And The Devil Will Drag You Under (1979) by Jack L. Chalker Page B
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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man would have to be pretty damned quick to catch birds, he thought. There seemed no way to cook them, though; a fire would betray his position even if he had had a fire source, he realized. He was still too much Mac Walters for his own good, he realized sourly, and settled down to get some sleep while wondering how hungry he would have to be before he'd eat raw dead birds.
Hungry was what he was when he awoke shortly before dawn, but not that hungry. He knew he would have to reconnoiter the tribe a bit more before making his move and hoped that, perhaps, they'd leave something edible within snatching range.
Spying on them was easy. He just climbed farther up to the top of the canyon, then, crouching low, walked carefully down until he was across from and above the main tribal area.
They were nomadic, no doubt about that. Their pits were crude and shallow, their weapons and imple-ments also crude and carried tied on a yoke of thin logs designed for humans, not animals.
They had domesticated the dog, which was bad. That meant there would be no getting close to them without a lot of barking and maybe worse. Horses, cows, or any sign of agriculture were absent, though. They were hunters and gatherers.
He felt genuinely sorry for them. They were people, just like himself, really-but cruelly and permanently trapped in the early part of the Old Stone Age, locked in an artificial heredity-mandated social system that absolutely prohibited the new and revolutionary idea.
They did seem to have fire in those pits, though; thin wisps of smoke curled from the dozens scattered around the cleft floor. He wondered how they made or carried their fires -flint, probably,
he decided. This area was dry enough so that you could start a fire without much patience if you had flint.
The tribal organization was also easily observed. A large number of women and children, most still asleep, flanked both sides of the waterfall, and there was a clear space around them for several meters. Their own territory was marked by an old spear stuck in the ground with what looked like a human skull impaled on it. A couple of early-rising women in the chief's group seemed to be pounding or grinding something on nearby rocks and watching the large fire pits. Break-fast, of course, he concluded hungrily.
Flanking the chief's area were several younger men -slaves, probably, he guessed. The other areas were organized in much the same way, in a descending order of magnitude. Far from the cleft and the water source, separated from the rest, were a number of young men in a group by themselves. The unattached male surplus, he thought.
As the sun rose higher and its light started to filter down into the canyon itself, the community began to wake up.
The day progressed, with Mac just watching, getting hungrier and hungrier, but learning.
The women prepared the foods, dug the pits, tended the fires, even maintained a very primitive, public pit toilet. The family men hunted, fished with crude nets made of bark and skin, and generally worked together to find a food supply, be it deer or lizard, fish or certain kinds of marsh grasses. The food was brought back, then the men were allowed to pick their needs based on their tribal rank. The surplus males, who also were required to hunt, got what was left over.
The men spent the rest of their time-if, as on this day, they were lucky enough to gather enough food early-making and tending their weapons, shaping stones, as tools for the women, and a few even indulged in elaborate sand paintings or more simplified draw-ings on the canyon walls. Chief Malk himself seemed to be the one who taught the young men the art of fighting-an act of extreme bravery, considering he was training the people who would, certainly, one day challenge, beat, and replace him. But then, Mac re-flected, you never play poker with the man who taught you. There was not only the matter of experience but the one or two tricks he kept to himself that
Hungry was what he was when he awoke shortly before dawn, but not that hungry. He knew he would have to reconnoiter the tribe a bit more before making his move and hoped that, perhaps, they'd leave something edible within snatching range.
Spying on them was easy. He just climbed farther up to the top of the canyon, then, crouching low, walked carefully down until he was across from and above the main tribal area.
They were nomadic, no doubt about that. Their pits were crude and shallow, their weapons and imple-ments also crude and carried tied on a yoke of thin logs designed for humans, not animals.
They had domesticated the dog, which was bad. That meant there would be no getting close to them without a lot of barking and maybe worse. Horses, cows, or any sign of agriculture were absent, though. They were hunters and gatherers.
He felt genuinely sorry for them. They were people, just like himself, really-but cruelly and permanently trapped in the early part of the Old Stone Age, locked in an artificial heredity-mandated social system that absolutely prohibited the new and revolutionary idea.
They did seem to have fire in those pits, though; thin wisps of smoke curled from the dozens scattered around the cleft floor. He wondered how they made or carried their fires -flint, probably,
he decided. This area was dry enough so that you could start a fire without much patience if you had flint.
The tribal organization was also easily observed. A large number of women and children, most still asleep, flanked both sides of the waterfall, and there was a clear space around them for several meters. Their own territory was marked by an old spear stuck in the ground with what looked like a human skull impaled on it. A couple of early-rising women in the chief's group seemed to be pounding or grinding something on nearby rocks and watching the large fire pits. Break-fast, of course, he concluded hungrily.
Flanking the chief's area were several younger men -slaves, probably, he guessed. The other areas were organized in much the same way, in a descending order of magnitude. Far from the cleft and the water source, separated from the rest, were a number of young men in a group by themselves. The unattached male surplus, he thought.
As the sun rose higher and its light started to filter down into the canyon itself, the community began to wake up.
The day progressed, with Mac just watching, getting hungrier and hungrier, but learning.
The women prepared the foods, dug the pits, tended the fires, even maintained a very primitive, public pit toilet. The family men hunted, fished with crude nets made of bark and skin, and generally worked together to find a food supply, be it deer or lizard, fish or certain kinds of marsh grasses. The food was brought back, then the men were allowed to pick their needs based on their tribal rank. The surplus males, who also were required to hunt, got what was left over.
The men spent the rest of their time-if, as on this day, they were lucky enough to gather enough food early-making and tending their weapons, shaping stones, as tools for the women, and a few even indulged in elaborate sand paintings or more simplified draw-ings on the canyon walls. Chief Malk himself seemed to be the one who taught the young men the art of fighting-an act of extreme bravery, considering he was training the people who would, certainly, one day challenge, beat, and replace him. But then, Mac re-flected, you never play poker with the man who taught you. There was not only the matter of experience but the one or two tricks he kept to himself that
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