Chapter V

Three scarlet natives had come out of the cave. They stood in a patch of brilliant sunlight, swinging their middle limbs about and playing with a sassy little monkey-rat as men would with a fox terrier. At length they picked up what seemed to be a crossbow and several spears, slung bundles across their sloping shoulders, and started down the trail. They walked slowly, spears at the ready, and were obviously alert. Frequently they glanced up, or paused as if listening.

Rounding a turn, the lead native stopped abruptly, leaped back and dropped flat. The other two dropped almost simultaneously. The leader motioned cautiously for his companions to crawl forward; he pointed with a tentacular upper limb toward the picture sequence machine gleaming in the morning light. On it was showing a picture of a native, enlarged from Stuart's picture of his temporary "prisoner".

The semanticist had evidently made a good guess in alien psychology, for no hostile move was made toward the machine. The natives lay there studying it, making occasional guarded gestures to each other. They stiffened as the next picture flipped into view. It was a Terrestrial family with two children. It was the picture Stuart kept beside his bunk, and was the best thing he could think of to put across the concept of a peaceful people.

Still no hostile move. No sounds, either, except the background chirping and jabbering of other animals.

Anxiously, Stuart fussed with his controls. He flipped to the next picture and a dozen after that without getting an audible response. The natives were shown views of Terrestrial life, New York and the space-port, the _Special Agent_, and two views of the receding Earth.

Then the linguist tried one of his sketches. It showed a globular ship, such as the Invaders were believed to have used, attacking the Terrestrial ship. In the following sketches, the Earth ship was damaged, but managed to destroy the other.

One of the natives was evidently jolted into comment at this point. "Aru!" came distinctly over the loudspeaker. Stuart immediately murmured "Picture Fifteen" in Universal Speech into his microphone. He beamed at Gordon, relaxed a little, and hit the sequence button again.

The next set of pictures showed the approach to Azura, the landing, and Rogers' kindly treatment of the monkey-rats. Again a comment came from the middle native, evidently younger and less well-trained. This time he uttered several syllables, which the cephaloid duly absorbed. The rear native thwacked him across the back angrily. Stuart bounced in his seat with silent glee. He made microscopic adjustments to the analyzer and continued the show.

Behind him, the door opened quietly. Rogers came in with some breakfast for Gordon. The scout raised his eyebrows inquiringly; the chief winked and nodded at the screen, holding up a hand in the "okay" gesture. Stuart looked around at them, his finger hesitating over the sequence button. He shut off his mike for a moment. "This is one of the parts I'm dubious about. We swing into our sales talk here. Man sees native, puts down gun, and approaches peacefully. Then they exchange gifts."

He pushed the stud thoughtfully. "If the response to this is favorable, do you think we ought to go ahead with the rest?"

The chief frowned. "Sure. Why not?"

"Well ... I suppose it would be foolish to stop now. I don't have enough material yet to prepare a verbal message, and they seem to be understanding this one anyway. On the other hand ... they might not like this. It shows us helping them to rebuild a city, and giving them weapons." He lit a cigarette and hit the button again. "They might wonder what we want in return."

Gordon put down his coffee and scratched his chin. "Well, I don't think we ought to revise our plans now, Stuart. I think they'd be glad to offer us a base, in return for protection. We might as well go ahead."

* * * * *

The linguist nodded. The minutes passed as he continued the series of pictures. After a while he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a gabble of sounds from the pickup unit. The natives were pointing upward and discussing something. Pilot lights on the cephaloid hookup showed that the material was being received, passed back and forth for analysis, and stored away. Stuart threw in a key word now and then to identify the picture being shown.

"It's clear that they understand," he whispered. "Now for the clincher. We help them fight off the Invaders. I hope they don't get the idea that our presence would make another Invader attack more likely."

He continued to push the stud every twenty or thirty seconds, lips moving as he counted. When the counter showed the end of the sequence approaching, he nodded in satisfaction. The natives were still talking to each other. "Good thing we've got these cephaloids," Stuart whispered. "An electronic analyzer could never sort out the three voices. Nor could any linguist alive, for that matter."

Once again he paused, finger hovering. "This is where we show them pictures of a blast-rifle, how to use it, and so on--and then the magic box opens and we give them one." His whisper was faint, and he swallowed. "Should I go ahead?" He seemed to be asking himself.

Gordon studied him a few seconds. "Play it your own way, Stuart. The risk is yours, so the decision ought to be."

The linguist put out his cigarette with trembling fingers. "Yes.... I realize that I talked you into letting me go ahead with my own plan. But ... you see ... well, I've never done anything especially brave or dangerous, as all you fellows have. The plan _might_ be made to work out without my actually going down there in person. I've been wondering what you would say if I ... backed out."

The chief got up and clapped him on the back, awkwardly. "Why, not a thing, Stuart. Wouldn't say a word. A man's personal project is his own, in this kind of business. Long as it doesn't affect the welfare of anyone else, he can volunteer for, or refuse, any job."

Stuart smiled slowly and sat up straight. "Then I'll go ahead. I just wanted to be sure I could have backed out if I'd wanted to. If I do something worthwhile, I want it to be without compulsion." He punched the sequence button vigorously, while the chief stared at him with amused respect. He grinned back at Gordon. "Sit down, Captain, and keep an eye on the natives."

Gordon sat, applying his attention to the scene on the ground. "Think they'll get this part?"

"They certainly ought to. I even made a sketch of a native destroying a hell-cat with my new gun." After a few minutes of attentive study by the three natives, the series was finished. The language expert reached over and depressed a different stud without hesitation. "There it is. A nice little blast-rifle, practically new!"

The screen showed the front of a box falling open under the sequence machine. The three Azurans raised their heads and stared. Then they looked up at the sky, and back at the box. Their conversation was excited, not at all hushed.

Finally the leader sent the third native around in a flanking move, equipped with the crossbow. When the new position had been taken up, the three studied the situation and seemed to discuss its various aspects. Suddenly, while the flanker held a bead on the machine, the one who had been in the lead stood up and advanced warily toward the proffered gun. He studied it at close range, after looking over the scene carefully.

Abruptly he laid down his spear and seized the blast-rifle. He remained crouching, obviously waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he straightened up and began to examine the weapon. He turned to the last picture, still showing on the machine, and carefully conformed his tentacles around the gunstock as indicated. Then he looked about, as if seeking a target.

A large, brilliant blue tree about twenty meters away seemed to be his choice. He spent a moment getting the sights lined up and then pulled the trigger.

* * * * *

The entire lower half of the tree disappeared in a tremendous explosion of steam and splinters. The upper part of it came smashing down, as did great sections of others directly behind the target.

The stunned native staggered to his feet, still clutching the gun, and cooed at it lovingly. His two companions came running up, whistling and gabbling with excitement. They were allowed to take the gun up on the hill and try it out--at more distant targets. Several trees and a good-sized rock disappeared with a noisy violence that was obviously satisfactory.

The leader remained with the picture machine and began to examine it. He jumped, startled, when Stuart flipped one more sketch into view. It showed the little scout ship about to land. After the native had studied it a while, Stuart gave him the last one. This was a sketch of the linguist himself, stepping out of the scout ship and greeting a waiting Azuran.

The reaction to this was immediate and positive. Shrill commands sent the smaller native into ambush in the shrubbery; the other came running down the hill, handed over the gun, and fled to the cave. The leader, still watching the sky, squatted down to wait, rifle beside him. After a moment he took something out of his knapsack and apparently began to munch on it. Twice he snatched up the gun and sighted through it, as though practising.

Stuart frowned at the screen. "They seem to understand I'm about to visit them, but they're not convinced they can trust visitors. No reason why they should be, I suppose." He disconnected the pickup unit from the cephaloid circuit.

Gordon cocked his head to one side reflectively. "Well, I don't think the situation is too bad. You've seen how cautious they are ... they must have been very badly scared when their cities were destroyed. Perfectly natural. It's also evident they're not fundamentally warlike; their behavior shows an absence of military background. Even a couple of traders noticed that, by the way, over on the other side of the planet last year."

The linguist shook his head reprovingly. "Let's avoid semantic confusions when we can, Gordon. Their behavior does not fit in with _your_ notion of military background. We have no right to say what it connotes _in their culture_."

The captain acknowledged the reasonableness of this statement with a smile and left him to the solitude he needed. He began the task of receiving the material the cephaids had assimilated, feeding in associations of "probable general context" with the natives' comments regarding each picture. He laughed to himself as he realized that a certain amount of projection of his own notions was inevitable.

Such was the tremendous power of the cephaloids, and the delicate, almost intuitive skill of his handling, that the major part of the analysis was complete in little more than an hour. He switched the controls to "Translate, Univ. Sp. to Other." Indicator needles shifted and steadied as the surface potentials readjusted in the semi-living colloids.

Then, before proceeding further, he asked the captain to join him again. When Gordon was seated, the expert smiled wryly at him. "This is usually considered very poor procedure, but there's only one word I can be fairly sure of as a check on this thing. It seems reasonable that, when the middle native exclaimed 'Aru!', he meant 'Good'!! That was when we destroyed the attacking ship, if you remember ... a little fiction which I shall have to explain to them later." Into the microphone he said, in Universal Speech, "Good. That is good."

"Aru. Aru naa lo," replied the loudspeaker.

Stuart, though he relaxed a little then, lost no time. It took him only a few minutes to memorize several phrases which the jelly-and-silver translator gave him. By the time Brettner had the little scout ship warmed up for him, Stuart was prepared to tell the natives, "Peace! I come in peace. Your people and my people have the same enemy. Therefore let us be friends and work together. We shall give you large and strong weapons."

He turned to leave the lab, but stopped to squint once more at the screen. Only the native with the gun was visible, still grimly waiting. The linguist finished buckling on his gear with nervous fingers. "They look awfully well-disciplined to me," he murmured to himself. "Wish I felt a little more nonchalant about this!" He clumped down the passageway to Number Three Lock, where he met Brettner climbing out of the scout ship.

Brettner slapped him on the back, saying, "She's all wound up. Good luck, chum. Keep away from the girlies, hear?" From the control room, Rogers shouted gaily, "Send us a postcard, laddie. One of them Venus-type!" The two scouts guffawed heartily. Gordon looked out and waved at him.

The linguist climbed into the control seat, laughing in spite of himself. He waved at Brettner, shut the inner door, and opened the outer. A monitor light showed green. "Ready," he told the intercom. He was surprised at how steady his voice and hands were.

"Cast off!" came Gordon's voice.