Bubbacub launched into a story about an Ancestral of his, a member of the Soro race who had, some million or so years ago, taken part in one of the few peaceful contacts between the loose civilization of oxygen breathers and the mysterious parallel culture of hydrogen-breathing races which coexisted in the galaxy.
For aeons there had been little or no understanding between hydrogen and oxygen. Whenever conflict arose between the two a planet died. Sometimes more. It was fortunate that they had almost nothing in common, so conflicts were rare.
The story was long and involved, but Jacob admitted to himself that Bubbacub was a master storyteller. Bubbacub could be charming and witty, as long as he controlled the center of attention.
Jacob allowed his imagination to drift along as the Pil vividly described those things which only a handful of men had ever even sampled: the infinite strangeness and beauty of the stars, and the variety of things which dwelt on a multitude of planets. He began to envy Helene deSilva.
Bubbacub felt the cause of the Library intensely. It was the vehicle of knowledge and of a tradition which unified all of those who took in oxygen as breath. It provided continuity and more, for without the Library, there would be no bridges between species. Wars would not be fought with restraint but to extinction. Planets would be ruined by over-use.
The Library, and the other loosely-knit Institutes, helped to prevent genocide among its members.
Bubbacub’s story reached its climax and he allowed his awed audience a few moments of silence. Finally, he good-naturedly asked Jacob if he would care to honor them with a story of his own.
Jacob was taken aback. By human standards, perhaps, he had led an interesting life, but certainly not remarkable! What could he talk about from history? Apparently the rules were that it had to either be a personal experience, or an adventure of an Ancestor or Ancestral.
Perspiring in his chair, Jacob considered telling a story about some historical figure; perhaps Marco Polo or Mark Twain. But Martine would probably not be interested.
Then there was the part his grandfather Alvarez had played in the Overturn. But that story was rather heavily political and Bubbacub would think its moral downright subversive. His best story had to do with his own adventure at the Vanilla Needle, but that was too personal, too filled with painful memories to share here and now. Besides he’d promised it to Helene deSilva.
It was too bad LaRoque wasn’t here. The feisty little man would probably have been able to talk until the fires below burned out.
An impish thought struck Jacob. There was a character out of history, who was» a direct Ancestor of his and whose story might be sufficiently relevant. The amusing part was that the story could be interpreted on two levels. He wondered how obvious he could get without certain listeners catching on.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” he began slowly. “There’s a male from the history of Earth who I would like to talk about. He is of interest because he was involved in a contact between a ‘primitive’ culture and technology and another that could overpower it in almost every respect. Naturally, you’re all familiar with the premise. Since Contact, it’s been almost all historians talk about.
“The fate of the Amerind Is this era’s morality play. Old twentieth-century movies glorifying the ‘Noble Red Man’ are shown today strictly for laughs. As Millie reminded us, back on Mercury, and as everyone back home knows, the Red Man did just about the poorest job of any of the impacted cultures at adapting to the arrival of Europeans. His vaunted pride kept him from studying the white man’s powerful ways until it was too late, exactly opposite to the successful “co-opting” made by Japan in the late nineteenth century… the example that the ‘Adapt and Survive’ faction keeps pointing out to all who will listen these days.”
He had them. The humans were watching him silently. Culla’s eyes were bright. Even Bubbacub, usually inattentive, kept his beady little eyes on Jacob. Martine had winced when he mentioned the A S faction, though. A datum.
If LaRoque were here, he wouldn’t care for what I’m saving, Jacob thought. But LaRoque’s distress would be nothing next to that of his Alverez kin, should they ever hear him talk like this!
“Of course, the failure of the Amerinds to adapt wasn’t entirely their fault,” Jacob continued. “Many scholars think that western hemisphere cultures were in a periodic slump that happened, unfortunately, to coincide with the arrival of Europeans. Indeed, the poor Mayans had just finished a civil war in which they’d all moved out to the country and left their cities, and princes and priests, to rot. When Columbus arrived the temples were mostly deserted. Of course, the population had doubled and wealth and trade had quadrupled over the Golden Age of the Maya, but those are hardly valid measures of cultures.” Careful, boy. Don’t go too heavy on the irony. Jacob noticed that one of the crewmen, a fellow he’d met named Dubrowsky, had backed away from the others. Only Jacob could see the sardonic grin on the man’s face. Everyone else appeared to be listening with unsuspicious interest, though it was hard to tell with Culla and Bubbacub.
“Now this ancestor of mine was an Amerind. His name was Se-quo-yi, and he was a member of the Cherokee nation.
“At the time, the Cherokee lived mostly in the state of Georgia. Since that was the East Coast of America, they had even less time than the other Amerinds to prepare to deal with the white man. Still, they tried, after their own fashion. Their attempt was nowhere near as grand or complete as the Japanese, but they tried.
“They were quick to pick up on the technology of their new neighbors. Log cabins replaced lodge houses and iron tools and blacksmithing became a part of Cherokee life. They learned about gunpowder early, as well as European methods of fanning. Though many didn’t like the idea, the tribe even became a slaveholding enterprise at one point.
“That was after they’d been whipped in two wars. They’d made the mistake of supporting the French in 1765, and then backed the Crown during the first American Revolution. Even so, they had a fair-sized little republic in the first part of the nineteenth century, partly because several young Cherokee had picked up enough of the white man’s knowledge to become lawyers. Along with their Iroquois speaking cousins to the north, they did a fair job of playing the treaty game.
“For a while.
“Enter my ancestor. Se-quo-yi was a man who didn’t like either of the choices offered his people, either staying noble savages and getting wiped out, or co-opting the settlers’ ways completely and disappearing as a people. In particular, he saw the power of the written word but thought the Indian would forever be at a disadvantage if he had to learn English to become literate.”
Jacob wondered if anyone would make the connection, comparing the situation that faced Se-quo-yi and the Cherokee with humanity’s present predicament, vis-a-vis the Library.
Judging by the look on Martine’s face, at least one person was surprised to hear such a long historical tale from the normally quiet Jacob Demwa. There was no way she could, or ever would, know about the long lessons, after school, in history and oratory that he and the other Alvarez children had endured. Though he had turned away from politics, a family black sheep, he still had some of the skills.
“Well, Se-quo-yi solved his problem to his own satisfaction by inventing a written form of the Cherokee language. It was a Herculean task, accomplished at cost of episodes of torture and exile, for many in his own tribe resisted his efforts. But when he finished all of the world of literature and technology was available, not just to the intellectual who could study English for years, but to the Cherokee of average intelligence, as well.