But of course, the humans were deficient in that respect. They did not have a single Mother. "This place was called 'Kansas City,'" the Proctor went on, forming the human words in a way no human could have understood. "It was severely damaged in one of their wars and, really, there was no point in trying to restore it. But it still had transportation facilities available, so we based one leg of the ladder here."
"Wars!" the Facilitator grunted. It was like an epithet.
"Oh, yes, they fought wars. Of course, we've put a stop to all that sort of wasteful physical combat."
"Of course." The Facilitator diverted one yellow-red eye to gaze at the Proctor. "Is there further wisdom you must impart to me in this place?" he asked.
Chief Thunderbird rolled one eyestalk heavenward. "Does the Younger Brother already know everything?" he demanded.
"No," the Facilitator admitted, attempting respect.
"Then the Younger Brother may ask whatever questions arc on his mind," the Proctor said benevolendy.
The Facilitator groaned inwardly, glancing around. He pointed at a group of workers unloading a flatcar of scrap metal. "I see both humans and Taurs working there, Elder Brother," he said. "Would it not be more efficient to have only whichever race is best at the task employed?"
The Proctor twined his eyestalks negatively. "The Taurs are best at heavy lifting," he informed his companion, "but the humans are more intellectual in some ways. Actually, the humans like Taurs very much, not only for labor but for meat. Nearly all humans now eat Taur flesh."
"But didn't they eat meat before we came?"
The Proctor made a tolerant gesture. "Yes, of course, the meat of their kindred animals. But those animals were not intelligent at all, not even as intelligent as a Taur. They could not be instructed to present themselves for slaughter when ready. They wasted resources, too, since they ate the same grains as humans, whereas the Taurs can of course eat anything that grows as long as they also have a few redfruit in their diet. And, by the way, the humans also enjoy our red-fruit—"
But the Younger Brother was showing signs of distress. "I don't much care what the animals eat, Elder Brother," he gasped. "It is very wet here."
The Proctor turned both eyes on the Facilitator. But all he said was, "Very well. We will go inside one of the buildings, where it is drier, and I will show you how we care for these humans."
The new Facilitator was doing his best to be courteous to an Elder Brother of high rank. His best wasn't very good. He couldn't help it, though. He was in distress. The physical conditions on this Mother-forsaken planet were appalling, for a Brother used to the waterless comforts of the Mother worlds.
And then there was his own special problem.
The Facilitator was one of the last of the present High Mother's litter. He knew he was physically very marginal among the Brotherhood. Eggs that tested very little farther below standard than his own had not been permitted to develop.
But, although the Facilitator was very young, he was not stupid. That would have been impossible. Physical blemishes were tolerated among the Brotherhood, but intellectual ones never. No Brother with impaired mentality was allowed to survive his first hatching year. The Facilitator was also wholly dedicated to the service of the Brotherhood and the sacred Mother, but of course that went without saying.
All the same, the new Facilitator was not entirely pleased with the assignment he had drawn. Like every young Brother, molting into his final grown-up carapace, he had dreamed of more exciting work for the Mother. To travel around the stars in a waveship, opening new lanes of commerce, finding new treasures to bring home to the Mother—that was what every young Brother aspired to. Not this! He could not help feeling that if he had been just a little more physically prepossessing, his selection would have been entirely different, and much better. To be assigned to this muggy, swampy world to ride herd on a few billion unpleasant aliens was—well, it was the sort of thing you got assigned to, he knew, when you were just a little under par.
Which told him something he was too intelligent to say about the Elder Brother who was showing him around: Just what was the flaw in the Proctor that had landed him in this ghastly place?
The Facilitator could see that the Proctor was getting restive. He understood that perfectly. He was getting as bored as his guide, and hungry, too. He was about to suggest a refreshing half hour in the radiation chamber when the Proctor led him into a low building that seemed to be occupied entirely by the soft-bodied aliens. He paused at the door and waved inside. "You will want to observe this institution. It is a hospital," the Proctor explained. "For humans. It is one of the things we have done for them, giving them the benefit of our expertise in medicine and anatomy."
The Facilitator was surprised. "Didn't they have hospitals of their own? I mean, I understood they had machines, and even primitive spacecraft—"
"Oh, human machines," the Proctor said, dismissing them all with a wave of one homy claw. "Very crude. Not anything like as good as what we have given them. Their spacecraft, for example, used chemical rockets to rise from the surface of the planet to orbit—you can imagine how weak and wasteful they were, before we brought them the elevators on the space ladder. And their medicine was quite crude. Come inside and you will see for yourself."
It was better in the building than out of it, less warm, less humid, but there were surprises there too. The Facilitator stared at a couple of quiet young Taur males who were working at cleaning, carrying, doing routine jobs, their horns just beginning to bud. "I didn't expect to find Taurs here," the Facilitator said in surprise.
"Oh, yes," the Proctor said, with satisfaction. "Actually, Taurs are one of our most successful exports to this world. The humans like them for manual labor, and of course for food. The humans have been taught all they need to know about how to treat Taurs," he said proudly, "and they are careful to follow our instructions."
"The Mother be thanked for that," said the Younger Brother, with heartfelt sincerity.
"Of course. Now I will show you some of the ways in which we have helped the humans. For instance, this building is a hospital."
"Do they not have their own repair facilities?"
"Of course, but not as good as ours. Here we perform essential services for human beings that they cannot perform for themselves—High Mother!" he finished, with a startled squawk. One of the passing humans had stopped and clutched at the Proctor's claws. The Facilitator's first impulse was alarm, but then reason reassured him that the Proctor had nothing to fear from these moist savages. The human being was proudly showing the Proctor his forclimb, where a crude drawing of some sort of beast appeared to be made directly on the skin.
The Proctor recovered his calm, adjusted the transposer on his arm and spoke to the human. The Facilitator shuddered at the sounds that the Proctor was making. It was an analogue of human language, or as close as the Brotherhood's vocal apparatus could manage. He was going to have to learn that himself, he knew dismally. He could barely hear the corresponding sounds that came out of the transformer, stepped down to frequencies humans could hear. When the human replied, it was only an unpleasant noise.
To the Facilitator's surprise, the Proctor was laughing.
"What is amusing my Elder Brother?" the Facilitator asked, clawed hands submissively bent in the gesture of respect —you didn't have to feel it to show it, and he was aware that the Proctor was annoyed with him.
"This human is a new arrival in our compound," the Proctor explained. "See, he doesn't even have a memo pocket in his skull yet. I suppose that's why he's here, for the operation to install it."