Farrari had heard that he rarely smiled and never laughed.
When Farrari finally drifted off to sleep he had acquired a new respect for command responsibilities. Jorrul was still listening to reports, and his ration package was still unopened.
The cave was dark when Farrari awoke, and Jorrul was asleep. There was nothing for him to do but sleep again, which he did after lying awake for a time pondering the strange turn of events that had plucked him away from base. The next time he awoke there was a soft light in the corner where Jorrul was again poised over the communications equipment.
He looked up when Farrari swung down from his bunk. “Hungry?”
“Not especially,” Farrari said.
“Have another ration package if you want it. But you might want to save your appetite—we’ll be at my headquarters shortly after midnight, and there’ll be a hot native meal waiting.”
Farrari must have grimaced unconsciously, because Jorrul straightened up and demanded sternly, “Don’t you like native food?”
Farrari said, “Well—”
“Have you ever had any?”
“Every week,” Farrari said. “Dallum has those lunches, you know, and—”
He broke off in amazement as a legend exploded before his disbelieving eyes. Jorrul leaned forward in his chair to pound the floor with one hand while the other grasped his stomach and his body shook in a helpless convulsion of laughter. “Native food!” he gasped. “That’s laboratory stuff. No sane native would touch any of it.”
“I know that,” Farrari admitted. “But when you said ‘native food’ that was the first thing I thought of.”
Jorrul wiped his eyes, brushing aside his laughter with a final, resounding chuckle. “The rascz have a gourmet society,” he said seriously. “That’s why you rarely see my agents at base. They can’t stand the food there.”
“And the olz—do they have a gourmet society?”
“The olz starve, and so do my agents when they’re living with them. But when they leave the field for a rest they don’t go to base, they come to my headquarters where they can eat.” He spoke to the transmitter. “Farrari’s never had native food. Break him in gently. No, not the stuffed torn, but save some for me.” He canceled out and sat back wearily, his eyes fixed on Farrari.
“How did you know the kru was dead?” he asked.
“I thought it was obvious,” Farrari said.
“How’d you know the moving picture was missing?”
“I didn’t. I still don’t. It seemed like one good reason for the tapestry to be hanging there.”
Jorrul got to his feet. “The worst thing about field work,” he announced, “is the waiting.”
After an hour Farrari agreed fervently. He returned to his bunk for the want of anything else to do and finally fell asleep again. When Jorrul shook him awake it was dark outside; when the platform cleared the last mountain and dipped down over the lilorr, it was midnight.
Uarrari, gazing up at the brilliant span of starlight, asked suddenly, “Aren’t there any moons?”
After a long pause Jorrul answered curtly, “No. No moons.”
Under the bright sky the land below seemed appallingly black, a vast emptiness broken only once by the distant, half-concealed red glow of a dying fire.
Finally the platform settled slowly and came to rest. Invisible hands assisted Farrari as he climbed out. Jorrul followed him, announcing with rare enthusiasm, “Field team headquarters. Now we can eat.”
V
The faint, persistent vibration could have been Farrari’s imagination, but the incessant rumble in the background was real. Jorrul ate his stuffed Porn slowly, with obvious relish, and listened to reports. Farrari ate a rich stew much more slowly—he didn’t like it—and tried to follow the conversation.
Agent 93 reported a squad of the kru’s cavalry headed up the narru, one of the finger valleys, and this fact was discussed and pondered with a seriousness that Farrari would have accorded only to a full army on the march.
Agent 176 reported a village of sick olz on the south edge of the nlorr. Jorrul sat up alertly, pushed his food aside, and wanted to know what action had been taken. When informed that the report had just been received, he hurried away to talk with base.
Enis Holt, their portly host, who had introduced himself to Farrari as 101 and added his name as an afterthought, met Farrari’s puzzlement with a smile. “The olz are in such poor health that even a mild epidemic could decimate the population,” he explained.
“The olz would be better off dead,” Farrari said firmly.
Holt’s smile broadened. “Is that the Cultural Survey point-of-view?”
“The humanitarian point-of-view.”
“No.” Holt shook his head emphatically. “The humanitarian would improve their lives, not end them. That’s also the IPR viewpoint. IPR has to consider the welfare of a civilization, too, as opposed to that of any of its components. This is the only stable civilization on the planet, and, therefore, it’s our only hope for the long-term improvement of the lives of the planet’s people. And this civilization couldn’t survive without the olz.”
“Are the rascz aware of that?” Farrari asked politely.
“No. One of our critical problems is to find a way to make them aware of it before they inadvertently extermine the olz.”
Jorrul returned, skewered another slice of the forn, and munched thoughtfully. “Next,” he said.
Holt consulted his notes. “The water level at the demc is a meter below normal. If we don’t get some rain soon, there’ll be dry wells all over the lilorr and a lot of thirsty olz. Agent 213 reports nine new durrlz assigned to the hilngol, which we more or less expected after last year’s production drop. And Agent 148 fell off his grit and sprained an ankle, the clod. Fortunately no one saw him. Then 124…”
Holt’s wife Rani, who had served their food, was hovering about the table watchfully. Farrari touched her arm and whispered, “What’s the noise?”
“Noise?” she repeated blankly. “Noise? Oh, you mean—” She chuckled. “I haven’t heard it for years. It’s with us all the time, you see. This is a mill. Would you like to see it?”
Farrari nodded. He followed her from the room. Jorrul, intent on the implications of 124’s report, took no notice of them. They descended one of the strange Rasczian stairways—the rascz were blessed with natural cement of an excellent quality but evidently had never thought to mold it into steps; their stairs were ramps with carefully-selected stones set at random. Farrari considered the stones more of a nuisance than an assistance.
The stairs ended at a balcony overlooking the mill’s cavernous interior. A single light flickered below, a burning chunk of wood floated in a stone trough filled with quarm oil. Across the huge room were two rows of double grinding stones, the upper circular with single protruding beam. Only three were in operation; narmpfz, ugly, placid creatures with enormous, powerful bodies, very little neck, and large, toothless mouths surrounded by superficial heads, plodded in patient circles straining against the beams. The stones turned on a central hub with an incessant, rasping racket.