The Candle of Distant Earth (28 page)

“It is not. However, more than plain profit is at stake in this now. That is your fault. Your continued existence, and in particular your ability not only to successfully remove yourself and your companions from the association's original vessel, but to somehow orchestrate a return here, to your home system, stands as an ongoing affront to every principle that the association and all related Vilenjji enterprises hold most dear. It is unnatural. It cannot be permitted to eventuate.” The muzzle of the weapon descended slightly toward Walker. Instinct told him to close his eyes. Experience and determination told him not to.

Pret-Klob was not finished. “Do you remember what I said to you when last we saw one another on board the ship of the interfering Sessrimathe? ‘Be assured that in the realness of time, the natural order of things will be restored.'”

“Yeah,” Walker mumbled softly. “I remember that. I also remember you saying ‘It's only business.'”

The tendrils atop the Vilenjji's tapering skull writhed forcefully as the huge eyes continued to focus unblinkingly on the human at its feet. “Only business. Part of that is to restore the natural order of things. That demands that an incontestably more primitive creature not be allowed to humiliate one demonstrably more superior.”

“What,” Walker told him, realizing he did not have much time left and thinking furiously, “if I could prove to you that I'm not your inferior, and that we're equals? Would that satisfy you? Would that fit into your ‘natural order' of things enough to satisfy you and preserve this principle you're so concerned about that you're ready to die for it?”

It seemed to him that the Vilenjji hesitated. “You cannot prove such an assertion. To do so would oblige me to admit that it was wrong to take you in the first place.”

“That's what I'm thinking, too.” Making a supreme effort, Walker found that he could sit up. While he was once more fully in control of his faculties, he knew that to yell at the communicator for help would be futile: the fatalistic Vilenjji could kill him long before any help could arrive. All that was left to him by way of a defense was logic and reason.

It was time, he knew, to attempt to make the trade of his life.

“I can't go home,” he said simply.

The Vilenjji stared at him, unblinking as ever. “Of course you cannot. I am going to kill you.”

“Even if you don't kill me, even if you weren't here, I can't go home.”

The muzzle of the alien weapon wavered ever so slightly. “I do not understand. Do not take my noncomprehension as an admission of equality,” he added quickly.

“I won't.” Walker found it was surprisingly easy to warm to his task. It was something he'd been ruminating on, had been forced to ponder, for a long, long time. “Finally, actually getting here makes me realize something that's been nagging at me and troubling me for some time now. I've changed too much.” Finding he could once more control his arms, he made use of them to emphasize his conversion. “I can't go home anymore.”

The Vilenjji stared at him.

“After everything that's happened, after all I've been through, I just don't think I can do it. I'm not a citizen of one world anymore. Not of any world. I've been exposed to too many wonders, seen too much, to go back to living on one small, out-of-the-way, backward world, however familiar. I thought that's what I've wanted ever since my friends and I were rescued from your captivity by the Sessrimathe.” He shook his head in wonder at his own words. “The Sessrimathe. I'd like to see Seremathenn again. Spectacular place, wonderful people. And Niyu, and Hyff, and Tuuqalia. Maybe visit Ioll, and a dozen or so other worlds.” He met the Vilenjji's much broader gaze challengingly. “I'd even be curious to see what Vilenj is like.

“But I can't go back. Sure, I can long for a piece of chocolate cake, or a Sunday football game. And I probably will. But would I trade a visit to the mountains of Niyu or a performance of the silica-dancers of Seremathenn for them?” He shook his head. “Not anymore. I've changed too much. I've
learned
too much.” He smiled. Not for the effect it might have on the Vilenjji, but for himself. “I've learned how to cook. I can do things no chef back home can even imagine. I might even manage a reasonable facsimile of a chocolate cake. Or trade for one.” With difficulty, he struggled erect and met the Vilenjji's alien gaze without blinking.

“I've become as much a civilized resident of this galaxy as the Niyyuu, or the Hyfft, or even the K'eremu. Or you, or any Vilenjji.” That said, with finality, he did close his eyes, and waited for the fatal shot.

Seconds passed. The seconds stretched into a minute, then two. A weight descended on his left shoulder and he flinched. But there was no pain, and none of the agonizing tingling that had coursed through him earlier. He opened his eyes.

Under-flaps splayed out to both sides, Pret-Klob had squatted down in front of him. The circular weapon had been put away. The weight Walker felt came from one wide arm flap resting on his shoulder. The last time he had felt such a weight, it had been dragging him forcibly out of his rented SUV beside Cawley Lake high in the Sierra Nevada of northern California. Whatever the Vilenjji had decided to do, he suspected that was a place he would never see again.

Because he had told the truth.

As much as he might want to see the lake, or revisit certain haunts and certain friends, he couldn't go back to the life he had known on Earth. Or any life on Earth. For him, Earth had become—what was a suitable term?

Small. That was it. In a galaxy of wonderments, the majority of which he had yet to experience and could not even envisage, Earth was small.

He was aware that Pret-Klob continued to stare at him. “‘The natural order of things.' It is not a fixed immutable. Everything can change. One who is adept at commerce learns to recognize such shifts. In abandoning your primitive world, you abandon your primitive self. I cannot countenance this change as being one applicable to every member of your species—but I must acknowledge that with which I am personally confronted.” Dragging itself heavily down Walker's arm, the end of the powerful appendage attached itself to his hand. Suckers took hold—but not hurtfully.

“While I continue to remain tentative as to the specifics of this unexpected revelation, I am persuaded to acknowledge at least one of your kind as an equal. Or at least, a near equal. Therefore, I will not kill you, Marcus Walker.”

Walker managed to remain as composed as possible under the circumstances. “Much obliged.” It was another measure of how much he had changed that he was able to add, “No hard feelings. I understand when you say it was only business. I'm—I was, in business myself. I was a trader in commodities. You know—raw materials?”

Releasing the human's hand, Pret-Klob glanced thoughtfully over at the pair of Niyyuuan media representatives. They were beginning to moan and stir, their brightly colored frills flexing spasmodically, their quadruple tails twitching reflexively. He had not intended to kill them, and he had not. Satisfied that they would recover fully, he turned his attention back to his graduated inventory.

“That is most interesting. Perhaps we might even do some business together ourselves one day. My association is always ready to learn from others.”

Walker squinted up at the Vilenjji. “Even from former assets?”

A thick appendage gestured meaningfully. “It is the substance of knowledge that matters, not its source. One seeks profit wherever and however one can find it.”

“Couldn't have put it better myself. You know, there was this one time I was offered three containership-loads of processed cocoa and I had to—”

He broke off. Pret-Klob was being polite. The Vilenjji would have no knowledge of or interest in cocoa, cocoa futures, or how the fluctuating political situation in Ivory Coast versus that in Venezuela might affect that particular market. If they were going to do anything together, a prospect that remained questionable, it would have to involve matters of mutual understanding. Could he somehow work his newly acquired culinary expertise into any such problematic equation?

“First thing: no trading in sentients,” he told the alien assertively. “Even if they're not as intelligent as Vilenjji—or humans, or Tuuqalians, or K'eremu. Not only does it go against civilized galactic behavior, it's not—nice.”

“I respect your self-elevated status,” Pret-Klob replied evenly, “but it is not for you to render judgment on the commercial traditions of another species.”

They sat and argued for some time. All the while Walker wondered at how far he had come, from being a captive of the Vilenjji to sitting peacefully across from one while discussing the nature and ethics of Vilenjji business.

Displaying the noteworthy resilience that defined their craft, as soon as they had recovered from the muted effects of Pret-Klob's weapon, both Niyyuuan media representatives set aside their distress at having been deceived and mistreated by the Vilenjji in favor of recording the fascinating discussion taking place between it and the solitary human.

While they were not shocked, their feisty aplomb was not matched by that of the four-legged terrestrial who walked in on them. It was difficult to say which George found more shocking: the presence of their former captor Pret-Klob in his and Walker's private quarters, or the fact that man and Vilenjji appeared to be engaged in nothing more confrontational than polite and animated conversation.

“Shouldn't be any abducting of dogs, either,” Walker declared, adding a cryptic comment to the conversational brew into which his canine companion had just wandered.

Dazed, George entered farther into his quarters, sparing nary a glance for the two Niyyuuan media representatives who were busy recording everything within range of their pickups.

“Captivating reaction,” declared one.

“Very attractive, yes,” agreed the other as she adjusted the myriad devices that spotted her slender front like so many electronic boils. “It will be well received when played for audience back home.”

“What's going on here?” Sidling up alongside his friend, George continued to keep a wary eye on the looming bulk of the Vilenjji. “What's he doing here?”

Reaching down, Walker stroked the dog's head and back, reassuring him. “Pret-Klob arranged to accompany us here in order to kill me. Probably you, too.” He returned his gaze to the big alien. “Instead, we had a chat, and we've come to an understanding. Nobody's going to kill anybody, and his association will quit its claim to us. We might even end up doing some business together.” He winked at the bewildered dog.

“No kidnapping and abducting of close relations, though. Oh, and one other thing. I'm not going back to Earth.” His voice was steady now, confident. As assured as his words. “It's not home anymore, and I've decided I can't do it. I don't
want
to do it. I want to see, and experience”—he took a deep breath, let it out slowly—“everything else. But I'm sure Gerlla-hyn can find a way to drop you off. Back in Chicago, or anywhere else you might prefer.”

Recovering his composure, George stared evenly up at his human. Then he stepped forward—and nipped him on the leg. Letting out a yelp of mixed pain and surprise (more the latter than the former), Marcus gaped at his companion. Pret-Klob looked on with quiet interest, while the two Niyyuuan media representatives could hardly contain their delight at the action they were recording.

“George, what…?”

“You stupid, stupid man. You stupefied hairless ape. Don't you remember anything? Don't you
see
anything?” He paused, then added, “Evidently not, because all you can do is sit there with your mouth open and nothing but seeohtwo coming out.” The dog began to pace in an agitated, tight circle. “How many times did I mention that on Earth I'd be a talking freak, or have to live an existence as an enforced mute? How many times did I point out that out here I'm just one alien among hundreds? That not going back would be by far the most sensible and rational end for me?”

Walker found his voice. “But every time we talked about returning, every time it was brought up, you were as steadfast about it as I was.”

The dog lunged forward again, and Walker jerked his leg back just in time. “There's intelligence, and then there's smarts. You may be intelligent, Marc.” He nodded in the direction of the interested Vilenjji. “Intelligent enough to satisfy our walking eggplant, here. But when it comes to smarts, you come up shorter than an addled Chihuahua.

“Of course I talked like I wanted to return home. I did that for
you.
I was supporting
you.
Because your need to do so was so obviously desperate. Because it was all you talked about. Because—you're my friend, Marc.” The furry head dropped, then came up again. “Me—I don't care if I ever see a cold, friendless, empty alley again. As far as I'm concerned, the whole mutt-catching, puppy-abusing, neuter-happy place can go to the dogs!” He glanced over at the delighted media representatives. “You get all that? Good! You can add that because of the changes
I've
undergone, because of the way
I've
changed, I know that I'd be better off on Niyu than on my homeworld—though Seremathenn would be better still. Dog-breath, I'd even prefer K'erem. At least the smells are interesting, and I wouldn't have to spend the rest of my life being prodded and poked in the service of advancing ‘science.'”

It was quiet in the room, the ship silent around them, the hum of the Niyyu's equipment barely audible.

“Well,” Walker finally murmured.

Standing up, George put his front paws in his friend's lap and stared earnestly into his face. “I don't have anything worthwhile to go back to, Marc. But what about you? Are you sure about this? Are you really sure?”