And the Morlocks? They were engineered to have the minds and openness of children; once Tobit brewed his booze, they didn't stand a chance.
I could see them now, through the glass walls ahead of us: the same quartet as before, helping themselves to a brownish concoction that must be Tobit's hootch. It ran down their throats and pooled darkly in their stomachs, sloshing slightly as they moved. Oar's grip tightened on my arm — she had seen too, and for once her face showed none of the haughty superiority she usually assumed when confronted with the unfamiliar. More than anything, she looked hurt… like a sick little girl who can't understand why pain exists.
"Right this way!" Tobit boomed, waving us into the room with the drinking Morlocks. Oar moved forward mechanically; I went with her, squeezing her arm.
Unlike most rooms I'd seen on Melaquin, this one had furniture: glass chairs, and a glass table supporting something like a cake. The cake must have come from a local food synthesizer, since it was clear and transparent; but someone had spelled the word HAPPY across the top, in scraps of grubby red plastic.
Either there hadn't been enough plastic to spell out BIRTHDAY, or nobody cared enough to bother.
The Gift
The Morlocks glared at Oar with the owlish blinks of drunks everywhere. They had not consumed much liquor yet — I could tell just looking at their stomachs — but already they showed its effects.
Tobit gestured toward the Morlocks. "These are my faithful comrades: Mary, Martha, Matthew, and Mark. Perfect names for disciples, don't you think?"
The Morlocks didn't move to acknowledge their names. They continued staring at Oar.
"My name is Festina Ramos," I said to them, "and this is Oar."
In a whisper, she said, "An oar is an implement used to propel boats."
The Morlocks remained motionless. Tobit looked from them to us, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Am I the only one on this goddamned planet who knows how to party? Fun! Festivity! Falling down dribbling spittle! You hear me?"
Every Morlock said, "Yes, lord." They didn't mean it.
Another tense silence. Tobit groaned. "All right. I was going to leave this till later, but we have to do something to get people in the spirit. Ramos… time for your present."
"I don't need a present."
"Everyone needs presents. And I have the perfect one for you. Something you could search for from one end of the galaxy to the other, and lucky me, I have some right here. Damned good luck, considering I didn't know you were coming. If you had any sense, of courtesy you'd have called ahead—"
"Phylar…" I sighed.
"All right, leave it be. No sense pissing you off when I can win your everlasting gratitude… not to mention showing how smart I am to think of this on the spur of the moment." He drew himself up with counterfeit dignity. "Explorer Ramos, have you noticed my disciples' bodily adornment?"
"The skin?"
"Yes, the skin. Have you wondered where they got it?"
"I'm hoping from animals."
"Wrong!" Tobit grinned in triumph. "It's artificiaclass="underline" comes straight out of a synthesizer down the block."
"Obviously not a food synthesizer."
"No," Tobit agreed. "This town has lots of different synthesizers, programmed with manifest goodies from the League of Peoples. You guessed that, right, Ramos? You guessed that the League relocated these folks to Melaquin from Earth?"
I nodded. "The League must have made the same offer they made us four hundred years ago — renounce violence and get a new planet."
"Right," Tobit replied. "I get the feeling they only made the offer to selected tribes… maybe those who were already peaceful enough to convince the League they were sentient. Anyway, your ancestors and mine stayed back on Earth while the chosen few got a free ticket to Melaquin. The League built these towns, the synthesizers, the communications systems… and they also arranged that all future generations would be strong and healthy." Tobit pointed at Oar. "God knows why the League decided to make them of glass, but I suppose people got used to it. This all happened about four thousand years ago; folks from those days must have been so glad their kids didn't die in infancy, they didn't care what the babies looked like."
"My mother was proud of how I look," Oar said defensively. "I happen to be extremely beautiful."
"Yeah, you're one in a million," Tobit sniggered. "Anyway," he turned back to me, "I was talking about my Morlocks' skin. The League whipped it up for the first generation to come here — the non-glass humans. It's a bandage materiaclass="underline" covers cuts, bruises, pockmarks… those people must have been a sorry-looking bunch when they came here, what with disease, malnutrition, and all the other crap of 2000 B.C. Artificial skin must have been damned popular with them.
"Of course," he continued, "the glass kids were next to undamageable, so the skin wasn't used once the first generation died; but a few hundred years ago, some wise man from this town—"
"The Prophet!" one of the Morlocks shouted. For a moment I thought she sounded angry, but then she raised her drink and chugged it in a toast.
"Yes, the Prophet," Tobit agreed, then turned my way, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word whacko. "The Prophet," he said, "received a revelation that the Morlocks should return to the ways of their ancestors: hunting animals and living off the land." He lowered his voice. "Once every few years anyway — most of the time they just sponge off the food dispensers like everyone else."
Raising his voice, Tobit went on, "The Prophet also had an insight about the ideal state of the human body: covered with skin like the first generation. Skin good, glass sinful. You see, Ramos, being invulnerable and immune to disease is ignoble. Far better to suffer and bleed and get bitten by insects…"
I tried to silence him with a sharp look. The Morlocks were drunk, but they still might recognize sarcasm… and I could guess their reaction if someone mocked their prophet.
"Sure, okay," Tobit said grudgingly. "The point is, the Prophet found the synthesizer that could make artificial skin; and he devised a scheme for bestowing skin on Morlocks who deserved it. Like merit badges. You get skin for your face at birth — that's a freebie — then on your crotch when you pass puberty rituals, on your chest for killing a buffalo, on your hands if you kill a mountain lion… that sort of thing. And if you are worthy and brave, eventually you get to look like…" Tobit did a mock curtsy. "Me. Skin from head to toe. I'm their fucking ideal."
"They are fools," Oar said.
A male Morlock tried to struggle to his feet, but Tobit waved him down. "Stay! Sit!" The Morlock slumped again. "You see what having skin means?" Tobit smirked at me. "I have clout. I'm fucking elevated. And that means I can bestow certain honors on my friends."
He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a hand-sized scrap of brown tissue: thin and limp, like a cloth bandage.
"Skin, Ramos," he said. "Do you think this chunk is big enough to cover that splotch on your face?"
Part XIV
TRANSITION
Camouflage
For a moment, my mind went blank. I wish I could say I wanted to hit him, kick that stupid grin off his face; but I was too stunned even for anger. The limp flap of skin lay in his dirty glove like a rag of brown linen… and he thought I should put that on my face?