And they had asked him things no one talked about–like the old things: like the books–the books they said the Hillers had. He had said these things not because he was innocent, but because he was afraid, because he was tired, because they wanted these things very, very badly and he was afraid to lie.
He sat across the rough table from his mother and ate his soup, afraid now to have her know how much of a stranger he had already become.
xi
“He’s not Unionist,” the science chief said. “The psych tests don’t turn up much remnant of it. No political consciousness, nothing surviving in his family line.”
“The mother’s got title to a two bed house,” security said, at the same long table in an upper level of the education facility. “Single. Always been single. Says the father’s a hiller and she doesn’t know who.”
“Different story from the boy,” said education. “The father’s got born‑man blood, he says. But he doesn’t know who. We’ve interviewed the mother: she says the boy’s got only herblood and her father was a doctor. She’s literate. She does some small medical work in the town. Not getting rich at it. We give it away; she gets paid in a measure of flour. Hasn’t done any harm at it.”
“Remarkable woman. I’d suggest to bring her in for tests.”
“Might have her doing clinic work,” the mission chief said. “Good policy, to reward the whole family.”
“We’re forming a picture,” the science chief said. “If we could locate the books that are supposed to exist–”
“The constant rumor is,” security said, “that the hillers have them. If they exist.”
“We don’t press the hillers. They’ll run on us.”
“If there are literates among the hillers, and books, Union materials–”
“We do what we can,” the mission chief said. “Short of a search, which might drive the material completely underground.”
“We know what the colony was. We know that the calibans moved in on them. Something we did scared them off right enough. Maybe it was the noise of the shuttle. But somewhere the first colony lost control, and cleared out of this place. Went to the hills. The azi stayed in the town. The Dean line, a couple of others trace back to the colonists; but there’s a hiller line among traders from one Elly Flanahan, and a lot of Rogerses and Innises and names that persist that aren’t like azi names. Somethingturned most of the colonists to the hills, completely away from this site. The azi tended to stay, being azi. The flood hypothesis is out. Policy split is possible…but there’s not much likelihood of it. The old camp seemed to have been purposely stripped, just people moving out. And calibans all over it. Tunnelled all under it. The earthmovers sunk and near buried. That’s caliban damage, that’s all.”
“We have a pretty good picture,” science said. “It’s far from complete. If there are records–if there was anything left but anomalies like this boy Dean–”
“We pull the town tighter in,” the mission chief said. “We continue the program, while we have the chance.”
“Only with the town itself.”
“Militarily–” security said, “the only answer. We can’t get the hillers. Not without the town at a more secure level than it is. We can’t ferret the hillers out. Can’t.”
“There’s division of opinion on that.”
“I’m telling you the departmental consensus. I’m telling you the longrange estimate. We don’t need hardened enemies on this world. We don’t use the fist.”
“The policy stands,” the mission chief intervened, a calm voice and firm. “The town first. We can’t reach into the hiller settlement.”
“The calibans–”
“We just keep an eye on that movement. If the caliban drift in our direction accelerates, then we take alarm.”
“The drift is there,” science said. “The mounds exist, a kilometer closer than last season.”
“Killy has a breeding cycle theory that makes a great deal of sense–that this advance and retreat has something to do with a dieoff–”
“We make theories at a distance. While the ban holds on firsthand observation–”
“We do what we can with the town,” the mission chief said, “before we take any action with the calibans. We don’t move until we’re absolutely secure.”
xii
Year 89, day 203 CR
Styxside
They were born‑men and townsmen and they came up the river with a great deal of noise, a sound of hardsoled boots and breaking of branches and sometimes splashing where a stream fed into the Styx. Jin was amazed and squatted on a rock to see, because there had never in his lifetime come such a thing, people from inside the barrier come from behind their fences and down the Styx.
They saw him there, and some of them aimed their guns from fright. Jin’s heart froze in him from shock and he moved no muscle until the seniormost of them waved the guns away and stopped the rest of the column in the kind of order townsmen liked.
“You,” the man said. “Hiller?”
Jin nodded, squatting on his rock, his eyes still alert for small movements of weapons. He had his arms about his leatherclad knees, but there was brush beside him and he could bound away with one fast spring if they went on being crazy.
“You got your number, hiller?”
Jin made a pursing of his lips, his eyes very much alert. “Got no number, born‑man. I hunt. I don’t trade behind your wire.”
The man came a little closer, looking up at him on his rock. “We’re not behind the wire now. Don’t need a number. Want to trade?”
“Trade what?”
“You know calibans, hiller?”
Jin half‑lidded his eyes. “O, so, calibans. Don’t touch them, born‑man. The old browns, they don’t take much to hunters. Or strangers come walking ’long the Styx.”
“We’re here to study,” another man said, leaving the others to come closer. He was an older man with gray hair. “To learn the calibans. Not to hunt.”
“Huh.” Jin laughed hiller‑fashion, short and soft. “The old browns don’t fancy being learned. You make tapes, old born‑man, you make tapes to teach you calibans? They go away from you, long time ago. Now you want them back? They make your buildings fall, they drag you under, old born‑man, take you down with them, down in the dark under ground.”
“I’ll go up there,” a young man said; but: “No,” the old man said. “He’s all right. I want to hear him.–Hiller, what’s your name?”
“Jin. What’s yours?”
“Spencer. You mind if I come up there?”
“Sir–” the man said, with the weapons. But the old man was coming up the side of the rocky slope, and Jin considered it and let him, amused as the old born‑man squatted down hiller‑fashion facing him.
“You know a lot about them,” Spencer said.
Jin shrugged, not displeased at respect.
“You hunt them?” Spencer asked. “You wear their hides.”
“Grays,” Jin said, rubbing his leather‑clad knee. “Not the browns.”
“What’s the difference?”
It was a stupid question. Jin studied the old man, conceived an outrageous idea, because it was a pleasant old face, a comfortable face, on this slightly fat man with wrinkled skin and fine cloth clothes. Fat was prosperity, just enough. An important man who climbed up a rock and sat with a young hunter. Jin grinned, waved a dismissing hand. “You tell the rest of them go home. They make too much noise. I take you upriver.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Make the calibans mad, that noise. You want to see, I show you.”
Ah, the old man wanted the bargain. He saw it in the eyes, pale, pale blue, the palest most wonderful blue he ever saw. And the old man got down off his rock and went to the armed young leader and argued, in harder and harder words.
“You can’t do that,” the young man said.
“You turn them around,” the old one said, “and you report how it was.”
In the end they each got half, because the old man was going on and the rest were waiting here.