Next to the field a row of flat-roofed buildings: the tiny colony’s interwoven installations. Several persons were moving toward his noser, evidently to greet him. He waved, enjoying the feel of the plastic leather steering gloves–that and the very great augmentation of his somatic self which his bulky suit provided.
“Hi!” a female voice called.
“Hi,” Ben Tallchief said, regarding the girl. She wore a dark smock, with matching pants, a general issue outfit that matched the plainness of her round, clean, freckled face. “Is this a god-world?” he asked, walking leisurely toward her.
“It is not a god-world,” the girl said, “but there are some strange things out there.” She gestured toward the horizon vaguely; smiling at him in a friendly manner she held out her hand. “I’m Betty Jø Berm. Linguist. You’re either Mr. Tallchief or Mr. Morley; everyone else is here already.”
“Tallchief,” he said.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone. This elderly gentleman is Bert Kosler, our custodian.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Kosler.” Handshake.
“I’m glad to meet you, too,” the old man said. “This is Maggie Walsh, our theologian.”
“Glad to meet you, Miss Walsh.” Handshake. Pretty girl.
“Glad to meet you, too, Mr. Tallchief.”
“Ignatz Thugg, thermoplastics.”
“Hi, there.” Overly masculine handshake. He did not like Mr. Thugg.
“Dr. Milton Babble, the colony’s M.D.”
“Nice to know you, Dr. Babble.” Handshake. Babble, short and wide, wore a colorful short-sleeved shirt. His face had on it a corrupt expression which was hard to penetrate.
“Tony Dunkelwelt, our photographer and soil-sample expert.”
“Nice to meet you.” Handshake.
“This gentleman here is Wade Frazer, our psychologist.” A long, phony handshake with Frazer’s wet, unclean fingers.
“Glen Belsnor, our electronics and computer man.”
“Glad to meet you,” Handshake. Dry, horny, competent hand.
A tall, elderly woman approached, supporting herself with a cane. She had a noble face, pale in its quality but very fine. “Mr. Tallchief,” she said, extending a slight, limp hand to Ben Tallchief. “I am Roberta Rockingham, the sociologist. It’s nice to meet you. We’ve all been wondering and wondering about you.”
Ben said, “Are you _the_ Roberta Rockingham?” He felt himself glow with the pleasure of meeting her. Somehow he had assumed that the great old lady had died years ago. It confused him to find himself being introduced to her now.
“And this,” Betty J0 Berm said, “is our clerk-typist, Susie Dumb.”
“Glad to know you, Miss–” He paused.
“Smart,” the girl said. Full-breasted and wonderfully shaped. “Suzanne Smart. They think it’s funny to call me Susie Dumb.” She extended her hand and they shook.
Betty Jo Berm said, “Do you want to look around, or just what?”
Ben said, “I’d like to know the purpose of the colony. They didn’t tell me.”
“Mr. Tallchief,” the great old sociologist said, “they didn’t tell us either.” She chuckled. “We’ve asked everyone in turn as he arrives and no one knows. Mr. Morley, the last man to arrive–he won’t know either, and then there will we be?”
To Ben, the electronics maintenance man said, “There’s no problem. They put up a slave satellite; it’s orbiting five times a day and at night you can see it go past. When the last person arrives–that’ll be Morley–we’re instructed to remote activate the audio tape transport aboard the satellite, and from the tape we’ll get our instructions and an explanation of what we’re doing and why we’re here and all the rest of that crap; everything we want to know except ‘How do you make the refrig colder so the beer doesn’t get warm?’ Yeah, maybe they’ll tell us that, too.”
A general conversation among the group of them was building up. Ben found himself drifting into it without really understanding it. “At Betelgeuse 4 we had cucumbers, and we didn’t grow them from moonbeams, the way you hear.” “I’ve never seen him.” “Well, he exists. You’ll see him someday.” “We’ve got a linguist so evidently there’re sentient organisms here, but so far our expeditions have been informal, not scientific. That’ll change when–” “Nothing changes. Despite Specktowsky’s theory of God entering history and starting time into motion again.” “If you want to talk about that; talk to Miss Walsh. Theological matters don’t interest me.” “You can say that again. Mr. Tallchief, are you part Indian?” “Well, I’m about one-eighth Indian. You mean the name?” “These buildings are built lousy. They’re already ready to fall down. We can’t get it warm when we need warm; we can’t cool it when we need cool. You know what I think? I think this place was built to last only a very short time. Whatever the hell we’re here for we won’t be long; or rather, if we’re here long we’ll have to construct new installations, right down to the electrical wiring.” “Some bug squeaks in the night. It’ll keep you awake for the first day or so. By ‘day’ of course I mean twenty-four-hour period. I don’t mean ‘daylight’ because it’s not in the daytime that it squeaks, it’s at night. Every goddamn night. You’ll see.” “Listen, Tallchief, don’t call Susie ‘dumb.’ If there’s one thing she’s not it’s dumb.” “Pretty, too.” “And do you notice how her–” “I noticed, but I don’t think we should discuss it.” “What line of work did you say you’re in, Mr. Tallchief? Pardon?” “You’ll have to speak up, she’s a little deaf.” “What I said was–” “You’re frightening her. Don’t stand so close to her.” “Can I get a cup of coffee?” “Ask Maggie Walsh. She’ll fix one for you.” “If I can get the damn pot to shut off when it’s hot; it’s been just boiling the coffee over and over.” “I don’t see why our coffee pot won’t work. They perfected them back in the twentieth century. What’s left to know that we don’t know already?” “Think of it as being like Newton’s color theory. Everything about color that could be known was known by 1800. And then Land came along with his two-light-source and intensity theory, and what had seemed a closed field was busted all over.” “You mean there may be things about self-regulating coffee pots that we don’t know? That we just think we know?” “Something like that.” And so on. He listened distantly, answered when he was spoken to and then, all at once, fatigued, he wandered off, away from the group, toward a cluster of leathery green trees: they looked to Ben as if they constituted the primal source for the covering of psychiatrists’ couches.
The air smelled bad–faintly bad–as if a waste-processing plant were chugging away in the vicinity. But in a couple of days I’ll be used to it, he informed himself.
There is something strange about these people, he said to himself. What is it? They seem so . . . he hunted for the word. Overly bright. Yes, that was it. Prodigies of some sort, and all of them ready to talk. And then he thought, I think they’re very nervous. That must be it; like me, they’re here without knowing why. But–that didn’t fully explain it. He gave up, then, and turned his attention outward, to embrace the pompous green-leather trees, the hazy sky overhead, the small nettle-like plants growing at his feet.
This is a dull place, he thought. He felt swift disappointment. Not much better than the ship; the magic had already left. But Betty Jo Berm had spoken of unusual life forms beyond the perimeter of the colony. So possibly he couldn’t justifiably extrapolate on the basis of this little area. He would have to go deeper, farther and farther away from the colony. Which, he realized, is what they’ve all been doing. Because after all, what else is there to do? At least until we receive our instructions from the satellite.
I hope Morley gets here soon, he said to himself. So we can get started.
A bug crawled up onto his right shoe, paused there, and then extended a miniature television camera. The lens of the camera swung so that it pointed directly at his face.
“Hi,” he said to the bug.
Retracting its camera, the bug crawled off, evidently satisfied. I wonder who or what it’s probing for? he wondered. He raised his foot, fooling momentarily with the idea of crushing the bug, and then decided not to. Instead he walked over to Betty Jo Berm and said, “Were the monitoring bugs here when you arrived?”
“They began to show up after the buildings were erected. I think they’re probably harmless.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“There isn’t anything we can do about them anyhow. At first we killed them, but whoever made them just sent more out.”
“You better trace them back to their source and see what’s involved.”
“Not ‘you,’ Mr. Tallchief. ‘We.’ You’re as much a part of this operation as anyone here. And you know just as much– and just as little–as we do. After we get our instructions we may find that the planners of this operation want us to– or do not want us to–investigate the indigenous life forms here. We’ll see. But meanwhile, what about coffee?”