from his belt, and booting at the
nearest women. The whip slammed down on the helpless bodies. The Flenni could
scarcely rouse even under such pain; they whimpered and held each other. The
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



Esthaan grabbed the nearest boy by the hair and dragged him to his
knees. "Where are the men? Where did they go?" he roared into the boy's face.
The boy was silent, his eyes ringed with white. The Esthaan kicked him. "Where
did they go? Tell me!" The other Esthaans joined him. One of them bent the boy
back across his knee. "Where are they?" the Esthaan thundered as the boy
screamed. It seemed important to what was left of my ISB indoctrination that
Pax should not be charged with murder. Each of those Esthaans went down with
two holes in him. As the echoes ricocheted we raced for the sobbing
boy. "Cover them, quick!" We yanked silken stuff across the uniformed hulks
and ourselves. I grabbed the boy, felt him go limp. "They're coming! Keep
down!" We cowered, rigid, hearing the distant tramp above the soft breathing
of the Flenn all around us. My field of vision included part of our rock
barrier, and a Flenn lad, fallen between two girls. We could do nothing but
wait. I watched the faint heavy pulse in the boy's eyelids. And then I saw he
was not only asleep, but was also changing. Luster was going from his skin,
his hair. Under my eyes, the firm young flesh was paling, withering on his
arms and hands. His hands. I thought of the leaf-thin hands of the old man who
had said, "Only this spring I helped open the Great Cave." The kits, the
babies had been growing like hungry flames. In months the little child was a
nubile girl. Did they die as fast too, once mated? So it was with the
gamete-bearers among plants. This then, was the Esthaan weapon. I shuddered,
seeing the boy's temples now sunken and blue. He would waken as an old man,
waiting for death. Boots came into my view. Two Esthaans by the rock barrier.
I had set the old man to tapping out a signal which might serve as a beacon in
the unlikely event that anyone cared. But the Esthaans would hear- They had.
As they started up the rocks, the old man appeared at the top, straightened,
and called something. Then he was falling, on the Esthaans' guns. "He said
safe," I hissed, grabbing Pax. "She's safe- Stay down!" Pax nearly threw me as
the Esthaans disappeared over the barrier. We heard crashing sounds. They
reappeared, following the power-lead. "If they fool with the pack, they'll
blow us all." But a new Esthaan shouted at the cave mouth, and the others
trotted back. "They've sighted the men." We had to watch while the whips |
were unlimbered and the women rounded up. The awful music crashed upon us. All
over the cave, the exhausted women who had lain like the dead were rising
painfully, beautifully, faltering to the cave door before their herders. A
swaying river of bright flowers, upheld only by the dreadful stimulation of
the sound. A lagging girl fell to her knees before a soldier, who picked up a
rock and crushed her skull. It was as the old man had feared. There was
madness among those Esthaans who knew the truth. The soldier probably did not
know what he killed, but his orders had come from those who knew-and | could
not bear it. We were up and running for the rock barrier. The transmitter was
a wreck, but Flanya was safe where the old man had hidden her. Pax carried her
out, and I followed, stopping to straighten the old body by the barrier. At
the cave mouth we watched the stream of colored silk passing from sight in the
gorge below. The deathly throbbing died to silence. "What do we do now?" said
Pax. Flanya's eyes followed him like compasses. "Well, we sit here and have
something to eat, and wait. And we might pray to a god named
Baal." "Baal?" "Or Moloch, if you prefer. An old god of material greed. We
pray him to inflame the lust of gain in the guts of an old codger a hundred
light-years from here-if he's still alive. If it flames up hot enough, we and
the Flenni may survive." "You mean the Federation Council?" Pax was irritated.
"Or the Bureau?" "The Interplanetary Survey Bureau," I told him, "may respond
to our plea in time to help anyone who happens to be alive five years from
now. The Galactic Federation Council is quite likely to respond in time to
compose a documentary on an extinct race. Neither one can possibly move fast
enough to help us mortal flesh now. The only agent who can do that is Captain
MacDorra, and the only agent which can move MacDorra is cash. Golden
Interstellar credits. And the only source from which such is possibly
forthcoming is a human fossil, who, if he is still breathing, is squatting on
the ninety-fifth terrace of his private empire on Solvenus. And the only
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



motive which will move him is sheer cupidity and greedy lust to beat out
another creaking reprobate basking by his private ocean on Sweetheart,
Procyon. Hence, we pray to Baal. "Luckily," I added as I saw Pax's jaw set,
"MacDorra knows I have enough credits in my account to defray an ultrapho
signal to Solvenus. Now, how about some chow? And you might rig out a
beacon." It took a little persuasion to make Flanya stay beside me while he
went away. She nestled under my arm like a little silken dove, and when he
went out of sight she put her hand on my arm and looked up worriedly. I saw
she had a slight deformity of one finger. A defective gene, expressed because
there was no companion chromosome to mask it. It was, of course, the existence
of the haploid Flenni generation, which made the diploid Esthaans so
healthy-each time the pairs of Esthaan chromosome broke apart to form a Flenn
individual, every sort of recessive defect emerged without an allele to temper
it. Those dead kits and babies were filters, which took out defective genes
between every Esthaan generation. Cruel and beautiful mechanism ... The
quivering under my arm told me Pax was on his way with provisions. When we had
finished, I produced an item I had preserved. "Can you find us a horn, or a
banjo, anything at all to play on?" He just looked at me, and then became very
motherly. Our search turned up no horn or lute, so I showed him what a
melodious banging could be made with a cookpot and a broken stirrup. He
assented kindly, and we took up our watch by the cave mouth, me with my mouth
organ and he with the pot. We played softly, and Flanya seemed to like parts
of it, which helped. I refreshed us on suitable parts of our repertoire, and
began teaching him a stirring item called "British Grenadier." I did not
really expect anything to happen. We jumped when the cutting flash came-the
KA-BOOM-OOM! of MacDorra's emergency sled braking into air. MacDorra was a
pioneer at heart, if his tightness had let him go it, and his emergency kit
was First Landing T E and then some. It set down daintily on the mesa overhead
while Pax and I scrambled up, he carrying Flanya and me carrying the
pot. MacDorra's mate, Duncannon, and four husky assistants were pouring out,
guns ready. "Where's the warr?" burred Duncannon. I could have kissed him, red
beard, bazooka and all. "They've captured the women and are marching them to
their deaths," I replied. "Over there." This had its effect on the mate; once
it was settled who paid, there were no more gallant fighters in the
galaxy. "We saw something that could be that as we came in. Get in,
boys." "Have you a loud hailer?" "I do." "Then fly gently just before them and
set down as close as you can." We came on top of the pathetic army as they
were struggling up the rocks toward another cave. It was nearly too late. The
Esthaans had brought up reinforcements. "That thing over there in the yellow
suit is the enemy," I told Duncannon. "That gasbag is probably armed, and it
shoots a gas that doesn't bother much. The game is to find the noise maker
they have and silence it. Fire a flare when you have it stopped, I won't be
able to hear you. Stay here, Pax, we have work to do." I handed him the kettle
and turned every dial on the hailer to output max. I don't know what the
Esthaans thought-those who weren't too busy with Duncannon's boys to hear us.
I hate to think what we did to delicate Flenni ears. Pax got the idea as I
crashed into "Sol-Sol-Solidarity", and came in with a thunderous beat-a
walloping polka beat that had no more sex than a pig in clogs-a Donnybrook
beat that could bounce a "Liebestodt" to shreds-a ragtime blast to meet and
break that mesmeric Esthaan horror. We gave them "Interplanetary Heroes" and
"Stars I'm Coming" and "My Buddy was a Bemmy." We blew and banged ourselves
silly while Flanya cowered. Duncannon told us later that our counter-barrage
hit just as the first wave of women met and mingled with the men streaming
helpless from the cave. Our uproar smote and clashed with the mad Esthaan
hooting. As it took precarious control of the air, the Flenni mass shuddered.
Couples broke, clung, broke apart-raced wildly, hands over ears-and the women
began to drop. Finally only the men stood upright, their heads wrapped in
their arms. When the flare finally went up I slapped Pax's arm and we heard
the last toot-bang of our "music" thunder across the hills. "The only race in
history ever saved with a kettle and a mouth organ!" Pax giggled. Then he
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



looked horrified. We shook hands hysterically and hugged Flanya. The hideous
death of the Flenn boy mingled with Irish jigs in my brain, and I was not much
help to Duncannon for the next half hour. We found him systematically
hog-tying Esthaans beside the gasbag. Most of them were in rather poor shape.
Our crew had only a few nicks apiece; ordinary ground-side armament can't do
much against First Landing equipment in trained hands. We sent Duncannon back
to comb the line of march for survivors. MacDorra himself came down to oversee
the setting up of a relief camp. It was a wonderful camp, with the ship's
medicos and a plasma-synth and a nurse, and they worked like good devils. I
noticed MacDorra had a little notebook in which he entered such items as the
sled's fuel supply, the rounds of cartridge, and the number of disposable
shrouds. He fed and ministered lavishly, his face a splendid blend of
compassion and business enterprise. The pitiful burdens Duncannon was bringing
in upset the Captain. "Gurrrl children," he growled, motioning the doctor to
open universal serum. He sniffed and turned away to make a notebook entry. I
could see the Esthaans would be having trouble with freight rates. The last
load brought in the small shrouded figure I had feared to see. After a bit I
carried my sleeping bag up to the mesa where the pink moons were rising over
the floodlights below. A guard stood watch. Somewhere beyond the empty plain
the Esthaan Council waited behind frozen masks. I knew they would do nothing
now but wait. Somebody else would have to be assigned to unwind their madness;
I could not. Pax climbed to join me. The nurse had taken Flanya away from
him. "All right, Ian," he said. "Who is Santa Claus?" "Ever hear of the
Morgenstern Theory?" "That Morgenstern? But is he still-?" "And he still wants
his theory of human evolution proved the worst way. I ran into him last leave
on Eros with his dearest enemy, old man Villeneuve. Villeneuve thinks
Morgenstern is a lunatic; he is heart and soul for the diffusion theory.
Between them they're rich enough to buy the Coalsack, and they've been arguing
this for years, financing expeditions, and betting fantastic sums. Well,
Morgenstern took me aside and told me exactly the| kind of thing he wanted to
proveI his theory. Instances of human development which could not possibly be
interpreted as diffusion in Villeneuve's terms. He gave me a code word-Eureka.
If I came across the right case I was to UP him collect at once. "It came to
me that the alternating generation setup here, shared by lower mammals and
man, is about as close as Morgenstern can get to the proof he wants. It's not
a hundred percent; there may be discontinuous mutation. But it's enough to
give Villeneuve a very hot time. So I flashed him 'Eureka repeat Eureka,' and
added that the evidence would be wiped out within hours by intertribal war
unless he chartered MacDorra for immediate intervention and rescue. He may
have bought the ship, or the whole freight line. You've seen the result. Sheer
orneriness and ego- that's what saved us, son, not altruism or love of
science." There was a companionable silence. It was just dawning on me that I
could take Molly's name out of the file marked Widows. "What about the
Bureau?" "Well, that's where I may get reclassified to assistant jet-cleaner.
There is a thing called an Irreplaceable Datum of Human Science. You may have
run into IDHS areas somewhere-I believe one is on Terra. In the old training
regs it says that any officer of the Service can declare an area, or species,
to be an IDHS, and this automatically puts it under Federation protection
until the case is reviewed and confirmed, or disallowed. The declaring officer
has to present a formal justifying brief. It's a long business and it costs
plenty. Almost never done any more: I think there's been only one in my
time. "I signaled the Bureau declaring the Flenni an IDHS in danger. This
should eventually produce a Bureau relief team to take over from MacDorra. But
it's going to be a sweet mix-up. Old Morgenstern is surely on his way right
now with the idea that the Flenni are his personal pets-and in the Bureau's
eyes he'll be just a meddling private citizen. I'm going to have a time seeing
that the Flenni come out of this right side up and that I'm not thrown out of
the Service for exceeding my authority, engaging in local warfare and native
homicide, endangering Bureau relations, conveying Federation authority to
private citizens, and general knavery. And I have a formal Declaration Brief
  Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html



to write." "What do you call right side up for the Flenni?" I sighed,
remembering that Pax did not really understand yet. "Well, tentatively, they
should be protected in their efforts to maintain their own cultural identity,
to extend their life span by deferring _" I caught myself-"to build an
economy. There's probably always been a hostile tension between the two forms,
since they are ecological competitors. The long-lived Esthaans had apparently
shut the Flenni out of their urban technology by the time of First Contact, I
suspect Harkness of having precipitated the acute stage. The Esthaans got the
idea that the Flenni cycle was a dreadful defect, which barred them from human
status. They started out to conceal and minimize it, to ape human ways, and to
reduce the Flenni to the status of breeding animals. Maybe it's deeper; the
Esthaans have all the Flenn genes, and they may | have some primordial drive
towards sex which is impossible to them-and incarnated in the Flenni. At any
rate, they're now acting out a full-blown social psychosis, and the engineers
are going to have one grand job. But of course, biologically-" I paused. "Go
on, Ian." "Well, you know it. The Flenni I genes combine with ours. It's
possible the alternating system is carried by recessives and could in the long
run be bred out." Pax was silent. Then I heard him catch his breath. I think
it was the first time he had considered what his child by Fianya might be. Was
it possible that this dove of a girl would give birth to a neuter sausage-an
Esthaan? "Don't you think it's time we turned in?" I asked. "Yes," he said
dully. I lay gazing at the pink moons, thinking Poor Pax, poor good retriever
boy. Interbreeding might eventually solve the planet's dilemma-but meanwhile,
how many human hearts would go out to the Flenni beauty, the Flenni sexual
impact? Only in dreams do we ever see beings who are literally all male or all
female. The most virile human man or the most seductive ordinary woman is, in
fact, a blend. But these creatures were the pure expression of one sex
alone-electric, irresistible. How many of us would give ourselves to them,
only to find the freely given beauty dying in our arms? Whatever Pax's
first-born would be, the arms that held it would be those of a dying crone-who
only months before had been his blooming love. The pink moons sailed the
zenith, sweet as the gift of Flenni love. The image of Molly's face came
finally to comfort me. Molly who could love and live, who would greet me among
our children. I must remember, I thought drowsily, to tell her how good it was
to be a diploid sporozoon...




About this Title
This eBook was created using ReaderWorks®Publisher 2.0, produced by OverDrive, Inc.


For more information about ReaderWorks, please visit us on the Web at
www.overdrive.com/readerworks