No Sharks in the Med and Other Stories (49 page)

Meanwhile Friday had taken out a bamboo flute from a little bag on a string round his (let’s for the moment say his) waist, and had begun tootling away in a high-pitched register that was almost painful. And before I knew it a half-dozen man-likes had come down the track to join us on the beach. Keeping their distance from me—almost ignoring me—they hurried to the water’s edge and very carefully began to drag the dead dolphin creature up the beach into the shade at the rim of the forest. And while one of them sat cradling the dead thing’s head the rest of them set to work scooping out a grave. Astonishing! But—

—Well, I thought, don’t people have this special affinity with dolphins back on Earth? Sure they do. And as Friday and me headed back along the forest track toward the
Albert E.
and the clearing, already I could hear the mournful singing, the rattling and banging of the pink burial party on the beach. What was more, back at the wreck, I saw that they’d even been decorating the graves of my shipmates, putting little markers on them with various identifying squiggles.

Damn
, but these guys revere the dead!

Later:

This afternoon I went back into the ship searching for anything that might make my life here just that little bit more comfortable, more familiar, and—what the hell—homeworldly? I took a small stack of Daniel’s girlie magazines that I’d been coveting for God knows how many light-years, a photograph album with pictures of some ex-girlfriends of mine, some busted radio components I might try tinkering with, and various bits and pieces like that. Friday climbed up there with me, then went exploring on his own…

Later:

It’s evening now and raining. Even though the stream looks pure enough, I’m using my awning to collect the rain. Friday appears pretty fixated with me. He’s taken to me like a stray dog. So I switched off the perimeter and let him in out of the rain. He’s sitting there in one corner, not doing much of anything. When I ate I didn’t offer him any; as we’ve seen, ship’s rations don’t much agree with him. 

Speaking of rations, what I didn’t realize till now is that most of the stuff I took from the
Albert E.
’s galley was damaged in the crash. I’ve preserved what I could but at least seventy-five per cent of it is wasted. I’ll burn it tomorrow.

Which means, of course, that some time in the not too distant future I’ll have to start eating local. Maybe I should keep an eye on the pinks, see what they eat. Or maybe not. If Friday can’t eat my stuff, it seems unlikely that I can eat his.

It’s all very worrying…

Day Five: (mid-morning.)

When I woke up this morning I caught Friday going through Dan’s soft porn mags. My old photograph album was lying open, too, so it looks like Friday’s curiosity knows no bounds! Alas, he also appears to be disrespectful of my personal property. Thoroughly PO’d with him, without really knowing why (I suppose I was in a bad mood,) l switched off the perimeter and shooed him the hell out of here, then went walkabout on my own. The last time I saw him he looked sort of down in the mouth—about as far down as a pink is able to look, from what I’ve seen of them so far—as he went drifting off in the general direction of the
Albert E.

Something entirely different:

I’ve discovered that the man-likes go hunting, with spears. I saw a bunch keeping very low and quiet, sneaking off into the thick of the forest. There was a second bunch, too, with half a dozen members who were watching me just a little too closely as I moved around the clearing. It seemed to me they were interested in
my
interest in these graves I‘ve been discovering. I can tell that these mounds in the forest’s fringing undergrowth are graves because of the markers on them. But not all of them have markers, only the more recent ones, which are easily identified by the freshly turned earth. I don’t know if that’s of any real significance.

Anyway, this second party of hunters kept looking at me, at each other, and at their spears, as if wondering if they should—or if they dare—have a go at me! Maybe they didn’t like me looking at the graves because I wasn’t showing sufficient reverence or something; I don’t know, can’t say. But it was as I was examining the more recent graves that these hunter pinks became especially disturbed. Then, as I knelt to examine a thick-stemmed cactus or succulent that was sprouting in a marked mound—a fleshy, sickly-looking green thing with a pinkish head, something like a bulbous great asparagus spear—that was when the hunters displayed the most anxiety, even to the extent of looking more than a little hostile.

However, whatever
might
have happened next was averted when the first party of hunters came bursting from the forest in hot pursuit of a hairy black hog who was also in pursuit of a small pink grubber. The big black was rampant so I could only suppose that the small pink was on heat; but however that might be, the hunters were only interested in the black. And again I
supposed
they’d been using the little pink as bait. Well, right or wrong in that respect, at least I now knew what they had been hunting and could reasonably assume that this was what they ate—that it was one of their staples, anyway.

In the confusion, as the big horny hog tore round the clearing after the small scurrying pink, I tried to make it back to my habitat. Bad idea. In rapid succession the hog took three or four long thin spears in his back and flanks, lost all interest in the small pink grubber and went totally crazy! Squealing and trying to gore everything in sight, with both parties of hunter pinks now getting in their best shots as they glided after him, he turned, saw me, came slavering and snorting straight at me!

Of course I shot him; my bolt stopped him dead, exploded in his skull, sent blood and brains flying. He immediately bit the dust, twitched once or twice, and lay still…following which there was total, motionless silence; so that even with the hunters all over the place, they’d become so frozen into immobility that the clearing looked like nothing so much as an alien still-life!

And that’s the way it stayed, with nobody moving so much as a muscle until I broke the spell, holstered my weapon, and made my way stiff-legged and head high right on back to my habitat.

Friday was already in there, sitting in his corner on a box of old clothes he’d rescued from the
Albert E
. Probably figured he was doing me a favour bringing stuff out of there. Anyway, I was glad to see he was still my pal, and maybe even my only pal in these parts now.

Looking out from under my awning, I watched the end of this business with the hog. Finding their mobility again, several of the hunters hoisted the dead tusker and carried their trophy in a circle round the clearing in an odd, paradoxically muted celebratory procession. At least I’m supposing that’s what it was. But when they passed out of sight, that was the end of that and I haven’t seen the hog since. But I imagine there’ll be a merry old feast in the clearing tonight.

Later:

Toward evening I ventured out again. There was no sign of festive preparations, no fires, nothing. Come to think of it, I’ve never yet seen a fire. Maybe they don’t have fire. Me, I can’t say I fancy raw hog!

Anyway, there was no sign of the spearsmen, and the handful of pinks who were out and about seemed as bland and harmless as ever; they paid little or no attention to me. But in any case I wasn’t out too long before it started in to rain again, so that was the end of tonight’s excursion.

Friday is already asleep (I think) on a layer of old clothing in his corner. Not a bad idea.

So it’s goodnight from me, Jim lad…

Day Six: (mid-morning.)

Didn’t sleep too good and it’s left me grumpy. Late last night the pinks were at it again, howling, thumping and rattling, and that includes Friday. I woke up (very briefly) to find him gone and my defensive perimeter switched off—the little pink nuisance! I got up long enough to switch it on again then went back to sleep. But I
must
find a way to get through to him, warn him against doing that. It’s either that or simply ban him from the habitat altogether.

Everything tastes lousy this morning, even the coffee. Must be the water: it’s
too
clean,
too
sweet! My poor old taste buds are far more accustomed to the recycled H
₂
O aboard the
Albert E
. Maybe I should climb up there one last time and drain off whatever’s left in the system. Also, I should look for a remote for my defensive perimeter switch; the habitat didn’t have one.

Actually, there are several items in the handbook that the habitat doesn’t have: inexcusable deficiencies! Some dumb QM’s assistant storeman on the Greater Mars Orbital should have his ass kicked out of an airlock!

As for last night’s ceremonial rowdyism:

There’s a new grave under the low vegetation at the rim of the clearing. I reckon it’s the hog. Having eaten the thing—or at least the parts they wanted—the pinks must have buried whatever was left. So their rituals extend even to their prey. This is all conjecture, of course; but again, as with the dolphin, I can’t find this practice altogether strange. I seem to remember reading somewhere that many primitive tribes of Earth had a similar attitude toward Ma Nature’s creatures: an understanding, appreciation and respect for the animals they relied upon for food and clothing.