The Best of Lester del Rey

rapidly in the classic greetings of Twenty-fifth-Century English.

When the words finally ceased, Derek stepped forward and began a careful reply. Classic English was the basic language from which that of his own planet had been derived, and he’d studied it during eight long years of schooling, without ever expecting to use it.

The graybeard turned back to his people and stood silently for a minute, glancing sideways at the four. Siryl was staring at Derek in surprise. “I did a paper on Ae-van’s work,” she said. “So I had to learn Classic. That’s the pure language, unchanged after thirteen hundred years! And primitive cultures don’t preserve dead languages— speech changes from century to century.”

Derek shrugged. She knew a lot of things with the certainty of the teachers who had taught her. It wouldn’t be the first time the authorities were wrong. He forgot it as the old man came forward.

“My name is Skora. I’m the—the priest of the village.” He gestured to his people. “We’ve decided that you are welcome on the planet of god. And we’re happy that you landed safely. I saw your space ship so late that there was hardly time to use the god power to land you without harm to us. If you’ll walk back with us, there will be shelter and warmth. The nights are quite cold here.”

Derek turned the offer over in his mind. He’d have preferred to stay with the ship, but wisdom dictated otherwise. “That’s kind of you. We’re much obliged.” He was proud of remembering the phrase.

The old man nodded, while his eyes examined the others. A smile etched his face as he spotted Ferad’s hungry looks at one of the younger women. “She’s unmarried,” he said. “Tell him she likes him! She shall be his!”

Siryl translated quickly. “Accept!” she urged, though Ferad’s fat face indicated no need to such advice.

“You’ll insult them otherwise. Derek, I was right. They’re primitives—hospitable, provincial, superstitious. Did you notice how he called this the planet of god? And how he thinks he landed you with some incantation?”

Derek grunted something she took for assent. Let the old man have full credit; prayer or magic was as good an explanation as any other. He studied the quiet group as they moved toward the village.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’d like to know how your primitives knew about space ships and safe landings! And I’m curious about how he knew we had to translate the language for Ferad when both of us were pretty fluent in it. Another thing—he said the nights are cold here, as if he knew they aren’t on all the planets.”

For once, she was as silent as the natives. Derek had been hoping she’d have an answer, and her silence added to his doubts. Something was out of order on Skora’s planet of god!

3

The house assigned to them had proved surprisingly comfortable after they learned to work the peat- burning fireplace. The food had been passable, if a man liked cereals and mutton. Derek had gone to sleep readily enough, to his surprise. But dawn had found him awake. No attempt was made to stop him as he walked out of the village, past the undisturbed Sepelora, and on to the low hills beyond the tilled land. Siryl was apparently right in assuming they were safe, once bread had been broken.

But his uncertainty returned as he studied the view from the top of the nearest hill. The solar explosion had hit hard at one time; the ground was ashy in places and actually melted to slag hi others. A few plants grew here and there, but thinned out in the distance, indicating they had spread from the village. There were no trees anywhere. By all indications, rainfall must be infrequent and light. The village seemed like a bit of another world, transplanted into the wasteland.

From the top of another hill Derek spotted what must be a second village, perhaps four miles away, also green and thriving. He stared about for a road between the two towns. No path led out of either.

Men were already in the fields as he returned. Some stood quietly watching their sheep and goats; others were puttering about in ways he couldn’t understand. There was none of the grimness he’d always associated with living off the ground on backward planets.

Beside the field where the Sepelora had landed, Derek saw a young man pushing a stick along the ground, leaving a furrow of turned earth behind. There was no sign of a plowshare, aside from a piece of bent wire, and the man was using only his own muscular power, but he was obviously plowing. From his effortless motion, he was either inhumanly strong or the ground was incredibly soft. Derek reached over for a handful of dirt, but it seemed normal enough.

“Good morning, Derek. I’m Michla.” The plowman had stopped and walked over, leaving the stick standing. He took some of the dirt and rubbed it between his palms. “Too dry. I’ll have to bring some rain tonight.”

Derek shook his hand, finding it no stronger than that of any normal man. “Glad to know you, Michla. I’ve been wondering how your plow works.”

“See for yourself.” Michla led the way to it, pulling the implement up. It was only what Derek had seen— -a stick with a bit of bent wire and a curiously shaped handle made of baked clay and covered with curlicues. “I hold the amulet and guide it. God turns over the dirt. It hasn’t changed since god showed us how to farm.”

Derek could see no sign of the burrowing machine that must be located below the ground, guided by a signal from the stick. He frowned, reluctantly deciding that it was safer to accept the explanation until he could learn more about their customs. “This god you worship seems like a highly helpful one,” he commented.

“Worship?” Michla shook his head. “Nobody’s that superstitious any more, Derek. We know he was only a man like you or me-—and sometimes I think he was always a little insane. By the way, I’m planning to plow the other field. Mind if I move your ship?”

The ship’s controls were locked and there was nothing the man could do to hurt it, Derek decided. He’d have to see about moving it himself, if there was fuel enough to waste. Meantime, it might be a good idea to let Michla find that other people had secrets and that ships didn’t fly by waving wands at them. “Go ahead.”

He headed back to the house they had been given with Lari, the new wife or concubine of Ferad. Here and there, one of the villagers looked up and uttered one of the old greetings, which he returned. It was the only conversation he heard. They saluted each other just as formally, but with no further talk.

Ferad was waiting hungrily for breakfast and Lari was busy setting a stone table when Derek returned. She smiled happily at him. “Good morning, Derek. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the fruit that god showed us arrives. If you want to shave first, Skora brought up one of god’s personal razors.”

He stared after Lari’s figure as she went back to the kitchen. This lower-case god of theirs was getting to be a highly peculiar divinity. Derek went to the well-fitted bathroom in the rear, wondering where they got their water; each house had a tank on its roof, but there were no supply pipes. He found a razor that might have come from a pre-Collapse museum, lathered with a cake of their somewhat harsh soap, and tried it out. It worked well enough, once he got the hang of it.

Kayel was standing hi front of Siryl’s door as Derek left the bathroom. He blushed, bit down on his pipe stem, and hurried toward the living quarters when he saw the captain.

Derek knocked lightly on Siryl’s door and threw it open. “Come on to breakfast!”

She opened sleepy eyes. Then she screamed and began pulling frantically at the covers, trying to conceal her nude -body as if her life depended on it. Her face went white, and her voice was a thick gasp. “How dare you—?”

“Somebody had to wake you up,” he pointed out logically. He’d heard of women who considered clothes more than a matter of convenience, but the slit skirts had made him think that Terran women were normal about such things. “Why didn’t you tell me you had such religious taboos?”

She jerked upright, grabbing for the slipping cover again. Her face crimsoned, whitened again, and hardened slowly. She looked sick as she forced herself to stand up before him and her hands were shaking as she reached for her clothes. Her voice quavered. “I do not have taboos, Captain Derek! I—I simply resent your invasion of my privacy. I might have been doing—anything! How would you like it if I barged into your room like that?”

“Try it!” he suggested, grinning at her. “And don’t count too much on my fear of failure.” He watched in