Chapter 5
The great Hakh'hli ship is powered by three main drive engines. Each one of them is capable of shoving the ship through space at 1.4 G. For the sake of simple engineering prudence that seldom happens; ordinarily two are running, at fifty percent thrust, at all times, while the third is available for maintenance and, when rarely necessary, repairs. The great advantage of a strange-matter drive is that you need never run out of fuel. The problem is all the other way. Strange matter breeds. When ordinary matter is introduced into a lump of strange, the strange matter converts it into itself. This does not mean that if you drop a speck of strange matter onto the surface of the Earth it will turn the whole planet strange; it isn't that easy. Strange matter repels the ordinary. To get past the force of that repulsion, the particles of ordinary matter must be fired into the strange matter with great energy; but that is what unavoidably happens in the Hakh'hli drive system. The result is that the longer the great ship flies, the more "fuel" it accumulates. The lumps at the heart of the Hakh'hli drive engines are each now six times as massive as when the motors first began to thrust. Because they are now so heavy there is that much more mass to accelerate and decelerate—which means more energy is needed—which means that the lumps are getting bigger faster. All the Hakh'hli need to feed it is ordinary matter, of which there is an infinity available in the universe; at every stop they tap asteroids, gas clouds, or the stellar winds for extra supplies—each particle of which adds one more particle to the mass of the ship. The Hakh'hli have known for centuries that they should soon divest themselves of some of that extra mass . . . but it is valuable mass. Like a miser clutching a bar of gold while he is drowning, they have clung to it. But they can't cling to it much longer.
As the cohort gathered for shipwork the next morning they felt two momentary shifts in orientation, like small earth movements underfoot; it was the navigators making small course corrections as the ship decelerated toward its parking orbit around the planet Earth. It meant that the end of their journey was near. They all chattered excitedly about it, all but Sandy.
When their tutor ChinTekki-tho at last waddled toward them, he took one look at Sandy and asked, "What's the matter with him?"
The cohort knew at once what the Senior meant, because all of them had noticed his gloomy mood. "It's MyThara-tok," Obie volunteered. "She has to take her physical."
"Sandy doesn't want her terminated," Helen added.
Polly finished spitefully, "He wants her to stay alive because he likes her better than any of us."
ChinTekki-tho waggled his tongue in deprecation. "It is good to love one another," he told Sandy, "but Thara-tok is getting old. She passed her eighteen-twelves of twelve-twelves of days long ago,"—it would have been the Earthly equivalent of fifty years or so—"and so she gets examined every twelve-twelves; that's the rule, Lysander."
"I know that," Sandy said sulkily.
"She may well pass," ChinTekki-tho pointed out. "I myself have passed five termination examinations. Many Hakh'hli pass as many as eight or nine of them; look at the Major Seniors."
"Major Seniors always pass," Tanya put in.
"They don't always pass," ChinTekki-tho corrected. "They usually pass, because, after all, they are Major Seniors; that's all."
"MyThara doesn't think she will," Sandy said. "I can tell."
The teacher inclined his head. "Then that is that, isn't it? It's nothing to be sad about. It happens to us all, sooner or later; otherwise the ship would be too full and everyone would die. And if the old and weak do not go, how would we ever take more eggs out of the freezer to start new lives?"
"And then where would any of us be?" Polly demanded. "You just don't think, Sandy."
The tutor reproved her. "Of course he thinks. Lysander is a fully intelligent being, even if he isn't Hakh'hli. He knows that MyThara-tok has many, many eggs in the freezer, and sooner or later some of them will be allowed to hatch and she will live again in them. He also knows that it is the Major Seniors who have made these decisions. He doesn't question the Major Seniors. Do you, Lysander?"
Lysander was shocked into a response. "Oh, no! Not at all! Only—" He bit his lip. "Perhaps special exceptions might be made for people as valuable as MyThara."
"And isn't that a decision for the Major Seniors, too?" the tutor asked kindly.
Sandy shrugged self-consciously. He was tired of this discussion, which had been going on ever since they woke up. "We're going to be late for shipwork," he said, evading the question.
ChinTekki-tho accepted the change of subject. "Well," he said, "that's why I'm here this morning. What's your shipwork for this morning?"
"Tending the food animals, ChinTekki-tho," Bottom said respectfully. "The hoo'hik are cubbing."
"Yes," the tutor said thoughtfully. "Well, the herder will be a little short-handed today. I have a new instruction for you from the Major Seniors."
The cohort all raised themselves slightly on their hind legs with interest. The tutor gazed at them benignly. "As you know," he said, "Obie's season came upon him yesterday and it interrupted our meeting with the Major Seniors."
"We know that, all right," Polly said cuttingly, glaring at Obie.
"The Major Seniors have recognized that if this were to occur during your Earth mission it might increase the risk. Suppose Bottom or Demetrius did it while you were in the middle of some important negotiation?"
Polly gasped. "Oh, ChinTekki-tho! You aren't saying that you'll give the boys something to keep them from entering a sexual phase?"
"No, nothing like that," said the tutor, amiably crossing his legs. "The very opposite, in fact. The Major Seniors have directed that we bring on the male season now and get it over with. Then it will be six or twelve twelves of days before the problem comes up again."
"Really?" Bottom cried. "You mean we're going to do it now?"
The whole cohort was glowing until Polly cried, "But Obie just did it!"
"Of course," ChinTekki-tho agreed. "Naturally we don't want to do him again. One of you would probably get a reduced number of sperm cells, and you don't want infertile eggs, do you? So we will excuse Oberon today."
Obie looked downcast. All the females looked horrified. Tanya gasped, "But then there's only two males and three of us—"
"We thought of that," the tutor said indulgently. "So I will accept a shot myself and join you."
Amid the shouts of joy Obie wailed, "But what about me?"
"You'll carry out regular shipwork, of course. Lysander, too. And, hear me, Lysander, when one is dejected for any reason it is good to work with the animals. I found that very soothing when I was cheth."
If Genetics had been full of smells, the food-animal pens absolutely reeked. Sandy didn't find it soothing at all. To get to the hoo'hik pens they had to pass the capped tanks filled with writhing, copulating, eating titch'hik, and that was not only unsoothing, it was hardly bearable. (What was it they were eating now—or whom? And what might they be eating a few days from now?) Sandy averted his eyes as he saw that other shipwork crews were respectfully lowering the two Hakh'hli corpses that were the day's crop into the tanks even as they passed.
Sandy shuddered. At least he could take some comfort in the fact that this time he and Obie weren't assigned to work with the bones or with the titch'hik. They didn't have to swamp out the hoo'hik pens, either, because four of the females had littered a few twelfth-days earlier, and it was time to pith the cubs.
"You," said the herder, grinning at Lysander. "You get the cubs out. No, don't worry," she added kindly. "The mothers won't hurt you. Just let them smell you first, pat them, don't get them upset. And bring me the cubs, one at a time."
Lysander peered down into the nearest pen. He had done this before, but he still felt uncertain about it.
The cow hoo'hik didn't shrink away as he approached. She only gazed mildly up at him, her forepaws protectively pressing two of the cubs to her teats. They were sucking away vigorously.
"Don't be all twelfth-day," the herder called irritably.
"Which one shall I get first?" Lysander asked.
"Any one! Hurry up, will you? I've got forty of them to do, and then there's all the milking—"
Lysander took a deep breath and reached down under the cow hoo'hik's belly, where the other half-dozen cubs were squirming blindly around, impatient for their turn. He picked one up at random, a wobbly little thing the size of his head that mewed and gasped worriedly as it felt his hands grasp it. He carried it over to the herder. "Turn it over," she ordered, picking up a thing like a huge needle. The handle of it was shaped to fit her hand, and it had a dial and a button. She checked the dial and waited impatiently for Lysander to hold the squirming body still. Then with one hand the herder grasped the cub's head, not roughly but firmly, and with the needle searched out a point at the base of the cub's skull, just where it joined the neck.
"Did you see that Earth movie last night?" she asked, making conversation as she worked. Sandy shook his head, wishing she would get on with it. "It was called A Bridge Too Far, and it was all about fighting and not being at peace. Oh, Lysander, you must be careful when you go there—"
Then she grunted with satisfaction. "There," she said. When she pressed the button there was a tiny, almost inaudible bleep of sound. The cub squawked and stiffened, and then relaxed.
"Now get another," the herder ordered.
It didn't help Lysander's mood that Obie, taking turns with him in carrying cubs to be pithed, seemed as depressed as he. Of course, the causes were different. Obie was simply sulking, thinking of what was going on back in the cohort quarters that he was not a part of, while Sandy's thoughts were all of MyThara-tok.
Still, the cubs were cute. They didn't seem hurt by the pithing. They cuddled in Sandy's arms as he carried them back to the mother, and she accepted them amiably enough. They were shorter and paler than some of the other strains he had worked with. The geneticists were always varying the breed a bit, introducing new textures and flavors, but they all had the sunny dispositions that would last them right up until the time they licked the fingers of their executioners.
Even Obie was charmed by the cubs. He poked one of his thumbs at them as he carried them back to their mothers and giggled as the little things tried to suck on it. By the time they finished with the forty the first twelfth-day had passed, and when he joined Sandy for the wafers and broth he was weeping in amusement, humming along with the omnipresent music, his grievances forgotten.
But Lysander was still troubled. He pushed the wafers away. "Eat, Sandy," Obie said anxiously. "You aren't still upset about MyThara, are you?"
"I'm just not hungry."
"You are still upset about her," Obie diagnosed. "But our tutor explained all that to you."
"I know he did."
Obie nibbled quietly for a moment, absently listening to the background music. It was Hakh'hli music, very unlike the Earth tunes they had recorded and played in their own quarters. Earth music was waltzes, polkas, marches—rhythmic tunes tied to regular foot movements; but Hakh'hli didn't have the foot anatomy to dance or march. Obie remembered his own grievance and burst out, "And anyway, how do you think I feel? They're all doing amphylaxis back in the quarters, and here I am with you!"
"You did it already," Sandy pointed out. "I'm sorry, Obie. I guess I just don't like pithing cubs."
"What's the matter, Sandy? You've done it before."
"I didn't like it then, either," Lysander confessed.
"But we have to pith them," Obie said reasonably. "For their own sake, you know? It keeps them from being too smart."
Lysander blinked at him. "What do you mean, too smart?"
"Oh, too smart," Obie said vaguely. "Can you imagine how horrible it would be for them if they grew up with, you know, some kind of rudimentary intelligence? So you'd know that you were alive only so you could be killed and eaten?"
"They can't be that smart!"
"Not after we pith them, no," Obie said smugly.
"But—But—But it's wrong to kill intelligent creatures, isn't it?"
"They aren't intelligent. That's why they're pithed."
"But you're telling me they would be, if we just didn't pith them. There has to be a better way! Can't the gene-splicers arrange them so that they aren't intelligent?"
"Oh, Lysander," Obie sighed. "Do you imagine they didn't think of that? They keep trying. But it always spoils the taste of the meat."
When they straggled back to their quarters it was almost time for the big midday meal, and the other members of the cohort were happily playing a rough-and-tumble game of what they considered to be touch football. "How'd it go?" Obie asked jealously.
"Oof,"said Tanya, as Polly plowed into her, knocking the tied-rag ball out of her hands. "Oh, it went just fine, Obie. Imagine! I coupled with ChinTekki-tho, and you never saw so many eggs!"
"I bet I saw even more when I did it," Obie snapped, but there was no point in being resentful. He hunkered down on his strong legs for added strength and then hurled himself across the room at Polly, now scrambling rapidly away with the ball.
"Want to get in the game, Sandy?" called Helen, in hot pursuit.
Sandy shook his head. "No, thanks." No one was surprised at that, since everyone knew he didn't belong in body-contact sports with the Hakh'hli, especially when their natural competitiveness was sharpened by hunger for the midday meal.
Sandy simply went over to his own carrel and sat there. He didn't turn on a flick. He didn't open his locker to gaze again at his mother's picture. He didn't even daydream about the landing on Earth, so very near, with its promise of human females and the almost certain prospect of glorious coupling. He just sat and glowered into space, thinking of MyThara's flesh being torn away by the titch'hik, while the game finished, and the food cart arrived, and the cohort flung itself, shouting and slobbering, on the meal.
Sandy didn't even approach the cart until the last of them had staggered, empty-eyed, into stun time. Then he sighed, got up, and surveyed what was left.
There was quite a lot, actually. The main roast had been torn apart, but there were human bite-sized pieces all over.
As he lifted one morsel to his mouth, Sandy stopped to look at it.
It was roast hoo'hik, of the tender kind that came from the very young cubs.
Sandy hesitated for a moment. But then he ate it and, still chewing, strolled back to his carrel to turn on an Earthly musical film with pretty girls in scant costumes.