Midmorning found Mainoa with Marjorie and Father James on the spacious open platform of the Tree City. Brother Mainoa had been studying the material recorded in his tell-me link while Marjorie had explored and Father James had tried to talk to foxen, thanking God that he was present rather than Father Sandoval. Father Sandoval had no patience with the idea that there might be other intelligent races. Father James wondered what the Pope in Exile would think of the whole idea.
Marjorie hadn’t tried to speak to the foxen. From time to time He had reached out and said something to her. She had accepted these bits of information, trying to keep her face from showing what happened to her each time He spoke, a fire along her nerves, an ecstatic surge, taste, smell, something. Now the three humans sat face to face, trying to put bits and pieces of knowledge and hypothesis together.
“The Arbai had machines that transported them,” Marjorie said. She had finally understood that. “That thing on the dais in the center of town? That was really a transport machine. Machines like that moved the Arbai from one place to another.”
Brother Mainoa sighed and rubbed his head. “I think you’re right, Marjorie. Let’s see, what have I picked up in the last few hours? There’s been another message from Semling.” He took out the tell-me and put it at the center of their space, tapping it with one hand.
“On the theory that things written immediately before the tragedy might be of most use to us, Semling put a high priority on translating a handwritten book I found in one of the houses some time ago. They’ve translated about eighty percent of it. It seems to be a diary. It gives an account of the author trying to teach a Hippae to write. The Hippae became frustrated and furious and killed two Arbai who were nearby. When the Hippae calmed down, the author remonstrated with it. He or she explained that killing intelligent beings was wrong, that the dead Arbai were mourned by their friends, and that the Hippae must never do it again.”
Marjorie breathed. “Poor, naive, well-meaning fool.”
“Do you mean that this Arbai person, this diarist, simply told the Hippae not to do it again?” Father James was incredulous. “Did he think the Hippae would care?”
Mainoa nodded sadly, rubbing at his shoulder and arm as though they hurt him.
Marjorie said, “When He … when the foxen think of the Arbai, they always put light around them, as we might picture angels.”
Brother Mainoa wondered how the golden angels high on Sanctity’s towers would look with Arbai fangs and scales. “Not as though they were holy, though, do you think, Marjorie? More as though they were untouchable.”
Marjorie nodded. Yes. The vision had that feeling to it. Untouchable Arbai. Set upon pedestals. Unreachable.
“The Arbai could believe no evil of the Hippae?” Father James could not believe what he was hearing.
Mainoa nodded. “It wasn’t that they couldn’t believe evil of the Hippae. They couldn’t believe in it, period. They seem to have had no concept of evil. There is no word for evil in the material I’ve received from Semling. There are words for mistakes, or things done inadvertently. There are words for accidents and pain and death, but no word for evil. The Arbai word for intelligent creatures has a root curve which means, according to the computers, ‘avoiding error.’ Since the Arbai considered the Hippae to be intelligent—after all, they’d taught them to write— they thought all they had to do was point out the error and the Hippae would avoid it.”
“Of course it wasn’t an error,” Marjorie said. “The Hippae enjoyed the killing.”
Father James demurred. “I have a hard time believing in that kind of mind….”
Brother Mainoa sighed. “She’s right, Father. They’ve translated the word the Hippae trampled into the cavern. It’s an Arbai word, or rather a combination of three or more Arbai words. One of them means death, and one means outsiders or strangers, and one means joy. Semling gives a high probability to translating it as joy-to-kill-strangers.”
“They think they have a right to kill everything but themselves?” Father James shook his head.
Marjorie laughed bitterly. “Oh, Father, is that so unusual? Look at our own poor home world. Didn’t man think he had a right to kill everything but himself? Didn’t he have fun doing it? Where are the great whales? Where are the elephants? Where are the bright birds who once lived in our own swamp-forests?”
Brother Mainoa said, “Well, they couldn’t kill the ones who lived here in the tree city. The Hippae can’t swim, they can’t climb, so they couldn’t kill the Arbai who were here.”
“It must have been too late for the ones who lived here, nonetheless,” Marjorie said, looking at the shadow lovers who had just returned to the bridge and leaned there in the sun, whispering to one another. Shadow lovers, perilously intent upon one another. Not seeing what was to come. “Perhaps they died when winter came. It was too late for all the others, out there on other worlds.”
“The ones here in the city must have been immune to the disease,” Father James said. “They could have gone underground. Why didn’t they? We must be immune, too. All the people on Grass must be immune.”
“Oh, yes,” Marjorie said. “I’m sure we’re immune, so long as we stay on Grass. It stands to reason the Arbai on Grass were immune, also. That’s why the Hippae killed them as they did. But it doesn’t help to know that! Nothing we’ve found out helps! Nothing tells us how it started. Nothing tells us how to cure it once it’s started. I keep thinking of home. I have a sister backhome. Rigo has a mother, a brother, we have nieces and nephews. I have
