COLIN KAPP: The Teacher

 

 

As science fiction has developed over the decades, science has, in fact, taken a back seat. The emphasis has swung from scientific endeavour to the effects of science upon society. But there always will be a place for the hard-core science fiction story, and one of its most popular aspects is that of the scientific problem: namely a mystery that can only be solved by logical application of strict scientific principles. One of the best British exponents of this theme is Colin Kapp.

 

For many years a technician working on chemical aspects of electronic research and manufacture, Kapp is now an independent consultant in the printed wiring field, and brings all his vocational knowledge to bear in his fiction. His first story, Life Plan (New Worlds, November 1958) was widely praised, and his follow-up, Survival Problem (April 1959) cemented his position as an author to watch. The theme of that tale, inter-dimensional travel, reappeared with even more stunning effect in Lambda One (December 1962) which has since been adapted for television.

 

With The Railways Up On Cannis (October 1959) Kapp introduced us to his team of Unorthodox Engineers, scientists who have unconventional ways of solving seemingly impossible problems. They reappeared in The Subways of Tazoo, a fairly natural sequel, and then in the particularly fascinating The Pen and the Dark, the apparently insoluble Getaway From Getawehi, and the cleverly original The Black Hole of Negrav, all in New Writings.

 

The lack of a regular British market drove Kapp to the American magazines, where fortunately his work appears frequently. His special technique for realism has brought him much success especially with his two recent novels, Patterns of Chaos (1972) and The Wizard of Anharitte (1972), both originally serialised in If. Several shorter pieces have also appeared in America as did his own favourite choice, The Teacher, the cover story for the August 1969 Analog. Kapp says:

 

‘The Teacher has two themes. Firstly, when - not if - man meets the other inhabitants of the stars, our technical sophistication will, hopefully, be matched by an equal expertise in the social sciences. We know that contact of a lower order of culture with a higher invariably destroys the former. This is a principle we may need to keep firmly in mind in order to preserve ourselves or to protect others from our influence.

 

‘Secondly, The Teacher makes the point that the discovery of the wheel and the development of “hammer and fire arts” are not necessarily a prerequisite for the development of a civilization. An electro-chemical based civilization is a perfect possibility. If you doubt it, remember that even on Terra the chemical primary cell came well before the dynamo, and the unique abilities of metal forming by electrolysis (electroforming) provide many of the highest-precision parts needed by our own technology. Also a crown for the Prince of Wales.

 

‘Curiously, though, when starting to write The Teacher I had none of this in mind. I was having fun with descriptions of doing what were - for me - familiar things in an alien place and in an alien way. I think this is the way a story should be conceived - the exploration of the intriguing simply because it is intriguing. If The Teacher also had something to say, that was serendipity. The real purpose of writing it was trying to share a little of that private place where only I may enter - the realms of my own imagination.’

 

* * * *

 

THE TEACHER

Colin Kapp

 

 

‘Scorpid! Scorpid!’ The cry of alarm echoed the panic back from the rock-slime of the roof. ‘Scorpid in ten tank!’

 

There was good reason behind the fear. The scorpion’s body was as long as a man’s forearm and equally as thick. And it was deadly. Its savage mandibles snapped open and shut like the snicker of a machine tool, with the capacity of cutting through a centimetre of steel. Its tail, equipped with a murderous post-anal sting, lashed about in frenzy, splashing the vat acids many metres into the air.

 

Undeterred by the poisonous liquor into which it had fallen, the scorpid began to swim lunging circles around the great vat, looking for a way of escape. Its body arched dangerously as it attempted to project itself over the overhanging edge or to gain a hold on the protrusions. The workmen edged back, knowing the instantaneous death which could follow the creature’s liberation on to the floor. The winchman, waiting his opportunity, quickly drew the plating mandrels from the tank to prevent the scorpid’s escape by climbing the rope or cathode connections. The circular anode yoke was axed from its supporting cables, and slid quietly with its burden of anode metal into the depths of the vat. Now the creature was confined, unless it could manage to leap the overhang on to the vat surrounds. With practice and with the spur of hunger it would learn to do even that.

 

The workmen were soon prepared. New stocks of oil-soaked brands were hauled up from the oil pits and laid with ends adjacent round the perimeter. A fire-boy touched the brands into flame with long strokes from his firing sticks.

 

Soon the circle of fire ringed the entire vat, allowed no crevice through which a scorpid might penetrate. A further supply of brands was arranged to replenish the first when they became exhausted. Then the shouting, sweat-soaked men did all that they now could do - wait and hope.

 

OrsOrs, the overseer, checked to make sure the emergency arrangements were complete before he gave the next instruction:

 

‘Find someone fetch the Gaffer.’ This was very much a job for a volunteer. Although the divisions between day and night on the surface of Tank made no difference in the deep caverns, daytime on the surface drove all manner of creatures into the shielding dark of the higher galleries. To fetch the Gaffer at this time of surface noon would be a difficult and dangerous assignment. It was a job suited only to a fleet runner and one who knew exactly the blackspots of the noon caves. OrsOrs would have gone himself, but his responsibilities tied him to the deep levels. In any case, to fetch the Gaffer at such a time was a job for a younger man and one without dependants.

 

Jo Jo was the obvious choice. The name was not his own. When working, all of them used given names invented by the Gaffer, whose alien tongue could never handle the forked aspirations of the ritual language from which all keep names were derived. Jo Jo was less of a volunteer than a nominee, but he raised no complaint when hands thrust him forward. His normal duties were those of fire-boy, and he was used to running the caverns with a flaming brand. Divested of his apron and rubber boots, he stood with all the nakedness of his forefathers. OrsOrs judged the boy had the physique and the stamina necessary. Whether he also had the courage and the skill needed to make the noon journey was something that only time would show.

 

‘Find the Gaffer, Jo Jo. Tell him there scorpid in tank ten. The making of rocket projector tubes is stop. He mus’ come at once.’

 

The youth looked uncertain.

 

‘Are you sure he’ll be willing come through noon caves?’

 

OrsOrs frowned. ‘He’s a Terran. He’s not likely meet with anythin’ more formidable than himself.’ This was a stony jest, which raised a murmur of agreement from the onlookers. ‘Anyway, he’s never failed us yet. Say OrsOrs sent you. He will find way to come.’

 

Jo Jo nodded. He took three oil brands, fastened two at his waist with rope, and lit the third. He took also a short axe. Standing at the tunnel’s entrance he turned and raised his torch in farewell. The fine muscles of his naked body were so accentuated by the angle of the light that he looked more god-image than a man. Then he was gone, the swift flame receding into the tunnel as he ran.

 

Once he was alone, Jo Jo began to re-examine his own feelings about the trip and his ability to survive it. For the most part, the lower tunnels and galleries were rock-strewn and damp and inclined to slime - treacherous to running feet. A man falling here could easily break a limb or his head, and once he had fallen it could well be days before he was discovered. Jo Jo slackened his pace and began to concentrate on footholds. Better to arrive slowly than not, to arrive at all.

 

Twenty minutes took him to the foot of the air shaft, where the great ropes drew iron cages to the other levels and where the giant leathern bellows strained in their shackles like the guts of some gigantic reptile. The caves near the air shaft were places that Jo Jo feared. They were chemical rooms and mixing rooms, newly installed since the Gaffer’s coming. The men who sweated in the black heat of these foul holes were prone to strange diseases and shortages of breath and tumours of the skin. Jo Jo hurried past as though the very draught entering the corridor might have the power to contaminate him. Because of places such as this, Jo Jo felt a strong resentment against the Gaffer even though, as OrsOrs was constantly reminding, without the Gaffer they could never hope to win the war against the reptiles.

 

He came to a rising passage. Jo Jo lit the second brand from the first, and threw the latter away still only half consumed. Although such wastage was a crime, he knew that in the galleries ahead he would need a steady light. He might get the chance to kindle one more brand on the journey, but he could scarcely hope for time to kindle two.

 

The passages became drier as he ascended, and the slight natural draft against his skin told him of the random chimneys connecting to the surface. At this point his main danger lay in the shards of fragmented quartz which lay like daggers in the sandy floor. To pass them uninjured called for skilled footwork and precise muscle control. He held his torch high to catch each bright reflection, placing his feet miraculously on to softness with each running step. But he knew that to make a mistake and sever a tendon, or even to cut a foot and bleed severely, could be fatal in the hours until surface darkness when OrsOrs would come this way himself to fetch the Gaffer.

 

It took him half a painful hour to reach the first of the noon caves. With aching thigh muscles and his back coated with dust and running sweat, he paused for a moment at the threshold. The galleries before him were too vast to be lit by a torch. Only his foreknowledge of the route could guide him to the tunnel’s entrance at the other side. Now he would be forced to go slower in order to avoid collision with the bushes of razor crystal, yet not too slowly lest a footburner be drawn from its lair and wait with phosphoritic breath to burn his legs into stumps downward from the knee. At the same time he must travel watchfully, lest he rake his scalp on the stalactites descending from the roof - yet the noise and light of his passage would attract to his path all manner of scorpids and snappers and ghosts and things with wings and claws and webs of acridness and fright.

 

Before him, the things in the gallery sensed his presence and saw his light and began to mutter and flutter and move before him. He knew he must not stay to consider further. Holding his torch aloft, he began to run.

 

The beasties in the cave were more than usually active. Caught in the suddenly advancing light, the majority of them scattered from his path. Some, like the spiny needleball, curled into defensive knots, so well camouflaged on the sandy floor that he had to concentrate in order to differentiate between them and safe foootrests. Here and there a snapper chattered at his heels with jaws that would have stripped the flesh from the bone had he not been able to outrun the fortuitously stumpy legs that carried them.

 

At the crystal forest he was forced to slow in case his arms brushed the razors hanging like leaves on the silvern crystal trees. Here the fleshy beasts, like snappers, kept well clear of the silicon barbs. Only the horn-shelled and armoured animals dared to form lairs in the deadly glades. Of these few could move fast save for the scorpids, who never hesitated to attack anything which crossed their paths, although they seldom bothered to pursue. In common with this kind, Jo Jo feared scorpids more than he feared the reptiles on the surface. If none were in his path, he might get through. But if he came across one directly...

 

With trepidation he made his way through the silvern glades, fearfully thrusting his torch at every moving shadow. He kept his eyes alert for the proximity of the glassy leaves, the mere touch of which could sever an artery or gash the flesh beyond repair. In this way he encountered only a couple of armoured night-pods, relatively harmless, who scattered with heliophobic haste from the illumination of the torch. He was almost out of the forest before great danger struck.

 

From a rock waist-high. amidst the crystal bushes a scorpid launched itself directly at his side. Although he had his axe, Jo Jo had no time to use it. He struck at the scorpid wildly with his torch arm in a simple reflex action. At the normal velocity with which a scorpid moved he would have stood no chance. By pure accident the heavy fibre of the torch caught the moving scorpid body in midflight and deflected it in a long arc into the middle of a crystal bush. The bush erupted in a flurry of fractured blades. Jo Jo caught his breath and waited for the scorpid to re-emerge. Something hit the ground at his feet, and he panicked and beat at it with his torch several times before he gained the realization that the body which had fallen was already in the throes of death. By some miracle the razor leaves of the tree had penetrated the interstices in the scorpid’s protective plates and severed its throat. Now it lay in a fluid pool of its own life blood, twitching with nervous reaction but incapable of attack.

 

Jo Jo raised his torch again, and ran.

 

Within minutes he gained the end of the first gallery and was in the tunnel which connected with the second. Here the dryness and barrenness of the rock gave poor living to the beasties from the surface. Apart from the cave-crawlers and the occasional stinging bumble-bugs, he was safe from attack. Neither the crawlers nor the bugs could stand the sight of fire, and he took advantage of the respite to light his third torch from the second and to carry both before him while the second remained alight.

 

The next gallery was larger than the one through which he had passed, and contained no crystal forest. Here, however, both stalactite and stalagmite turned the path through many wild contortions and thereby slowed the pace. This was a favourite haunt of the footburners, who played tag around the rocky columns and waited to snort their phosphorous-laden breath on any unwary flesh which happened to pass within their compass. To some extent to bear a light here was a disadvantage, because a footburner’s phosphorescent snout was more clearly seen in darkness. But there were other beasties, some even as yet unnamed, against whom light was the only protection.

 

Warily Jo Jo threaded his way around the mineral pillars; occasionally running when a snapper chased his heels; occasionally slowing to avoid raking his head on an unexpected stalactite. Always his eyes were alert for a footburner’s snout. Though he saw several in the-distance, he was fortunate that none came close.

 

Then crisis! Breaking through a natural arch he was concentrating on the ground and nearly walked into an acidtail. Only the slight hum of wings warned him of the danger in time. Poised on a hundred delicate wings, the acidtail was directly in front of him, its tail of marvellous, corrosive lace draped fully across his path. OrsOrs had shown him how the threads of an acidtail’s plumage could etch deeply into the glaze on earthen pots and was used by potters as an instrument for making decorations. He knew also that the acid liquors exuded from the threads gave rise to deep and painful wounds and sought through the flesh to rot the bones beneath.

 

He stopped, uncertain suddenly of what move he ought to make. To retreat back into the line of disturbed creatures behind him was unthinkable; to circumnavigate the acidtail was impossible without a long detour from known paths; to attempt to advance was to invite a peculiarly painful form of death. It was then that he became aware of the footburner closing in behind him. His only relevant weapon seemed to be his firebrand, though he had never heard of its use against an acidtail. However, this was no time to be bound by custom. Almost without thinking he thrust the flame into the acid lace. There was a brief flare, accompanied by a shriek such as the ghosts of ancestors were held to give. The crippled acidtail fell like a wounded bumble-bug, covered with lines of fire. Unthinkingly Jo Jo leaped straight over the fallen beastie into the darkness beyond. Almost at the same time the path behind him grew brilliant with the flare of the exhalation of the footburner.

 

Jo Jo landed on soft sand, amazed to find himself unhurt. Unexpected contact with a stalagmite knocked the torch from his hand, but he did not dare return to retrieve it. Then he distantly saw the yellow light of the annex which led to the Gaffer’s tower. Heedless of anything which might now lie in his way, Jo Jo fled through the darkness in a tide of panic.

 

Then he was safe. The floor and walls of the annex tunnel were slightly corrugated, and stung his feet with invisible needles. No creatures would follow him into this place, so this was a pain he did not mind. The golden-yellow illumination was so intense it hurt his eyes, but no dangerous flying thing or bumble-bug would brave its radiation. Nothing more than stupid sun flies ever reached the screens. It was somehow characteristic of the Gaffer that he would play a creature’s foibles against itself and yet leave unimpeded access to his quarters for those he wished to see. On all same, Jo Jo could think of no other place so easily entered by a man yet so repellent to the beasties.

 

The Gaffer must have had warning of his coming because he was waiting at the end of the annex tunnel, his small, browned, terran face crossed with inquiry.

 

‘Jo Jo? What the devil brings you through the noon caves?’

 

For once Jo Jo forgot to be overawed by the Gaffer’s presence. Finding the man alone, he was very obviously human and, therefore, fragile. This threw a new light on the god-man from the stars. In fact, he was more approachable than OrsOrs, who was permanently worried by production problems and had not the kindly wisdom of the master technician from Terra.

 

‘If you please, Gaffer, OrsOrs send me. There’s scorpid in ten tank.’

 

The Gaffer scowled with sudden displeasure, his lean Terran face creasing across the tops of his eyes. ‘So there’s a scorpid in number ten. What of it?’

 

‘Please, OrsOrs wants you come.’

 

The Gaffer pursed his lips as though in sudden anger. Then he checked himself. ‘I was damnwell afraid of that!’

 

‘Afraid of scorpid?’ The surprise slipped through in Jo Jo’s voice. He knew from birth that Terrans were afraid of nothing.

 

‘No, not of scorpids... Of dragons rather.’

 

He caught Jo Jo’s piteous, questioning look and smiled. ‘You don’t understand me, Jo Jo. Perhaps one day you will. But let me ask a question: Of OrsOrs and I, who has had the most experience in killing scorpids?’

 

Jo Jo struggled with his answer, not wishing to offend. The Terran rescued him from his embarrassment.

 

‘Yes, you’re right, Jo Jo. The answer is OrsOrs, of course. So why did he send for me?’

 

When he thought about it, Jo Jo found the second question unanswerable. On the face of it, sending for the Gaffer had seemed such a logical thing to do that no one had questioned it. But when he tried to examine the logic, the point escaped him.

 

Meanwhile the Gaffer fussed about his instruments as though loath to leave them, then began to prepare himself for the journey. When he was ready he turned back to Jo Jo.

 

‘Where are your boots?’

 

‘In deposition cave, where I left them.’

 

‘But why did you leave them?’

 

‘Because wearing-boots-man cannot run the noon galleries.’ Jo Jo answered this as though the point was self-evident.

 

‘But Jo Jo,’ said the Gaffer patiently, ‘wearing-boots-man doesn’t need to run through the noon galleries. He can walk.’

 

Thinking about this, Jo Jo had to admit that the Gaffer was probably right. Most of the dangers in the galleries - the footburners, the snappers, the shafts of quartz, and the needleballs, were dangers to the feet. Given a pair of long yellow boots such as the Gaffer always provided, a man could choose his own pace according to the emergency. Of the things that were of harm to the body directly, almost all could be warded off with a blazing brand if you had the leisure to turn and face it out.

 

The Gaffer threw him a new pair of boots and put on a pair himself. He took a powerful handlamp from the clip by the door. After a moment’s thought he also took up a sticklike instrument with a metal spike at one end and a black box beneath the handle.

 

‘Come, Jo Jo! Let’s see what we can do for OrsOrs.’

 

‘You want torches?’

 

‘No, I have the lamp.’

 

Jo Jo put his hand in front of the lens. ‘It isn’t burn,’ he objected. ‘You can’ defend yourself with tha’.’

 

‘No,’ said the Gaffer. ‘But I don’t expect to have to.’

 

The Terran’s manner showed none of the tension which Jo Jo felt about returning across the disturbed noon galleries. The Terran carried little about him other than his stick, and it was obvious that he intended to make the journey at no more than walking pace. It was an example of the terrible assurance that the universe must adapt to suit the Terrans, since they did not intend to adapt to it. The endpoint of this philosophy should have been arrogance, but the Gaffer was more of a father-figure, always with the iron hand well concealed in a leathern glove. Jo Jo sometimes wondered just how terrible the iron hand of a Terran could be, seeing what he could accomplish with a mere stroke of the leather.

 

Seeing that for once he had the Gaffer to himself, Jo Jo felt bold enough to ask some of the questions which had been puzzling him. At the first widening of the way he forsook his deferential position at the rear, and drew up to the Gaffer’s side. Having gained this vantage point he became suddenly afraid of his own audacity. He blurted out his first question in a way he instantly regretted.

 

‘Are you God?’ asked Jo Jo.

 

The Terran footsteps faltered for a moment, then continued.

 

‘Far from it, Jo Jo.’ The Gaffer’s voice was kind.

 

‘Do you work for him then?’

 

‘Again, no.’ In fact, from some of the jobs I get, I sometimes wonder if I’m not an agent for the opposition.’

 

The answer was inscrutable to Jo Jo, but the Terran seemed to be a little amused, so the youth continued in a bolder vein.

 

‘Is a rocket terrible?’

 

‘To those who have no defence against it, yes.’

 

‘Would a rocket be terrible against Terran?’

 

‘Providing he knew you had one, no.’

 

‘If he knew, what would he do?’

 

‘Laugh until his pants fell down, I guess. Then, if he thought you were a danger to him, he’d kill you. If you weren’t he’d just go on laughing.’

 

‘Why?’ This was a leading question, and the crux of Jo Jo’s perplexity.

 

‘Why? Because a Terran has access to weapons many millions of times more powerful. He could, if he wished, destroy this whole world in a second, the sun in minutes, and most of the stars you see in a matter of hours or years.’

 

‘Is that what it means to be Terran - have the power to kill every thing?’

 

‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ said the Gaffer. ‘We always think of ourselves as builders and creators. But now I come to think of it, you do have a point.’

 

The focused beam of the Gaffer’s handlamp was probably a thousand times more powerful than the illumination from Jo Jo’s torch had been. With wide sweeps of arc, the Gaffer explored the roof of the gallery, revealing features which Jo Jo was sure no member of his own race had ever seen before. The entire cave was surmounted by banks of stratified crystal which shone with a thousand faceted mirrors, like transient stars. As the beam probed the far regions, Jo Jo became aware for the first time of the true proportions of the gallery. It was far smaller than his imagination had painted it. Thus gaining perspective, he lost a considerable amount of his fears.

 

Jo Jo realised with something of a shock that the Gaffer was more interested in the physical characteristics of the gallery than he was in the presence of the beasties. Such naivety seemed to verge on the insane. Jo Jo constantly leaned to deflect the lamp back to their immediate path so as to reveal the terrors underfoot. This exercise seemed to amuse the Terran somewhat, and he finally handed the lamp to the fire-boy.

 

‘You carry the lamp for me, will you, Jo Jo?’

 

Jo Jo accepted the offer proudly, marvelling at the solid, compact feel of the apparatus which was pressed into his hand. Like a child with a new toy he surveyed the path before them, delighted with the way the beasties fled from the intense beam into the cradling darkness. He could appreciate, now, that so bright a source of light was a very effective weapon against would-be attackers. It was suddenly no mystery to him that the Terran could walk through the noon caves with relative impunity, whereas Tanic’s natives trod here in fear of their lives.

 

Before them snappers and needle balls fled into the shadows, and bumble-bugs and ghosts and acid-tails stirred in a scurry of wings out of the range of the revealing brilliance. Only a footburner squatted doggedly in their path, squinting its small eyes malevolently and slavering its gross, corrosive juices. The Gaffer extended his pointed stick close to the creature’s face. From the spiked tip a long tracery spark appeared, searching out the footburner’s eyes with a thin, tinkering discharge. The footburner screamed with agony and fled from the scene, leaving bright phosphorescent pools as, witness to its involuntary spasm.

 

Treading warily over the phosphoritic excretion, Jo Jo became convinced of the Gaffer’s wisdom in insisting on the wearing of boots. He anxiously probed the shadows with the lamp, expecting the footburner to have retreated into a position of ambush, but the beastie had fled far, and was probably in hiding.

 

‘You didn’t kill him then?’ he asked.

 

‘Heavens, no!’ The Gaffer’s reproof was mild. ‘Live and let live unless you both need the same territory. It’s a good motto. I merely tickled him with a high-tension electrical discharge. Plenty of volts but no current. Painful but not deadly.’ He raised the stick and let the sparks play idly on to his fingers. ‘It seeks out the softer, moister parts of the body because the spark goes for the point of lowest electrical resistance. There’s no beast alive that could stand and face it, yet it couldn’t kill anything. Simple, humane, and very inexpensive.’

 

‘Are you always so worried for your enemies?’

 

‘Usually.’ The Gaffer’s voice was alive with amused cynicism. ‘It’s mainly our friends who tend to get hurt.’

 

Something in the Gaffer’s manner made Jo Jo feel suddenly afraid of the species who were so confident of their power to destroy that they could afford to show compassion for those who might destroy them. What the Terran had said about their friends was more difficult to understand.

 

With the handlamp it was easy to pick a more direct route through the columnar jungle and easy to avoid a colony of footburners, who scattered from the advancing light. The occasional snappers who rushed at them were almost casually turned by the Gaffer with his stick. Despite the Terran’s apparent assumption that traversing the noon gallery was no more than an interesting stroll, they reached the connecting tunnel in record time.

 

In the tunnel Jo Jo resumed his questions.

 

‘Gaffer, you came here to help us fight reptiles?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

 ‘Why do you help us?’

 

‘Firstly, because you’re a species so like Terran humanity that it’s impossible to believe we have not come from common stock - though we’ve no idea how this could be so. Secondly, although you are technically the dominant species on Tanic, an ecological imbalance has given crucial advantage to the reptiles. Either we help you, or we allow you to become extinct in a century or so. We hate species to become extinct - especially when they’re human like ourselves.’

 

‘But what you gain from helping us?’ Jo Jo still felt his earlier question was unanswered.

 

‘Gain?’ The question obviously took the Terran by surprise. ‘I don’t think we gain anything - except perhaps a mild feeling of satisfaction. But when you set that against the cost of an operation like this, it’s a pretty expensive way of gaining satisfaction.’

 

‘How expensive?’

 

‘All the wealth of all your elders and chiefs who have never lived couldn’t buy the power needed to drive one of our ships from Terra to Tanic.’

 

‘Ships? You have more than one, then?’

 

‘There are six in orbit around Tanic at the moment. The three survey ships will soon go home. The others, two supply ships and a cruiser, must wait for me.’

 

At the entrance to the second gallery they came across a scorpid. Sixteen incredibly agile legs, mandible that could break steel, and a mobile’s sting capable of dispatching a dozen men. It sat malignantly in their path, its eye stalks undeterred by the brightness of the handlamp.

 

Jo Jo found his mind suddenly crossed with a hint of heresy. Though he feared the scorpid, he was almost glad to see it contest the Terran for right of way. While he had a strong regard for the god who was becoming human, he was beginning also to develop a sense of affinity with the creatures of his own world - and a growing apprehension about the race who were so confident of themselves that they could afford to be kind to their enemies.

 

The scorpid was wary but unmoving. Not normally nocturnal in its habits, its eyes were equipped with irises well able to compensate for the brilliance of the handlamp. It reared up, its breath hissing through its terrible beak, its sting whipping the air with increasing agitation. The Gaffer stood stock still, regarding his pretentious foe with a look more of admiration than of concern.

 

‘Move along, old feller! I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve a great respect for that sting of yours. Besides which, you’re standing in my way.’ Experimentally he pointed his stick at the scorpid’s head and moved forward. The long electric arc struck towards the scorpid’s eye stalks. The scorpid, reacting faster than they could follow, hurled itself in fury at the spike, tearing it from the Gaffer’s hand and severing the electrode with one single crush of its beak. Then it reared up, spitting fury, its legs clawing the air, preparing to launch itself at the handlamp and the quaking Jo Jo who held it.

 

There was a whip of leather as the Gaffer’s hand drew something from his belt. This was followed by a blaze of light and a rapid series of explosions which were so powerful and unexpected that Jo Jo was deafened and robbed of the power of speech for many seconds after. The scorpid literally exploded in front of them. Fragments of its flesh hit the tunnel at all angles and fell ridiculously back to the floor.

 

The Gaffer returned an instrument to his waist and turned to the shocked fire-boy, whose nerveless hands still held the lamp as though he were a wooden image.

 

‘Sorry, Jo Jo! I should have warned you. Not something I like doing, no indeed! A bit hard on the ears in a confined space like this.’

 

In Jo Jo’s shocked mind two points were paramount - the absolute decimation of the scorpid, and the facile reason for the Terran’s reluctance to use his fearful instrument. The latter factor was so greatly at variance with the Gaffer’s odd notions of humane defence that the fire-boy’s mind took an intuitive leap which brought him suddenly face to face with the terrible iron hand of Terra. For a moment the knowledge filled him with terror.

 

‘What did you use on the scorpid?’ he asked at last.

 

The Terran hand produced the instrument again.

 

‘Only an old-fashioned automatic pistol. Bit of a museum piece really - but it has its uses.’

 

‘Is that what Terrans use kill animals?’ Jo Jo examined the blued-steel artifact without comprehension.

 

‘Not very often.’ The Gaffer was frowning as he returned the pistol to its holster. ‘More often they use it to kill each other.’

 

Jo Jo retreated into silence then. The Gaffer retrieved his stick and tested it. Although the end had been completely severed by the scorpid’s jaws, the metal core still obliged with its characteristic spark. They moved on into the crystal forest. Snapper and needle-ball scuttled hastily to either side, still apparently reacting from the shock of the firing of the Gaffer’s weapon. The occasional snappers who dared enter the forest to rush at their heels received a discouraging shock from the electric stick and fled on stumpy legs slapping their stumpy tails behind them.

 

In the bright illumination of the handlamp the razor bushes were even more marvellous than Jo Jo had supposed. Millions upon millions of crystal platelets shimmered on ranks of skeletal trees, moved by an unseen unfelt wind. The regular track, he soon discovered, was by no means the safest route to follow. The Gaffer pointed new ways through which a man could pass without fear of accidentally brushing against the barbarous blades. Jo Jo reflected that the Terran in months had gained a better knowledge of the noon caves than his own people had acquired in their entire history.

 

This prompted Jo Jo to consider his people’s place in the scheme of things. Certainly they were above the beasties, yet below the Terrans. The Terran was a humanitarian - providing it did not conflict with his own safety and convenience. But when something stood in his way he was terrible and ruthless. So how far up the scale did the Terran rate the natives of Tanic? If they displeased him, would he not be equally terrible with them? And, if he could command destruction on any scale, why did he not direct it against the reptiles if he was sincere in his intent to help?

 

‘Do your ships have rockets?’ asked Jo Jo suddenly.

 

‘Far more powerful weapons than rockets, I’m afraid.’

 

‘But no use against reptiles, eh?’

 

The Gaffer began to frown. ‘So many questions, Jo Jo. What’s bothering you?’

 

‘I was thinking that if you already had plenty rockets up there, why don’ you use them on the reptiles? Then we need no’ to have make-men-work in the chemical rooms in order to make our own.’

 

‘It’s not that easy, Jo Jo. I could win your war for you in a week. But I don’t dare do so.’

 

‘Why no’?’

 

‘Because for your own sakes you have to win it yourselves. I am already doing far more than I should.’

 

For a long time Jo Jo trudged in silence, trying to resolve the meaning of this curious phrase. Then: ‘I don’ understand tha’, Gaffer.’

 

‘No,’ said the Terran. ‘I scarcely expected that you would.’

 

Jo Jo seemed to lose interest then. He fell sullenly behind all the way down the descending passages which led to the air shaft. Only when the acrid vapours from the mixing rooms made the air sting their nostrils, did he speak again.

 

‘I still don’ see’ why we have let-men-kill themselves in there, when you could give us all the weapons we need.’

 

‘I could give you everything but self-respect,’ said the Gaffer quietly. That you can only give to yourselves. It isn’t the winning that counts. It’s the fighting that fits a species for survival. If I killed all the reptiles tomorrow, you don’t know how utterly it would destroy you also. There are far worse things to tear a man apart than the claws of a lizard.’

 

‘Like what, Gaffer?’

 

‘Like the spawn of the dragon, for instance,’ said the Terran, and refused to answer more.

 

When they reached the deposition cave the air was thick with smoke from the burning brands. So far the scorpid had been contained, but its growing desperation had lent it amazing turns of strength. Twice it had gained the tank rim and twice been forced back into the process liquor. Such was its frenzy that next time it reached the rim it would probably escape, despite the fire.

 

Swiftly the Gaffer summed up the situation, then seized a metal net on the end of a long pole, used for recovering fallen anode metal from the tank. Savagely he kicked a path through the fire ring and made his way through to stand on the vat surround. OrsOrs followed him, plainly perplexed by the Gaffer’s action. Realisation brought a sharp cry of alarm.

 

‘Don’ be dumbchild, Gaffer! You know wha’ tha’ devil capable of.’

 

The Terran did not answer. Thoughtfully he watched the scorpid orbit on the surface of the liquid. When he judged the time to be right, he struck. The net took the scorpid fairly, and lifted it from the tank. Somebody screamed. OrsOrs cursed and rushed for a machette. The Gaffer held the pole resolutely horizontal, apparently uncertain what to do with his prize now it had been gained.

 

The scorpid had its own ideas on the situation. With machinelike rapidity its jaws tore the metal net apart. Then, with an agile flick of its tail, it leaped up and grasped the pole. Without pause it twisted, and like a streak of fury it raced towards the Gaffer’s hands.

 

It did not complete its journey. A man’s pace away from the Gaffer both scorpid and pole were severed by one blow from OrsOrs’s descending knife. The bisected scorpid fell beside the vat, its muscles still moving but incapable of any action save that of dying. OrsOrs watched it warily for a long time, knife poised, as though he believed in resurrection. Then he straightened himself and turned to face the Gaffer. His brow was streaming with sweat.

 

‘That was very dumbchild thin’ you do, Gaffer. Not even fire-boy attemp’ catch scorpid in net.’

 

‘I did.’ The Terran remained unmoved. His eyes were watching OrsOrs closely.

 

‘Then you’re no’ afraid of death?’ OrsOrs was critical.

 

‘It was a calculated risk.’

 

‘If I had not been quick, it would have killed you.’

 

‘That was part of the calculation. Why did you ask me here, OrsOrs?’

 

‘To kill scorpid.’

 

‘Yet you have better skill with a knife. You’re more familiar with the ways of a scorpid. It’s your natural enemy.’

 

‘When I want light I call fire-boy. When somethin’ need liftin’ I call winchman.’

 

‘And when something has to be destroyed, you call a Terran - is that it, OrsOrs?’ The Gaffer was sternly questioning. ‘Is that how you think of us? As destroyers? As interstellar rat catchers and louse removers?’

 

‘I did no’ say tha’, Gaffer,’ OrsOrs protested.

 

‘But wasn’t that the way you thought about it?’

 

Machette in hand, OrsOrs drew himself up to his full height, towering above the Terran’s head. ‘No disrespect you, Gaffer, but I did expect you come with thunder and kill scorpid. Tha’ way is easy.’ His voice and tone were thick with the disrespect that his words claimed to negate.

 

‘Why?’ asked the Gaffer directly. ‘I could have done it, certainly, but I’m damned if I can see why you should expect it.’

 

‘Have you no’ proven to us tha’ whatever we can do, Terran can do better?’

 

The Gaffer blazed with sudden anger. ‘If that’s the lesson you’ve learned, then you’ve deceived yourselves. I came here to help you to stand on your own feet - not to have you ride on mine. I’ve better things to do with my life than to play wet nurse to a bunch of cravens.’

 

OrsOrs face clouded with wrath and disillusion. His machette hand moved involuntarily, almost as though it wished to cleave the Terran as it had the scorpid.

 

‘By the ghosts of ancestors! If you were no’ the Gaffer I would have killed you for far less an insul’.’

 

The Gaffer was unconcerned. ‘You might have tried, OrsOrs, but I don’t think you would have succeeded. Now get those mandrels back into the tank and the anodes reconnected. We need those projector tubes. The mixing rooms have already delivered the filled rockets, and we’re anxious to start testing.’

 

OrsOrs tried to contain his fury. ‘I know schedule, Gaffer. You don’ need give me detailed instruction - nor would I ask now even if I did need. I think we understand each other?’

 

‘I hope so.’ The Terran reclaimed his electric stick and carefully inspected his boots which had been overmuch exposed to the heat from the ring of flames. He stooped for his handlamp, then walked away into the tunnel’s entrance without a further word. Jo Jo followed him anxiously, uncertain which side of the schism his loyalties lay.

 

‘You want a guide, Gaffer?’

 

‘Thank you, Jo Jo, but I think I know the way.’

 

‘Then may I walk with you little?’

 

‘Be my guest.’ The Terran’s anger had subsided completely. Unexpectedly, he seemed to have come out of the encounter in remarkably good spirits.

 

‘May I ask question?’

 

‘You never stop asking, Jo Jo. But I’ll answer if I can.’

 

‘Why did you treat OrsOrs like tha’? Don’ you know he almost worships you?’

 

‘It was because of that I had to turn on him. I’ve already told you I’m no god. Neither you, OrsOrs, nor anybody must treat me as if I am. Whatever you can do, I can do. And the other way about. You can do whatever I can do -given a little time, a little patience, and a little learning. Only by seeming a little stupid could I make OrsOrs angry. And only when he was angry did he even try to match himself to me.’

 

‘But you risk your life. You could have kill tha’ scorpid as you did the other.’

 

‘How the scorpid died was unimportant. What mattered was breaking OrsOrs’s dependence on me. Unless I can do that, it would be better if I hadn’t come.’

 

‘You mean better had you left us be eaten by reptiles?’ Jo Jo was incredulous.

 

‘As I have said, Jo Jo, there are worse fates than being eaten by reptiles.’

 

‘I think I shall never understand the Terran mind,’ said Jo Jo.

 

‘Then I’ll let you into a secret. There’s no difference between a Terran mind and yours, except that our expertise in death has forced us to acquire a somewhat painful sort of maturity.’

 

The assembly and testing of the first projector was carried out in one of the smaller noon caves which had been specially cleared for the purpose. At one end the cave narrowed to a horizontal shaft, which widened suddenly into daylight and ended at a ledge some thirty metres above the valley floor.

 

In all directions the high, purpled crags of the mountains rose up to enclose the valley within a bowl, with here and there a pass or fault giving tantalising glimpses of the wild vistas beyond. The floor of the valley was clothed with a thick forest of vegetation and sprinkled with the tracery of many rills and streams fed from the ice-capped heights. At the lowest point, a great yellow river moved sluggishly against the intrusions of the palmaceous weed which threatened to choke it into a swamp.

 

It was to this river and to the many others like it that the reptiles came to breed and to drench away their flaking scales. Their domain was centred on the watercourses and on the ecologically rich pastures which lay above the forest and below the sterile peaks. From his aerial surveys the Gaffer probably knew more of the local scene and topography than did any of Tanic’s natives. His cameras and telescopes had pried into territory undisputedly the province of the reptilian kingship. He knew each reptile nest and breeding place on the river. He even knew where one of the old, forgotten cities of Tanic still protruded its ruins through the clay waters of the river’s course. Thus he alone could accurately measure the regression of Tanic humanity and the growing dominance of the reptile form.

 

From the ledge, even by eye, they could see a pack of hunting reptilian heads. The creatures were walking erect on two feet and a tail, their long necks probing over the vegetable screens searching for sight of prey. Their size and apparent ungainliness were deceptive. When running on all four limbs, a mature reptile could attain speeds of sixty kilometres an hour. Their jaws could cut a man in half with one bite.

 

The Terran was strangely silent. Through his powerful lenses he viewed an unknown yet familiar scene. Unlike his aerial survey pictures, his present position, barely above the tree ferns and cycads, gave him a sudden sense of perspective and presence. With very little imagination he might have been looking at Earth in Jurassic times. The hunting reptiles were disturbingly reminiscent of the Terran brontosaurus, except that they were fully carnivorous, had the teeth of tyrannosaurus, and a brain cavity approaching that of man himself.

 

Perhaps for the first time since the exploit had begun, the Gaffer began to feel afraid. The creatures before him belonged to an era predating the evolution of mammals on Terra. His own stance placed him at variance with his environment by about two hundred million terrayears, and the natives of Tanic who pressed his shoulder were scarcely far behind him. It was they, perhaps, who had developed aeons before their time - or was it homo sapiens who had been a late developer in the inexorable march of life from the primeval sea to some unknown mammalian evolutionary end?

 

From this consideration stemmed the Gaffer’s unshown but almost reverent respect for OrsOrs and his people. With a culture almost ten times as old as Terra’s they had missed the accident of the invention of the wheel, yet still progressed into a mature electrochemical-based civilization despite the fantastic odds of a gross ecological imbalance. The Gaffer was painfully aware that his own technological intervention must cause a radical change in the future development of the entire planet. It was a situation he did not relish, and one which tormented his imagination with possible end points he could never hope to see. His role was purely that of a catalyst in a potent evolutionary reaction.

 

He turned back to where the rocket projector tube was receiving a loving final polish from the men who made it. Despite the dimensional accuracy inherent in the electro-forming technique, he had spent the night gauging it, uncomfortably aware of the dangers of being a one-man arsenal and armaments instructor. True to form, he had found the critical dimensions of the tube accurate to within several millionths of a centimetre, despite the apparent crudeness of the conditions under which it was made. These tolerances were well beyond the accuracy necessary for the job, and he knew that Tanic’s own rough metrology would suffice when it came to the job of replication without Terran supervision.

 

The rockets themselves had been completed previously, but not test fired. He took one, fitted it into the projector tube, and returned to the ledge overlooking the valley. With a mixture of fear and anticipation, the Tanic warriors and OrsOrs’s technicians followed him at a safe distance. The Gaffer hoisted the heavy projector over his shoulder and warned those behind to stay well clear of the rocket exhaust. He sighted on a standing shard of granite-like rock, and with a half prayer, pressed the trigger.

 

An unexpected recoil pressure threw him off balance and warned him of a miscalculation of propellant charge. The rocket, tail spiraling as it carved its way through the still air, passed over the rock shard and continued for another kilometre before it plunged into a rocky grotto.

 

The impact explosion was gratifying in its effect. Literally tons of rock and detritus were lifted into the air, fragmenting and scattering over a considerable area. Fern trees and cycads were uprooted, snapped and broken. The noise of the explosion split the air like thunder and rolled and echoed many times among the startled mountains. Afterwards the rent earth showed a great bruised scar where Tanic’s first missile had landed.

 

It was the Gaffer’s conservative estimate that both the propellant and the explosive charge had been at least three times as potent as the modest weapon he had set out to build. He looked back to OrsOrs to see his reaction, and was met by a look of shocked incredulity.

 

‘What’s the matter, OrsOrs? Wasn’t that what you wanted to see?’

 

‘Nothin’ like tha’! There should never be anythin’ as fearful as tha’. Suddenly I feel almos’ sorry for devil-reptile ...’

 

OrsOrs rubbed his ears, still hurting from the unaccustomed shock. He shook his head and turned away in the manner of one who is aware that a page of history is turning under his feet yet can not move nimbly enough to avoid being crushed between the leaves. His companions held no such reservations. Whooping with joy, some were busily swarming down the climbing ropes on the cliff face, running to see the crater. Others were inspecting the projector, marvelling that it had not itself been destroyed in the process. A few, like Jo Jo, clustered with many questions around the Gaffer, like children round a father whom they are still naive enough to believe omnipotent.

 

Soon the ones who had run out into the valley came running back. There was fear in their shouting voices: ‘Reptiles - see! Reptiles come!’ They bunched in panic at the foot of the cliff, fighting for a place on the climbing ropes. Behind them, reptilian movements in the dense green jungle spoke of a hunting pack scenting man-meat and hungry for a killing. Then disaster struck. A climbing rope, overtaxed with the stress of half a dozen climbing men, snapped near the top. It shed its burden on to the clustered group below. In the midst of the shouting and the screaming one further voice broke the panic into a death-quiet reality.

 

‘Reptile near! Reptile near!’

 

Instantly the Gaffer had the projector on his knee, clearing to reload. He had intended to dismantle and inspect for damage prior to re-firing, but the present emergency forced him to take a chance. From the edge of the forest no less than three reptiles broke cover. To judge by the tumult in the brush, at least three more were heading in their direction.

 

Swiftly the Gaffer hoisted the projector over his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. Again the rocket went too high and too far, missing the first two creatures completely. By sheer off chance it plunged towards the third. The explosion ripped the reptile to shreds and hurled fragments of carcass back to the very edges of the forest fronds.

 

The Gaffer reloaded and considered his tactics. With such a widely erroneous instrument he could scarcely hope for this luck to continue. Far better to try to frighten away the two attackers who were still in the field. He aimed deliberately very short of his target in the hope of creating a crater and a blast area which would turn the creatures from their paths.

 

The projectile fell approximately where he had planned. In the meantime the two reptiles, running parallel, had increased their speed to escape whatever fate had engulfed their rear mate. They topped a slight rise just as the rocket exploded in the hollow before them. Although neither could have been materially hurt by the blast, both must have been affected by concussive shock. They fell against one another while still running, and toppled into the crater. Maintaining his range, the Gaffer managed to put a second rocket on top of them for good measure.

 

But this was no moment for respite. The knot of injured men at the cliff-foot still remained, despite several relief ropes which had been thrown down to them. Two other reptiles had broken cover and were apparently estimating the carnage of their kind before proceeding. Such was the magnitude of the reptile brain that they established, quite rightly, that the danger lay directly to the front. To avoid this they made first for the cliff edge well to one side, and began a wary sortie under the shelter of the rocky overhang. Attracted by spilled blood, several great toothed-birds took to the air on pteranodon wings, and patrolled the battle area waiting for a chance to settle in the injured.

 

The Gaffer swore. He had no chance even to see the reptiles advancing under the ledge, let alone destroy them. It was only a matter of time before they reached the group of men trapped at the cliff-foot. With quick decision, he shouted for OrsOrs.

 

‘Lower me down with the projector and some rockets. I have to get below the ledge to get at them.’

 

OrsOrs, who had already given the majority of his fallen comrades up for lost, looked at him dubiously. ‘Too late, Gaffer.’

 

‘Not if you hurry. Get some men here fast.’

 

‘No!’ OrsOrs stood squarely in his way. ‘Nobody goes down now. Risk too great. Especially we can’ risk you.’

 

‘Then stand out of my way!’

 

Angrily he thrust past OrsOrs to the warrior group at the edge of the cliff drop. Jo Jo and some of his associates ran to help. Within a minute, with the projector and six rockets roped to his body, the Gaffer was being lowered through space to the rocky floor.

 

Almost immediately he regretted the decision. As he spun helplessly on the descending thread the dark shadow of huge leathern wings closed the sunlight from him. An aerial bulk comparable in size with a small airplane screeched across the face of the cliff, creating a draught that swung him and his high-explosive load dangerously close to the rock walls.

 

Fortunately he was too close against the wall for the avian creature to try to seize him in flight. Below him he could hear quite plainly the blood-cry of the attacking reptiles making slow progress along the broken territory footing the cliff. Then his feet touched the ground. Knife ready, he slashed the yoke which had carried him, and freed his weapon for action. He had scarcely primed and loaded when a reptile broke round the edge of a bluff and came at him full charge. Without the luxury of sighting, the Gaffer swung the projector in the general direction and squeezed the firing trigger. Nothing happened.

 

Although the firing mechanism tripped, the rocket remained inert. In an instant of panic the Gaffer observed the charging reptile and searched frantically for a way of escape into or back up the cliff. There was none. Savagely he shook the reject rocket from the firing chamber and rammed another one in. By now he was working at point-blank range, and was as much in danger from the blast of his own fire as he was from the reptile’s jaws. He fired at the thundering bulk which seemed almost upon him, then flung himself face down and waited for whatever fate would do to him.

 

Fortunately the major force of the explosion was taken by six tons of decimating reptile. Even so, the shock was severe enough to concuss him for several minutes. When he was fully conscious he found he was bleeding freely from a scalp wound and had over a dozen cuts and abrasions. Nevertheless he counted himself lucky.

 

A sudden eclipse of the sun reminded him that the battle was not yet over. Scrambling hastily to his feet he drew the pistol from his hip as the huge, winged creature dropped low over him with all the finesse of a crashing helicopter.

 

Nerved now to the prehistoric terrors which the day contained, he put two shots into the flying nightmare at places where logic suggested the wing muscles ought to be. The fantastic cry of pain which this act produced was something he knew he would carry to his grave. The creature slipped sideways to the ground in a mortally, horrifying crash landing. Then, with a frightening movement consisting of claw-hops assisted by beats with broken leathern wings, the frantic wounded creature rushed at him, its beak lined with sharp, yellowed teeth. He let it come to within six-paces before one further shot shattered its cranial cavity. The creature flopped to a reluctant death amid the fragments of the shattered reptile.

 

A noise behind him on the rock face made him wheel in sudden alarm. It was OrsOrs at the bottom of a rope, with a dozen warriors armed with machettes following him. OrsOrs surveyed the carnage uncomprehendingly at first, then his face became crossed with a sardonic smile.

 

‘Not bad morning’s work, even for Terran, I would imagine.’

 

The Gaffer smiled wanly. ‘What happened to the other one? There were two under the cliff when I came down.’

 

OrsOrs shrugged. ‘I expect he knew the Terran killer here. He stand off until res’ of pack catch up. I know you’ve kill five times as many creatures in hour as mos’ men in lifetime, but I still can’ advise you fight full pack from the ground.’

 

‘How are the men who fell?’

 

‘Mos’ recovered to cave, thanks to you. Two are dead, but the survivors will want to thank you for themselves. I’ve no doubt the Council of Elders will also be wantin’ feast your name this evenin’. So much bloodshed needs rewardin’.’

 

‘You sound bitter, OrsOrs. Don’t you want the reptiles killed?’

 

‘If I had several lives, I’d give them all win tha’ fight. Don’ think I don’ appreciate what you doin’. There would have been twenty widows tonight had you no’ risked your life stop tha’ reptile.’

 

‘Then what’s your objection?’

 

‘I seen nearly whole generation slaughtered by no more reptiles than you kill today. Tha’ generation die because we no’ able do what you do usin’ our materials and our techniques. My objection no’ to what you do, but the fact you seem to do it all too easy.’

 

* * * *

 

It was several weeks later that the Gaffer found a sheet of Tanic bark paper on his desk in the annex when he came down in the morning. He was quite certain it had not been there the previous evening. He turned it over, not really expecting that he would find a message on it. He found a scrawl in Tanic formal script which he had difficulty in deciphering.

 

Gaffer

 

I shout you danger tall as biggest mountain. I cannot spell lest others come and read - which would stir gigantic beasts of trouble. Tomorrow I must tell you anything of help.

 

There was a hiatus here, as though the writer realised that to identify himself could lead to detection. Instead of a signature, a further phrase was penned at the bottom of the sheets:

 

I know dragons spawn.

 

The latter phrase brought a smile of cryptic amusement to the Gaffer’s lips. He transmitted a microstat of the document to the computer files, then dropped the original into the disposal unit. Shrugging his shoulders, he sought his boots, handlamp, and electric stick, and set out for the deposition caves.

 

The past few weeks had been fruitful. OrsOrs had demonstrated his ability to control the manufacture of both projectors and rockets, and seven Tanic warriors had been trained to use them. The crude effectiveness of the weapons had been demonstrated many times, and the sheer coverage of the blast pattern more than compensated for their inaccuracy when used against such large targets as the reptiles.

 

The Gaffer’s latest task had been to encourage OrsOrs to divide his chemical and mixing rooms into small, well separated units, so that an accident in one would not destroy the whole facility. He had thus provided, at least in theory, for the continuity of his efforts in Tanic hands. Having been given the weapon and an understanding of its principles and potential, it was essential that the people of Tanic now accept the responsibility for its development and use. It was time for the Gaffer to pull out. One day the weapon was going to be used against men instead of reptiles, and, Terra already had too much blood on its conscience.

 

With this thought in mind, the Gaffer traversed the noon caves. The galleries were relatively empty of beasties at this hour, since the outer darkness was only just lifting and the nocturnal residents were still braving the rising tides of dawn.

 

On the lower levels all the activity was human. The chemical and mixing rooms were draughting acrid fumes into the corridors, and pallid-faced men were appearing at the entrances like swimmers surfacing for air. The men in the deposition caves were working furiously. Two more vats were being commissioned for the electro-deposition of rocket cases, and one more dedicated to the forming of trigger mechanisms and fuse components.

 

The Gaffer searched for a long time before locating Jo Jo in the battery cave. The fire-boy was replenishing the torches over the cable run which carried the power to the deposition shop. Here over six hundred giant batteries, each one a chemical primary cell over two men’s length in diameter and ten men deep, contributed their current to the giant acid-vat accumulators. From the accumulators the stored and balanced power was distributed via the giant cables to the deposition vats which lay in the several caves beyond.

 

The battery cave was the oldest installation which Tank knew - so old that nobody could tell who had dug and lined the wells or first designed the system. It was said that some of the cells had been in operation for two thousand years or more, unchanged save for the yearly dig-out and re-furbishing. Only the cables, thick, random black snakes across the floor of the cable run, needed renewal and constant attention. It was necessary frequently to inspect their cracking hides and correct the slow but inexorable deformation of the bitumen insulators, which unchecked would allow the conductors to meet and result in a catastrophic short circuit.

 

The Gaffer appeared not to notice Jo Jo. Both waited until they could come together unobserved before they spoke.

 

‘You got my message, Gaffer?’

 

‘I did. Why all the mystery?’

 

‘The elders held council yesterday. OrsOrs was there speaking against you violently. He thinks your influence is going destroy us.’

 

‘He’s probably right - it would, if I stayed. Fortunately in a day or two I shall be leaving for Terra.’

 

‘They won’t allow i’. If you leave you will become a legend - something which grows on re-telling to children. They want prove you are no more near a god than any other man on Tanic.’

 

‘That’s an easy thing to want, but a difficult thing to do.’

 

‘Nothing makes more even than blow from long knife.’

 

‘I see!’ The Gaffer was speculative for a moment or so. ‘Do you know who is going to do this, and when?’

 

‘OrsOrs. He will ask to take you to our sacred place. All grea’ things on Tanic end there.’

 

‘How do you know this, Jo Jo?’

 

‘I am fire-boy for council chamber. I was there.’

 

‘Then it’s privileged information. What will the council do to you if they find out what you’ve told me?’

 

‘I would be sent out of the caves into the valley.’

 

‘Death by reptile, eh? Very well, Jo Jo, knowing this, why did you risk telling me?’

 

‘Because I can’ agree with i’. The only thing you have done to us is give us a future. Tha’s why you must no’ go with OrsOrs. And-’

 

‘And what, Jo Jo?’

 

Jo Jo told him what was on his mind. The Gaffer was silent for a long time afterwards. Then: ‘If I can arrange that, can I count on your help when the time comes - no matter what I ask?’

 

‘No matter wha’, Gaffer.’

 

‘Very well! Say nothing of this to anyone. I will tell you what I want you to do.’

 

‘Do you need do anythin’? Can’t you just go tonight?’

 

‘I could, but it would solve nothing. You see, basically, OrsOrs is right. So we are going to prove his point for him - but in a way he won’t quite be expecting.’

 

But even then it seemed as if Jo Jo might be wrong. Two weeks passed without incident, and OrsOrs, though taciturn, was in no way actively hostile. Then came the day of farewell, the day on which council elders received the Gaffer and showered him with gifts and wishes for his future, and the day many of his friends were in tears at the thought of parting. Late that day OrsOrs approached him.

 

‘Before you leave us, Gaffer, there somethin’ I would like show you - something may help you understand us better.’

 

‘If you say so, I should be delighted to come.’ The Gaffer looked at his watch. ‘But it is getting late and there will not be much time left after. Before I come I must say a few more good-byes. If you can meet me by the air shaft in an hour, I shall be pleased to come then.’

 

OrsOrs nodded his assent, and parted. The Gaffer moved swiftly, and within the hour he had made his preparations and was back to meet OrsOrs waiting at the air shaft. OrsOrs was silent as he led the way through the almost unused south caves to a point where a sudden turn of rock concealed a door.

 

‘This is place I wanted show you,’ said OrsOrs. ‘Mos’ men come here only once in lifetime, as part of the ceremony admitting their manhood. Rememberin’ wha’ i’ means to us, I ask you treat i’ as temple.’

 

‘And refrain from acts of destruction, eh?’ The Terran was cynically amused.

 

‘Your phrase, no’ mine.’ OrsOrs avoided his eyes. ‘I merely ask you treat i’ reverently. For instance, no’ bear arms in these walls.’

 

‘I wonder you bother to bring me here if you think me such a barbarian.’

 

‘You have earned the right come here. Your innovations have given new meanings to our old crafts. You have shown us how make rockets which can kill reptiles, so tha’ we can kill all on Tanic. In fac’, nothin’ after your comin’ can ever be a same again. Your ideas have taken over our history.’

 

‘I was aware of that danger. It’s the reason I kept my intervention to a minimum.’

 

‘But you didn’ succeed in I’. The old values are crumblin’ - replaced by nothin’ but uncertainty.’

 

‘Would you have preferred that I hadn’t come?’

 

‘Your comin’ was necessary for our survival. But i’s mixed blessing. Before you go I wan’ you also see wha’ you’ve destroyed.’

 

Instead of querying the accusation, the Gaffer compressed his lips. He undid the broad belt at his waist and allowed it to drop its burden of weaponry to the floor. They entered a foyer where OrsOrs went through a dumb symbolistic ritual with two guardians before they were permitted farther. Then great ornate doors were opened and they were allowed into the gallery beyond.

 

Here the Gaffer stopped in sudden wonder. In his experience Tanic had essentially a utilitarian culture. Save for the chiefs and some of the prime elders, few possessed articles of great intrinsic value. The concept of riches was virtually unknown, and the most valuable items were invariably the most useful or the most necessary for survival. In this cave, however, lay a true concentration of valuable and artistic artifacts which would have been unique even upon Terra.

 

The gallery was rare in having a smooth wall structure, and its decoration was fabulously rich and ornate. Its walls were entirely covered with a random lace of metal veins which had obviously been formed in situ, since it followed and emphasised the polished marvels of the rock structure. Even the roof, lit by probably five hundred torches, carried the tender tracery across the vaulted heights to meet and blend with that from the far side. Elaborate canopies, the detailed metalwork of which would have defied Terran sources to duplicate, protected the onlooker from burning oil drips from the high flames. But it was in the alcoves themselves that the true wonders began.

 

The chalices, trays, furniture, weapons and works of pure art, fabricated in a dozen different metals, were supreme examples of the electroformers art. Almost all were incapable of being reproduced by any of the more conventional techniques of manufacture. Locked solidly into the metal matrices, mineral crystals and precious stones lay in entrapped harmony with their settings in a way which appeared so supremely natural that all other art forms would have seemed contrived and artificial when set beside them. As works of craftmanship, each exhibit could have made its possessor a wealthy man on any home-world. As works of art, they were completely beyond any scale of price.

 

Dazed by the magnificence of such form and artistry, the Gaffer followed OrsOrs, alcove by alcove, along what appeared to be a descending chronological sequence of exhibits. OrsOrs offered no comment, but waited patiently while the Gaffer absorbed the miracles of one collection before proceeding to the next. In this way they covered the whole cave area. Near the end of the sequence most pretences to artistry had gone. The utilitarian aspect of pots and platters, many somewhat misshapen, was predominant.

 

The last exhibit was a simple copper bowl.

 

‘Do you realise wha’ you’ve seen, Gaffer?’

 

‘I think so, OrsOrs. The history of Tanic in terms of its achievements in the forming of metal.’

 

‘Then let me add time scale. Tha’ copper bowl is ten times as old as earliest stone-age fragmen’ found on Terra.’

 

‘It makes me feel humble.’

 

‘Nowhere near humble as you make us feel. Before you came we believed in ourselves, Gaffer. We kept this museum as record of our doings. Each generation came here to measure themselves up to their forefathers and aim little higher. Think what mockery tha’s become now. The new generations will want only measure up to omnipoten’ Terran.’

 

‘I’m sorry, OrsOrs. You don’t know how much I’ve tried not to overwhelm you with Terran technology.’

 

‘By which you made things damnsight worse!’

 

‘I don’t follow your reasoning.’

 

OrsOrs looked away. His face was nearly impassive, yet his lips trembled with emotion. ‘If you’d cast no reflection on us. If you’d been a god, we could have accepted what you’ve done. If you’d come with army, we could have told ourselves that our savin’ was due to greater weight of fight. If you’d confused us with science, we’d have been amazed but grateful. But your comin’ here alone gives us no excuse. Tha’s a spiteful arrogance we can’ forgive.’

 

‘Arrogance?’ The Gaffer was genuinely surprised.

 

‘ Wha’ else you call i’? One man comes, and by showin’ how use our tools in new way, turns battle that had brought us the edge of extinction. Because Terrans are so arrogantly sure of themselves that one man and a tool kit is all is necessary for salvation of Tanic. Am I right?’

 

‘You’re not right, OrsOrs. We know from experience that when a relatively undeveloped culture is forced into close contact with a technically advanced one, the lesser one is almost invariably destroyed. To stop that happening to you I had to come alone. I had to do everything by means of word and example, man to man. I had to interfere with your history without setting myself up as a deity. That took a bit of doing, OrsOrs. Even you tended to lean on me.’

 

‘Because you prove to us how dumbchild we were. Your trouble, Gaffer, you can’ even see yourself as we see you. You so confident you don’ even need the luxury of seemin’ superior. Have you any idea wha’ tha’ doin’ to us?’

 

‘I have a very good idea. That’s why I’m leaving you now. Given a few years you’ll have forgotten me.’

 

‘You don’ know your influence. You leave now, your name grow with the blood of every reptile we kill. Like or not, you already out-tower our gods. In a generation you will be our god, an’ people in trouble will pray for the Gaffer to come again. The only thing can save our way of livin’ is prove you are very much a man.’

 

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

 

‘I mus’ kill you, of course.’

 

OrsOrs turned suddenly, the machette concealed in a corner appearing abruptly in his hand as if it possessed a life of its own. ‘I’m sorry about this, Gaffer. But you see why has to be done.’

 

‘You’re not half as sorry as you’ll be if you try it.’

 

OrsOrs advanced, the long knife carving patterns of reflected light around him.

 

‘Isn’ this the lesson you wanted us learn - do as Terrans do? Kill for pleasure? Kill for expediency and principle - not jus’ for necessity?’

 

‘I warn you, OrsOrs, don’t try it. There’s another way out of this.’

 

‘Another Terran way?’ OrsOrs spat. ‘No! This is time do something Tanic way.’

 

He raised the knife and prepared to strike, but his attention was diverted by an unusual movement of the Gaffer’s wrist. Something appeared in the Terran’s fingers - a small capsule. Before OrsOrs could identify his danger a cloud of choking vapour hit his face. His eyes were blinded by a hail of stinging droplets which brought him excruciating pain. Through an anguished haze he still tried to hack at the Terran form, but the Gaffer had deftly slipped from his position. OrsOrs’ descending knife hit some unseen edge of rock, and the shock drove it from his fingers.

 

The Terran finished the fight with a deft blow of his hand on the back of his opponent’s neck. OrsOrs fell unconscious to the floor, his face a mask of pain and surprise even though his mind no longer registered emotions. The Gaffer straightened and looked round.

 

‘Jo Jo,’ he said softly, ‘where the devil are you?’

 

‘Here!’ Jo Jo emerged from behind a canopy support where he had been hiding.

 

‘Is everything all right?’ The Gaffer noted the troubled look on the boy’s face.

 

‘I had trouble gettin’ past guardians. One went down when I hit him, but other I had to beat many times before he fall. He bleeds quite a lot.’

 

‘You’ll learn to do it tidily in time. You’ve got the bags?’

 

‘Four, as you said,’ Jo Jo threw some soft bundles on to the floor. ‘Will be enough?’

 

‘Enough for us to carry. Take two and fill them with the best small items from the other side - especially the ones with jewel inlay. I’ll take this side. Work towards the door. Now hurry, or we could get caught.’

 

For a second Jo Jo looked into the Gaffer’s face with grave speculation, then he turned and began filling the bags with items from the collection with a rapidity that outstripped his mentor. The Gaffer was more selective. He chose his pieces in strict chronological order and ended with a simple copper bowl. They met again at the doorway. As Jo Jo had said, the guardian was indeed bleeding heavily.

 

‘Where’s the handlamp?’

 

‘In the crevice to the lef.’

 

‘Good! I have it. Now we have to leave fast.’

 

‘Suppose they follow us?’

 

‘I’m prepared for that. I have some small explosive charges. If necessary we can create a rockfall behind us. Once we get to the ship we’ll be safe.’

 

The Gaffer retrieved his weapon belt and they began to run the ascending passages, moving awkwardly because of the weight of the bags. As the incline lessened the Gaffer stopped occasionally and looked round. At first there were no sounds of pursuit, and only their own heavy breathing spoiled the silence. Then came a faint noise of many voices shouting, and a rising clamour in the farther tunnels.

 

The Gaffer caught at Jo Jo’s arm. ‘We seem to have been discovered.’ He began to study the rock formation of the tunnel, and retreated a short distance before taking the metal cylinders from his belt.

 

‘Go ahead, Jo Jo, past the next bend. Take the lamp and wait for me there.’

 

With rising apprehension, Jo Jo did as he was bid. Shortly he was rejoined by the Gaffer, who motioned that they must run swiftly. Then had not gone far before a great explosion rocked the ground around them. A wave of sound and pressure engulfed them and forced them onwards along the path. On all sides the walls and roof seemed to vibrate and resonate with a heavy internal thunder, and large pieces of rock fragmented from the walls and split from the roof. Behind them the cavernous shock of a major rockfall continued its echoes, and certified that the route was closed behind them.

 

Neither of them spoke, each being too full of his own thoughts and too intent on safely negotiating the difficult paths ahead. With their new knowledge of the noon caves, they passed swiftly through what had previously been a trail, and even the beasties seemed to sense their urgency and their desperation and stayed well clear. Then, after what seemed to be an eternity of running, the welcome yellow light of the Gaffer’s annex showed through the disturbed darkness. Thankfully they flung themselves across the corrugations of the entrance grid and dropped their precious bags inside.

 

The Gaffer closed the door and did something to the walls which made them hum. Shortly the door opened again of its own accord. Instead of opening into noon-cave darkness, it opened to glazed sunlight. Jo Jo realised with something of a shock that they had been transported from deep in the ground to the top of the beautiful tower which the gaffer called his ship.

 

The Gaffer pointed out a soft pallet on which the boy might lie, and Jo Jo thankfully sank to rest.

 

‘Are we safe now, Gaffer?’ He was still worried by the proximity of the noon caves beneath.

 

‘Quite safe, Jo Jo. As soon as the computers have found us an orbit we’ll be leaving.’ With quiet assurance the Terran busied himself with his instruments. Jo Jo watched him interestedly for a while, then caught up with the significance of the rendezvous with the ships waiting above.

 

‘Are you sure it will be right for me come with you?’

 

‘Of course. They’ll send you to school for a while, so that you can learn to live as Terrans do. Then you’ll be free to try for whatever kind of life you wish.’

 

‘I want be what you are.’

 

‘It’s a thankless task, Jo Jo. You finish up making enemies even of your friends. When you wield the big stick of Terran technology, you’re riding a pretty potent weapon. You have to develop a sense of responsibility which extends way beyond yourself. You have to do things that you know are wrong in order to make things go right.’

 

‘Like stealing Tanic sacred things to make them hate you?’

 

‘Just that. They had to hate me, because in hating me was the only way I could stop them despising themselves. They had to come to despise the Terran image. Otherwise contact with me would have damaged them far more than the reptiles could ever hope to do.’

 

‘You think you made success?’

 

‘For a couple of generations, yes. Unfortunately it’s only a palliative. Once they get on top of the reptiles they’ll start to look closely at the weapons and process I left. That exercise will lead them into the scientific method, and from there ten generations or less should get them into space. But the important thing is that they’ll have done it themselves. But it won’t alter the final endpoint. By the time we meet them in space their culture will be virtually indistinguishable from our own. It all becomes so inevitable. That’s the kind of dragon spawn a Terran sows whenever he meets another culture in space.’

 

Somewhere on the ship a two-note gong was sounding. The Terran went back to his controls and started to key instructions for the ship computer. Glancing out of the window screens he smiled wanly and beckoned to Jo Jo.

 

‘You see what I mean. OrsOrs’s comrades trying to bring a rocket projector to bear on us. Probably the first time on Tanic that a group of men have co-operated in the attempted destruction of others. Yet in Terran terms it’s the most logical thing to do. Already the dragon spawn begins to ripen. It should only take them about fifty years to get round to their first major war. As I said, there are worse things to tear a man apart than the claws of a lizard - and contact with Terra before a race is ready for it is about the very worst I know.’

 

A second alarm sounded, mote urgent than the first. The Gaffer secured Jo Jo on his hydraulic pallet, then ran to his own. Slowly the chemical drive came in, building up an incredible intensity of sound and pressures. Majestically the beautiful tower which had been the Gaffer’s home lifted skyward, bearing a startled Jo Jo on the first leg of a fantastic journey which was, in reality, only an acceleration of an already established trend which one day the rest of his race would follow.

 

Below them another missile, fired by Tanic hands, smashed their erstwhile launching-pit to dust, as the spawn of the dragon ripened in the rays of the Tanic sun.