Isthp: We must make the shining mobile understand us. How shall we do it, Mng? They do not sense our communication. (Thin darkness) Mng: But they see us. We must show them an artifact … a pressure suit, perhaps; to reveal our level of technology, and our plight, together. (Mudpools vibrate with escaping gases) (Patterns of light)
Isthp: Exactly! I will rouse my second Nimble; it is my smallest, perhaps it can still wear a suit … I summon … (Find the suit, and bear it upward) (Weave the circle together)
Ahm: We will not allow you to do this. We are the majority; we forbid contact with the alien’s mobile. We will stop you if you try it. (Cold fluid lapping basalt)
Isthp: But its sessile is a creature of good will; even you must admit that, Ahm - it set your mobiles free. (My patterns are subtle) (Pulse softly and glow)
Ahm: I saw great shining fingers reaching toward me … fear, hope … to set my mobiles free … But the thing we must communicate is that we wish to be left alone! Let us use the shining mobile as a warning, if the aliens return again. It can make the invisible aliens visible, and let us flee in time. (Draw in the circle) (Draw in) (Strange radiance)
Mng: No, we must ask more! Show it that we are an intelligent life form, however alien. We must seek its help to rescue us from this forsaken place! (Close the net) (Mobiles draw in) (A light in the darkness)
Ahm, Scwa, Tfod, Zhek: No. No. (Radiance, strange light)
Isthp: Yes, beloved friend Mng - we will have our freedom, and the stars: Look, look with all your mobiles; it shows itself! It shines - (Strange radiance) (Light flickering like gamma through galena) (Hurry! Bear the suit upward)
Ahm: The shining one returns! Take care, take care - (Patches of radiance flowing closer)
Bllr: Break the pattern, prepare to flee. Make its light our warning. (It shines) (Prepare for flight) (Prepare)
Mng: Make it our hope! (Patches of radiance) (It shines)
Echoes of his fall came back to Jary from a sudden distance; he guessed that he must be close to the main chamber already. He climbed to his feet, unable to crawl, and eased past the slick patch of metallic ore. It flashed silver in his light as he looked down, making him squint. The red pathmarkers fell away beyond it; he fumbled his way down the rough incline, half sliding, feeling the ceiling arch and the walls withdraw around him.
Here in the main chamber a firm, ore-veined surface of basalt flowed to meet the water surface of the radioactive depths; here they had found the trogs. He passed a slender pillar bristling with spines of rose quartz, touched one with the back of his hand as he passed. In the distance he saw the glimmer of the water’s edge, rising tendrils of steam. His stomach tightened, but he was barely aware of it: in the nearer distance the filigree of ore-veins netted light and a cluster of trogs lay together on the shore. He swept the surface with his headlamp, saw another cluster, and another, and another, their blind, helpless forms moving sedately in a bizarre mimicry of ritual dance. He had never had the chance to stand and watch them; and so he did, now. And the frightening conviction began to fill his mind that he was seeing something that went beyond instinct; something beyond his comprehension. But they were just animals! Even if they cared about what happened to their fellow creatures; even though they had risked death to perform a rescue … it was only instinct.
He began to move toward them, trying to flex his bandaged fingers, trying not to imagine the pain when he tried to keep his hold on a squirming trog body…. He stopped again, frowning, as the trogs’ rhythmic dance suddenly broke apart. The small clumps of bodies aligned, turning almost as one to face him, as if they could see him. But that was impossible, he knew they couldn’t see a human -
A dozen trogs skittered back and disappeared into the pool; the rest milled, uncertain. He stopped, still five meters up the bank. They were staring at him, he was sure of it, except that they seemed to be staring at his knees, as if he were only half there. He risked one step, and then another - and all but two clumps of trogs fled into the pool. He stood still, in the beginnings of desperation, and waited.
His numb body had begun to twitch impatiently before another trog moved. But this time it moved forward. The rest began to creep toward him then, slowly, purposefully. They ringed his feet, staring up at his knees with the moon - eyed reverence of worshippers. He went down carefully onto one knee, and then the other; the trogs slithered back. They came forward again as he made no further motion, their rudderlike hindquarters dripping mud. They came on until they reached his knees, and began to pluck at his muddy suit legs. He held himself like a statue, trying to imagine their purpose with a mind that had gone uselessly blank. Long, webbed fingers grasped his suit, and two of the trogs began to climb up him, smearing the suit with fresh mud. He did not use his hands to pull them off, even though his body shuddered with his awareness of their clinging forms. The dials inside the helmet began to flicker and climb.
He shut his eyes - “L - leave me alone!” - opened them again, after a long moment.
Almost as if they had heard him, the trogs had let go and dropped away. They all squatted again in front of him, gazing now at his mud-slimed chest. He realized finally that it must be the radioactive mud they saw - that made his suit shine with a light they could see. Were they trying, in some clumsy way, to discover what he was? He laughed softly, raggedly. “I’m P - piper Alvarian Jary!”
And it didn’t matter. The name meant nothing to them. The trogs went on watching him, unmoved. Jary looked away at last as another trog emerged from the pool. He stared as the mud slid from its skin; its skin was like nothing he had ever seen on a trog, luminous silver reflecting his light. The skin bagged and pulled taut in awkward, afunctional ways as it moved, and it moved with difficulty. All the trogs were staring at it now; and as he tried to get to his feet and move closer, they slithered ahead of him to surround the silver one themselves. Then abruptly more trogs swarmed at the edge of the pool; he watched in confusion as the mass of them attacked the silver trog, forcing it back into the mudpool, sweeping the few who resisted with it.
Jary stood waiting in the darkness while seconds became minutes, but the trogs did not return. Bubbles of escaping gas formed ripple - rings to shatter along the empty shore, but nothing else moved the water surface. He crouched down, staring at the tracks of wet mud where the trogs had been, staring down at his own muddy suit.
They weren’t coming back; he was sure of that now. But why not? What was the silver trog, and why hadn’t he seen one before? Why had the others attacked it? Or had they only been protecting it, from him?
Maybe they had suddenly realized what he was: not Piper Alvarian Jary, but one of the invisible monsters who attacked them without warning.
And he had let them get away. Why, when they had climbed his suit, begging to be plucked off and dropped into his box - ? But they had come to him in trust; they had put themselves into his hands, not knowing him for what he was.
Not knowing him….
And from that moment he knew that he would never tell Orr about the rescue, or the dance, or the silver trog - or the way the trogs had gathered, gazing up at him. Their secret life would be safe with him … all their lives would be safe with him. He touched his muddy suit. Inadvertently they had shown him the way to make sure they could be warned whenever he came again with Orr. Maybe, if he was lucky, Orr would never see another trog…. Jary closed his hands, hardening his resolution. Damn Orr! It would serve him right.