Is That What People Do? Read online

“It’s sweet of you to say that,” Anita said tenderly. “But lives cannot be sacrificed just for the love of two individuals. You must tell your people not to cross the boundary lines, Danta. They’ll be shot. Goodbye, and remember, it is best to live in the path of peace.”

  She hurried away from him. Danton watched her go, angry at her noble sentiments which separated them for no reason at all, yet loving her for the love she showed his people. That his people were imaginary didn’t count. It was the thought that mattered.

  At last he turned and walked deep into the jungle.

  He stopped by a still pool of black water, overhung with giant trees and bordered by flowering ferns, and here he tried to plan the rest of his life. Anita was gone; all commerce with human beings was gone. He didn’t need any of them, he told himself. He had his reservation. He could replant his vegetable garden, carve more statues, compose more sonatas, start another journal....

  “To hell with that!” he shouted to the trees. He didn’t want to sublimate any longer. He wanted Anita and he wanted to live with humans. He was tired of being alone.

  What could he do about it?

  There didn’t seem to be anything. He leaned back against a tree and stared at New Tahiti’s impossibly blue sky. If only the Hutters weren’t so superstitious, so afraid of natives, so....

  And then it came to him, a plan so absurd, so dangerous....

  “It’s worth a try,” Danton said to himself, “even if they kill me.”

  He trotted off toward the Hutter boundary line.

  A sentry saw him as he neared the vicinity of the spaceship and leveled his rifle. Danton raised both arms.

  “Don’t fire! I have to speak with your leaders!”

  “Get back on your reservation,” the sentry warned. “Get back or I’ll shoot.”

  “I have to speak to Simeon,” Danton stated, holding his ground.

  “Orders is orders,” said the sentry, taking aim.

  “Just a minute.” Simeon stepped out of the ship, frowning deeply. “What is all this?”

  “That native came back,” the sentry said. “Shall I pop him, sir?”

  “What do you want?” Simeon asked Danton.

  “I have come here to bring you,” Danton roared, “a declaration of war!”

  That woke up the Hutter camp. In a few minutes, every man, woman, and child had gathered near the spaceship. The Elders, a council of old men distinguished by their long white beards, were standing to one side.

  “You accepted the peace treaty,” Simeon pointed out.

  “I had a talk with the other chiefs of the island,” Danton said, stepping forward. “We feel the treaty is not fair. New Tahiti is ours. It belonged to our fathers and to our fathers’ fathers. Here we have raised our children, sown our corn, and reaped the breadfruit. We will not live on the reservation!”

  “Oh, Danta!” Anita cried, appearing from the spaceship. “I asked you to bring peace to your people!”

  “They wouldn’t listen,” Danton said. “All the tribes are gathering. Not only my own people, the Cynochi, but the Drovati, the Lorognasti, the Retellsmbroichi, and the Vitelli. Plus, naturally, their sub-tribes and dependencies.”

  “How many are you?” Simeon asked.

  “Fifty or sixty thousand. Of course, we don’t all have rifles. Most of us will have to rely on more primitive weapons, such as poisoned arrows and darts.”

  A nervous murmur arose from the crowd.

  “Many of us will be killed,” Danton said stonily. “We do not care. Every New Tahitian will fight like a lion. We are a thousand to your one. We have cousins on the other islands who will join us. No matter what the cost in human life and misery, we will drive you into the sea. I have spoken.”

  He turned and started back into the jungle, walking with stiff dignity.

  “Shall I pop him now, sir?” the sentry begged.

  “Put down that rifle, you fool!” Simeon snapped. “Wait, Danta! Surely we can come to terms. Bloodshed is senseless.”

  “I agree,” Danton said soberly.

  “What do you want?”

  “Equal rights!”

  The Elders went into an immediate conference. Simeon listened to them, then turned to Danton.

  “That may be possible. Is there anything else?”

  “Nothing,” Danton said. “Except, naturally, an alliance between the ruling clan of the Hutters and the ruling clan of the New Tahitians, to seal the bargain. Marriage would be best.”

  After going into conference again, the Elders gave their instructions to Simeon. The military chief was obviously disturbed. The cords stood out on his neck, but with an effort he controlled himself, bowed his agreement to the Elders and marched up to Danton.

  “The Elders have authorized me,” he said, “to offer you an alliance of blood brotherhood. You and I, representing the leading clans of our peoples, will mingle our blood together in a beautiful and highly symbolic ceremony, then break bread, take salt—”

  “Sorry,” Danton said. “We New Tahitians don’t hold with that sort of thing. It has to be marriage.”

  “But damn it all, man—”

  “That is my last word.”

  “We’ll never accept! Never!”

  “Then it’s war,” Danton declared and walked into the jungle.

  He was in a mood for making war. But how, he asked himself, does a single native fight against a spaceship full of armed men?

  He was brooding on this when Simeon and Anita came to him through the jungle.

  “All right,” Simeon said angrily. “The Elders have decided. We Hutters are sick of running from planet to planet. We’ve had this problem before and I suppose we’d just go somewhere else and have it again. We’re sick and tired of the whole native problem, so I guess—”he gulped hard, but manfully finished the sentence—”we’d better assimilate. At least, that’s what the Elders think. Personally, I’d rather fight.”

  “You’d lose,” Danton assured him, and at that moment he felt he could take on the Hutters single-handed and win.

  “Maybe so,” Simeon admitted. “Anyhow, you can thank Anita for making the peace possible.”

  “Anita? Why?”

  “Why, man, she’s the only girl in the camp who’d marry a naked, dirty, heathen savage!”

  And so they were married, and Danta, now known as the White Man’s Friend, settled down to help the Hutters conquer their new land. They, in turn, introduced him to the marvels of civilization. He was taught Twelve-hand Bridge and Mass Dancing. And soon the Hutters built their first Subway—for a civilized people must release their aggressions—and that game was shown to Danta, too.

  He tried to master the spirit of the classic Earth pastime, but it was obviously beyond the comprehension of his savage soul. Civilization stifled him, so Danta and his wife moved across the planet, always following the frontier, staying far from the amenities of civilization.

  Anthropologists frequently came to visit him. They recorded all the stories he told his children, the ancient and beautiful legends of New Tahiti—tales of sky gods and water demons, fire sprites and woodland nymphs, and how Katamandura was ordered to create the world out of nothingness in just three days, and what his reward for this was, and what Jevasi said to Hootmenlati when they met in the underworld, and the strange outcome of this meeting.

  The anthropologists noted similarities between these legends and certain legends of Earth, and several interesting theories were put forth. And they were interested in the great sandstone statues on the main island of New Tahiti, weird and haunting works which no viewer could forget, clearly the work of a pre-New Tahitian race, of whom no trace could ever be found.

  But most fascinating of all for the scientific workers was the problem of the New Tahitians themselves. Those happy, laughing, bronzed savages, bigger, stronger, handsomer, and healthier than any other race, had melted away at the coming of the white man. Only a few of the older Hutters could remember having met them in any numbers and thei
r tales were considered none too reliable.

  “My people?” Danta would say, when questioned. “Ah, they could not stand the white man’s diseases, the white man’s mechanical civilization, the white man’s harsh and repressive ways. They are in a happier place now, in Valhoola beyond the sky. And someday I shall go there, too.”

  And white men, hearing this, experienced strangely guilty feelings and redoubled their efforts to show kindness to Danta, the Last Native.

  FISHING SEASON

  They had been living in the housing project only a week, and this was their first invitation. They arrived on the dot of eight-thirty. The Carmichaels were obviously prepared for them, for the porch light was on, the front door partially open, and the living room a blaze of light.

  “Do I look all right?” Phyllis asked at the door. “Seams straight, hair curly?”

  “You’re a vision in a red hat,” her husband assured her. “Just don’t spoil the effect by leading aces.” She made a small face at him and rang the doorbell. Soft chimes sounded inside.

  Mallen straightened his tie while they waited. He pulled out his breast handkerchief a microscopic fraction farther.

  “They must be making gin in the cellar,” he told his wife. “Shall I ring again?”

  “No—wait a moment.” They waited, and he rang again. Again the chimes sounded.

  “That’s very strange,” Phyllis said a few minutes later. “It was tonight, wasn’t it?” Her husband nodded. The Carmichaels had left their windows open to the warm spring weather. Through the venetian blinds they could see a table set for Bridge, chairs drawn up, candy dishes out, everything in readiness. But no one answered the door.

  “Could they have stepped out?” Phyllis Mallen asked. Her husband walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway.

  “Their car’s in.” He came back and pushed the front door open farther.

  “Jimmy—don’t go in.”

  “I’m not.” He put his head in the door. “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Silence in the house.

  “Hello!” he shouted, and listened intently. He could hear Friday-night noises next door—people talking, laughing. A car passed in the street. He listened. A board creaked somewhere in the house, then silence again.

  “They wouldn’t go away and leave their house open like this,” he told Phyllis. “Something might have happened.” He stepped inside. She followed, but stood uncertainly in the living room while he went into the kitchen. She heard him open the cellar door, call out, “Anyone home!” And close it again. He came back to the living room, frowned and went upstairs.

  In a little while Mallen came down with a puzzled expression on his face. “There’s no one there,” he said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Phyllis said, suddenly nervous in the bright, empty house. They debated leaving a note, decided against it and started down the walk.

  “Shouldn’t we close the front door?” Jim Mallen asked, stopping.

  “What good will it do? All the windows are open.”

  “Still—” He went back and closed it. They walked home slowly, looking back over their shoulders at the house. Mallen half expected the Carmichaels to come running after them, shouting “Surprise!”

  But the house remained silent.

  Their home was only a block away, a brick bungalow just like two hundred others in the development. Inside, Mr. Carter was making artificial trout flies on the card table. Working slowly and surely, his deft fingers guided the colored threads with loving care. He was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear the Mallens enter.

  “We’re home, Dad,” Phyllis said.

  “Ah,” Mr. Carter murmured. “Look at this beauty.” He held up a finished fly. It was an almost replica of a hornet. The hook was cleverly concealed by overhanging yellow and black threads.

  “The Carmichaels were out—we think,” Mallen said, hanging up his jacket

  “I’m going to try Old Creek in the morning,” Mr. Carter said. “Something tells me the elusive trout may be there.” Mallen grinned to himself. It was difficult talking with Phyllis’s father. Nowadays he never discussed anything except fishing. The old man had retired from a highly successful business on his seventieth birthday to devote himself wholeheartedly to his favorite sport.

  Now, nearing eighty, Mr. Carter looked wonderful. It was amazing, Mallen thought. His skin was rosy his eyes clear and untroubled, his pure white hair neatly combed back. He was in full possession of his senses, too—as long as you talked about fishing.

  “Let’s have a snack,” Phyllis said. Regretfully she took off the red hat, smoothed out the veil and put it down on a coffee table. Mr. Carter added another thread to his trout fly, examined it closely, then put it down and followed them into the kitchen.

  While Phyllis made coffee, Mallen told the old man what had happened. Mr. Carter’s answer was typical.

  “Try some fishing tomorrow and get it off your mind. Fishing, Jim, is more than a sport. Fishing is a way of life, and a philosophy as well. I like to find a quiet pool and sit on the banks of it. I figure, if there’s fish anywhere, they might as well be there.”

  Phyllis smiled, watching Jim twist uncomfortably on his chair. There was no stopping her father once he got started. And anything would start him.

  “Consider,” Mr. Carter went on, “a young executive. Someone like yourself, Jim—dashing through a hall. Common enough? But at the end of the last long corridor is a trout stream. Consider a politician. You certainly see enough of them in Albany. Briefcase in hand, worried—”

  “That’s strange,” Phyllis said, stopping her father in mid-flight. She was holding an unopened bottle of milk in her hand.

  “Look.” Their milk came from Stannerton Dairies. The green label on this bottle read: “Stanneron Daries.”

  “And look.” She pointed. Under that, it read: “lisensed by the neW yoRK Bord of healthh.” It looked like a clumsy imitation of the legitimate label.

  “Where did you get this?” Mallen asked.

  “Why, I suppose from Mr. Elger’s store. Could it be an advertising stunt?”

  “I despise the man who would fish with a worm,” Mr. Carter intoned gravely. “A fly—a fly is a work of art. But the man who’d use a worm would rob orphans and burn churches.”

  “Don’t drink it,” Mallen said. “Let’s look over the rest of the food.”

  There were three more counterfeited items. A candy bar which purported to be a Mello-Bite and had an orange label instead of the familiar crimson. There was a jar of Amerrican ChEEse, almost a third larger than the usual jars of that brand, and a bottle of SPArkling Watr.

  “That’s very odd,” Mallen said, rubbing his jaw.

  “I always throw the little ones back,” Mr. Carter said. “It’s not sporting to keep them, and that’s part of a fisherman’s code. Let them grow, let them ripen, let them gain experience. It’s the old, crafty ones I want, the ones who skulk under logs, who dart away at the first sight of the angler. Those are the lads who put up a fight!”

  “I’m going to take this stuff back to Elger,” Mallen said, putting the items into a paper bag. “If you see anything else like it, save it.”

  “Old Creek is the place,” Mr. Carter said. “That’s where they hide out.”

  Saturday morning was bright and beautiful. Mr. Carter ate an early breakfast and left for Old Creek, stepping lightly as a boy, his battered fly-decked hat set at a jaunty angle. Jim Mallen finished coffee and went over to the Carmichael house.

  The car was still in the garage. The windows were still open, the Bridge table set, and every light was on, exactly as it had been the night before. It reminded Mallen of a story he had read once about a ship under full sail, with everything in order—but not a soul on board.

  “I wonder if there’s anyone we can call?” Phyllis asked when he returned home. “I’m sure there’s something wrong.”

  “Sure. But who?” They were strangers in the project. They had a nodding acqu
aintance with three or four families, but no idea who might know the Carmichaels.

  The problem was settled by the ringing of the telephone.

  “If it’s anyone from around here,” Jim said as Phyllis answered it, “ask them.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. I don’t believe you know me. I’m Marian Carpenter, from down the block. I was just wondering—has my husband dropped over there?” The metallic telephone voice managed to convey worry, fear.

  “Why no. No one’s been in this morning.”

  “I see.” The thin voice hesitated.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Phyllis asked.

  “I don’t understand it,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “George—my husband—had breakfast with me this morning. Then he went upstairs for his jacket. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “Oh—”

  “I’m sure he didn’t come back downstairs. I went up to see what was holding him—we were going for a drive—and he wasn’t there. I searched the whole house. I thought he might be playing a practical joke, although George has never joked in his life—so I looked under beds and in the closets. Then I looked in the cellar, and I asked next door, but no one’s seen him. I thought he might have visited you—he was speaking about it—”

  Phyllis explained to her about the Carmichaels’ disappearance. They talked for a few seconds longer, then hung up.

  “Jim,” Phyllis said, “I don’t like it. You’d better tell the police about the Carmichaels.”

  “We’ll look pretty foolish when they turn up visiting friends in Albany.”

  “We’ll have to chance it.”

  Jim found the number and dialed, but the line was busy.

  “I’ll go down.”

  “And take this stuff with you.” She handed him the paper bag.

  Police Captain Lesner was a patient, ruddy-faced man who had been listening to an unending stream of complaints all night and most of the morning. His patrolmen were tired, his sergeants were tired, and he was the tiredest of all. Nevertheless, he ushered Mr. Mallen into his office and listened to his story.

  “I want you to write down everything you’ve told me,” Lesner said when he was through. “We got a call on the Carmichaels from a neighbor late last night. Been trying to locate them. Counting Mrs. Carpenter’s husband, that makes ten in two days.”