number of colonial ventures that never sent back a 'safe down' message.»
«Yes, we should seriously consider that aspect,» Carialle said, but without sarcasm.
By thrusting out the angle of his jawbone, Keff increased the gain on his long-distance microphone to listen in on the natives as they called out to one another. All the inhabitants of this locale were harvesting root produce. If any kind of formal schooling existed for the young, it must be suspended until the crops were brought in. Typical of farm cultures, all life revolved around the cycle of the crops. Humanoids of every age and size were in or around the broad fields, digging up the roots. They seemed to be divided into groups of eight to ten, under the supervision of a crew boss, either male or female, who worked alongside them. No overseer was visible, so everyone apparently knew his or her job and got on with it. Slackers were persuaded by glares and peer pressure to persevere, Keff wondered if workers were chosen for their jobs by skill, or if one inherited certain tasks or crop rows by familial clan.
Well out of the way of the crews, small children minding babies huddled as near as they could to a low cavern entrance from which Carialle had picked up heat source traces, suggesting that entrance led to their habitation. It made sense for the aborigines to live underground, where the constant temperature was approximately 14В° C, making it warmer than it was on the surface. Such an accommodation would be simple to heat, with the earth itself as insulation. Only hunger could have driven Keff out to farm or hunt in this cold, day after day.
Keff could not have designed a world more likely to be dependent upon subsistence culture. The days were long, but the temperature did not vary between sunup and sundown. Only the hardiest of people would survive to breed: and the hardiest of plants. It couldn't be easy to raise crops in this stony ground, either. Keff rubbed a pinch of it between his finger and thumb.
«High concentration of silicate clay in that soil,» Carialle said, noticing his action. «Makes it tough going, both for the farmer and the crop.»
«Needs more sand and more fertilizer,» Keff said. «And more water. When we get to know one another, we can advise them of irrigation and soil enrichment methods. See that flat panlike depression at the head of the field? That's where they pour water brought uphill by hand.» A line of crude barrels nestled against the hillside bore out his theory.
Dirt-encrusted roots of various lengths, shapes, and colors piled up in respectable quantity beside the diggers, whose fur quickly assumed the dull dun of the soil.
«Its incredible that they're getting as much of a yield as they are,» Keff remarked. «They must have the science of farming knocked into them.»
«Survival,» Carialle said. «Think what they could do with fertilized soil and steady rainfall. The atmosphere here has less than eight percent humidity. Strange, when you consider they're in the way of prevailing continental winds, between the ocean and that mountain range. There should be plenty of rain, and no need for such toil as that.»
Under the direction of a middle-aged male with a light-brown pelt, youngsters working with the digging crews threw piles of the roots onto groundsheets, which were pulled behind shaggy six-legged pack beasts up and down the rows. When each sheet was full, the beast was led away and another took its place.
«So what's the next step in this production line?» Keff asked, shifting slightly to see.
The female led the beast to a square marked out by hand-sized rocks, making sure nothing fell off as she guided the animal over the rock boundary. Once inside, she detached the groundsheet. Turning the beast, she led it back to the field where more folded groundsheets were piled.
«But if they live in the cave, over there,» Keff said, in surprise, «why are they leaving the food over here?»
«Maybe the roots need to dry out a little before they can be stored, so they won't rot,» Carialle said. «Or maybe they stink. You find out for yourself when we make contact. Here, visitor, eat roots. Good!»
«No, thanks,» Keff said.
The six-legged draft animal waited placidly while the young female attached a new sheet to its harness. The beast bore a passing resemblance to a Terran shire horse, except for the six legs and a double dip of its spine over the extra set of shoulder-hips. Under layers of brown dust, its coat was thick and plushy: good protection against the cold wind. Some of the garments and tool pouches worn by the aborigines were undoubtedly manufactured out of such hide. Keff gazed curiously at the creature's feet. Not at all hooflike: each had three stubby toes with blunt claws and a thick sole that looked as tough as stone. The pack beast walked with the same patient gait whether the travois behind it was fully loaded or not.
«Strong,» Keff said. «I bet one of those six-legged packs—hmm, six-packs!—could haul you uphill.»
Carialle snorted. «I'd like to see it try.»
Team leaders called out orders with hand signals, directing workers to new rows. The workers chattered among themselves, shouting cheerfully while they stripped roots and banged them on the ground to loosen some of the clinging soil. Carialle could almost hear Xeno gibbering with joy when they saw the hedrons she was recording for them.
«Funny,» Keff said, after a while. «I feel as if I should understand what they're saying. The pace of their conversation is similar to Standard. There's cadence, but measured, not too fast, and it's not inflected like, say, Old Terran Asian.»
A thickly furred mother called to her child, playing in a depression of the dusty earth with a handful of other naked tykes. It ignored her and went on with its game, a serious matter of the placement of pebbles. The mother called again, her voice on a rising note of annoyance. When the child turned to look, she repeated her command, punctuating her words with a spiraling gesture of her right hand. The child, eyes wide with alarm, stood up at once and ran over. After getting a smack on the bottom for disobedience, the child listened to instructions, then ran away, past the cave entrance and around the rise of the hill.
«Verrrry interesting,» Keff said. «She didn't say anything different, but that child certainly paid attention when she made that hand gesture. Somewhere along the line they've evolved a somatic element in their language.»
«Or the other way around,» Carialle suggested, focusing on the gesture and replaying it in extreme close-up. «How do you know the hand signals didn't come first?»
«I'd have to make a study on it,» Keff said seriously, «but I'd speculate because common, everyday symbols are handled with verbal phrases, the hand signals probably came later. I wonder why it evolved that way?»
«Could a percentage of them be partially hearing-impaired or deaf?»
«Not when they have such marked cadence and rhythm in their speech,» Keff replied. «I doubt this level of agriculturalist would evolve lipreading. Hmm. I could compare it to the Saxon/Norman juxtaposition on Old Earth. Maybe they've been conquered by another tribe who primarily use sign language for communication. Or it might be the signs come from their religious life, and mama was telling baby that God would be unhappy if he didn't snap to it.»
«Ugh. Invisible blackmail.»
Keff patted the remote IT unit propped almost underneath his chin. «I want to talk to some of these people and see how long it takes my unit to translate. I'm dying to see what similarities there are between their language structure and Standards.» He started to gather himself up to stand.
«Not so fast,» Carialle said, her voice ringing in his mastoid-bone implant. He winced. «When something seems too good to be true, it probably is. I think we need to do more observation.»
«Cari, we've watched half a dozen of these groups already. They're all alike, even to the size of the flower gardens. When am I going to get to talk to one of them?»
The brains voice hinted of uneasiness. «There's something, well, odd and seedy about this place. Have you noticed how old all these artifacts are?»
Keff shrugged. «Usable tools passed down from generation to generation. Not uncommon in a developing civilization.»
«I think its just the opposite. Look at that!»
Coming toward the work party in the field were two furry humanoid males. Between them on a makeshift woven net of rough cords, they carefully bore a hemispherical, shieldlike object full of sloshing liquid. They were led by the excited child who had been sent off by his mother. He shouted triumphantly to the teams of workers who set down their tools and rubbed the dust out of their fur as they came over for a drink. Patiently, each waited his or her turn to use the crude wooden dippers, then went immediately back to the fields.
