During the long nights, we would sit at the fireplace making things—gloves, hats, packbags— out of snake leather, and we would talk. To break the monotony, we alternated days between speaking Drac and English, and by the time the winter hit with its first ice storm, each of us was comfortable in the other's language.
We talked of Jerry's coming child.
"What are you going to name it, Jerry?"
"It already has a name. See, the Jeriba line has five names. My name is Shigan; before me came my parent, Gothig; before Gothig was Haesni; before Haesni was Ty, and before Ty was Zammis. The child is named Jeriba Zammis."
"Why only the five names? A human child can have just about any name its parents pick for it. In fact, once a human becomes an adult, he or she can pick any name he or she wants."
The Drac looked at me, its eyes filled with pity. "Davidge, how lost you must feel. You humans— how lost you must feel."
"Lost?"
Jerry nodded. "Where do you come from, Davidge?"
"You mean my parents?"
"Yes."
I shrugged. "I remember my parents."
"And their parents?"
"I remember my mother's father. When I was young we used to visit him."
"Davidge, what do you know about this grandparent?"
I rubbed my chin. "It's kind of vague ... I think he was in some kind of agriculture—I don't know."
"And his parents?"
I shook my head. "The only thing I remember is that somewhere along the line, English and Germans figured. Gavey Germans and English?"
Jerry nodded. "Davidge, I can recite the history of my line back to the founding of my planet by Jeriba Ty, one of the original settlers, one hundred and ninety-nine generations ago. At our line's archives on Draco, there are the records that trace the line across space to the racehome planet, Sindie, and there back seventy generations to Jeriba Ty, the founder of the Jeriba line."
"How does one become a founder?"
"Only the firstborn carries the line. Products of second, third, or fourth births must found their own lines."
I nodded, impressed. "Why only the five names? Just to make it easier to remember them?"
Jerry shook its head. "No. The names are things to which we add distinction; they are the same, commonplace five so that they do not overshadow the events that distinguish their bearers. The name I carry, Shigan, has been served by great soldiers, scholars, students of philosophy, and several priests. The name my child will carry has been served by scientists, teachers, and explorers."
"You remember all of your ancestors' occupations?"
Jerry nodded. "Yes, and what they each did and where they did it. You must recite your line before the line's archives to be admitted into adulthood as I was twenty-two of my years ago. Zammis will do the same, except the child must begin its recitation"—Jerry smiled—"with my name, Jeriba Shigan."
"You can recite almost two hundred biographies from memory?"
"Yes."
I went over to my bed and stretched out. As I stared up at the smoke being sucked through the crack in the chamber's ceiling, I began to understand what Jerry meant by feeling lost. A Drac with several dozens of generations under its belt knew who it was and what it had to live up to. "Jerry?"
"Yes, Davidge?"
"Will you recite them for me?" I turned my head and looked at the Drac in time to see an expression of utter surprise melt into joy. It was only after many years had passed that I learned I had done Jerry a great honor in requesting his line. Among the Dracs, it is a rare expression of respect, not only of the individual, but of the line.
Jerry placed the hat he was sewing on the sand, stood and began.
"Before you here I stand, Shigan of the line of Jeriba, born of Gothig, the teacher of music. A musician of high merit, the students of Gothig include Datzizh of the Nem line, Perravane of the Tuscor line, and many lesser musicians. Trained in music at the Shimuram, Gothig stood before the archives in the year 11,051 and spoke of its parent Haesni, the manufacturer of ships..."
As I listened to Jerry's singsong of formal Dracon, the backward biographies—beginning with death and ending with adulthood—I experienced a sense of time-binding, of being able to know and touch the past. Battles, empires built and destroyed, discoveries made, great things done—a tour through twelve thousand years of history, but perceived as a well-defined, living continuum.
Against this: I, Willis of the Davidge line, stand before you, born of Sybil the housewife and Nathan the second-rate civil engineer, one of them born of Grandpop, who probably had something to do with agriculture, born of nobody in particular… Hell, I wasn't even that! My older brother carried the line; not me. I listened and made up my mind to memorize the line of Jeriba.
We talked of war:
"That was a pretty neat trick, suckering me into the atmosphere, then ramming me."
Jerry shrugged. "Dracon fleet pilots are best; this is well known."
I raised my eyebrows. "That's why I shot your tail feathers off, huh?"
Jerry shrugged, frowned, and continued sewing on the scraps of snake leather. "Why do the Earth-men invade this part of the galaxy, Davidge?
We had thousands of years of peace before you came."
"Hah! Why do the Dracs invade? We were at peace too. What are you doing here?"
"We settle these planets. It is the Drac tradition. We are explorers and founders."
"Well, toadface, what do you think we are, a bunch of homebodies?
Humans have had space i travel for less than two hundred years, but we've settled almost twice as many planets as the Dracs—"
Jerry held up a finger. "Exactly! You humans spread like a disease. Enough!
We don't want you here!"
"Well, we're here, and here to stay. Now what are you going to do about it?"
"You see what we do, Irkmaan, we fight!"
"Phooey! You call that little scrap we were in a fight? Hell, Jerry, we were kicking you junk jocks out of the sky—"
"Haw, Davidge! That's why you sit here sucking on smoked snakemeat!"
I pulled the little rascal out of my mouth and pointed it at the Drac. "I notice your breath has a snake flavor too, Drac!"
Jerry snorted and turned away from the fire. I felt stupid, first because we weren't going to settle an argument that had plagued a hundred worlds for over a century. Second, I wanted to have Jerry check my recitation. I had over a hundred generations memorized. The Drac's side was toward the fire, leaving enough light falling on its lap to see its sewing.
"Jerry, what are you working on?"
"We have nothing to talk about, Davidge."
"Come on, what is it?"
Jerry turned its head toward me, then looked back into its lap and picked up a tiny snakeskin suit. "For Zammis." Jerry smiled and I shook my head, then laughed.
We talked of philosophy:
"You studied Shizumaat, Jerry; why won't you tell me about its teachings?"
Jerry frowned. "No, Davidge."
"Are Shizumaat's teachings secret or something?"
Jerry shook its head. "No. But we honor Shizumaat too much for talk."
I rubbed my chin. "Do you mean too much to talk about it, or to talk about it with a human?"
"Not with humans, Davidge; just not with you."
"Why?"
Jerry lifted its head and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You know what you said ... on the sandbar."