They settled the details of their passage to Qirib: by boat down the river to Majbur, by rail to Jazmurian, and by stagecoach thence to fabulous Ghulinde.
"With that damned macaw making me sniffle," said Barnevelt. "And then we face the foam of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn."
"Well," said Castanhoso, "do not go swimming in them until you know what sort of swimming companions you have. Here is to your success."
"By the way," said Barnevelt, "what does Vizqash himself say?"
"I do not know yet. This will be much more difficult, because the metapolygraph will not work on Krishnans." The Brazilian looked at his watch. "I must get back to question this rascal… Yes?"
Another man in the Security-Force uniform had come in, and now whispered in Castanhoso's ear.
"Tamates!" cried Castanhoso, leaping up and clapping a hand to his head. "The unspeakable one has escaped from his cell! I am ruined!"
And he rushed out of the Nova Iorque Bar.
CHAPTER VII
Again the dark-green rampart of reeds that marked the Koloft Swamp slid past Dirk Barnevelt and George Tangaloa. This time, however, they lounged on the bow of a river-barge, the Chaldir, which wafted down the Pichide on the conviction of the current and the pull of a single triangular sail slung at the bow from one stubby mast. The prevailing westerly carried the smoke of their cigars down the river. Less welcomely it also brought them the smells of the cargo of green hides and of the team of six-legged shaihans on the fantail, who at the conclusion of the journey would pull the boat back upstream by the tow-path. They chain-smoked to offset the stench.
Now came into view the landing where they had tied up on the ill-omened picnic the week before, and then the ruin, still keeping to itself whatever secret it harbored. Then Qou, small and squalid, opened into view on the south bank and as quietly glided out of sight again.
"ZFT! Ghuvoi zu!" shrieked Philo the macaw from his cage.
Barnevelt, practicing lunges, said: "I'm still surprised how human these Krishnans seem to be."
Tangaloa had weakened to the point of buying a mace, half a meter long, with a stout wooden shaft and a spoked iron head. The shaft he had now stuck through his belt. He sat crosslegged like a large bronze Buddha with his back against their duffelbag, looking, with his brown skin and Mongoloid cast of features, Dirk thought, a lot more authentically Krishnan than he himself.
Tangaloa cleared his throat, indicating that a lecture was taking form, and began: "That has been figured out, Dirk. A civilized species must have certain physical characteristics: eyes to see and at least one arm or tentacle to manipulate with, for instance. And it can't be too large or too small. Well, it works out similarly with mental characteristics. Intelligence alone is not sufficient. If the species is too uniform in its mental qualities it won't achieve the division of labor needed for a high culture—while, if it's too variable the smart ones will tyrannize too easily over the rest, which again results in a static society. If they're too erratic or maladjusted they will be unable to cooperate, whereas if they are too well-adjusted they won't produce schizoid types like you to create new ideas."
"Thanks for the implied compliment," said Barnevelt. "Any time I feel the stirrings of genius I'll let you know."
"Even so," continued Tangaloa, "there is much variation among extra-terrestrials, like those things on Sirius Nine with their ant-like economy. It just happens that of all intelligent species the Krishnans are the most humanoid…"
"Har 'immal Har 'immal" screamed Philo.
"If that actually means what I think," said Barnevelt, "Queen Alvandi will have to be pretty broadminded to put up with it."
"She may not even understand him. The Qiribo dialect differs a lot from standard Gozashtandou, you know. It preserves the middle voice in verbs…"
Barnevelt ended his practice and went forward to look at the shaihans, with whom he had made firm friends, and to scratch their shaggy foreheads.
At night they anchored in the shallows, there being no settlement near. Roqir sank beneath the low horizon in the polychrome glory of a Krishnan sunset; the master's wife prepared the evening meal; the night noises of the small things that lived in the reeds came over the water, and the boatmen set up their little altars and prayed to their various gods before turning in.
So passed the days while they followed the Pichide as it wound across the Gozashtandou Plain on its leisurely way to the Sadabao Sea. They considered how they should approach Gorbovast in Majbur, and Queen Alvandi in Ghulinde, and what means they should employ to overcome the perils of the Sunqar. Dirk Barnevelt acquired a sunburned nose, the knack of wearing a sword without getting fouled up in it, a fair facility with his new languages, and a certain hard self-confidence he had never known on Earth.
He wryly debated with himself whether this feeling came from a chance to indulge a long-suppressed romanticism; a chauvinistic feeling of superiority to the Krishnans; or simply getting away from his mother. He was relieved to discover that his killing of two Krishnans brought on no violent emotional reaction, then or later. On the other hand he suffered occasional nightmares wherein he fled, yelling for his mother, from a swarm of huge hornets.
He knew, however, that it did no good to unburden himself to Tangaloa, who would merely make a joke of his broodings.
While George had a remarkable mind (he showed an amazing flair for languages and had soaked up a vast deal of xenological lore) he would not bother with anything he found hard, like working when he did not feel like it, perhaps because some things were so easy for him, or perhaps because of his indulgent Polynesian upbringing. Though kind and good-natured in a vague impersonal way, he had no emotional depth or drive; brilliantly superficial, a facile talker but a feeble doer, and no man to lead enterprises of great pith and moment. Barnevelt was sure that, though George was older than he and his nominal superior, the whole responsibility would sooner or later come to rest upon his own bony shoulders.
At last the river broadened out until from one side the houses on the other were as matchboxes, and the folk as ants. The Chaldir followed the bank past the villas of the rich of Majbur, whose young played piggy-back polo on the lawns or pushed each other off the docks with shrieking and loud laughter. Here much water traffic was to be seen: anchored rowboats with men fishing from them; another river-barge like their own, wallowing across the river under sail to set her team ashore on the tow-path on the northern side.
Since the tubby Chaldir had but small powers of maneuver, the master asserted his right-of-way by banging a gong of dented copper whenever they neared another vessel. They almost collided with a timber raft which, being even less agile, drifted tranquilly in their path until the raftmen and the Chaldir's crew were forced to hold off from each other with poles, shouting abuse until the Earthmen half expected the two crews to fall upon each other with knives, and the shai-hans in the stern bellowed uneasily. However, once the barge had been poled around the raft so that the way again lay clear, all passed off amiably enough.
The villas gave way to suburbs and the suburbs to the central city: with neither the onion-domed opulence of Her-shid nor the frowning gray fortress-look of Mishe, but a character of its own. It was a city of many graceful arches with intricate and fantastic carvings, buildings of five and six stories, and a seething timeless traffic tangle.
Along the shore appealed wharves and piers at which were tied up many barges like their own. Beyond them, Barnevelt saw the spiky tangle of masts and spars of the port's deep-water shipping. The Chaldirs master, spotting a vacant place, brought his craft angling in to shore, a couple of her people grunting at long sweeps to counteract the current. A fishing-craft with sails sprouting at all angles, like a backyard on Monday, had marked the same parking-space and tried to nose out the barge, but not quickly enough. Philo the parrot added screeches to the imprecations of the crews of the two vessels.