Alea stared in blank incomprehension. “Is there any point to these pantomimes?”
“I’m sure the people who watched them thought so.” Magnus’s brow was creased in thought “What I find interesting is the people’s appearance, and the subjects that seem to interest them.”
“They all wear such primitive clothing!” said Alea. “Everyone does seem to wear a robe, unless they’re working,” Magnus agreed. “But their working gear isn’t all that different from your own people’s.”
Alea shrugged. “Didn’t you tell me that tunics and leggins are timeless?”
“Yes, until the leggins turn into trousers. Strange that there should be so many ghost stories, though.”
“Yes.” Alea smiled. “The ghosts seem to have more amusing remarks than the live people. And they do like stories about magic, don’t they?”
“Yes, but I wish we’d seen more of that documentary about wyverns. They seem to be very interesting beasts. I’m amazed that they managed to survive the introduction of the birds the colonists brought with them.”
“Why?” Alea turned to him with a frown. “With those beaks and claws, even an eagle would flee them.”
“Pterodactyls didn’t fare so well against birds on old Earth,” Magnus explained, “though that may have been due to the cold snap that killed off most of the dinosaurs.”
“Yes, dragons by any other name. I haven’t seen any sign them on these programs.”
“Something must have killed them off, then—the wyverns didn’t evolve in a vacuum.”
“Wait—what’s this?” Alea leaned forward, frowning.
The picture was rough, grainy, and flashed lines of static now and then—a gaunt woman in a rough tunic pointing to pictures on an easel, which abruptly filled the screen as she explained them. “Native plants have begun to grow again, now tha the Maize Clan has run out of weed-killers from Terra … th Grape Clan sends word that their new vines are only root stoc so that the hybrid vines brought from Terra are the last of the stronger grapes that we’ll see. Without new seeds and shoots from the home planet, they’re having to make do with the weaker strains that are offspring of the old vines, and the native weeds are choking many of them. People are stockpiling the old vintages. The Equestrian Clan reports that without imported sperm and ova, many foals are dying from local diseases, but the survivors are developing hybrid colts and fillies that are more hardy, though not as tall or graceful. The Aurochs Clan is sending in a similar report—their new cattle are smaller and stronger, though with much less meat but all the livestock clans are producing plenty of fertilizer. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be bonding with the soil as well as the Terran fertilizers did, and the yield per acre is down considerably.”
She looked up at the camera, drawn and haggard. “Fortunately we have enough food stocks for the next five years, and the Alchemist Clan reports great success in developing philters that remove the toxins from native plants.” She turned to pull a picture of strange, broad-leaned plants off the easel, revealing a picture of a misty humanoid form floating between two thatched roofs. “The Ghost Clan has confirmed yesterday’s report of a new haunting in the Amity Valley. They haven’t, however, confirmed Goren Hafvie’s claim that the spirit is the ghost of his ancestor, Guru Plenvie.”
“They can’t believe ghosts are real!” Alea exclaimed.
“It’s a belief that never seems to die out, even in technologically advanced societies.” Magnus carefully didn’t remind her that she herself had believed in ghosts only two years before.
“In the northeast, the druids of the Quarry Clan have expelled a group of thirteen men and women for trying to intimidate the rest of their village by threats of spreading a disease called murrain among their cattle,” the narrator went on. The picture on the easel slid away to expose a scene of four cows and a bull lying on their sides, swollen as though inflated. “Unfortunately, an epidemic did spread through the village’s livestock. The druids examined the bodies and concluded that the cause really was magic. They expelled the sorcerers with a warning to establish their own village and stay away from any others.” The narrator filled the screen again, the picture suddenly small behind her. “Since Terra has cut us off and is no longer sending cattle embryos, spreading such a disease has become a serious crime.”
The picture broke into colored dots, the voice was drowned in a rush of static, and Alea stared, feeling numbed. “So that’s what happened to the colony planets when Terra cut them off?”
“To all of them, yes.” Magnus nodded. “Some were more self-sufficient than others, but in most, the PEST regime’s retrenchment meant famine and plague—and war, as the people fought over what food stocks remained.” His face was gaunt, haunted. “I hope we won’t have to watch such a bloodbath here.”
“It seems we will.” Alea braced herself as the picture reformed in front of them, showing two men in half-armor and high boots, halberds in hand, pushing two raggedly dressed men into a small mud but lit only by a tiny fire in the center.
“You can’t leave us here, Corporal!” one of the ragged men whined. “We’ll starve, that’s what!”
“Do what you please,” one of the soldiers grunted. “Anybody who steals from the soldiers’ mess deserves what he gets!”
“You can say that again.” The other man sniffed with disdain. “Lumpy porridge and stale hardtack—no wonder they call it a mess!”
The other soldier swung a punch at him; the man adroitly ducked. “You liked it well enough to try to steal a bowlful when you were supposed to be peeling potatoes,” the guard growled.
“You can just wait here until the company magus has time for you!”
“The company magus!” The first man shuddered. “You hear that, Charlie? He’ll give us lockjaw so bad we can’t even sip!”
“The punishment will fit the crime,” the soldier threatened. “You don’t mean he’s going to throw us into fits for punishment!” Charlie bleated.
“I could think of someplace better to throw you,” the guard growled. “Shut up, now, and wait your turn.”
“A tern wouldn’t be half-bad roasted,” Charlie mused. “The wings are kind of bony, though.”
“I thought they made a jingling noise,” the first rag man said, and turned to the guard. “Can we wing for service?” Alea stared, unbelieving. “They’re joking!”
“If you can call those jokes,” Magnus groaned. “I don’t think we have to worry about seeing a war—they’re still making comedy programs.”
“Pretty poor program,” Alea said, “with only a mud but for a scene.”
“Pretty poor comedy,” Magnus replied.
“I’ll show you service!” The guard yanked a length of rope from his waist. “Pozzo, go get a bowl of mush.”
The other guard grinned and went out the door.
The first guard tied the rope through the bonds on Charlie’s wrists, then passed it through a ring set in the wall and tied the other end to George’s wrists. The other guard came back in with a steaming bowl of porridge and set it just a little too far away for the two thieves to reach. Both soldiers went out, grinning and laughing, and for the next ten minutes, Alea and Magnus watched the two men’s antics as they tried to reach the bowl of porridge. First they both lunged at it and were brought up short, their hands jerking up higher behind their backs. Alea winced with the thought of their pain, but the two men seemed far more distressed at not being able to reach the bowl. Then Charlie stood up and held his wrists right next to the ring on the wall while George hobbled forward on his knees, leaning as far as he could—but the bowl was still out of reach. Chagrined, he stood up and retreated, letting Charlie try, and Charlie did manage to step through his bound wrists, bringing them in front of him—but that kept him even farther from the bowl, so he stepped back through, but was no better able to reach the bowl than George had been. Then the two tried to untie each other’s wrists with their teeth, giving them scope for many ribald comments. At last George sat down and reached with his feet, trying to pull the bowl toward him. Charlie realized what he was doing and stepped through his wrists again, then held them next to the iron ring, and George squirmed forward, wrapping his feet around the bowl and pulling it in, but just as he was about to sink his face into the mush, the guard came in to untie them, informing them that the magician was ready for them. The two men stumbled out of the but with howls of dismay. A disembodied voice told Alea and Magnus, “See what happens to Charlie and George next week, when…” before his voice was drowned in static and the picture turned into another sea of colored dots.