Running from the Deity (6 page)

A slight misstep sent an electric sting up his right leg, and he winced. “Is it much farther?” he asked via the translator swaying on the retractable cord around his neck.

“Not so far.” He found himself looking into the large, inquisitive round eyes of the female. “Why didn’t you just fly there? Ebbanai said that you arrived here in a great flying machine.”

“That’s just it,” he told her, sidestepping mention of the shuttlecraft and skimmer snugged in the
Teacher
’s support bay. “It’s not feasible to have a large vessel engage its engines to travel such a short distance.”

Ebbanai freed one double-flanged forehand long enough to make a crisp gesture. “What powers your craft, Flinx? I would say that maybe it is like one of the wondrous new steam devices one hears about, though I saw no evidence of such.”

More indications of the level of local technology. “Not steam,” he replied as they followed a well-trodden path through a pair of dunes thickly clad in tall, single-stemmed vegetation. “A kind of energy that would be hard for me to explain to you.”

The Dwarra accepted the demurral—for now. Time enough later to seek more detailed explanations. As the initial shock of the creature’s reality continued to fade, other ideas, other notions, began to fill the empty space in his head. Especially the portion that was devoted to contemplation of future possibilities. Looking past the struggling, limping alien, he could see that his mate’s thoughts were running along similar lines.

Not every successful voiceless communication required the entwining of Sensitives.

The home of Flinx’s new friends was not properly a farm. There were only two buildings, both dome-shaped. The smaller featured tall, narrow windows, a single door, and a slender clay pipe chimney. The other was somewhat larger with no chimney or windows, but it boasted a much larger set of double doors.

“That’s where we keep our wagon and overnight the baryeln,” Ebbanai explained in response to his query.

“What’s a baryeln?” Flinx asked via the translator. The sounds of Dwarrani were not complex. Already he found himself beginning to recognize simple words. Always good at languages, he had no doubt that with a little effort and practice, he would soon be able to manage basic phrases. The translator would always be available to back him up.

Ebbanai looked again at his mate. It was clear that this creature, for all its impressive technology and physical stature, was ignorant of a great many basic things.

“We’ll show you,” Storra told him. Her right hands indicated his bad leg. “Unless you are too tired and wish to rest first.”

Flinx tested his ankle. There was no way he could walk on it, but the worst of the pain seemed to be ebbing somewhat. After the assisted hike across the dunes, rest was certainly in order. But he knew that once he sat down he would not feel like getting up again for a while. Better to view the enigmatic baryeln first, then relax.

Interestingly, there was no fence around the buildings, or anywhere that he could see. “How do you define your property limits?” he asked.

“There are stone markers,” Ebbanai told him.

“And the baryeln don’t wander off if you let them out of their enclosure?” Overhead, Pip soared effortlessly on a mix of sea breezes and lighter gravity.

“You will see,” Storra told him. This alien was going to need much education, she thought, if she and her mate were going to pursue some of the ideas that were just beginning to coalesce in her mind.

Hinged at the sides—the Dwarra had advanced far enough to smelt metal, Flinx noted—one of the double doors was pulled aside by Ebbanai while Storra fought to assist Flinx in remaining upright. As the two of them helped him hobble inside, he saw that individual pens held what at first appeared to be decapitated creatures. They were not headless, however, and he eventually found the fore end of each animal by seeking out the now familiar pair of Sensitives that protruded from the skull of every higher-order land-dweller on Dwarra.

The baryeln were so rectangular in shape that except for their four legs—which underwent the standard Dwarran subdividing to form a total of eight forelegs—they might be shipped by being stacked one atop another as neatly as crates of comparable size. Tail-less and virtually featureless except for their Sensitives, they stood motionless in their stalls, the only sound in the stable or barn the sound of hundreds of flat mouthparts masticating kilo after kilo of harvested verdure.

Walking over to the nearest enclosure, Ebbanai opened the simple but sturdy gate and beckoned Flinx come closer. He did so, hopping on his one good leg and using the solidly built fencing for support. Up close, the baryeln were as dull in appearance as they were from a distance. Their bulky, squarish bodies were adorned with dozens of small, pyramidal nodules. In color they ranged from a pale blue to a deep violet. Some featured horizontal streaks of white or beige. As they ate, their Sensitives bobbed up and down like paired metronomes. Placid and bovine, it seemed they would be easy to care for.

“The baryeln are our life,” Storra explained. “They provide us with meat, gryln, and transportation.”

One word had failed to translate. “What’s
gryln
?” Flinx asked innocently.

“Watch.” Moving to one fence, Ebbanai removed what appeared to be a long, narrow funnel and a feather-tipped stick from among a cluster of identical utensils. Approaching a baryeln, he selected one of the many nodules on its back and began to stroke the area around it with the feather-stick. In less than a minute, a glistening, pink-tinged fluid began to ooze from the tip of the nodule. It flowed slowly, gleaming with a consistency like glycerine. After a few teaspoons had issued from the spot, the flow stopped.

Bringing the funnel-like collection device over to where Flinx stood propped up against the fence, Ebbanai held it up to the visitor. “Gryln is refined in many ways, and used in many different forms, but those of us who are fortunate enough to own our own baryeln enjoy it fresh.” He held it out to the human. “Please, try some.”

They were both watching him carefully. Fortunately, they did not possess sufficient cultural referents with which to allow them to interpret the expression on his face. He swallowed hard. Removing the analyzer from his belt, he carefully pushed the sampling probe into the viscous fluid. Unfortunately, the device promptly pronounced the amalgam of alien proteins and sugars perfectly harmless to his system. It did not, of course, reference something as subjective as taste. His principal excuse for not accepting the offering now demolished, he smiled wanly and took the funnel from the eager Ebbanai’s gripping flanges.

The thick liquid was warm, which did not surprise him. The taste, however, did. His face rapidly unwrinkled. The viscous fluid was simultaneously sweet and sharp, like honey doused with pepper. Though perplexing to his palate, it was anything but unpleasant, despite the immediate and unsettling proximity of its ambulatory alien origins. He handed the funnel back to his host. Moments passed and his stomach did not rebel.

Storra’s mouth was flexing in a series of expanding ripples. The local equivalent of a smile, perhaps. “Welcome,” she declared heartily. “Wherever you have fallen from, Flinx, you are welcome in this house.”

“Where our tired and sore guest should be resting,” Ebbanai chided them both. He had to admit that it had been interesting to see the alien drink gryln fresh from the baryeln. Perhaps they were more alike than not.

Their visitor chose that moment to remind them that the gap between them was also defined by things that could not be observed.

“That baryeln there.” Halting on the way out of the building, Flinx halted and pointed at one of the creatures in a stall opposite.

Storra looked at the animal and wondered why the alien was singling it out. “That is orv-six. Something about it draws your attention?”

Flinx did not bother to nod, knowing that the gesture would pass unrecognized. “Something’s wrong with her. She’s in pain.”

Eyes contracting slightly, Ebbanai walked over to the stall in question. Entering, he studied the nearly motionless animal, walking all around it, collapsing his upper body into the lower in order to peer beneath the stolid creature. All the while it ignored him, making no sound beyond a soft humming noise.

“I see no injury, or sign of difficulty.” He peered at his alien guest. “What leads you to suspect such a thing?”

“I perceive it,” Flinx told him. “That’s all I can tell you.” On his shoulder, Pip stirred slightly.

Now both Dwarra were staring at him. “It is not possible.” Like individual flower petals caught in a stiff breeze, Storra’s skin flaps slowly rose and fell against her body. “People are advanced enough to transmit their feelings to the lower animals, but they cannot read the emotions of the lower orders, no matter how tightly they might try to entwine their Sensitives with them.”

Lest unflattering conclusions be drawn, Flinx held back from pointing out that even in the complete absence of the sensitive cranial protrusions, he could easily read her emotions. “Check again,” he urged his hosts. The pain from the creature was sharp and clear, the mental equivalent of pouring lime juice into an open cut.

Once more Ebbanai moved to examine the animal called orv-six. This time, he used the eight gripping flanges at the ends of his forearms to prod and press against different parts of the animal. Nothing happened—until one firm inward thrust caused the creature to bark crisply, lean forward, and strike out sharply with all four of its rear legs. Only by scuttling swiftly to one side did Ebbanai avoid a nasty kick.

Keeping a wary eye on the now visibly disturbed baryeln, Ebbanai rejoined the alien and his mate. “Some kind of severe upset of the third digestive tract. A purgative may be in order, or a change in diet. Unquestionably, something is wrong.” Turning, he regarded his singular guest with something approaching awe. “Devoid of Sensitives,” he commented aloud, as if the alien were not present, “yet it can identify emotions not only in Dwarra, but in simple animals. Remarkable!”

“And useful,” the ever-practical Storra observed. With both left hands, she indicated the other stalls. “What of the rest of our pack? Can you probe their feelings as well?”

Flinx could, and did. “Everyone else seems to be fine,” he assured her. “Content.”

She made a clicking sound in her throat signifying approval. “It’s clear our new friend is the master of many surprising talents—even if fixing its own leg is not one of them.”

“Actually,” he told her, “I can do that, too. But in order to do so properly I need a place to rest.”

“Of course, of course!” Ebbanai hastened toward the propped-open double doors. “In our amazement we forget ourselves, Storra. Come into our home, Flinx, and partake of my family’s hospitality.”

The dome house was surprisingly well decorated, full of carvings and attractive weavings that made good use of local colors and materials. It was also notably, almost shockingly, devoid of furnishings.

A mite bewildered, Flinx noted the paucity of furniture. “I don’t see any chairs or benches. Where do you sit?”

“Sit?”
Mate and mate looked at each other before returning their attention to their guest. “What is
sit
?”

This was an aspect of Dwarran culture the
Teacher
had neglected to expound upon, Flinx observed. Come to think of it, from the moment he had set eyes on them, he had not seen either of the natives sit down. Instead, their upper torsos sank down into the lower portions of their bodies, which were appropriately wide enough to receive them. Supported by a quartet of forelegs, it was evident that they did not
need
to sit down. At least, not in the human sense. He wondered if they were physiologically capable of it. Instructively, the house was destitute of furniture for the purpose. There were no chairs, no couches, not even a lounge. He began to wonder what position they used for sleeping.

“Well, in order to work on my leg, I need to sit down.” He proceeded to explain what was required.

Did the alien’s legs tire so easily that they could no longer support it? Ebbanai mused. The absence of furniture specifically designed for the human’s need was not a problem. A family wooden chest carved with rough bas-reliefs served the purpose admirably. Openmouthed, he and Storra looked on in fascination as the visitor actually
bent its body in the middle
and rested it on the chest. Such remarkable flexibility in one so bulky, she marveled, had to be seen to be believed.

Opening a pouch on his service belt, Flinx removed a small tube, unsealed it, and squeezed a little of the ointment it contained onto his open palm. Pip’s tongue immediately darted in its direction, and he had to use his other hand to push her head back toward his shoulder. Peeling down the top of the boot on his right foot, he applied the ointment to the swollen, slightly reddened flesh. Immediately, his injured ankle was suffused with a soothing warmth. A couple of applications should restore the stressed spot to normal, he felt.

Meanwhile, he would try to relax and learn as much as he could about his hosts before it was time to take his leave of them. Thankfully, except for their understandably roiled emotions, all was quiet within him as well as without.

“You’re quite isolated here, I see,” he murmured into the translator’s pickup.

“Oh no.” Storra hastened to correct him. “We have many near neighbors. This is a productive fishing and growing area, well-populated.” Her Sensitives dipped toward him but did not make contact. “Because Ebbanai’s ancestors were among the last to settle this peninsula, our home is the farthest out. But between here and Metrel City there are many hundreds of homesteads and several small villages.”

That was not possible, Flinx reflected. No matter the world, if it was inhabited by sentients capable of a minimum of cognitive thought, their projected feelings invariably found him smothered beneath an unending torrent of emotion. Struggling to ignore that constant emotional pressure was one of the hardest things he had to do in life. It was why he did not mind spending so much time traveling between worlds. Only in the vastness of interstellar space could his mind be fully at ease, free from the interminable storms of love, hatred, desire, lust, fear, uncertainty, and all the other emotions intelligence was heir to. Once down on an inhabited world it was a constant battle to keep that emotive babble pushed sufficiently far into the background just so he could retain his sanity. Less complex animalistic emotions he was able to ignore.