My first notes were quite tentative. It had been too long since I'd played the pipes.
His ears pricked forward and he looked all about him. He made rapid moves in three different directions-like a startled squirrel, uncertain as to which tree to make for.
Then he stood there quivering as I caught up an old tune and nailed it to the air.
I kept playing, remembering, remembering the pipes, the tunes, and the bitter, the sweet, and the drunken things I've really always known. It all came back to me as I stood there playing for the little guy in the shaggy leggings: the fingering and the control of the air, the little runs, the thorns of sound, the things only the pipes can really say. I can't play in the cities, but suddenly I was me again, and I saw faces in the leaves and I heard the sound of hooves.
I moved forward.
Like in a dream, I noticed I was standing with my back against the tree, and they were all about me. They shifted from hoof to hoof, never staying still, and I played for them as I had so often before, years ago, not knowing whether they were really the same ones who'd heard me then-or caring, actually. They cavorted about me. They laughed through white, white teeth and their eyes danced, and they circled, jabbing at the air with their horns, kicking their goat legs high off the ground, bending far forward, springing into the air, stamping the earth.
I stopped, and lowered the pipes.
It was not an human intelligence that regarded me from those wild, dark eyes, as they all froze into statues, just standing there, staring at me.
I raised the pipes once more, slowly. This time I played the last song I'd ever made. I remembered it so well. It was a dirge-like thing I had played on the night I'd decided Karaghiosis should die.
I had seen the fallacy of Return. They would not come back, would never come back. The Earth would die. I had gone down into the Gardens and played this one last tune I'd learned from the wind and maybe even the stars. The next day, Karaghiosis' big blazeboat had broken up in the bay at Piraeus.
They seated themselves on the grass. Occasionally, one would dab at his eye with an elaborate gesture. They were all about me, listening.
How long I played, I do not know. When I had finished, I lowered the pipes and sat there. After a time, one of them reached out and touched the pipes and drew his hand back quickly. He looked up at me.
"Go," I said, but they did not seem to understand.
So I raised the syrinx and played the last few bars over again.
The Earth is dying, dying. Soon it will be dead… Go home, the party's over. It's late, it's late, so late…
The biggest one shook his head.
Go away, go away, go away now. Appreciate the silence. After life's most ridiculous gambit, appreciate the silence. What did the gods hope to gain, to gain? Nothing. 'Twas all but a game. Go away, go away, go away now. It's late, it's late, so late…
They still sat there, so I stood up and clapped my hands, yelled "Go!" and walked away quickly.
I gathered my companions and headed back for the road.
It is about sixty-five kilometers from Lamia to Volos, including the detour around the Hot Spot. We covered maybe a fifth of that distance on the first day. That evening, we pitched our camp in a clearing off to the side of the road, and Diane came up beside me and said, "Well?"
"'Well' what?"
"I just called Athens. Blank. The Radpol is silent. I want your decision now."
"You are very determined. Why can't we wait some more?"
"We've waited too long as it is. Supposing he decides to end the tour ahead of schedule?-This countryside is perfect. So many accidents could come so easily here… You know what the Radpol will say-the same as before-and it will signify the same as before: Kill."
"My answer is also the same as before: No."
She blinked rapidly, lowered her head.
"Please reconsider."
"No."
"Then do this much," she said. "Forget it. The whole thing. Wash your hands of the affair. Take Lorel up on his offer and get us a new guide. You can skim out of here in the morning."
"No."
"Are you really serious, then-about protecting Myshtigo?"
"Yes."
"I don't want you hurt, or worse."
"I'm not particularly fond of the idea myself. So you can save us both a lot of trouble by calling it off."
"I can't do that."
"Dos Santos does as you tell him."
"The problem is not an administrative one!-Damn it! I wish I'd never met you!"
"I'm sorry."
"The Earth is at stake and you're on the wrong side."
"I think you are."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I can't convince you, so I'll just have to stop you."
"You couldn't turn in the Secretary of the Radpol and his consort without evidence. We're too ticklish politically "
"I know that."
"So you couldn't hurt Don, and I don't believe you'd hurt me."
"You're right."
"That leaves Hasan."
"Right again."
"And Hasan is-Hasan. What will you do?"
"Why don't you give him his walking papers right now and save me some trouble?"
"I won't do that."
"I didn't think you would."
She looked up again. Her eyes were moist, but her face and voice were unchanged.
"If it should turn out that you were right and we were wrong," she said, "I am sorry."
"Me too," I said. "Very, very."
That night I dozed within knifing distance of Myshtigo, but nothing happened or tried to. The following morning was uneventful, as was most of the afternoon.
"Myshtigo," I said, as soon as we paused for purposes of photographing a hillside, "why don't you go home? Go back to Taler? Go anywhere? Walk away from it? Write some other book? The further we get from civilization, the less is my power to protect you."
"You gave me an automatic, remember?" he said.
He made a shooting motion with his right hand.
"All right-just thought I'd give it another try."
"That's a goat standing on the lower limb of that tree, isn't it?"
"Yeah; they like to eat those little green shoots that come up off the branches."
"I want a picture of that too. Olive tree, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Good. I wanted to know what to call the picture. 'Goat eating green shoots in olive tree,'" he dictated; "that will be the caption."
"Great. Shoot while you have the chance."
If only he weren't so uncommunicative, so alien, so unconcerned about his welfare! I hated him. I couldn't understand him. He wouldn't speak, unless it was to request information or to answer a question. Whenever he did answer questions, he was terse, elusive, insulting, or all three at once. He was smug, conceited, blue, and overbearing. It really made me wonder about the Shtigo-gens' tradition of philosophy, philanthropy and enlightened journalism. I just didn't like him.
But I spoke to Hasan that evening, after having kept an eye (the blue one) on him all day.
He was sitting beside the fire, looking like a sketch by Delacroix. Ellen and Dos Santos sat nearby, drinking coffee, so I dusted off my Arabic and approached.
"Greetings."
"Greetings."
"You did not try to kill him today."
"No."
"Tomorrow, perhaps?"
He shrugged.
"Hasan-look at me."
He did.
"You were hired to kill the blue one."
He shrugged again.
"You needn't deny it, or admit it. I already know. I cannot allow you to do this thing. Give back the money Dos Santos has paid you and go your way. I can get you a Skimmer by morning. It will take you anywhere in the world you wish to go."
"But I am happy here, Karagee."
"You will quickly cease being happy if any harm comes to the blue one."
"I am a bodyguard, Karagee."
"No, Hasan. You are the son of a dyspeptic camel."
"What is 'dyspeptic,' Karagee?"
"I do not know the Arabic word, and you would not know the Greek one. Wait, I'll find another insult.-You are a coward and a carrion-eater and a skulker up alleyways, because you are half jackal and half ape."