He was still ruminating on these matters when Ruth handed him the wtsai and entered the cabin silently. She seemed preoccupied, and Minuteman had wandered off toward the oaks so, just to be sociable, he said, “Minuteman see Locklear kill with magic. Minuteman like?”
She built a smoky fire, stretching skewers of stringy meat above the smoke, before answering. “No good, talk bad to magic man.”
“It’s okay, Ruth. Talk true to Locklear.”
She propped the cabin door open to adjust the draft, then sat down beside him. “Minuteman feel bad. Locklear no kill meat fast, meat hurt long time. Meat feel much, much bad, so Minuteman feel much bad before kill meat. Locklear new person, no feel bad. Loli no feel bad. Minuteman no want hunt with Locklear.”
As she attended to the barbecue and Locklear continued to ferret out more of this mystery, he grew more chastened. Neanderthal boys, learning to kill for food, began with animals that did not have a highly developed nervous system. Because when the animal felt pain, all the gentles nearby felt some of it too, especially women and girls. Neanderthal hunt teams were all-male affairs, and they learned every trick of stealth and quick kills because a clumsy kill meant a slow one. Minuteman had known that, lacking a club, he himself would feel the least pain if the goat bled to death quickly.
And large animals? You dug pit traps and visited them from a distance, or drove your prey off a distant cliff if you could. Neanderthal telepathy did not work much beyond twenty meters. The hunter who approached a wounded animal to pierce its throat with a spear was very brave, or very hungry. Or he was one of the new people, perfectly capable of irritating or even fighting a gentle without feeling the slightest psychic pain. The gentle Neanderthal, of course, was not protected against the new person’s reflected pain. No wonder Ruth took care of Loli without liking her much!
He asked if Loli was the first “new” Ruth had seen. No, she said, but the only one they had allowed in the tribe. A hunt team had found her wandering alone, terrified and hungry, when she was only as high as a man’s leg. Why hadn’t the hunters run away? They had, Ruth said, but even then Loli had been quick on her feet. Rather than feel her gnawing fear and hunger on the perimeter of their camp, they had taken her in. And had regretted it ever since, ” . . . long time. Long, long, long time!”
Locklear knew that he had gained a crucial insight; a Neanderthal behaved gently because it was in his own best interests. It was, at least, until modern Cro-Magnon man appeared without the blessing, and the curse, of telepathy.
Ruth’s first telepathic greeting to the waking Minuteman had warned that he was in the presence of a great shaman, a “new” but nonetheless a good man. Minuteman had been so glad to see Ruth that he had proposed a brief roll in the grass, which involved great pleasure to participants—and it was expected that the audience could share their joy by telepathy. But Ruth knew better than that, reminding her friend that Locklear was not telepathic. Besides, she had the strongest kind of intuition that Locklear did not want to see her enjoying any other man. Peculiar, even bizarre; but new people were hard to figure. . . .
It was clear now, why Ruth’s word “new” seemed to have an unpleasant side. New people were savage people. So much for labels, Locklear told himself. Modern man is the real savage!
Ruth took Loli out of stasis for supper, perhaps to share in the girl’s pleasure at such a feast. Through Ruth, Locklear explained to Minuteman that he regretted giving pain to his guest. He would be happy to let gentles do the hunting, but all animals belonged to Locklear. No animals must be hunted without prior permission. Minuteman was agreeable, especially with a mouthful of succulent goat rib in his big lantern jaws. Tonight, Minuteman could share the cabin. Tomorrow he must choose a site for a camp, for Locklear would soon bring many, many more gentles.
Locklear fell asleep slowly, no thanks to the ache in his jaws. The others had wolfed down that barbecued goat as if it had been well-aged porterhouse, but he had been able to choke only a little of it down after endless chewing because, savory taste or not, that old goat had been tough as a kzin’s knuckles.
He wondered how Kit and Scarface were getting along, on the other side of those force walls. He really ought to fire up the lifeboat and visit them soon. Just as soon as he got things going here. With his mind-bending discovery of the truly gentle nature of Neanderthals, he was feeling very optimistic about the future. And modestly hungry. And very, very sleepy.
* * *
Minuteman spent two days quartering the vast circular expanse of Newduvai while Locklear piloted the Scooter. In the process, he picked up a smatter of modern words though it was Ruth, in the evenings, who straightened out misunderstandings. Minuteman’s clear choice for a major encampment was beside Newduvai’s big lake, near the point where a stream joined the “big water.” The site was a day’s walk from the cabin, and Minuteman stressed that his choice might not be the choice of tribal elders. Besides, gentles tended to wander from season to season.
Though tempted by his power to command, Locklear decided against using it unless absolutely necessary. He would release them all and let them sort out their world, with the exception of excess hunting or tribal warfare. That didn’t seem likely, but: “Ruth,” he asked after the second day of recon, “see all people in little houses in cave?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Many many in tribe of Minuteman and Ruth. Many many in other tribe.”
But “many many” could mean a dozen or less. “Ruth see all in other tribe before?”
“Many times,” she assured him. “Others give killstones, Ruth tribe give food.”
“You trade with them,” he said. After she had studied his face a moment, she agreed. He persisted: “Bad trades? Problem?”
“No problem,” she said. “Trade one, two man or woman sometime, before big fire.”
He asked about that, of course, and got an answer to a question he hadn’t thought to ask. Ruth’s last memory before waking on Newduvai—and Minuteman’s too—was of the great fire that had driven several tribes to the base of a cliff. There, with trees bursting into flame nearby, the men had gathered around their women and children, beginning their song to welcome death. It was at that moment when the Outsiders must have put them in stasis and whisked them off to the rim of Known Space.
Almost an ethical decision, Locklear admitted. Almost. “No little gentles in cave,” he reminded Ruth. “Locklear much sorry.”
“No good, think of little gentles,” she said glumly. And with that, they passed to matters of tribal leadership. The old men generally led, though an old woman might have followers. It seemed a loose kind of democracy and, when some faction disagreed, they could simply move out—perhaps no farther than a short walk away.
Locklear soon learned why the gentles tended to stay close: “Big, bad animals eat gentles,” Ruth said. “New people take food, kill gentles,” she added. Lions, wolves, bears—and modern man—were their reasons for safety in numbers.
Ruth and Minuteman had both seen much of Newduvai from the air by now. To check his own conclusions, Locklear said, “Plenty food for many people. Plenty for many, many, many people?”
“Plenty,” said Ruth, “for all people in little houses; no problem.” Locklear ended the session on that note and Minuteman, perhaps with some silent urging from Ruth, chose to sleep outside.
Again, Locklear had a trouble getting to sleep, even after a half-hour of delightful tussle with the willing, homely, gentle Ruth. He could hardly wait for morning and his great social experiment.
* * *
His work would have gone much faster with Minuteman’s muscular help, but Locklear wanted to share the crypt’s secrets with as few as possible. The lake site was only fifteen minutes from the crypt by scooter, and there were no predators to attack a stasis cage, so Locklear transported the gentles by twos and left them in their cages, cursing his rotten time-management. It soon was obvious that the job would take two days and he’d set his heart on results now, now, now!
He was setting the scooter down near his cabin when Minuteman shot from the doorway, began to lope off, and then turned, approaching Locklear with the biggest, ugliest smile he could manage. He chattered away with all the innocence of a ferret in a birdhouse, his maleness in repose but rather large for that innocence. And wet.