I thought I’d recognize it if I ever smelled it again, though I was not entirely positive of this. It was a lot easier to remember something if it had a name and a description. For the time being, I would call the aroma “different” and “pleasant.”
Late in the afternoon I came to a village. First I smelled wood smoke, then saw houses ahead of me among the trees. I couldn’t see them clearly. The forest was too full of shadows. Here and there firelight shone through a doorway or a window.
I stopped and considered what to do. There was no point in sneaking around. If they caught me spying, I’d be in real trouble. The best thing—the thing I had done in southern California and New Jersey—was to walk right in.
The technique hadn’t worked in New Jersey, of course. The people there had tried to sacrifice me to their god, the Destroyer of Cities. I decided not to think about that incident. I spent another minute or two gathering courage. Then I entered the village.
At the edge were small huts, built of wood. They were widely scattered, as if the people who lived in them were none too friendly. Farther in, the buildings were large and long, set close together. Children, naked except for their fur, ran in the streets. A trio saw me, stopped and stared, their mouths open. They were close enough so I could see their faces: round and flat and covered with fur. Each one had a mouth, a nose, and a pair of yellow eyes.
“Hello,” I said gently.
The children screamed and ran.
I went on, between the houses. Several times I passed large people. Adults. They stared at me, but said nothing. They made no threatening gestures.
This was hopeful. I came to an empty place that seemed to be more or less at the center of the village. A square. I hunkered down and waited. By this time the sun was gone. The sky was darkening. People gathered, talking softly, at the edges of the square. I was sweating. If I’d made a mistake, if they were unfriendly, I was going to die here.
Someone walked toward me: a tall, thin person. He or she wore a robe and many necklaces. Someone important. A shaman or a chief.
I was, of course, using labels from Earth.
I stood up slowly, then held out my hands. “I come in peace.”
The person looked me over. At last the person spread his or her hands, duplicating my gesture.
Now what? Let the native decide. I waited. He or she took off a necklace and offered it to me. I took it. The beads were copper, little cylinders. There was a pendant: a piece of shell carved in the shape of a fish.
This was almost certainly a friendly act.
“Thank you.” I put the necklace on. Now I would have to reciprocate. I let my pack slide off my shoulders, then bent and opened it.
“Here.” I straightened, holding out a necklace made of shell. This particular kind of shell—dark blue and lustrous—was found in the planet’s northern ocean, around a little archipelago we named the Empty Islands. Harrison Yee and I had gathered the shells and carved them, using techniques that Harrison had learned at Beijing University, in the School of Anthropology.
The person took my gift, then gestured to me, turned, and walked away. I followed. We went past a crowd of people who stared. My shirt was wet with sweat.
We reached a house. The person gestured again. I walked in and found myself in a large long room. A fire burned in the center. By its ruddy light I saw log walls and log rafters. The floor was dirt or clay.
I looked around. No furniture. But there were piles of fur in the corners. Along the walls I saw pots. Some were a meter tall. Black and highly polished, they gleamed in the firelight. The air smelled of wood smoke and something else: a spicy aroma. I looked up. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters. Herbs, I thought. Were they wild or cultivated? Did these people farm? Did they have the potter’s wheel? What metals did they work, other than copper?
My host followed me in. I looked at him or her. Now, in the firelight, I saw bent shoulders, bony hands, and graying fur. This was an old person, I was almost certain. Orange eyes regarded me. The lids were heavy. The pupils were vertical slits.
After a moment the person spoke.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know your language.”
My host reached out and very gently touched my face. There was no fur on the inside of the hand. His or her skin felt hard and dry.
“Hu!”
I had my hair pulled back and fastened at the nape of my neck. The person touched the side of my head, feeling the hair there, then touched the hair that flowed down between my shoulder blades.
“Tsa!”
I reached back and took the clip off my hair, shaking my head. The hair flew out.
My host started. He or she took hold of several strands and tugged.
For a moment I stood the pain, then I said, “Hey,” and touched—very lightly—the furry hand.
The person let go. He or she spoke again—was it an apology?—and waved me toward the fire.
Other people appeared, wearing kilts or tunics. I saw more necklaces made of copper and belts with metal buckles. The metal was yellow, either brass or bronze.
The new people spread furs on the floor. My host and I sat down. Someone brought a bowl full of liquid. My host drank, then offered the bowl to me. It was fired clay, black like the pots and polished. A geometric pattern was incised on the outside, below the rim. The liquid within looked dark and smelled pungent.
I remembered what the biochemists told me. I could probably eat what the natives ate.
“There’s a lot you won’t be able to metabolize, of course, even with the bugs we’ve given you. If you stay there any period of time, you will develop a lot of deficiencies. But we don’t think you’ll be poisoned.”
I raised the bowl and drank.
The liquid was sour as well as pungent. Rather tasty. I’d consumed things that were a lot worse, in New Jersey.
I said, “Thank you,” and handed the bowl to my host.
He or she moved one hand quickly and definitely. The gesture meant something. The other people said “ya” and “hu.” It seemed to me that they were more relaxed than before.
In any case, they spread more furs. More people sat down till I was surrounded. The air was full of their dusty, furry aroma.
Food came. I wasn’t sure what anything was. I ate slowly and carefully and as little as possible. But I did eat. In most of the societies I knew about, it was rude to refuse food. An anthropologist had to have the digestion of a goat.
The people around me began to talk softly. Often they glanced at me. Only my host kept quiet. He or she kept handing me new dishes, watching to make sure I ate.
One dish was made of fish, I was almost certain. Another reminded me of pickled green tomatoes. A third had the texture of kasha and no taste that I could distinguish.
The people around me belched and made little cooing noises. “Hu” and “ya.” I did the same.
The meal continued. I began to feel light-headed. Something I had ingested was having a narcotic effect. The people around me grew noisier. Several reached over and touched my clothes or hands or face.
Someone got out an instrument like a flute. Someone else began to beat two hollow sticks together. Tock-whistle, tock-whistle, the music went. I leaned back on one elbow and watched the flute player. He or she wore a yellow tunic and a pair of wide copper bracelets. The bracelets flashed as the flute player swayed, keeping time with the music. I had no trouble hearing the beat. It was almost always regular: a heart with a slight arrhythmia.
The music stopped. My host stood up, and I glanced around.