HARM (16 page)

“Careful!” shouted Essanits, as he, too, ran forward. The dog leaped out of the way. The Dogover snatched up a pole, pointing it so adroitly that Chankey ran into it, being struck full in the chest. His charge carried him on. He ran into the small Dogover. They fell together on the ground. Chankey head-butted the other. The Dogover fell back, hitting his head on one of the many stones.

Essanits arrived, to haul Chankey off his opponent. “I’m stung,” said Chankey, in a choking voice.

“You soul-damned fool!”

Fremant had run down and seized the dog, who seemed to be focused on his prone friend. A minute later, Bellamia came with a wicker cage which one of the packhorses had been carrying. Between them, they crammed the dog into the cage and closed the door.

The Dogover rose up groggily from the ground into a sitting position.

“Are you all right?” said Essanits, kneeling, steadying the little person by an arm.

The little person muttered something, closed his eyes—and died.

“Oh God! Chankey, you violent fool,” Essanits exclaimed. “You have killed the last living Dogover.”

“No, no, ’course I haven’t. Not on your life, not on anyone’s life. We just got to look in these other tents. They’re full of ’em. Miserable little critters. They’re pimghees.”

“You mean pygmies. Stay here! The rest of you search these tents. Go careful.”

But Chankey was off at a rolling trot, running unsteadily. He had almost reached one of the more dilapidated tents when he fell. He rolled on the ground, cursing, tearing at his shirt. Then he lay still until the others reached him.

Bellamia knelt beside him, felt his wrist for a pulse. There was none. In his agonies, Chankey had bared his stomach. Noticing, Bellamia recoiled in horror. A large strawberry blister had formed just below his navel. Below its surface she saw small white things like maggots, swimming.

Speechlessly, she indicated the blister to the others.

Chankey had indeed been stung, as he claimed. In the time he had been in the waters of the lake, in the grip of the beetle-like monster, it had planted its seed below his skin.

Fremant and Wellmod shivered with disgust.

“We must give him burial,” said Essanits. “And bury these loathsome insects with him.”

“How can we dig a grave?” Fremant asked. “We don’t know what may be lurking in these other tents. At least we’ve got this dog. Let’s go home. This whole expedition has been a disaster. We should have waited for another push-pull and flown here.”

Essanits glared at him. “I frankly have no liking for you, Fremant. It shocks me that you should think of leaving this poor fellow unburied, to rot here on unhallowed ground.”

“Why is it better to bury him in ‘unhallowed ground’? Besides, he has ruined your plans, hasn’t he? Killing off the last surviving Dogover!”

“We must be forgiving in the face of death.”

In the end, after much argument, they laid Chankey’s body across one of the horses and rode back to the lake. There they tied a stone to one of his legs and sank him in the chilly waters. Essanits said a solemn prayer for his soul, while the thing in the water caroused on his corpse.

SEVEN

T
HE LONG JOURNEY BACK
to Haven was marked by the further deterioration of the relationship between Fremant and Essanits. Fremant protested that it was useless and cruel to keep the Dogover’s dog in the cage.

“We are taking the creature to Stygia City. Safelkty has perfected the Cereb machine in the
New Worlds
laboratories. That will allow us to read the dog’s mind, which should retain some recorded images of the past culture. It’s our duty.”

“What’s the dog likely to say? ‘Down, boy’? ‘Fetch’? It’s a waste of time. You’re just hoping to save face…”

“Nonsense. The dog could prove valuable.”

Fremant closed his eyes, raising a hand in rejection. “Think, will you? Ever since we landed on Stygia, our efforts have been devoted to the genocide of the Dogovers. Weren’t you the leader of that? We’ve just killed off the last one between us, and you think this wretched dog ‘could prove valuable.’ What kind of a fool are you?”

“Who are you to challenge me? The day will come when we see that it was necessary to destroy the autochthonous race in order to establish God’s will on the planet.”

“Really? Then I don’t think much of your God.”

Bellamia caught his wrist. “Don’t anger him, Free!” she said. It was unclear whether she meant God or Essanits.

They journeyed on, becoming ever more hungry. The rest of their goats had been seized by the monsters on their return through the lake. Wellmod suggested they eat the dog, but the men said no.

The dog lay supine, almost inert, although its eyes were open and alert. It only vaguely resembled any breed of terrestrial dog, although much of its insect origin had been shed. Its body was segmented in four sections, the hind three of which bore pairs of stiltlike legs. Small tubes with lidded ends projected from each section, to carry air into the body. Lungs had yet to develop on Stygia.

Its tail folded neatly over the ridge of its back when not in use. A tassel at the end of the tail proved on inspection to be six delicate fingers. When Fremant offered the dog crumbs of bread, the tail would protrude through the bars of its cage and the fingers, taking hold of the crumbs, would convey them daintily to its mouth.

Its head carried the sharp-jawed mouth of its kind, and two large eyes. There appeared to be no ears. With no auditory function, the dog projected imagery instead. This it evidently refused to do while in captivity.

They saw the great sail again. It floated grandly on a gentle wind. They stopped on the trail to stare. It was so unlikely, so beautiful: the very image of serenity. On this occasion there were two sails, flying close together. When the wind direction changed, the twin sails began to head toward the travelers.

Both sails bore their harmoniously tinted markings. One set of markings was brighter than its mate’s.

“That’ll be the female,” said Bellamia.

“The male, more likely,” said Essanits.

As the sails approached—gradually, magnificently—the group sought defensive positions behind a rock barrier. They were now able to judge the immense size of the sails, and to see that a curved stanchion ran from the base of the leading edge to the top of the sail, becoming more slender as it rose, to hold the sail steady. The sail itself appeared almost paper thin, delicate as a moth’s wing.

Both sails were drawing near now, drifting only a few feet aboveground.

Glorious as the sails were, the body below them, from which they grew, was another matter: a snakelike legged insect, gray of body, equipped with massive jaws in front and something resembling a stinger at its rear.

Still the sails came nearer. Essanits raised his gun, steadied it on his left arm, and fired. The bullet hit the front end of the flier, which burst, showering the leader with a stinking, greenish pus.

For a moment, the sail sailed on. Then it faltered, declined, the body hit a rock, and the entire grand structure slowly sank to the ground. The other sail never paused, but floated forward on the wind, finally to disappear into the blue distance.

Bellamia and Fremant pulled up handfuls of grass to mop each other down from the splashes of pus. Essanits went over with a swagger to inspect his target.

“There you are!” he said. “Something to eat now.”

“Bluggeration! Who wants to eat
that
stinking thing?” Bellamia exclaimed. “But maybe if it were cooked…”

Fremant went to inspect the great sail. Already its colors were fading, the fabric crumpling like an old tissue. An intense melancholy overcame him, a sorrow he could hardly bear or understand.

Coming up behind him, Essanits said, “Stop moping, man, and let’s get on.”

Fremant swung around and struck him savagely in the chest.

W
HEN AT LAST THEY ENTERED
H
AVEN,
they found it much changed. Duplicates of a new flag flew everywhere. New wooden buildings were going up, and men—several of them in uniform—thronged the place, shouting and calling to one another in a stupidly military manner.

A group of resident women in dusty homespun robes looked on hopelessly; all seemed old and worn, although two of them held babies in their arms.

A new center had been created. A banner proclaimed it to be
LOCAL GOVERNMENT,
although it flew the flag of Stygia City. Essanits marched straight through its door as if he had thought of nothing else throughout the trek.

Bellamia and Fremant climbed their steps and went to wash. She fed the dog, who produced a swirl of red between them, possibly a kind of flower. She took it as thanks.

“You’re a good doggie, ugly as you are.” And in an aside to Fremant, “Another bluggy type of insect, too.”

After a brief meal, Fremant went to see Utrersin to find out what was happening. The man was working, as usual, in his forge.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he said, without a smile, setting down his hammer. “This dump is now like an anthill—full of newcomers, all talking about freedom. You might think that was okay by me. You ain’t got no notion how orders for guns is increasted, but me, I’m agin such change.”

“What’s going on, then?”

He straightened himself, pushing his hair back from his damp forehead. The hair flopped back as usual. “I ain’t the only one what’s got more work. There’s men flatt’ning out ground so’s push-pulls can land here. There’s men building a road or a railway or sommat from here to Stig City. There’s men training up for a sort of local militia. You wouldn’t know the place. No peace now.”

“Sounds like improvements to me.”

He looked through his overhanging hair with a grin. “You always was a bit soft in the head, ole feller.”

As he was trudging back across the square, Fremant was stopped by two powerful men wearing uniform caps. “You are wanted for a meeting in the government offices.”

“Why’s that?”

“You was on the trek with Gov’ner Essanits, wasn’t you?”

“Governor, is he now?”

“He’s gov’ner of somewhere or other,” said the leader of the two men indifferently. “Come on, get a move on. You don’t want trouble, do you?”

He went with them, not without misgivings.

No sooner had the three of them passed through the door of the local government office than he was seized. He kicked and struggled, but the two men caught his head in a lock and were almost choking him. He was pushed into a small cell with wooden walls. He smelled the scent of fresh-cut wood. Furiously, he hammered on the door.

The only light in the dark cell filtered through a gap under the door. No response came to his hammering. He gave up and went to sit down, defeated, on a narrow ledge which served as a bench.

Time dawdled. A sheet of paper was passed under the door. He picked it up, squinting to make out the text in the dim light. In elaborate lettering, it read:

By Command of the Government of Haven City, you are imprisoned pending trial for the act of striking the Governor of Seldonia, as the region between Haven City and Stygia City is now known. Such ruffianism is no longer legal under new state laws. The date of your trial will be announced shortly. Meantime, you are instructed to keep quiet or food and drink will be withheld.

It was signed: “The Mayor of Haven City.”

He flung the paper down in exasperation.

He stayed awake as long as possible. Eventually, he sat on the ground with his back to a wooden wall, drew up his knees, and slumped into a deep sleep.

A
ROARING IN HIS EYES,
a sound like tumultuous applause, a feeling he was falling, endlessly, through a medium that was space and yet not space.

A woman was withdrawing a hypodermic needle from his left arm. A portable lamp stood on a nearby trolley.

“That’s better,” she said. She had brown eyes behind rimless glasses. Her expression was not unkindly. “How do you feel? You don’t look too good. I’ll get you a glass of water in a moment.”

He could say nothing. He was glad to hear a woman’s voice.

She busied herself with the trolley she had wheeled into the room. He knew the room. To his distorted senses it was vast. It had once possessed grandeur. There were marble cherubs by the fireplace, decorated alcoves and ceiling, a domed ceiling, and floral wallpaper, now peeling from the walls.

The woman turned back to him and, seeing he was more alert, remarked that he must have walked into a door, since he had a badly bruised left eye.

He managed to speak. “I have bruises all over.”

“There, there!” She came and loomed over him, looking sympathetic. “Many prisoners harm themselves. It’s a guilt reaction to confinement.”

He did not attempt to contradict her. Indeed, he was almost overcome with emotion to hear a sympathetic voice, to see a sympathetic expression in this place of suffering.

“What’s happened to Bellamia? She should have a proper funeral.” Seeing the woman’s look of puzzlement, he corrected himself and said that he meant Doris.

“Oh yes, Doris. Of course. Of course.” She wagged a finger at him. “I want you to sign a document. Then the glass of water.”

As she turned back to her trolley, he saw she was a thickset woman, very broad in the hips and buttocks. She wore a heavy cloth jacket and skirt, much like a uniform. Such liking as he had initially felt faded at the sight of that formidable rear view.

“Am I going to be given my freedom?”

Without turning around, she said, “You are still claiming you are innocent, eh?”

“I am. I
am
innocent. Completely innocent. I’m a British citizen.” He added, “In fact, I am a good deal more innocent than many another British citizen.”

She turned to him, her face suddenly grim. Her hair was cut short and dyed blond. He caught a glimpse of its dark roots.

“But you’re a Muslim. You made that remark about the British prime minister in your book…”

“It was just one joke among many.”

She was unmoved. “Tell me another of these so-called jokes.”

He sighed. “Well, for instance, there’s a character called Snowy Snowden, he’s a male nurse, and he goes into an Italian fish restaurant and orders a spina bifida…”

Not a muscle in her face moved.

She asked where he was when he was arrested.

“I had been playing cricket. They came and arrested me in the pavilion.”

“Playing
cricket
?”

“Why not?”

“Was it some kind of alibi?”

“An alibi? What for? I had done nothing wrong—beyond scoring only a miserable nine runs for my side.”

The woman had a way of not hearing what he said. Putting on a sympathetic expression again, she wedged one of her hips against the ledge on which he was sprawling and said, “Well, you’ll be free to go now. You’ll get your watch and the contents of your pockets back, of course. We hope your stay here has not been too uncomfortable.”

“Where am I? What country are we in?”

“You have to sign this document first.” She handed it to him. He squinted at it with his good eye.

The document, with various flourishes, stated that the interrogations had all been fair and conducted in accordance with the precepts of British justice, and within the limitations imposed by the Geneva Conventions, that he had been well treated during his stay, that he had not sustained any injuries, that he had been well fed. That all his properties had been returned to him, including his British passport. That he was not being charged for the use of his room.

“This is absolute bullshit!”

“You refuse to sign it?”

“There’s no mention of my wife, Doris. What has happened to her body?”

She brought out a mobile phone and tapped at it. She looked hard at its rectangular face.

“You are Fadhil Abbas Ali?”

“Paul Fadhil Abbas Ali.”

“There’s no record that you have, or had, a wife. No mention of any Doris. Just sign the document, will you? Don’t fuck about. I haven’t got all day.”

“But I must know about my wife. Surely you can understand that?”

Suddenly, she was furious. “Sign the fucking document, will you? Else, you’ll be banged up in here till you rot.”

For answer, he tore the document in two.

The woman brought up a brawny fist and struck him on his bad left eye.

H
E ROUSED SLOWLY,
his brain numb, stiff with cold. His knees felt locked. Slowly, he straightened his legs. Cautiously, he stood up, a hand on the wooden wall for balance. His eye was hurting him.

There was nothing to be done but stand there.

The door was eventually unlocked. A man pushed it open and came in with a small tray. Another man stood guard just beyond the door.

“Here’s your meal. Your trial will be coming up later today.” Said as the man balanced the tray on the ledge.

“When? Morning or afternoon?”

“We’ll have to see.” He retreated, walking the few steps backward. The door was closed and locked after him.

The meal consisted of a crust of bread and an egg, and a small glass of water. He smelled the water cautiously before drinking.

Much later, the two guards who had arrested him came and took him to a small room at the rear of the building. “Don’t worry,” one of them said. “He’s a pretty good guy.”