Read Online Unearthly Neighbors by Chad Oliver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chad Oliver
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main reason for establishing the camp in the clearing had been to give the natives a chance to size them up. He hoped they liked what they saw.
Ralph Gottschalk, his back propped up against a stump, was strumming the guitar he had insisted on bringing from Earth. He and Don King—who had a surprisingly good voice—were singing snatches of various old songs: John Henry, When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again, San Antonio Rose, Wabash Cannonball. As was usually the case, they didn’t quite know all the words, which made for a varied if somewhat incomplete repertoire.
It was good to hear the old songs; they were a link with home. And, somehow, the whole scene was oddly reassuring. It was all so familiar, and at the same time so forever new: the dance of the fire, the distant stars, the singing voices. How many men and women had gathered around how many fires to sing how many songs since man was first born? Perhaps, in the final analysis, it was moments like this that were the measure of man; no one, on such a night, could believe that man was wholly evil.
And the natives of Sirius Nine? Did they too have their songs, and of what did they sing?
“It’s beautiful,” Louise said, sharing his mood as always.
Monte left his cot and went to her. He held her in his arms and kissed her hair. They did not speak; they had said all the words in the long-ago years, and now there was no need for words. Their love was so much a part of their lives that it was a natural, unquestioned power. There was too little love on any world, in any universe. They treasured each other, and were unashamed.
Tomorrow, there would be the caves and the natives and the curious problems of men that filled the daylight hours.
For tonight, there was love—and that was enough.
6
The gray reconnaissance sphere floated through the sky like a strange metallic bubble in the depths of an alien sea. The white furnace of the sun burned away the morning mists, leaving the vault of the sky clean and blue as though it had been freshly created the night before.
“There it is,” Tom Stein said, pointing. “See? They’re starting to come out now.”
Ace Reid, unbidden, began to take the sphere down.
Far below them, Monte could see a panorama that might have been transmitted from the dawn of time. There was a sun-washed canyon that trenched its way through eroded walls of brown rock, and a stream of silver-streaked water that snaked its way across the canyon floor. Reddish-green brush lined the banks of the stream, and it looked cool and inviting. (Old habits and patterns of thought died hard; Monte caught himself wondering whether or not the fishing was any good down there.) At the head of the canyon, not far from the leaping white spray of a waterfall, there was a jumbled escarpment of gray and brown rock. The face of the rock was pockmarked with the dark cave-eyes of tunnels and rock shelters. There was even a curl of blue smoke rising from the mouth of one of the caves, which was the first real evidence of fire that Monte had seen among the natives.
He could see the people clearly, like toy soldiers deployed in a miniature world. There were men and women in front of the caves and on the steep paths that wound down to the canyon floor. Three or four kids were already down by the stream, splashing in the water. The people must have seen the sphere, which was plainly visible in the blue morning sky, but they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.
“Look good, Charlie?”
The linguist smiled. “If they’ll only say something.”
Monte turned to Ace. “Set her down.”
“Where?”
“Just as close to that cliff as you can get. Try not to squash anybody, but let ’em feel the breeze. I’m a mite tired of being ignored.”
Ace grinned. “I’ll park this crate right on their outhouse.”
The gray sphere started down.
They shaved the canyon walls and landed directly below the cave entrances. Monte unfastened the hatch and climbed
Ralph Gottschalk, his back propped up against a stump, was strumming the guitar he had insisted on bringing from Earth. He and Don King—who had a surprisingly good voice—were singing snatches of various old songs: John Henry, When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again, San Antonio Rose, Wabash Cannonball. As was usually the case, they didn’t quite know all the words, which made for a varied if somewhat incomplete repertoire.
It was good to hear the old songs; they were a link with home. And, somehow, the whole scene was oddly reassuring. It was all so familiar, and at the same time so forever new: the dance of the fire, the distant stars, the singing voices. How many men and women had gathered around how many fires to sing how many songs since man was first born? Perhaps, in the final analysis, it was moments like this that were the measure of man; no one, on such a night, could believe that man was wholly evil.
And the natives of Sirius Nine? Did they too have their songs, and of what did they sing?
“It’s beautiful,” Louise said, sharing his mood as always.
Monte left his cot and went to her. He held her in his arms and kissed her hair. They did not speak; they had said all the words in the long-ago years, and now there was no need for words. Their love was so much a part of their lives that it was a natural, unquestioned power. There was too little love on any world, in any universe. They treasured each other, and were unashamed.
Tomorrow, there would be the caves and the natives and the curious problems of men that filled the daylight hours.
For tonight, there was love—and that was enough.
6
The gray reconnaissance sphere floated through the sky like a strange metallic bubble in the depths of an alien sea. The white furnace of the sun burned away the morning mists, leaving the vault of the sky clean and blue as though it had been freshly created the night before.
“There it is,” Tom Stein said, pointing. “See? They’re starting to come out now.”
Ace Reid, unbidden, began to take the sphere down.
Far below them, Monte could see a panorama that might have been transmitted from the dawn of time. There was a sun-washed canyon that trenched its way through eroded walls of brown rock, and a stream of silver-streaked water that snaked its way across the canyon floor. Reddish-green brush lined the banks of the stream, and it looked cool and inviting. (Old habits and patterns of thought died hard; Monte caught himself wondering whether or not the fishing was any good down there.) At the head of the canyon, not far from the leaping white spray of a waterfall, there was a jumbled escarpment of gray and brown rock. The face of the rock was pockmarked with the dark cave-eyes of tunnels and rock shelters. There was even a curl of blue smoke rising from the mouth of one of the caves, which was the first real evidence of fire that Monte had seen among the natives.
He could see the people clearly, like toy soldiers deployed in a miniature world. There were men and women in front of the caves and on the steep paths that wound down to the canyon floor. Three or four kids were already down by the stream, splashing in the water. The people must have seen the sphere, which was plainly visible in the blue morning sky, but they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.
“Look good, Charlie?”
The linguist smiled. “If they’ll only say something.”
Monte turned to Ace. “Set her down.”
“Where?”
“Just as close to that cliff as you can get. Try not to squash anybody, but let ’em feel the breeze. I’m a mite tired of being ignored.”
Ace grinned. “I’ll park this crate right on their outhouse.”
The gray sphere started down.
They shaved the canyon walls and landed directly below the cave entrances. Monte unfastened the hatch and climbed
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