Stability Read online

  Stability

  Chad Oliver

  Caravans, Unlimited, Story #2

  First published in Continuum 2, edited August 1974 by Roger Elwood.

  The great lightship of Caravans, Unlimited came out of the gray wastes of not-space with a shuddering wrench. The ship steadied, at home again in the black velvet of the universe in which it had been born. The symbol on its bow, a laden camel, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The system of Capella was almost dangerously close; the tremendous yellow primary, sixteen times the size of the sun that earth knew, blazed against the faint light of more distant stars.

  Tucker Olton released himself from his chair clamps and managed a sickly smile. He had never gotten used to the dizzy sensation of returning to normal space. He tried to cover up his discomfort by firing questions at his companion.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Your schemes usually make at least a crazy kind of sense to me, but not this time. Exactly what in the hell do you think you’redoing?”

  Alex Porvenir salvaged what he could of his spilled drink and added enough Scotch to make it respectable. “I think it best if I spare you the arcane details on this one. Just do what I tell you and then you can always plead ignorance when everything blows up in my face.”

  “Don’t be avuncular, Alex. It’s my responsibility, too, and my job. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

  Alex looked at the younger man, his brown eyes narrowed. He ran a lean, strong hand through his graying hair. “Don’t you trust me, Tuck?”

  “Of course, I trust you. That’s not the point.Youaren’t trustingmeand I don’t understand why. Your plan won’t work and you know it. So what’s the deal?”

  “Think the old man is losing his grip, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t think that. Dammit, we’ve known each other for a long time. We’ve worked on a lot of projects together. We’ve had our disagreements, but I’veneverseen an operation like this one. It’s—well, it’s just plain silly. You must have your reasons. I merely want to know what they are.”

  Alex put down his drink and fired up an exceptionally foul pipe. “I have my reasons, yes. I told you why I wanted to leave you out of the planning stage, and I wasn’t kidding. My intention is to violate a sacred company directive—I’m disobeying orders, if you want to put it that way. If my plan doesn’t work, that’s my hard luck. If you weren’t involved in it, you’re in the clear. Still want to know everything?”

  “I want to knowsomething.”

  “Okay. Just to set your feverish brain to rest. I’m very concerned about the Maburu; I’ve always admired them a great deal. I know their life has been tough, but if I could have picked the person I wanted to be I just might havebeenone of the Maburu. The atavistic streak in me, I suppose—I happen to like hunters.”

  “But that’s exactly what the company wants you to do. We’re trying topreservethe Maburu culture. ...”

  “Are we?” Alex blew out a cloud of acrid blue smoke. “Maybe it all depends on how we define our terms. I’m worried about what always worries me in these situations—this habit we have of posing as Omnipotent Beings, messing around with other people’s lives. Caravans has made mistakes before, and so have we as individuals. We don’t know everything. It’s all too easy to allow our own interests to shade the decisions we make. Caravans wants those horns; they’ve been a profitable product for us. When you cut through the high-sounding verbiage about saving the integrity of the Maburu lifeway, what they really want me to do is to see to it that those horns keep coming. I’m not convinced. Maybe that’s the best way to proceed, maybe not. I promise you that what I want to try is not unethical. It will violate no laws. Beyond that, I think it’ll work—that is, it will attain the basic objectives of the Caravans planners. I’m just not going to do precisely what I was told to do. Let me ask you a question. Will my plan result in any possible harm to the Maburu?”

  “I don’t know what your plan really is.”

  “So I’ll rephrase my question. Youdoknow what action I am going to take. That’s what you’ve been moaning and groaning about. Will it hurt them in any way?”

  “No. I don’t see-”

  “Then can’t we leave it at that? Do me a favor this once and don’t press me for details. You’ll know soon enough.”

  Tucker Olton sighed. “Okay, Alex. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Alex Porvenir smiled and drained his drink. “So do I, friend. So do I.”

  * * *

  The great yellow sun was low in the western sky, burning redly through banks of rain-swollen clouds. Some of the fierce heat had gone out of the day. The winds were beginning, gently now, and they carried a hint of cooling moisture. The plains grasses stirred. Even the thorny flat-topped trees swayed a little, showing signs of life after the searing afternoon heat.

  A small herd of about twenty bokix became active in a clump of thick brush. The animals ventured out of the shade for the first time in many hours. They milled about aimlessly, shaking off the torpor of the hot afternoon, sampling the scorched but sweet-smelling grasses.

  A large buck lifted his horn-crowned head to taste the wind. He was a splendid creature, his coat delicately striped with tan and white, his liquid eyes clear, his exquisite horns golden and sweeping back over his powerful shoulders. The antelopelike bokix, somewhat resembling the kudu or oryx of ancient earth, were all big animals but the buck was truly exceptional. He must have weighed close to five hundred pounds.

  The buck tossed his horns and snorted. He was thirsty after the heat of the afternoon. He wasted no time on the grass. He moved off with a long, easy stride, headed for water.

  The other bokix followed his lead. The herd strung out almost in single file, walking steadily into the wind.

  Old, old laws, as old as complex life on the land. Where there are grassy plains, there will be animals that feed on the grasses. Where there are grass-eaters, there will be hunters to prey upon the herds. Lithe, fast killers with sharp claws and teeth. Scavenger packs to snarl over the carcasses. Birds to peck and rip and scratch at the meat-shredded bones.

  And, sometimes, men. A special kind of men. Tireless, strong, patient men, their eyes narrowed against the sun and wind. Men who wait and stalk and wait again. Men who know about arrows and poisons and traps. Men who know the land and the animals that live upon the land. Men who know that animals must drink after the heat of the day. Men who know where the springs bubble and the rivers flow. . .

  Hunters.

  Waiting.

  * * *

  These, then, are the Maburu.

  Hard men; there are no fat Maburu. The men leave their crude brush shelters and seek the herds. The hunting bands are small, six or seven men moving like shadows along dusty and almost invisible trails. The men know their jobs, but foot hunting is slow. Often, they are gone for many days before they make a big-enough kill to justify returning to camp.

  The women and the few old men stay fairly close to the shelters. The women fan out, carrying their babies in cape slings, searching for edible roots and berries and the wild succulent melons that grow along the ground vines. They actually supply most of the food; the Maburu could not live on meat alone in their tough world. The women pick up firewood along the way, and when they return to the shelters they build little fires and sit and wait and stare into the gathering darkness. . .

  The older children—there are not many in any one of the scattered Maburu groups—play the games they have always played. The boys build snares and go after lizards and snakes and small rodents with their scaled-down bows and arrows. The girls help with the babies and dig roots out of the hard-packed ground and weave little baskets for berries.

  It is not an easy life. There is seldom enough food for a full belly. There are few luxuries. There is sickness that strikes suddenly. There are children who whimper and die, and there are men who do not return. . . .

  But there is more than this.

  There are times when the big kill is made and there is meat for everyone. It has a good smell with the juices dripping into the fires. You can eat until you hurt, and rest, and eat again. You can sleep a long sleep and dream your dreams and be secure in the knowledge that there will be more food tomorrow. There are times for dancing, times for singing happy songs. There are times for jokes, and times when a man and a woman can lie together in the warm huts with the rains drumming on the thatch. There are times when the sky traders come, taking away the golden horns of the bokix and leaving in return wonderful things that give days of enchantment. There are times when a boy comes of age, and you can see pride in his eyes, and it is good to be a Maburu. There are time when a child is born, and you know that the Maburu will go on forever.

  Now, while the small band of Maburu hunters deploys in the afternoon sun, dividing along the stream bank and leaving an open corridor so that the bokix will not catch their scent, there are other Maburu.

  That is the problem.

  They are not far away, these new Maburu. A hard journey of two days, that is all. Looked at in another way, though, the new Maburu are distant indeed.

  They are different, and have become more different within the span of two generations.

  There are many, while the old Maburu were few. They live close together. Their houses are solidly made, and they do not move them with the seasons.

  The men no longer hunt. They spend the long afternoons in councils around great calabashes of sugar-stalk beer. It is a party of sorts, but there is work to be done and they take it seriousl
y. The councils are forums. There are many legal cases to be heard and decided. Boundary disputes, and thefts, and endless details of bride wealth payments.

  And witchcraft. There are too many witches. . . .

  The doctors are busy indeed. It is difficult to combat the witches. The doctors must examine the victims. They know that illness is caused by witches, of course, but that is not specific enough. They must speak with the spirits, calling to them on their ornately carved bows with the special strings and the sounding gourds that resonate when struck. And they must consult the flashing Wiloto, which can signal answers that only they can read. Then they know the witch that is responsible, and what she has done. That is the diagnosis. The treatments are complicated and expensive, and sometimes they fail. Then the witch must be confronted directly, and that is a dangerous business.

  The women, too, are busy. They work hard, harder than in the old way. There is clearing and the planting and the weeding and the harvesting in a never-ending cycle. There are the great baskets to weave, some of them as tall as the woman herself; the baskets have intricate designs of many colors and they are used to store the foods in stilted storage huts where the rodents cannot get at them. There is more than one wife in a house now, and that means trouble. It is small wonder that some of the women turn to witchcraft and use their ancient power. It gives release of a sort.

  The new Maburu have discovered agriculture. They do not know how remarkable this is. They know only that they can grow more food than they could ever find. They know only that it is easier to grow food than to hunt it—easier for the men, at any rate. They know only that now there is enough food so that people never have to go to sleep with empty bellies.

  They know only that there are more Maburu, and they are not fools by any means. They know that there is strength in numbers. They can stay all their lives in one village instead of wandering the hard trails lean and hungry and shifting camps with the changing seasons. Their children have a better chance to survive; no longer must they fear becoming too attached to a baby that may be dead in a matter of days. Elders are not a rarity now and a man does not routinely face death when he is thirty.

  They rather look down on their backward cousins, these new Maburu. They know that they have found a better way.

  Who, after all, would spend his life tired and thirsty on the hunt, when he could sit back in the shade and sip his beer and relish the importance of savoring a good legal case?

  Surely they are ignorant, those old Maburu. . .

  * * *

  The buck paused and lifted his head, his golden horns gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun. He sniffed the freshening wind. There was a faint scent that disturbed him. He hesitated, his white-flecked tail cocked with awareness.

  It was the sweet wet smell of water that decided him. He moved again toward the stream.

  The bokix herd was not walking now. The gait had shifted to a fast purposeful trot. Dust puffed up around them and behind them.

  The buck reached the river first. He waded out in the cool clean water, enjoying the sensation of it. He paused again and froze for a moment, his nostrils quivering. Then he drank, and the herd drank with him.

  The Maburu hunters struck. Swiftly, suddenly, soundlessly. Converging, three from upstream and three from down. The first arrows flew while the bokix were still in the water. The animals could not maneuver. They were easy targets.

  When the shafts hit, the stricken bokix did not simply roll over in the water and die. They were big animals, and it took a lucky arrow to drop a bokix in his tracks. The herd exploded, thrashing and snorting. There was whirling confusion, with golden horns flashing and red blood mixing with the muddied water.

  Most of the animals charged for the bank they had just left, heedless now of the hunters who waited for them. They heaved themselves out of the water and took off at a dead run for the cover of the brushy thickets. They ignored the arrows that pricked at their hides.

  The great buck was unhit. Part of the reason was that the hunters were primarily after meat, and the cows were better eating. But the hunters had seen his fantastic horns, and more than one arrow had come his way. It was more than luck. The animal had not attained his size and age without wisdom and cunning. He had survived in a tough world. Even before the arrows had flown, some instinct had warned him. He began to swim away, making for the opposite bank. He was out of effective range before most of the rest of the herd had fully reacted.

  The hunters were jubilant. The stalk had been perfect, the arrows true. At least seven of the bokix had been severely pierced. It was an incredible number.

  But the hard part was just beginning.

  The poison would work, yes; it was fresh and strong and smeared thickly on the foreshafts of the arrows. But the poison worked slowly on large animals. It had to get into the bloodstream, and an animal as big as a bokix would take time to die.

  And the bokix would not conveniently stay together, trot back to camp, and collapse. They would split up, go in all directions.

  They must be followed along unpredictable trails. They must be found when they weakened, found and guarded. There were other animals who would welcome the Maburu kill, either to bring down the dazed bokix or to scavenge the dead meat. The bokix must be butchered and the flesh cut into long strips to dry; otherwise, the meat was too heavy to carry. Someone had to notify the camp so that the women and children could shoulder some of the burden.

  And night was falling. It was no simple matter to track a wounded animal through the darkness.

  Still, it had been a great hunt.

  It would be good to sit around the fires and tell about it, when and if they got home.

  One day, it would be good to remember.

  * * *

  The Caravans lightship drifted in silent orbit, far above the world of Capella VII. It was a creature of the deep, and docked on the shores of that strange space-sea only under the most exceptional circumstances.

  The spherical landing shuttles came down out of space, whispering through the atmosphere. There were six of them, floating down like white bubbles through the glare of the warm sunshine.

  Many times the traders had come thus to the Maburu, seeking the golden horns of the bokix. The horns were fabulous, natural works of art, but what made them valuable enough to transport was the elementary fact that wild animals were extinct on the human ant hill that was earth. The horns of the bokix were priceless exactly because there was nothing like them at home. The value of a status symbol varies inversely with the supply.

  There was no need for the traders to conceal their movements. They had nothing to fear from the Maburu, and indeed theywantedto be seen.

  But this time they had not come to trade.

  This time their task was different. . .

  * * *

  Emerging from the landing shuttles, the traders greeted the shouting Maburu cordially. There was real friendliness on both sides; they welcomed each other. It was a profitable relationship for both of them, of course, but it was more than that. The traders generally liked and admired the Maburu, and the Maburu had received only good things from the traders. You tend to like people who bring you fine presents.

  The traders dealt only with the hunting Maburu. The farmers had no horns.

  It takes time to trade, whether you are dealing with primitive or civilized peoples. You don’t just dump out your goodies, collect your horns, and leave. That is an insult. No, there must be feasting and songs and pleasant conversation that only lightly touches upon the purpose of the visit. . . .

  Days went by before the shuttles were loaded, and still the traders were not through. Trade was not the primary purpose of this visit to the Maburu, although they could not afford to ignore the opportunity to obtain more of the golden horns. The logistics of space travel made it necessary to transact business whenever it was possible. Time spent in space was dead time; it cut into profits.

  The traders did not understand the rest of their job at all. Alex Porvenir had asked them to do many peculiar things in his time, but nothing like this. Still, the man knew his job—and his word was law in field operations.