The Candle of Distant Earth (21 page)

Suddenly, one of the vehicles broke off and came toward him, both craft and driver rapidly increasing in size. Other than exposing him to the slight and not unpleasant chill in the air, his utter lack of apparel did not trouble him. Any alien interest that might be shown in his naked anatomy would be purely academic. For that matter, unlike the Niyyuu or the Sessrimathe, the Tuuqalians themselves had dispensed with clothing.

He considered retreating back into the sleeping chamber, or at least waking George. Was it possible he had inadvertently intruded, even at a distance, on some restricted ceremony? As a visitor, he decided to hold his ground and plead ignorance. Besides, he'd already been seen.

Then he recognized the figure riding astride the scoop ship, and relaxed. It was Braouk. Emitting a deep, unwavering hum, the powerful little vehicle pulled up alongside the porch where he was standing. Eyestalks inclined toward him.

“The human night, as I observed it, means sleeping.” A pair of huge upper appendages extended toward him. “You are awake and outside. This contradicts your normal activity. Is something the matter?”

“Not at all.” Strolling to the edge of the intricate railing, he raised an arm and gestured in the direction of the ongoing activity. “I heard a noise and got up to see what was going on.”

Touching controls, Braouk adjusted the scoop ship's position. As it pivoted on its axis, Walker took the opportunity to examine the vehicle more closely. With its smooth ivory-colored surface and lack of external instrumentation or ornamentation, it was simple and straightforward. Even the concave forward portion where Braouk rode was devoid of all but the most basic instrumentation. The local equivalent of a bicycle, Walker mused. Or a motorcycle, or ATV. Working transport.

Like a fast-growing tree branch, a pale yellow tentacle fluttered skyward. “In sky together, Teldk, Melevt, and Melaft, are simultaneously. Here in the northern plains, that means it is harvest time for the mature
chimttabt.
A special time, for all who live, near here.” Descending, the limb gestured toward the ongoing streams of activity off to their right. “Would you like to see better?”

Walker didn't hesitate. Over the past couple of years, he had learned not to hesitate. He who hesitates might miss something. Besides, for a commodities trader, who knew what opportunities might one day present themselves? Perhaps even the chance to trade in bulk
chimttabt.
He had never been one to pass on an opportunity to learn about a new raw material.

“Sure, let's go,” he told his hulking friend.

Braouk made room for the human between his own mass and the upward curving control area that was built directly into the material of the scoop ship itself. Snugging back against the bristle-like yellow-green fur of his friend kept Walker warm and, surprisingly, Braouk's hair was not as itch-inducing against his bare skin as it appeared. To think, he told himself, that at one time he would have fainted in terror if he had been compelled to endure such close proximity to a being like Braouk. Friends with him now for years, he had changed so much that he actually sought the close contact.

I
have
changed,
he thought as the scoop ship accelerated toward the area of greatest activity. Changed in ways that as recently as three or four years ago he could not have imagined. But then, no one could. Three moons gazing down on him from high above, he sped in alien company aboard an alien craft toward a harvest of foodstuffs that more than anything else resembled lavender lightpoles. The food preparer half of him was intrigued by their culinary potential.

As they drew nearer, he saw that attached to the underside of each bale was an individual drive device that both propelled and guided it. Keeping perfect time and interval between one another, one bale after another made its way from distant field to local processing unit under the active supervision of scoop ship-riding Tuuqalians. The system was far more advanced than anything back home, he realized. Why load a truck with tomatoes and further burden it with a driver when you could set the load of vegetables to drive and guide itself to the intended destination?

A new sound reached him. Rising above the hum and whirr of technologically advanced reaping and processing machinery, it was at once familiar and new. New, because of the volume that was involved. Swooping and darting among the gigantic bales of recently harvested
chimttabt,
busy multi-limbed Tuuqalians burst out in boisterous song. No, not singing, he corrected himself. They were collaborating in an a cappella choir of alien saga-spinning. Their strangely pitched, collective voices boomed and echoed like velvet thunder across the unreaped vegetation below, rising and falling almost in concert with their vehicles as they managed the complicated business of
chimttabt
harvesting.

Massive alien muscles swelled against Walker's back as Braouk joined in the joyous chorus. After a few moments, he paused. While the scoop ship hovered, both eyes hooked around in front of Walker to look back at him.

“Will you join, in the communal recitation, my friend? I will provide you with the words. Your system of sound-making is smaller than ours, but the mechanics are not so very different.”

“Why not?” After a few tries, listening and repeating, Walker felt he could mimic the Tuuqalian timbre near enough not to embarrass himself.

When next Braouk resumed his work, it was two voices that rose from the scoop ship: one local, the other imported. Human and Tuuqalian. Dipping and darting among the cumbersome bales, they occasionally passed close by other workers. Tentacles waved in their direction and astonished eyes extended fully on stalks as one worker after another goggled at the sight of the small, furless alien not only riding in tandem with one of their own, but joining lustily in the saga-spinning that accompanied the mechanical ballet of scoop ships and bales and multi-limbed operators. And all the while the three moons Teldk, Melevt, and Melaft beamed down from an alien sky on the festive commotion below, in which one lone and lonely human was a most unexpected participant.

The cool air, redolent of growing Tuuqalian things and pungent mechanical smells and the musky body odor of the methodical giant behind him, washed over his face and naked form. Moons and multi-limbed monsters, truck-sized bales of plum-hued plants and deep-throated processing devices, danced before his now night-adapted eyes. What was the expression? “Never in your wildest dreams…”

It was, he mused as their scoop ship shot close enough past another for him to note with glee the surprised reaction of the other's operator, a long way from motoring boredly through the cornfields south of Chicago to visit friends in Springfield for the weekend.

Tuuqalia's benign sun was just showing itself over the horizon when a jovial Braouk returned an exhausted but exultant Walker to the residence that had been assigned to him and his companions. As he stepped off the powerful little vehicle and back onto the building's upper-level porch, Marc expressed his gratitude by giving the Tuuqalian a punch between upper and lower right-side tentacles, hard enough that he hoped his oversized friend might actually feel it.

“What a great night! I can't thank you enough, Braouk. I've attended some all-night parties in my time, but nothing like this. The diving and swooping, the massed saga-chanting, the colors in the moonlight: it's something I'll remember forever.”

“Was just harvest,” the alien rumbled diffidently. “But I was, glad you could participate, friend Marcus. At such times, sharing is always best, with friends.” One huge appendage curled fondly around Walker's shoulders, then withdrew.

Squinting against the rising alien sun, Walker waved as the scoop ship angled away from the balcony. Turning and walking back to the wall, he casually inserted a couple of fingers into the blue glow of the control and stepped through the opening it produced. As it sealed behind him, a familiar voice barked sharply from the dim depths of the temperate sleeping area.

“Where have you been all night? I've been worried sick.”

“Good dog,” Walker murmured as he made his tired way toward his crib of silken wrappings. Between the excitement of the nocturnal experience and a complete lack of sleep, he was thoroughly bushed. The makeshift cot with its glistening bale of alien padding called to him.

A fast-moving, small brown shape blocked his path and refused access to the beckoning bed. “Don't ‘good dog' me—bad human. Where were you?”

“Carrying out research on local agriculture. And making friends.” Lurching to his left, he tried to dodge around his companion. George scampered quickly to cut him off. Behind them, Sque slumbered peacefully on, oblivious to the overwrought confrontation.

“In the middle of the night? On an alien world?” Something caught the dog's eye. Leaning to his right, he tried to peer behind his friend. “What happened to your back?”

“Hmm?” Half-asleep now, Walker tried to look over his shoulder and down at himself. “I don't see anything.”

Trotting around behind him, George stood up on his hind legs and rested his forepaws against Walker's thigh. “You look like you've been whipped by a dozen angry pixies.”

“What? Oh, that comes from leaning my bare back against Braouk's front all night and being thrown all over the place. You know how bristly his fur is. Almost quill-like. It was to be expected after a night of hard riding.” Shrugging George off his thigh, Walker made a beeline for the looming bed and slumped gratefully into the mass of alien wrapping material.

“‘Hard riding'?” George was now able to look his prostrate friend in the eye. “If you tell me you were out rustling alien cattle, I'm going to have to raise serious doubts with Gerlla-hyn's medical staff about the state of your sanity.”

“Not cattle,” Walker murmured sleepily. “
Chimttabt.
The big, purplish striated stalks we've seen growing in several regions. Self-propelled bales of the stuff.” He snuggled deeper into the welcoming mass of soft but strong pale blue strands. “During harvest time, the Tuuqalians of these northern plains work around the clock.”

“I see,” George observed dangerously. “Really dove into local custom, didn't you? Next time I'd appreciate your letting me know when you're going to do something like that. You might keep in mind that I, at least, have a reasonable phobia where unannounced disappearances are concerned. One you ought to empathize with.”

“Sorry.” By now almost asleep, it was all Walker could do to mumble a reply.

Standing up and leaning over, George dragged his tongue wetly across Walker's eyes. It was sufficient stimulus to keep his friend awake. “What were you thinking, Marc? You doing all-night research because you're planning on going native? Thinking about settling down, hiring a few tentacles, and raising some orange and purple outrages of your own? Or have you forgotten that we're supposed to be focusing all our efforts and all our energies on trying to find a way home? Which right now means getting our four-limbed, flex-eyed hosts to dig through their astronomical charts and records in hopes of doing that?”

Raising his head slightly to meet George's gaze, Walker responded irritably. “That's what Sobj-oes and Habr-wec and their Iollth counterparts are doing. Our job is to continue diplomacy by further cementing our relationship with the locals. That's what I was doing. That's essentially what we did on Seremathenn, to a greater extent on Niyu, and to a lesser one on Hyff. Don't fret, George. I'm sorry I made you worry about me. Next time I'll wake you up.” He nodded in the direction of the still sleeping Sque. “Take a hint from our decapodal female friend and don't lose sleep.”

“Sure,” George snapped. “Like she'd care if you went out in the middle of the night and never came back. In contrast, I
do
care.”

“I know you do, George, but I was never in any danger, and I know what I'm doing. I
like
these people, even if they do have twice the appropriate number of limbs, eyes that weave around on stalks like balloons on strings, mouths that run north to south instead of side to side, and enough mass and muscle to out-sumo a grizzly. You need to relax.” Lowering his head, he burrowed into the hospitable, cushioning alien material. “And speaking of relaxing, leave me alone. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm dog-tired.”

“Just don't lose yourself, Marc.” George was more worried than he let on. “Just don't let an appreciation for the new and exotic make you lose sight of our real goal.” Standing on his hind legs with his forepaws on the edge of the makeshift bed allowed him to poke his snout almost into Walker's upturned left ear. “Steaks and pasta, Marc. Not purple and blue pâté. Ice cream and coffee. Football. The sights and smells of the river. Old friends talking. Making money. Going to the movies (unfinished and discarded popcorn being one of George's own favorite snacks).” Using his snout and neck, he nudged the back of his friend's head.