TRIP, TRAP

By Gene Wolfe

Gene Wolfe (about whom more will be heard) spent a few months in the U.S. Army avoiding the half-hearted attempts of the Chinese Army to kill him. Thanks to this short stint as a D-handled shovel operator and Fire Control Private on an M-l, the government was forced to finish his education and. he emerged from the University of Houston as a B.S.M.E. He still works at the job he took after graduation, doing non-space R&D for a large corporation; has a wife and four children, is sunk in the “dull comfort of moderate middle-class success,” and claims it is impossible to make his life sound interesting. “Sir magazine essayed the same impossible task when they published my story ‘The Dead Man’ and were forced to fall back on such falsifications as the statement that I wished to raise Afghan hounds. I can truthfully say that I have never desired to see an Afghan hound higher than it is already

“Trip, Trap” is pure science fiction, not fantasy. Nevertheless, there is a bridge in it, and under the bridge lives a troll. . .

* * * *

Giants were fighting in the sky; the roar and crash of their weapons and the wind-scream of their strokes reverberated even on the echoless steppe where there was nothing to fling back sound between the Rock of the Carath-Angor and the gorge of the Elbanda-Rhun, where the waters made their own thunder always, whether the sky-giants fought or slept. And those were as far apart as a hard-riding traveler might go in three days.

The warriors had drawn their thick cloaks across their faces to protect them from the driving rain which was blown almost horizontally into their eyes, but their mounts had no such protection and stumbled forward scarcely faster than their riders could have walked. All were wet to the skin, cold, and nearly numb with fatigue. On an ordinary journey they would have halted hours ago, pitched their tents and waited out the storm in their sleeping robes. They did not do so now because they were going home, and because their leader, hurrying home too after three years of war, would not have permitted it.

Suddenly a spark struck from some giant ax lit up the sky from horizon to horizon and in the trembling instant the war leader saw far ahead the figure of a single rider spurring down the road as though blown by the storm. The leader watched him for a moment by the light of the flashes, then wheeled his animal to face his command —shouting to make himself heard above the wind. The warriors freed their short lances from the straps holding them to their pommels and fanned out to form an arc across the road. There was a chance, if only a chance, that the rider was a straggler from the enemy horde, trying to reach the fastness of his own country. Besides, they were soldiers, led by a hero, and would not be met like a gaggle of pedlars.

The stranger made no attempt to evade them. Instead he came galloping into the center of their crescent and reined up before their commander. From his cloak he drew a rolled parchment covered with writing. . . .

* * * *

At the same moment Dr. Morton Melville Finch, Ph.D. (Extraterrestrial Archaeology), paused in the act of setting a coffeepot on his galley stove as he heard the communicator in the main cabin begin to chatter. With the percolator still in his hand, he crossed the galley to see what message had been hurled at his little ship across light-years of space.

FROM:            Prof. John Beatty

Edgemont Inst., Earth

TO:                  Dr. M. M. Finch

UNworld spcrft MOTH (Reg #387760)

Congratulations again on attaining your degree!

Morton, I know you have planned to make this trip of yours a pleasure cruise before taking up your teaching duties here, but I have come across something so extraordinary, and so perfectly in your line, that I feel sure you will forgive an old man for trying to interrupt your jaunt.

There, I’ve given the whole thing away before I meant to. That is always the way with us old diggers; we turn up the funeral ornaments when we ditch the tents, then get nothing else for years, like as not.

I doubt if you’ve ever heard of Carson’s Sun, Morton; it is Sol type, but its habitable planet has been off-limits for colonization and trade because of a native race with too much intelligence to be counted mere animals (human-level intelligence in fact) and too little technology for their culture to hold its own in trade. It is open to scientific expeditions, however, although it appears that none have ever gone there.

Now I have a correspondent, a W. H. Wilson, who is a captain in the merchant service. He is one of those enthusiastic amateurs who have contributed so much to our little corner of learning. Knows enough to spot a find when he comes across one and keeps his eyes peeled.

Well, it seems that Wilson picked up a distress call from a life-craft on his last trip out. I doubt if I need tell you now, Morton, that it came from the habitable planet of Carson’s Sun.

It seems that a spaceman who escaped the wreck of the Magna Vega (you may remember that it was originally thought that no one survived) was able to get his craft to Carson III. He spent a year and a half there before Wilson picked up his call. Naturally—or perhaps not so naturally, how many merchant skippers would have done as much?—Wilson questioned him about his experiences with the natives. I am forwarding Wilson’s full report to you, together with language tapes, but the important point is this: a number of the symbols used in writing the native language are identical with the ones found on those unclassifiable porcelain shards from Ceta II which furnished you with such fine material for your doctoral dissertation! The points of correspondence are too numerous and too complete for this to be coincidence. I truly feel that Man has at last found evidence of a preceding interstellar technology.

Morton, I would never have thought it possible for me to be so happy for a man I envy as whole-souledly as I do you. A few months’ investigation on Carson III may furnish you with a reputation which will make you a department head at thirty-five. Don’t let this get past you.

Yours in hope,

J. Beatty

JB/sl

* * * *

The war chieftain had watched with impassive patience while his followers erected a tent for him using poles whose terminals were skillfully carved and painted to represent the heads of beasts, and a soft leather covering impregnated with oil. Only when this was up and his chief lieutenant had kindled a fire using stone and steel and tinder from a hoarded packet near his skin was he able to read the scroll.

His Supremacy the Protector of the West Lands bids this be written to Garth the Son of Garth, Holder of the High Justice:

Know that there came some days ago to our court a party of traders returned from the north. Their leader tells us that in passing through some deserted vales of that land he beheld scratched upon boulders appeals for aid from any of the West People who should pass that way. Proceeding, as the scratchings directed him, to a cave in those hills he found a poor waif once apprenticed to the scribe of the Lord Naid the Son of Kartl who, as you know, rode into that country three seasons ago and has never returned or sent any word to us who loved his valor.

This boy recounts that his master’s party was set upon by one of the wild tribes who rove that land, and that his master and all save himself were slain. The lad’s tale grieves us much, though we had feared the Lord Naid had deserted our cause, taking the gifts we had given him to bear to the Protector of the Grey Lands as our pledge of friendship.

This ill news came only as another knot in the tangle of that land. While our swords have been hot with war here the evils in the north have grown bold. The lesser Protectors of that land have been loud in lamentations to us of late.

Those who pay us tribute have a right to our protection, and no warriors of the West Men have been seen in those lands now for many seasons. Thus the gold and enamel work due us have been slow to come. Now that the West Lands are again at peace it comes to us that it is time the north country feel again the strength of the West People’s hand. Nay, that our grasp stretch farther than ever before. Thus it would be well for you to take up the dignity of Watcher of the North Marches, which you have earned by the blows you have struck for us, and go to that land with such of your people as seem well to you and hold the land for your Protector. Aid our tributaries and prove our strength to such as may dispute you. Accept no excuses from those who owe us for past years; rather urge that payment be sent at once, nor should you leave their domains until it is forthcoming.

Should you chance upon that hoard which the Lord Naid bore for us—such chances often come to the brave —or should you discern the spoor it has left in passing— as the astute may sometimes do-—take it; use force always when force is needed.

Go then quickly as you may. Work our will as we have told you and your reward shall be just.

Let not your scribe be idle, but send couriers to teach us how you fare.

Klexo the Scribe hath written

this for the protector.

When the scroll was rolled again and tied, the war chieftain spoke briefly to his waiting lieutenants, his voice almost lost in the howling wind and pounding rain outside. The scarred faces in the firelight looked pleased in a grim fashion.

Garth, the Son of Garth, Holder of the High Justice, Watcher of the North Marches, bids this be written to the Protector of the West Lands:

Know that as you commanded I have removed myself and the braver of my people to these northern hills. Many of my people were unwilling to go, owing to the evil repute of these lands, but the braver have followed me as I say, and it is them I shall have need of. Now hear me say as I have seen.

After fording the bitter waters of Elbanda-Rhun and tramping the wastelands ten days we came to the lands of Your Supremacy’s tributary the Protector of Jana. The city is of goodly size with a wall well built and a good strong-house on an eminence overlooking all. The Protector (so he styles himself) boasts he could call full five hundred men to his banner at the last extremity, though it may be he draws the bow over far.

We were welcomed with much joy by the Protector and entertained with feasting and hunting for several days. It soon came to me, however, that he wished more of us than our merry company. Often I sought to draw him out, but he resisted me politely and seemed to await his own time to tell his thought. While we thus tarried I exercised myself to discover all the ways of this Northland, where many things differ from our own country and there are a thousand old family blood-wars and tangled allegiances which must be known and considered ere one act. On the eighth day that we were at Jana, when we were riding back after a hunt I began to question the Protector about these and other things and found him well disposed to talk. He told me of the wildness of the country and the many evil things that still inhabit it; then, just as he seemed ready to tell his own tale, whatever it might be, we came upon a strange, uncouthly clad person perched on a stone beside the road. . . .

* * * *

FROM:            M.M. Finch Ph. D.

TO:                  Prof. John Beatty,

Edgemont Inst.

Earth.

Professor, it is with feelings of triumph that I transmit this, my first communication to the scientific world as represented by yourself from an actual site. And a promising one too. Not a full-fledged digging site as yet, but that is sure to come in time. Meanwhile, let me tell you what I have found thus far.

After completing an aerial survey of the planet I decided to land Moth in an unfrequented area and conceal it as well as I could. It was a temptation, of course, to use it to impress the natives in order to secure their cooperation; however, I knew that I would have to leave it eventually, and the prospect of having it cast into some lake as a devil’s carriage was not attractive. Also, I thought it best to get some first-hand knowledge of the natives and their customs before I demonstrated all the power of Confederation technology.

My survey had shown that the northwest edge of the principal continent was sparsely settled, so I landed there in a clearing surrounded by dense vegetation; before coming down I had noted carefully the position of a crude village within walking distance. Upon landing I hid Moth and set the cabin communicator to relay the signals of my handset. A vigorous hike brought me to an unpaved road and after following that for about a mile I encountered a party of mounted natives.

These are quite human in appearance; if it were not for their hands, which have only three fingers, and their rather large noses they might pass unremarked on the streets of any city in the Confederation. The individuals I now met were of the military caste and wore armor of brightly polished iron plates sewn to leather shirts, and elaborate helmets. There is always something repellent about the concept of violence done to another intelligent being and I am not ashamed to say that I was a bit sickened to see these barbarians flaunting their spears and long cross-hilted swords, not to mention the bows with which they had been murdering the wildlife of their planet. Knowing that my paralyzer would make me master of the situation should any trouble begin, I faced them with a boldness quite suitable to a representative (even if unofficial) of Earth. . . .

* * * *

. . . This person rose hastily as we approached, and seemed fearful and timid, though determined to stand his ground. He had manifestly been pushing through the wood on foot and his clothing showed many a tear where the thorned vine the people hereabout call Reluctant Lover had found his flesh. All saw him to be a warlock or fayman, for his face was flat as a trencher and he had more fingers on his hands than does a man right. So afrighted was he that I could not resist smiling at the poor loon, though I liked it not that the Protector’s talk had been broken; my smiling seemed to make him feel easier and he looked at us as doltishly as would make one think he’d never seen true men before. And, indeed, it may be he had not.

We of the West Lands are told strange tales of this north country; one expects the strangeness to grow less when one approaches the land itself—for is not that the way of all travelers’ tales? At any rate, I still hear here those tales of maids who vow to demons and are seen no more, though their strange children long after come down from the high waste places now and again. But here in the north this is not told of some far country but of the next town or the next farm. It may be that this creature is such a one. He will not tell clearly, but only talks of the stars and strange suns when I ask. (By which you may see that I have heard his prattle much since the meeting I speak of now.) . . .

* * * *

... If one could ignore the general bloodthirstiness of their equipage it was really a thrilling sight, this group of savages with their huge buffalolike riding animals. For a moment I almost wished I had taken my degree in extraterrestrial sociology instead of archaeology, so as to be able to help them direct their energy and courage to more profitable, humane channels. Why are we archaeologists so insistent on confining our study to things which are good and dead?

Speaking of dead, I got a lesson in the zoology of the planet here, for the natives had been hunting and were returning with their butchered victims. Several of their specimens looked like creatures a wise young scholar would not want to study any other way, however much one might regret their demise. I particularly remember a naked-looking animal like a saber-toothed lemur. The natives call it Gonoth-hag—the Hunting-devil. There was also what looked like a very big wild dog or wolf, a Warg; formidable looking, but not beside the Gonoth-hag.

The tapes you transmitted to me have given me enough of the language to make my meaning clear, although I am sure my pronunciation is bad and I don’t understand all the words the natives use. I spoke now to a broad-chested fellow who seemed to be in charge and told him that I was a traveler and a Confederation citizen who would appreciate a lift to the village. As you no doubt remember, the man your good Capt. Wilson saved emphasized the sacred nature of guestship in this culture. I thought it prudent to put myself under this protection as soon as I could. . . .

* * * *

. . . He seemed to assume that I, and not the Protector, was leader and asked at once to be my guest. This would have made many wroth and lost him his head, no doubt; but I could see the poor gangrel did not know a guest must rank with his host except the host invite him first, so I told him I would take him under my protection and this satisfied him. I thought to have some sport with him after the banquet in the strong-house of Jana, and the Protector, who is good-humored enough when his melancholy leaves him, agreed. If I have wearied your Supremacy by too long talk of this person, I beg your indulgence,, for he has his part to play in my tale by and by.

* * * *

. . . They mounted me upon one of their animals (which jolted terribly) and after what I suppose a travel writer would describe as a brisk canter, i.e., a pace sufficiently swift to throw up clouds of dust and sufficiently slow to require a half-hour to cover perhaps four miles, we arrived at a native building which I will call a castle, although it is a far cry from those graceful buildings which were preserved in the Franco-German Province until the early part of the last century. This castle is a thick-walled stone structure of two stories huddling at the edge of a perpendicular cliff. The only feasible approach is guarded by a massive wall nearly as thick as it is high —precisely like one of the promontory forts of ancient Eire. All, as I am sure you will agree, very fittingly archaeological; but, alas, this is no sun-dried ruin. The stench is abominable. (No doubt you have already guessed, from my slipping into the present tense, that I am sending from this place. So I am, although I have left it once since the first arrival I am telling you about. The smell, however, awaited my return.)

* * * *

. . . When we returned to the strong-house I asked the Protector to continue his talk as he had begun it before we were interrupted by meeting this vagabond, and he did so. I shall have the scribe set down his words themselves that you may hear as I heard.

He said: “I know you have guessed that all is not as we would wish in this Protectorate of Jana. Know then the reason. If a traveler follow the road through our city northward he will come upon a fine bridge built by the men of Jana of the olden day, when the men and cities of the north were famed.

“Now there are rich fields upon that other shore of the river which have been tilled by us since that old time “ I asked him who held those fields now, for I thought our aid was to be asked in some border war, but he undeceived me, saying, “No one holds them and they grow only weeds and wild herbs. It is he who holds the bridge who keeps us from them, for one of every three who cross in these declining days is taken, and it is against him that I would ask your aid.“

This was the first time that our help had been openly asked, and I thought it best to turn it away with a jest until I better knew against whom we were to war, so I laughed loud and said, “Why do you not ask the aid of the fayman we found? Any power that can hold a bridge without the land on either side must surely be magical in its operation, and did he not tell us he had scratched himself by falling from a star?”

“Do not mock “ the Protector told me, “for that bridge is not a fit subject for it. A troll holds the passage, and I tell you he takes his tithe of those who go north or south across, and so has he done for so long as the oldest here can remember “ Thus he spoke, and I confess, Supremacy, that for a moment I could say nothing. The demons who frightened us as children have some power over our minds all our lives.

Playing for time I said, “How was it then in the olden time, was there no troll then?”

“In the olden time such a concourse of travelers, pilgrims and traders made use of the bridge that the troll’s share was scarce to be seen out of all that went over. Also our peasants, being clever wights, abode in huts upon the farther shore and only crossed after some stranger had recently been chosen, for in those good days if a man were taken all were safe for a fortnight or so. Now, knowing (so I think) that no other may be by for some long time, he is like as not to seize on two or three at once.“ He sighed.

“Boats we cannot use, for until midsummer the current runs too swift; and the exactions of your Liege are such that ten years’ remission at least would be required...“

* * * *

. . . When we reached this fortress I lost no time searching out a native who had the inclination to talk. I found one soon enough, a venerable old fellow who did odd jobs in the kitchen, but when I questioned him about old writings he was able to show me nothing going more than a hundred years or so back. He told me, however, that there was a bridge to the north, “very old, with much carving and some writing,” adding that not even the priests could read the inscriptions now. You may imagine how that affected me. Carving with a little writing must (I thought) surely indicate pictures with accompanying text, and those might be the beginning of an understanding of the language. With little more than that they were able to break Cretan B four hundred years ago. And if that old script from which the present inhabitants borrowed some of their symbols could be read today!

I was so overcome with this thought that I rushed out in search of the native who had accepted me as his guest. After blundering about the castle for what seemed like hours, I learned that he had gone to a room in the watchtower where (after brushing past two guards before they could stop me) I found him in conference with an older native and burst in upon them with a violence which I fear would be called bad-mannered on any world.

As soon as I could get my breath I begged them to guide me to the bridge I had been told of. They seemed taken aback, but after staring at each other for a moment (it was strange to see these aliens behaving in such a human fashion, although I was so overwrought at the time that I hardly noticed it), the older one agreed, saying that all three of us—he looked rather intently, I thought, at my host—would go tomorrow.

* * * *

... He held his peace then, for he saw my face darken. I was about to accept the challenge he had implied and make my offer to slay the monster when there was a great noise at the door, which flew open and in came none other than our freakish vagabond, who I have since discovered calls himself Dokerfins, flying as swift as if he had been kicked. Without so much as a bow or a courteous word he demanded that we lead him to the troll’s lair without delay. The Protectory who cared nothing for the poor creature’s life, consented; and I was forced to agree, though I feared his presence might interfere with my own plan.

No sooner had he left us than I began to turn over in my mind the methods our forefathers, the illustrious warriors of your glorious grandsire’s golden circle, used when such creatures troubled our own land as severely as they still vex this unhappy north. It is unfortunate that those heroes who survived such encounters were so reticent, except perhaps among themselves, about how they did it.

Strength, I knew, would not support me. Cirman, the most sinewy of all that band, never emerged from the sunken palace of the Horogat troll And was not Selimn, the cleverest, found babbling in the waters of the Hidden Canal, never to speak sense again? Yet Gerhelt the Great and Tressan his Son are both said to have destroyed trolls and so, I felt, might I.

* * * *

... I began at once to check over my equipment for the trip. I had my minicamera and illuminator, and my notebook; precious little of the proud tools of modern archaeology. However, the site seemed an easy one. Everything aboveground and no organic matter to be carefully preserved for carbon 14 testing.

As my benefactors had promised, we left the next day; not only we three, but twenty or more soldierish ruffians, and cooks, grooms, servants, and so forth. It was very thrilling and medieval, Professor, but I fear it also bore a certain resemblance to the Gardenia Day festival at dear old Edgemont—all it lacked was a few semiprofessional undergraduate beauties on floats. The parade started at least an hour behind schedule. (I think it may have been more, actually, but I am not too clear on the local horological system. It seems to depend on the changing of various nominal “guards” having no connection with the real pikemen on the wall. Some of the periods are longer than others; evidently day guards at whatever castle the system originated in stood longer watches than the night men. In addition there are special short “guards” for meals.)

Also—getting back to our parade—there were some youngsters lurking about the fringes of the crowd holding clods behind their backs and waiting for a moment when no one was looking. Perhaps I am wrong in trying to separate these things from the medieval element, however. The more I consider, the more I am inclined to think that the Black Prince or the Cid might have felt completely at home when our gaudy banner was unfurled and the crowd (the whole town had come to see us off) gave their weak, the-rack-if-you-don’t cheer.

The country through which we passed after we left the village can only be described as a decayed wilderness. The road was a dusty rut which had never known pavement, and there were no buildings more pretentious than squalid log huts. . . .

* * * *

We left at first light, the party consisting of myself with a few of my most trustworthy retainers, the Protector with his guards, and one or two servants, the minimum dignity permitted, for we meant to live with the simplicity suitable to those who march against foes more than human. The whole of the inhabitants of the Protector’s strong-house, and many of the more respectable residents of Jana, were early from their beds to see us off; they raised a great cheer as our column left the strong-house gate. Hearing it, I ordered that the standard of the West Lands should be unfurled, and this brought forth a greater cheer still.

I have often observed since how much friendship the folk of Jana feel for us of the West Lands, and their gratitude for your Supremacy’s protection, though I suspect it might be greater still if it were not for their Protector’s telling them that the tribute is much more than we ask in order to extract taxes from them. Indeed, it might be better if they were directly subject to some West Lands High Justice, who would repay your Supremacy in armed followers to whose maintenance the people could scarce object considering the lawlessness of the country. Would not a vassal with a loyal army be preferable to an inconstant tributary?

I believe that I forgot to mention, in what my scribe has put into letters already, that by the will of the Protector the mountebank went with us. He is a clumsy rider, and sneezed so much from the dust as to furnish us all with a deal of low amusement.

The country about Jana is fair enough, fertile valleys lacing the rocky hills and even the uplands supporting swine and suchlike useful cattle in some number, though as we drew nearer the bridge, dwellings failed till even the swineherds’ cots were rare to the eye. When we came the third day to the bridge itself, I saw that the Protector’s boast that the men of Jana had built it was only vainglory, for it is clearly a work of the forgotten age; a thing greater than even the West People could make, and having in it a spirit we could not contrive. This I saw as we paused at the crest of a hill just before the land sloped to the river. Then I saw too something which made my eyes like to burst with wonder, for the vagabond, Dokerfins, had slipped off his mount and was running at full speed down the bank toward the bridge!

* * * *

. . . How I wish I could convey to you the thrill I felt when I first viewed that bridge! It is built of monolithic slabs of white stone so skillfully joined that the crevices are difficult to detect even at close range, and it vaults its little river with a fiat curve somehow suggesting an easy arrogance, as though its planners were a little ashamed at having to bridge this modest stream. The carving which covers every surface except the roadway saves it from the severity which disfigures our modern construction. It is deeply incised bas-relief.

Need I tell you how eagerly I went to examine those carvings? You will not be surprised when I admit that in my single-minded concentration I rushed forward without waiting for the rest of the party.

I had just begun to scrutinize a large group of written characters about a quarter of the way across, for the moment slighting some pictographic work nearer the bank, when I was startled by a loud thump behind me. Turning, I discovered the native who had taken me as his guest sprawled on his face on the roadway, having apparently been pitched from his mount, which was rearing and plunging in a most alarming manner just behind him. He had not been badly hurt by his fall, though, for he jumped up at once and began gesticulating to me, shouting very rapidly in the native language something about a traki; it was a word I had heard them use among themselves before, but the meaning was not on the tapes. I tried to get him to speak more slowly, but he only became more excited than ever and positively gibbered. I was perhaps ten feet farther onto the bridge than he, and although he started forward once as though to actually seize me, he seemed afraid to go farther.

Suddenly something behind me grasped me by the shoulders. I tried to turn; but no matter how vigorously I twisted the lower half of my body, the upper half was kept directed straight ahead; I jerked my head about until I nearly sprained my neck, but all I could see was a blurred dark object at the extreme edge of my field of vision.

Before I could collect my wits enough to think of getting out my paralyzer, I found myself flying through the air and saw the dark water of the river rushing toward my face. I hit it with a terrific slap and lost consciousness.

* * * *

... I spurred after him, and had almost grasped him by the collar (for he would not heed my calls) when he stepped onto the bridge itself and my steed pulled up so sharply that I was thrown over its head and onto the bridge.

For an instant I lay stunned, then I leaped to my feet and looked about for the wretched fayman. He must have fled, or so I thought then, for he was not to be seen; instead there stood before me the troll. I challenged him to attack me, stamping my foot to show him I stood upon the bridge he claimed. For a moment neither of us moved. I stared at him, wishing to fix his appearance in my mind, so that after my victory, should the spirits of the place grant one, I might tell others his true shape and save them from going ignorant into battle as I had done.

My eyes have been called sharp by many, but the longer I gazed at the troll the less well could I see him, and although the day was cool the bridge shimmered as the southern plains do when the sun gives a traveler no more shadow than is under his feet. Still, it seemed to me that the troll was a warrior, tall and fell, whose face was more like my own than the faces of most men are. In one hand he held a great sword, heavy and cruelly curved at the tip, and in the other, as a boy might hold a wriggling pup, he grasped the wretched Dokerfins, he looking no larger than a child or almost a child’s doll. I knew then that it was their spirits I saw and not the flesh. Then it was with me as though a blade had opened the veins of my legs; I weakened and my eyes were darkened and I thought nevermore to see the sun. The troll I saw coming toward me with arm outstretched, and his look was not kind.

When I woke it was in the troll’s den. It was dark and the air had such a filthy odor as the pools in swamps have. What light there was came upward from a pool at the end of the hall, showing that the tales are right in saying that trolls dwell in caverns under the riverbank whose only entrances are under water. When I tried to gain my feet and draw my sword I found I could do neither. My legs had no feeling and my hands no strength.

I then began to pray as hard as ever in my life to all the gods that are and most especially to the great God who made them all and the shades of the holy men of the north, who might have the most authority in their own country; and I rubbed my hands against my legs to bring the life back.

One kind spirit at least must have looked with favor upon me, for soon the life returned to my members and I was able to stand. The troll was not to be seen. I bethought me of the treasures trolls are said to hoard— gems and strangely made ornaments of precious metals, shields no weapon can pierce and knives that will carve iron. Indeed, the old tales tell of things greater yet, of magical windows through which one can spy where he chooses and rods whose touch blasts like lightning, but I think these must be lies.

With such thoughts in my mind I began to probe about the chamber. In a corner I found the skull of one long dead; it had been split to get the brains out and seemed unlikely to have any special power, so I flung it away. Where it struck the wall it knocked off some of the foulness and I saw something shine. I cleared a spot with the blade of my dirk and discovered that the wall was faced with a hard substance like polished stone. It had the color of enamelwork, but the tints were within. There was much looking like gold in it and this I tried to pry out with the point of my knife, but the hardest stroke would not penetrate it. The work must have been very fair once; alas, it is cracked in many places now so that the river ooze seeps in.

In the darkest part of the chamber I found the fayman Dokerfins, lying so still I thought him dead. This comforted me a bit, for I had feared that he had leagued with the troll to destroy me, but now I saw that he was taken like myself. Washed all clean by the river water save where the filth of the floor touched him, he was a pale, piteous thing.

I was bending over him hoping to find signs of life when I heard the great roaring voice of the troll behind me; so loud and terrible was it that I wished to stop my ears against it. So that your Supremacy may know the troll’s speech I have instructed my scribe to write all his words large; thus your scribe shall apprehend to raise his voice in reading. This trick of clerkmanship I learnt of Dokerfins and like it well though my clerk thinks it gross and mechanical.

Then said he: “THAT ONE CANNOT AID YOU; YOU MUST FACE ME ALONE.”

And turning I beheld the troll, but not as I had seen him on the bridge. Here he glowed like the flame of a candle, so that every wrinkle could be seen in the dimness, and his form was that of a great Hunting-devil, but larger yet and higher above the eyes and wearing there a circlet of some metal. He had no sword nor other weapon, nor wore he armor.

I spoke to him boldly, saying, “I do not fear to face you, but rather think it strange that you who have neither blade nor byrnie should leave me my sword.”

“I CARE NOTHING FOR YOUR TOOL OR YOUR HARD SKIN—THEY WILL NOT HELP YOU IN THE HUNT WHICH IS TO COME. BUT FIRST TELL ME WHERE YOV FOUND YOUR COMPANION. HIS IS A STRANGE THOUGHT, OR SEEMED SO WHEN I TOUCHED IT ON THE BRIDGE TODAY.”

“He says he fell here from a star, if that moon-talk is aught to you. As to touching minds, I found the head of one whose mind you touched a moment past, but you do not seem to have done that to my friend yet.”

I confess, Supremacy, that I was surprised to hear myself speaking of the betattered Dokerfins as my friend, but I find the common occupancy of a troll’s den breeds a strange feeling of comradeship.

“WHAT YOU CALL MOON-TALK MEANS MUCH TO ME. HE HAS BEEN BROUGHT FROM OUTWORLD TO THE GAMES IN OUR CITY; IT MAY BE THAT WHEN HE WAKES HE WILL SHOW SPORT. THOUGH I SHALL PERHAPS NEVER HAVE THE POWER OVER HIM I HOLD OVER YOU, YET HE SHALL AT LEAST SEE ME AS I WISH.”

“I shall see you as I wish,” I told him, “and that is dead.“ And I drew forth my sword and came at him.

I never blade-reached him. Instead I found myself running breathless down a narrow valley with steep hills to either side. It was night, the air moist and cool in my lungs but smelling of smoke, as when water has been poured on a fire. My armor and all my raiment were gone; instead of my sword I held a length of green sapling, and was minded to toss it away when I noted it hung unnaturally heavy in my hand. Then I knew it was not I but my spirit running, and the sapling was my good sword in truth, though seeming not so in the spirit land; I suppose because it was a new-made blade and not my father’s sword I bore.

I turned then to face whatever might come, but saw nothing and heard only a loud humming as of a swarm of flies. Mounted or afoot, it bodes best to hold the high ground, so I began to scramble up the bank on my left. In the gloom I had thought the hill to be of stones and earth in the common way, but the stones my feet kicked free sometimes clanged like iron or smashed with a noise like crockery. Often too my fingers felt ashes or cloth instead of grass. . . .

* * * *

. . . When I became aware of my surroundings again, my first thought was that the impact of the water on my eyes had resulted in blindness. It was several minutes before my pupils dilated enough for me to make out objects, and even then I could perceive only bulky shadows. The floor upon which I lay seemed to be of stone, covered with two inches of almost liquid mud. Even now, Professor Beatty, it humiliates me to recall it, but to set the record right let me admit that during my first few moments of consciousness I experienced nausea, a sort of dizziness or giddiness, and panic terror.

When I got myself under control I remembered my pocket illuminator and tried to get it out. My fingers were so swollen and weak that I could not unfasten the buttons of my shirt pocket. If you have ever tried to open a jack-knife when your hands were nearly numb with cold you will know how I felt then.

I was still fumbling with the pocket when a pool of water at the far end of the chamber in which I found myself heaved violently and a creature larger than a man emerged. This, as I learned later, was the traki. I will give you a detailed description of him before I close this letter, but for the present I am not going to let you see more of him than I did. All I knew was that the dank and stinking den in which I found myself had now been invaded by some huge creature, whether beast or nonhuman intelligence I had no way of knowing. I felt that I was about to die, to be killed with a horrible violence, and I could no longer turn away, as I have been in the habit of doing all my life, from the sickening thought of my mind’s termination and my body’s reduction to carrion.

All of us have encountered a telepathic adept at one time or another, but I certainly did not expect one here, nor had I ever before realized fully the enormous difference between communication with a human Talent and contact with one as alien as the traki. A Talent has always given me the impression that someone I could not otherwise sense was whispering in my ear while the supposed Talent sat passive some distance away. When the traki sent his signal it was as though a public-address system of enormous amplification and poor fidelity had been planted in the back of my skull, and when he received I felt myself an intelligent insect probed from above by some vast, corrupt intelligence.

“HOW DID YOU ESCAPE?”

The question boomed and screeched until I felt I must go mad. Intellectually I am quite convinced (though I know you are not in complete agreement) that our minds are merely protoplasmic computers of great sophistication —that we have no thought or life except that conferred by matter; yet I have never felt so much in sympathy with the so-called “liberal” cast of thought which holds otherwise as I did then. My body seemed a cast, an almost inert but painful prison from which the essential “I” struggled to escape, and while the essence of my being thus twisted to get away it forced my lips and larynx to say that it did not appear to me that I had escaped, and made my wooden fingers continue clawing at my pocket.

“IT IS WISE OF YOU TO KNOW THAT, WE WHO BROUGHT YOU HERE HOLD ALL THIS WORLD AND YOU CANNOT CROSS THE SEAS OF EMPTINESS AGAIN WITHOUT OUR AID.”

I was too busy at the moment to digest that rather cryptic statement. I had managed to open the pocket at last and was getting out my paralyzer and illuminator. As soon as I was able to fumble off the safety catch on the paralyzer, I lit up the cavern.

I promised you a good description of him earlier, Professor, but now I am not sure I can give you one without sounding like the author of a tenth-century bestiary, and no description can make you see him as I saw him, crouched in that dank chamber. Four limbs reminiscent of a gorilla’s arms, but hairless and shining black, were joined to a shapeless, swagbellied body. The head was more nearly human in appearance, a square face dominated by a great slit mouth like a catfish’s. The only clothing, if you can call it that, was a metal band covered with incised hieroglyphics which he wore about his head. I know this description must sound like that of an animal, but that was not the impression he gave. Rather I sensed a monstrous cunning, and most of all that he was old, and tainted with senility.

I had only time for the brief glimpse I have given you when the traki seemed to turn in upon himself and become something entirely different. It was as if the entire creature were one of those shapes topologists make which, when turned inside out, become totally unrecognizable. I am still not sure what it was I saw while this inversion was taking place (it lasted not more than half a second) but when it was complete the traki had become an elderly man in a white togalike robe. I hope this will not offend you, but his features had a noticeable resemblance to your own; in fact, during the conversation which followed, I sometimes found it difficult in spite of the painful nature of the thought contact to remember that it was not you to whom I spoke—a Professor Beatty who had grown a trifle strange, and more wise and powerful than I could ever hope to be.

“SINCE YOU HAVE FOUND A LIGHT, WHICH I PERCEIVE YOU MUST HAVE STOLEN FROM US AS YOUR KIND IS INCAPABLE OF SHAPING SUCH THINGS, I THINK IT BEST THAT YOU SEE ME AS I REALLY AM.”

I said as well as I could that I thought I had seen the real traki when I had first turned on my illuminator.

“YOU CAN NEVER SEE ME OBJECTIVELY, YOUR RACE BEING WITHOUT OBJECTIVE PERCEPTION. THE SHAPE YOU SEE NOW IS SUBJECTIVELY CORRECT, WHICH IS THE WAY YOU DEFINE REALITY.”

I decided that if this last transmission meant anything at all it meant that he was going to deny that he “really” had any shape other than the one I now saw, so I dropped the subject and asked what he intended to do with me.

“I SHOULD KEEP YOU UNTIL THEY COME FOR YOU, BUT THEY HAVE BEEN SLOW IN SENDING OUT MY SUPPLIES FROM THE CITY OF LATE.”

His thought seemed hesitant, although the kindly face was as imperturbable as ever. I said that I did not know what city he meant.

“THE CITY TO WHICH YOU WERE TAKEN-THE CITY FROM WHICH YOU ESCAPED. YOU MAY SEE ITS TOWERS FROM THE BRIDGE I GUARD-BUT SUPPLIES ARE SLOW TO COME NOW. FOR SOME TIME I HAVE SUBSISTED ON THE WILD ANIMALS I CATCH UPON THE BRIDGE.”

It seemed prudent to divert the conversation, so I asked what kind of animals he meant.

“YOU WILL FIND ONE IN THE CORNER BEHIND YOU.”

I looked in the direction he indicated and saw the native who had accepted me as a guest lying there. The gaudy surcoat he wore over his mail was splattered with mud, and his sword lay near his outstretched hand.

“HE WILL NOT GO TO THE CITY. HE IS ONE OF THE WILD ONES WHO LIVE IN THE FORESTS NEAR HERE.”

“He is an intelligent being.”

“HE IS AN ANIMAL. JUST SUCH CREATURES AS HE I HUNTED IN MY YOUTH LONG AGO. THEY HAVE GROWN MORE CLEVER NOW, AND SOME MAKE HARD SHELLS FOR THEMSELVES, BUT THEY ARE THE SAME.”

He paused for a moment, his noble, benevolent face lost in introspection.

“NOW I TAKE THEM AT THE BRIDGE. MANY OF THEM CROSS IN THESE TIMES; PERHAPS THEY WISH TO SCRABBLE THROUGH THE RUBBISH HEAPS OUTSIDE THE CITY, AS I RECALL THEY USED TO DO.”

“And you kill such creatures?”

The traki’s smile was tolerantly amused now, as though a child had asked a particularly naive question.

“I MUST LIVE, AND THE BRIDGE MUST BE PROTECTED.”

My paralyzer was set on high discharge. I depressed the firing stud and held it down until I felt the unit cease to vibrate. The traki appeared completely unaffected.

“YOU EMPLOYED YOUR FINGERS WELL WHILE YOU WERE IN OUR CITY, I SEE, THOUGH I CANNOT GUESS WHY ONE OF OUR PEOPLE BUILT A TOY TO DO WHAT WE CAN DO SO EFFORTLESSLY WITH OUR MINDS. DID YOU THINK OUR DEVICE WOULD OPERATE ON ONE OF US?”

Professor, have you ever been so frightened that your knees actually shook? Until then I had always thought that to be a conventional exaggeration; in that slimy crypt I learned that it is not. I admit I became hysterical. I cannot remember just what I said, but I told the traki that his precious city did not exist, and that he was only a native devil on a primitive world. I threatened him with all the authority of the Confederation and condemned him, his imaginary city, and his mythical race. I stopped at last only because my teeth were chattering so badly I could no longer speak. When I finished, his smile was as serene as ever.

“NO RACE AND NO CITY? WHO BROUGHT YOU HERE? WHO BUILT THE FORTRESS YOU SEE ABOUT YOU? ITS WALLS ARE THICKER. THAN THIS CHAMBER IS WIDE, AND THE MECHANISM YOU SEE ABOUT YOU CAN BLAST SUCH FLYING CITIES AS BROUGHT YOU HERE BACK TO THE ELEMENTAL DUST.”

Something about the creature so compelled belief that I was forced to look about me. The cave was still empty except for the traki, the unconscious native, and myself; it reeked with the ferment of stagnant river water and rotting organic matter. It was only then that I understood that unshakable calm which gave the traki his atmosphere of invulnerable power. Call it dementia, psychosis, or whatever madness you like, he had lost touch with reality—I think long ago.

With more restraint than I would have thought myself capable of a moment before, I said, “Why is the floor of this room covered with mud?”

“THE FLOOR IS PAVED WITH TILES IN A PATTERN COMPLEX BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING.”

I dropped my discharged paralyzer and flung a handful of the slime at him. I believe I shouted, “Look! Mud!” as I threw it.

It struck his white robe and vanished.

It did not slide off, or disintegrate in a puff of dust or fire, or fade away. It was and was not, disappearing instantly as though it had never existed.

I am afraid I lost control completely then. I scooped up another handful of the filth and rushed at him to rub it in his face. His face had the consistency of smoke. Momentum carried me through the complete patriarchal figure until I collided with something solid behind it. I ran my hands over it several times before I realized what I had struck. It was the ape-limbed bulk of the traki as I had first seen him.

“YES, IT IS I.”

My self-confidence returned. This was not the eye-of-the-storm feeling I had had earlier—I was my own man again, and joyfully, confidently glad of it.

The traki had not moved a muscle during the time I had been touching him.

“YOU ARE CORRECT. WHAT YOU CALL MY VOLUNTARY MOTOR SYSTEM HAS BEEN IMMOBILIZED, TEMPORARILY, BY YOUR WEAPON.”

I took a step backward and found myself addressing the white-robed illusion again. “Since you are the most expert telepathic liar I have ever met,” I said, “I am not going to ask you whether or not it would be possible for me to swim out of the beaver lodge, or whatever it is. Excuse me.”

“IT IS QUITE FEASIBLE. HOWEVER, YOU MUST GO QUICKLY. ALREADY I CAN FEEL LIFE IN MY BODY AGAIN. I WILL EXPLAIN YOUR ABSENCE TO YOUR FRIEND.”

The illusion of a man smiled with only the slightest hint of malice and waved gracefully toward the unconscious native.

In my momentary triumph I had completely forgotten the poor barbarian. I am not a particularly strong swimmer, Professor; I knew that it would be suicidal folly for me to attempt to escape into the river carrying him, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. In my heart I knew it meant death for us both. I had begun to pick him up when my eyes fell on his sword lying in the ooze. I picked that up instead.

It was as long as a wrecking bar and nearly as heavy; brutal, primitive, capable of slaughtering anything that came within its four-foot range.

“You tell me the solution,” I said. “How can he and I leave here alive? Think, because if you cannot tell me how, I intend to kill you with this.”

“THERE IS NO BETTER WAY.”

He paused and I could feel him probing my mind harder than he had ever done previously.

“YOU WILL NOT KILL ME. THE SLAYER IS NOT IN YOU. YOU HAVE BEEN TAUGHT ALL YOUR SHORT LIFE THAT THERE EXISTS NO GREATER CRIME THAN TAKING THE LIFE OF AN INTELLIGENCE. EVEN WHEN YOU CAME TO THIS WORLD WHERE DEATH COMES SO OFTEN, YOU BROUGHT ONLY A WEAPON WHICH DOES NOT KILL. AND I AM WITHOUT DEFENSE.”

I raised the sword for a blow, but as I did I realized that the traki was right. My arm shook and my stomach was a writhing knot. In my imagination I could hear the hiss of that life-defiling blade, feel the tug and release as it clove the vertebrae and the gushing, sticky bath of hot blood; worst of all I knew in anticipation the haunting sense of uncleanness, of my own self-condemnation, lifelong, without hope of absolution. I wished that it were I who stood in such danger of dissolution, and I lost consciousness.

* * * *

. . . When I reached the hilltop there was more light, though no moon shone. I looked about me and to one side saw points of light, undying sparks, as though a mountain stood there, and many men with torches scaled its sides. To my other hand I could see starlight on water and I knew, without knowing how I knew, that it was the river and safety upon the farther side. All about were the low, steep hills.

I could see no pursuers, but the humming noise waxed ever louder and I feared it without knowing why. I do not believe, Supremacy, that I would have felt so in the country of men; in the spirit land some enchantment draws away a warrior’s blood, leaving a cold juice supporting life but not valor.

I was about to run again when I spied something glittering at my feet. It was a piece of red glass—such stuff as the priests use to form pictures in the windows of temples. It was broken and useless; yet before I could reflect on what I did I had snatched it up and thrust it among other such litter in a bag of knotted grass I had slung about my shoulders. I cannot tell why I did so foolish a thing or why I felt so vain about it, like a country wench with a new ribbon.

A night fog was coming up from the river now and filling the valleys. Though it brought forth foul odors from the soil at my feet, I blessed it, knowing it would conceal me.

The hills were lower and the fog thicker as I fled from valley to valley and I knew the river must be close by, but every breath burned in my chest and my steps stumbled. The roaring of the blood in my ears was so loud that I did not hear another running in the valley I crossed until he was nearly upon me. He was naked as I, and his long hair hung down in a filthy mat, but I would have kissed him as a brother had there been time, so happy was I to see a human face in that grim land.

He shouted to me—words I had never heard before, yet they were as clear to me as West Speech—”This way! You are lost. Follow me!”

He led me through a narrow crevice in the hills, which I had passed without seeing a moment before. On the other side the ground sloped cleanly down to the river and I could see the long white arch of a bridge that spanned it. We were almost upon it before I saw that it was the bridge of the troll, and then I knew fear indeed, and would have turned back had not my companion gripped me by the arm.

“A troll watches this bridge,” said, but the clear words I formed in West Speech issued from my lips as guttural gruntings. He seemed to understand, however, and pointed to a low strong-house set almost at the water’s edge.

“He is there, but he cares nothing for us. He is a sky watcher. See the Eye?”

I looked again and saw that there was a great eye of metal lace above the strong-house; it turned slowly as though it searched for something, but its gaze was always toward the stars. Then the bridge was filled with light and the humming noise grew to a roar.

We ran faster than ever then; there was just time enough to get clear of the bridge and scramble up a little rise on the other side before they were upon us.

I halted there. We had run before them as vermin run; now I, at least, would stand as a man and a West Lands warrior should. My companion mewed with fright, but I heard laughter also and it was the fell laughter of trolls.

They were coming toward us faster than any beast could bear them, mounted on shining things which roared without pause and whose single eyes glared with the yellow light I had seen. They halted at the foot of the knoll on which we stood and the roar of their mounts subsided to a murmur. The faces of trolls are not as the faces of men, yet I could see the triumph on every face and I recall thinking that thus the faces of men must look to a hunted beast who turns to make his stand.

One of the trolls dismounted then, and my gaze was drawn to him. He was larger than any forest devil and the muscles stood out under his skin and flickered as he moved. Had he been but a beast he would have been such as to chill the heart of the boldest hunter, but he was no mere animal. His eyes were of the yellow-green of seacoal fire and blazed more fiercely—level as a man’s and filled with terrible wisdom. Strangely wrought weapons hung from his belt, and when I looked upon them, memories that were not mine came rushing into my mind, and I seemed to see naked men and women and children rent to pieces as if by thunderbolts.

By force of will I tore my gaze from them and looked about me lest I be taken from behind; and as I looked the other trolls seemed to fade and become less real, so that I knew they were but the creatures of his art where in truth only his spirit and mine stood alone.

I lifted my green stick as he came toward me. It was a mere wand still to my eyes, but it had an honest weight in my hand and light shone along the bark as though it were steel. Then in an instant all I saw was gone. I stood in the troll’s den once more, swaying and grasping my true sword with a weak hand. The troll was before me still, older now, and bereft of the terrible weapons which had dangled from his belt before.

Then he laughed loud and deep, and I was again on the hillock. Scarce able to stand, I lashed his great arm with my wand and it snapped half off; as he grasped me the darkness closed upon me once more as it had on the bridge, but I struck him with the shattered stub of my stick until I knew no more.

When I woke again the troll’s cave was better lit than when I had previously seen it, though light no longer rose from the pool. Instead a great brightness issued from a silver wand no longer than a man’s finger which lay in the mud close to Dokerfins. I had seen too much that day to fear anything however strange, and plucking it from the muck, I used its light to search out the hole.

My sword I found in Dokerfins’ hand, it and he both drenched in the troll’s dark blood; the grim mock-man himself lay not much farther off, all cut about with gaping wounds from which the blood no longer welled. At the first sight I thought it strange to see that the point had never told, but soon I understood all, as you, Supremacy, wiser than ever I, no doubt do now. For when Dokerfins awoke he was as one deep in drink or drug, babbling and unheeding. Then I knew that his body had but fought here the battle my own spirit had won from the troll in the spirit land, and his soul was scarce returned, alone and affrighted, to its proper place. That his untenanted husk could not use my sword’s point was thus explained, for the sword’s spirit was maimed when it broke in my hand.

From the pool’s dimness I knew the day must be fast fading. It would be an evil venture to try to swim from that place in darkness, so taking the circlet the troll had worn and holding the mewing fayman as best I could I dived into the pool to free us or die, as might be. My spirit-broken blade I left to watch the troll rot; who would dare trust such a thing in war?

* * * *

When I became aware again the sun was full in my face. Oh that blessed sun of Carson!

Can you understand what it meant to me to know I was no longer in that foul abscess under the riverbank? I will not bore you by describing the pleasure of the natives when they found us on the following day. My host—his name is Garth, have I mentioned that before? —had killed the traki in what he calls “a great spirit fight” which I take to mean that it was a sort of contest of wills as well as a physical battle, which with the traki I can well believe. Even knowing that the life of an intelligent being has been deliberately extinguished by him, I cannot feel the repulsion which perhaps I should, but it does somewhat disturb me that he seems to consider me a sort of squire or assistant in what he believes to have been a very creditable deed. At least it has given me useful prestige with the natives.

Now for the really amazing part of this adventure of mine. Garth brought back the metal circlet the traki had worn. When I examined it I found that the inscription on it is in characters similar to those found on Ceta II. The same is true of the carvings on the bridge. I thought the poor traki’s talk of a great city madness, and so it was, no doubt; but there exist shades of derangement. One is to believe in the reality of things wholly fictitious. Another, very characteristic of the old, is to hold in the mind’s present the shadows of the now-gone-forever. What might we not have learned from the traki had not Garth killed it?

Yours for learning,

Morton M. Finch, Ph.D.

* * * *

The cold river water seated Dokerfins’ spirit in him aright while it washed the troll’s blood from his skin and garments, so that when we reached the grassy bank at last he knew not how he came there and I must needs tell him all that had occurred and of his help in the battle, though I misdoubt he understood. The servants tell me that since that time he speaks a strange tongue abed of nights and beats with his arms upon the sleeping furs as a man kills snakes with a staff; no doubt the troll’s spirit often troubles his in dreams, as it sometimes does mine.

The silver wand of light I gave him as a reward, for he swore that it was his. Doubtless he came upon it in the troll’s cave.

The coronet the troll wore, which I took from his brow with my own hand, I send to you by the courier who bears this letter. It is a fair thing; but I would, if I dared, advise you, Supremacy, against wearing it—though it will fit a man, for it became less in compass as I drew it from the troll’s head, by what power I know not. It is a fell thing still, and made the world grow strange when I wore it, and all men seem lower to me than beasts. I was ill and dizzy when I snatched it off.

Such is the tale of my travels thus far. I am proud that the glory of the West Lands is enhanced in Jana since the death of the troll. Dokerfins, whom I bore for mercy’s sake from the den of the troll, has become a clever friend and useful, his wit good though his thought strange. He is so intent upon digging into old places that I would think him a ghoul if he did not do it with such innocence. He wished mightily to have the troll’s crown, though I kept its secret from him, but I think it better far to give it to a stronger mind.

Nammue the scribe hath

written this for the Lord

Garth, the Son of Garth,

and Watcher of the North

Marches.

* * * *

FROM:            Prof. John Beatty

Edgemont Inst., Earth

TO:                  Dr. M.M. Finch

UNworld spcrft MOTH (Reg #387760)

Sorry to be so slow to write, Morton, but I have been busy as ten sub-instructors at theme time doing a new symposium for Archaeological Worlds. Some of the people who want to write in this kind of thing are such asses!

About your native, this Garth. Morton, let an old friend warn you; it is always a temptation for someone situated as you are to strike a lofty pose and impress the natives. “Me great magician, come from star in silver boat.” And all that. But, Morton, sooner or later he is bound to discover that you are only flesh, even as he. Don’t carry on in such a way that this comes to him as too great a shock; he may turn on you then if you have. Take him into your confidence at times; explain the simpler principles of what you are doing and allow him to make a minor decision at times—whether to camp or go on, which of a group of similar sites to tackle first—that kind of thing. Fear and awe alone will not suffice indefinitely.

Meanwhile, would you please send more detail on the markings and pictures. Rubbings and photographs as soon as you can get them and arrange for civilized mail service. I had to write my article for Arch. Worlds (the one that stirred up all this symposium rubbish) on the very sketchy information in your letter; how sketchy it was you will note in the clipping I am having transmitted with this. I gave you full credit, as you will see. It is the paragraph beginning: “I sent an investigator. . .”

Hastily,

J. Beatty

JB/sl