“It cannot happen,” Tenthag said obstinately.
“Don’t you mean: you won’t admit it’s likely?”
Dippid’s self-control had slipped. Meantime, silence had fallen over the whole area of the pens, and everybody was listening to the argument. Abruptly aware of anger-stink, Tenthag strove to prevent his voice from shaking.
“Even though I did let the People of the Sea redeem their credits—and nineteen in every score of us would have done the same!—I still say things won’t be that bad. It calls for intelligence and planning to apply Gveest’s treatment. Without that, our bud-rate will drop back to what it has been.”
“But how long would it take before we could restore our food-supplies? One explosion in one generation would suffice to set us back a score-of-score of years, at least!” Dippid pulsed violently. “Have you not seen the madness due to famine?”
“No, never,” Tenthag admitted.
“If you had, you wouldn’t treat what you’ve done so casually! I saw it, when I was no older than you are now. There had been a crop-blight at the Southmost Cape. You know about that dreadful episode?”
“I’ve heard it mentioned, yes.”
“That’s not enough! You had to be there. I was among the couriers who brought away samples of infected food-plants for Scholar Vahp to study—the same Vahp who taught Gveest, by the way. And the folk were so desperate, we had to land with an escort of prongers because they didn’t want us to take even a leaf, even a stalk, infected or not. They were just aware enough to remember that they needed more food, and they were prepared to fight for it. Yes, fight! Tear gashes in each other’s mantles, slash each other’s tubules if they could! They say everyone’s entitled to one mistake, Tenthag, but it’s given to few of us to make an error as immense as yours!”
“But I…!”
The attempted rejoinder died away. Turning to mount Flapper, he said humbly, “Only time can judge whether it was as grievous as you claim. Deliver my commission and let me go.”
Memory of the hostility that had overwhelmed him haunted Tenthag until he was well under way. Objectively he knew that he was not at fault—Iyosc himself had exonerated him—but that didn’t alter the impact he had had on the lives of his companions in the Guild … and everybody else.
He delayed long before studying his commission, afraid it might be some sort of punishment. On the contrary: the route assigned him was through familiar waters and to familiar ports, and the tour actually concluded at Neesos. Would the People of the Sea have reached his old home before him? He dared to hope it was unlikely. They would have started by selling the knowledge they stole from Ognorit among the islands of the southern and equatorial zones; perhaps they would not get as far as Neesos this summer. He cheered up.
But his optimism faded as he made his assigned stopovers, delivering to the local savants messages concerning plants and animals. Rumor, if not precise information, had outrun the couriers; wherever he called, the folk were impatient to the point of rudeness, and tossed aside his dispatches.
“We want to bud!” they shouted. “We want Gveest’s secret of fertility! There are five-score fewer of us than this time a score of years ago!” Or “two-score” or “half a score” … but always fewer. It was in vain to insist that before more buds were brought forth there must be extra food. Even the wisest old’uns were in the grip of passion; they dismissed everything he said with a wave of one casual claw.
“We’ll take more from the sea!” was a typical answer, or, “We’ll go back to wild plants like our ancestors!” Sharply he said, “It looks as though you already decided to!” For everywhere he saw the symptoms of decline: parasitic weeds hanging about the eaves of the houses, blocking the sap-run on which depended edible plants and funqi; mold spoiling swatches of good fruit; clamps and copses abandoned in the surrounding countryside as all the folk converged on ports where the latest news was to be expected. The air was full of a dreadful expectation, and the reek had so permeated everyone, they no longer cared to plan for anything except that miraculous day when they too—even they—would parent buds.