“Go away. I mean stay very close. Sorry to be so physiological. Me a medic student! Even blood bothers me.”
“Never mind, sugar—”
“Sugar yourself, and wash your paws. We smell.”
Mijok was muttering in alarm. Wright had abandoned the dissection and gone out in the meadow, cautious but swift, to the spot where yesterday they had found the pygmy soldiers. He took up a small skull and arm bone, pathetically clean—perhaps there were insect scavengers that followed after the omasha—and the discarded bow. But instead of bringing back these relics, Wright held them high over his head, facing westward. Tall and gray in the heavy sun, he stepped twenty paces further toward the region where the pygmies had entered the jungle; then he set the bones down in the grass and strode back to the shelter, fingers twitching, lips moving in his old habit of talking half to himself, half to the world. “The omasha,” he said, “cracked the enlarged vertebrae—favorite morsel maybe.”
Mijok moaned, blinking and sighing. He stared long at the silent grace of the lifeboat, then at Christopher Wright. He too was talking to himself. Abruptly, something gave way in him. He was kneeling before Wright, bending forward, taking Wright’s hands and pressing them against the gray-white fur of his face and his closed eyes. “Oh, now,” Wright said, “now, friend—”
Paul remarked, “You’re elected.”
“I will not be a god.”
CHAPTER 6
Mijok released the hands of his deity and sat back on his haunches, foggy-eyed. Wright stroked the great furry head, troubled and amazed. “It won’t do,” Wright said. “We’ll have no gods on this planet. Unless human nature can make itself a little godlike. And no final Armageddon—for that’s within too, and always was. Well, he’ll learn language fast. As he does, the first thing he must discover is that we’re all one flesh.” But Mijok was gazing up in adoration at the sound of the voice, trembling, not in fear, smiling when he saw Wright smile. “I believe he never had a god before—hadn’t reached the stage of personalizing the forces of nature. They’re just forces, and himself a bundle of perception, not even realizing that he’s more knowing and sensitive than other animals. Not arrogant yet, not sophisticated enough to be cruel, or mean, or even ambitious.…”
Dorothy pushed her fists into her cheeks, brown eyes upturned to study the old man: a way she had, carrying Paul back eleven years to the day he had come aboard the ship and seen her for the first time and loved the woman who was, even then, manifest in the leggy, awkward child. “Doc, why did you do that, out there in the meadow?”
“Why, Dorothy, we must make contact with those pygmies too. They are—advanced. It’ll be more difficult. They’ll have traditions—maybe some very ancient ones. But we must make contact.”
“Mijok hates them though. If they come here—”
Wright grinned. “Temporary advantage of being little tin deities. I think Mijok will do whatever we indicate—until we’re able to teach him independence.”
Paul said, “Don’t think for a minute I’m not with you. But Doc, with the others helpless we’re only three—”
“Four.”
“Yes, four. There’s our own survival to think of. It’s a big planet. Seems to me you’re taking it on all at once.”
Wright slouched, loose-limbed, at the barrier, where he could watch the meadow, and Mijok stayed close to him. “I think we must, Paul. If we start right perhaps we can go on right. A mistake at this point could go on burning for a thousand years.… Why do you think he broke out into worship when he did? Our superior achievements—lifeboat, guns, the rescue from that reptile? The fact that I wasn’t afraid of a poor pygmy’s bones? All that, sure, but something else. Ed would say I was daydreaming—but I think Mijok’s heart knows what his brain can’t yet interpret. Sears would agree, I think—his own heart’s bigger than Lucifer. Mijok hasn’t the least conscious idea why I invited those pygmies to come and get their dead. Down deeper, in the part of him that made him bring the moss and the meat and take care of us, I think he knows very well.”
“You’re proposing,” Dorothy said, “to take a chance on love?”
Wright was tranquil, watching the meadow. “Whenever men put their chips on the other thing they always lost, didn’t they? Repeatedly, for twenty or thirty thousand years? Did they ever create anything good except in a milieu of co-operation, friendship, forbearance? One of the oldest of commonplaces—the teachers all knew it. Lao-tse—Buddha—or stated negatively: ‘He who lives by the sword.…’ And so on. Good is not the mere absence of evil, but the most positive of human forces. The instruments of good are charity, patience, courage, effort and self-knowledge, each unavailing without the others; remember that. And that’s all the basic ethics I know. The rest is detail, solution of immediate problems as they arise. Even on Earth the good tended to win out in the long run: at least it did until the mechanical toys got out of hand. Then there was a century of living under a question mark. There was also the Collectivist Party. Yes, as a prime example of a part of my own philosophy totally perverted, I give you the Collectivist Party.” Wright was talking to himself again, the bitterness of Earth’s history goading him into soft-spoken monotone, drawling and dark, on a planet nearly five light-years distant from the ancient confusions. “The Collectivist Party, which turns ‘co-operation’ into the same sort of word fetish that ‘democracy’ was less than a hundred years ago—co-operationwithout charity, without patience, without courage and always, always, without self-knowledge.”
Dorothy still watched him with sober upturned eyes. “Ed told me once his father was a pilot in the Collectivist Army during the Civil War.”
“I know.” Wright smiled at her in bashful half apology. “Some of the old wounds still bleed too, I guess. I generally manage to keep my political mouth shut when he’s listening, if I can. Not that Ed could be accused of still fighting the war that ended before he was born.… Relax: I think they’re coming.”
Paul joined Wright and the giant at the barrier, but Dorothy stayed a moment with the sick, feeling their wrists, murmuring something close to Ann’s ear, although the girl could not respond. “Past the fever stage, I believe,” she said. “They’re all breathing well. No chance they’ll be out of it before night, I suppose.…”
The pygmies were still some distance away, slipping along the edge of the woods in plain sight. There were only three—the two women and one bowman; perhaps the others were paralleling their course inside the forest—perhaps a hundred others were. Wright whispered, “Have we anything that would make a respectable gift?”
Mijok was rumbling in misery and fright. Dorothy came over holding a locket. “This—you remember, Doc—a matron at the Orphanage gave it to me. I used to imagine it could be a portrait of my mother—”
“But my dear—”
The brown girl shook her head. “This ship-metal wedding ring Paul hammered out for me—that’s the only Earth jewelry I want to keep. This face that might be like my mother’s—Oh, Doc, I’m getting to be a big girl now. Besides, Lucifer will have plenty of pretties for us later on. And Doc—let me do this, will you? They’ve got a woman leading ’em, so—wouldn’t she be less afraid of another woman? I’ll uncover, so she—” Dorothy shrugged out of her jacket. “Please, Doc? I’m scared, but—”
Wright glanced helplessly at Paul. “We—”
Dorothy said quickly, “My decision.” Holding the locket up for the sun to gleam on it, she walked into the meadow and waited in the brightness. Paul’s hand sweated on the rifle stock. He saw Wright patting Mijok’s arm, heard his restraining murmur: “Quiet, Mijok—keep your shirt on, Mijok, old man—man.…” Mijok searched the face of his god with a mute desperation and remained as he was.
The pygmy woman halted fifty feet away in still-faced musing. As Paul had seen through the binoculars, she