The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens by L. Sprague de Camp
Book: The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens by L. Sprague de Camp
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Authors: L. Sprague de Camp
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Frome? The information brought hither by my Dzlieri is often garbled in transit.”
After that the meal went agreeably enough. Frome found Sirat Mongkut, despite his extraordinarily pedantic speech, a shrewd fellow with a good deal of charm, though obviously one who let nothing stand in his way. The girl, too, fascinated him. She seemed to be two different people—one, a nice normal girl whom he found altogether attractive; the other, a priestess of the occult who rather frightened him.
When Sirat dismissed his guests, a Dzlieri escorted each of them out of the room. Mishinatven saw to it that Frome was safely in bed (Frome had to move the bed a couple of times to avoid the drip of rainwater through the mat ceiling) before leaving him. As for Adrian Frome, he was too tired to care whether they mounted guard over him or not.
###
During the ensuing days, Frome learned more of the workings of the shop and revived his familiarity with the skills that make a metalworker. He also got used to being tailed by Mishinatven or some other Dzlieri. He supposed he should be plotting escape, and felt guilty because he had not been able to devise any clever scheme for doing so. Sirat kept his own person guarded, and Frome under constant surveillance.
And assuming Frome could give his guards the slip, what then? Even if the Dzlieri failed to catch him in his flight (as they probably would) or if he were not devoured by one of the carnivores of the jungle, without a compass, he would get hopelessly lost before he had gone one kilometer and presently die of the deficiency diseases that always struck down Earthmen who tried to live on an exclusively Vishnuvan diet.
Meanwhile, he liked the feeling of craftsmanship that came from exercising his hands on the tough metals, and found the other human beings agreeable to know.
One evening Sirat said: “Adrian, I should like you to take tomorrow off to witness some exercises I am planning.”
“Glad to,” said Frome. “You coming, Elena?”
She said: “I prefer not to watch preparations for the crime of violence.”
Sirat laughed. “She still thinks she can convert the Dzlieri to pacifism. You might as well instruct a horse to perform on the violin. She tried it on Chief Kamatobden and he thought her simply deranged.”
“I shall yet bring enlightenment to these strayed souls,” she said firmly.
###
The exercises took place in a large clearing near Amnairad. Sirat sat on a saddled zebra watching squadrons of Dzlieri maneuver at breakneck speed with high precision: some with native weapons, some with the new shotguns. A troop of lancers would thunder across the field in line abreast; then a square of musketeers would run onto the field, throw themselves down behind stumps and pretend to fire, and then leap up and scatter into the surrounding jungle, to reassemble elsewhere. There was some target practice like trapshooting, but no indiscriminate firing; Sirat kept the ammunition for his new guns locked up and doled it out only for specific actions.
Frome did not think Sirat was in a position to attack Bembom—yet. But he could certainly make a sweep of the nearby Vishnuvan tribes, whose armies were mere yelling mobs by comparison with his. And then . . . Silva must be told about this.
Sirat seemed to be controlling the movements in the field, though he neither gestured nor spoke. Frome worked his way close enough to the renegado to see that he had the little brass tube in his mouth and was going through the motions of blowing into it. Frome remembered: a Galton whistle, of course! It gave out an ultrasonic blast above the limits of human hearing, and sometimes people back on Earth called their dogs with them. The Dzlieri must have a range of hearing beyond 20,000 cycles per second.
At dinner that night he asked Sirat about this method of signaling.
Sirat answered: “I thought you would so conjecture. I have worked out a system of signals, something like Morse. There is no
After that the meal went agreeably enough. Frome found Sirat Mongkut, despite his extraordinarily pedantic speech, a shrewd fellow with a good deal of charm, though obviously one who let nothing stand in his way. The girl, too, fascinated him. She seemed to be two different people—one, a nice normal girl whom he found altogether attractive; the other, a priestess of the occult who rather frightened him.
When Sirat dismissed his guests, a Dzlieri escorted each of them out of the room. Mishinatven saw to it that Frome was safely in bed (Frome had to move the bed a couple of times to avoid the drip of rainwater through the mat ceiling) before leaving him. As for Adrian Frome, he was too tired to care whether they mounted guard over him or not.
###
During the ensuing days, Frome learned more of the workings of the shop and revived his familiarity with the skills that make a metalworker. He also got used to being tailed by Mishinatven or some other Dzlieri. He supposed he should be plotting escape, and felt guilty because he had not been able to devise any clever scheme for doing so. Sirat kept his own person guarded, and Frome under constant surveillance.
And assuming Frome could give his guards the slip, what then? Even if the Dzlieri failed to catch him in his flight (as they probably would) or if he were not devoured by one of the carnivores of the jungle, without a compass, he would get hopelessly lost before he had gone one kilometer and presently die of the deficiency diseases that always struck down Earthmen who tried to live on an exclusively Vishnuvan diet.
Meanwhile, he liked the feeling of craftsmanship that came from exercising his hands on the tough metals, and found the other human beings agreeable to know.
One evening Sirat said: “Adrian, I should like you to take tomorrow off to witness some exercises I am planning.”
“Glad to,” said Frome. “You coming, Elena?”
She said: “I prefer not to watch preparations for the crime of violence.”
Sirat laughed. “She still thinks she can convert the Dzlieri to pacifism. You might as well instruct a horse to perform on the violin. She tried it on Chief Kamatobden and he thought her simply deranged.”
“I shall yet bring enlightenment to these strayed souls,” she said firmly.
###
The exercises took place in a large clearing near Amnairad. Sirat sat on a saddled zebra watching squadrons of Dzlieri maneuver at breakneck speed with high precision: some with native weapons, some with the new shotguns. A troop of lancers would thunder across the field in line abreast; then a square of musketeers would run onto the field, throw themselves down behind stumps and pretend to fire, and then leap up and scatter into the surrounding jungle, to reassemble elsewhere. There was some target practice like trapshooting, but no indiscriminate firing; Sirat kept the ammunition for his new guns locked up and doled it out only for specific actions.
Frome did not think Sirat was in a position to attack Bembom—yet. But he could certainly make a sweep of the nearby Vishnuvan tribes, whose armies were mere yelling mobs by comparison with his. And then . . . Silva must be told about this.
Sirat seemed to be controlling the movements in the field, though he neither gestured nor spoke. Frome worked his way close enough to the renegado to see that he had the little brass tube in his mouth and was going through the motions of blowing into it. Frome remembered: a Galton whistle, of course! It gave out an ultrasonic blast above the limits of human hearing, and sometimes people back on Earth called their dogs with them. The Dzlieri must have a range of hearing beyond 20,000 cycles per second.
At dinner that night he asked Sirat about this method of signaling.
Sirat answered: “I thought you would so conjecture. I have worked out a system of signals, something like Morse. There is no
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