THE BONES OF ZORA

L. Sprague de Camp and Catherine Crook de Camp

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

This story is the latest in my series about the fictional planet Krishna, a satellite of the star Tau Ceti. These novels, all of which have a Z in the titles for easy recognition, take place in the 22nd century. Their chronological order is: The Queen of Zamba, The Hand of Zei, The Hostage of Zir, The Prisoner of Zhamanak, The Virgin of Zesh (a novella), The Bones of Zora, and The Tower of Zanid. For reasons of publishing expediency, The Virgin of Zesh and The Tower of Zanid were published in a single volume, although the first of these takes place before The Prisoner of Zhamanak and the second after.

While the reader may pronounce the names in the story as he likes, I have the following renditions in mind: a and á as in “add” and “wad” respectively; other vowels as in Spanish. Among consonants, k and q as in “keep” and “quote” regardless of adjacent sounds; gh = French uvular r; kh = German ch; ’ = a glottal stop or cough; others as in English. Words ending in a consonant or a diphthong are stressed on the last syllable; others usually on the next to the last. Hence Qirib is “keer-EEB” (with a guttural k); Sadabao is “sad-ab-OW”; Mishé is “MEE-sheh”; Sainian is sigh-nee-AN; Bákh is close to (Johann Sebastian) Bach. The Portuguese name of Herculeu Castanhoso is “air-koo-LEH-oo kush-TAH-nyew-soo.”

I.

THE CAUSEWAY

The hooves of the four ayas clattered over the flagstones of the causeway traversing the great Koloft Swamp on Krishna. The first two six-legged, horned riding animals each bore an Earthman; the other two, led by ropes, carried bundles of gear wrapped in canvas.

Mounted on the sorrel aya, the younger rider, the lean, carrot-topped Fergus Reith, peered suspiciously into the rank, rainbow-hued vegetation that crowded in from the sides. Then an arrow whistled past his head.

“Doctor Marot!” yelled Reith, sweeping out his sword. “Run like hell! Byant-hao!”

A swarm of naked, hairy, tailed Krishnans erupted from the many-colored tree trunks that lined the causeway. They brandished weapons with heads of stone, along with a few steel swords and axes obtained by trade or theft.

More arrows whistled; one struck the aya led by the other Terran. The animal bucked and jerked at its lead rope. The rider of the bay aya, a big, black-haired, middle-aging man, inclined to stoutness, braced himself in his stirrups and held on. But a Koloftu, waving a rusty steel blade, slashed the rope through.

Spurred, Reith’s aya bounded forward; his led animal galloped after. Aristide Marot, slower in starting, pounded behind, gripping his saddle.

Shouting and waving, Krishnans with tails ran out on the causeway in front of Reith. His aya snorted, tossed its head, and tried to stop; but Reith savagely spurred it. As the beast plunged through the group, Reith swung at the nearest foe on his right. The hairy Koloftu skipped back with simian nimbleness; but another, ridden down, rolled screaming under the aya’s hooves.

Past the interceptors, Reith craned his neck. Marot was close behind Reith’s led aya; but the professor’s pack animal was down on the causeway with Krishnan savages swarming over it, stabbing and hacking. Blue-green blood poured from its wounds and spread out over the flagstones.

“God damn!” yelled Reith. “There go our tent and cooking gear! Step on it, Doctor Marot!”

“Step?” gasped Marot, bouncing on his aya’s back. “Oh, a colloqui—” He broke off to clutch his saddle and heel his beast to greater effort.

The Krishnans were now in pursuit at amazing speed. Even at full gallop, the ayas barely drew ahead. If one of the Terrans’ animals stumbled, or if a rider fell off, the tailed ones would surely get them.

A thrown spear clattered on the causeway behind them. Arrows whistled; one struck the cantle of Marot’s saddle and stuck in the wood. Marot yelped before he realized that he was unhurt. Looking back, Reith saw his companion was still with him, and the Krishnans at last were falling back.

The pair continued their gallop until their pursuers shrank to specks and faded from view. At last Reith held up a hand and gentled his lathered mount to a walk. Marot pulled up alongside his companion. He had wrenched the arrow out of his saddle and held it up.

“A point of polished chert,” he said. “It will make a fine souvenir.” He spoke fluent but French-accented English. “A centimeter higher, I should have been hit in the fesse and have to eat standing.”

“Lucky you didn’t get it in the kidneys,” said Reith in tones of exasperation. “I thought I told you to wear your sword?”

With a guilty smile, Marot said: “I am sorry, Mr. Reith. I forgot; so it is packed. It would be of little use anyway. I am no hero out of Dumas père, but a peaceful scientist. I find it hard to take these medieval weapons seriously.”

“Well, now you see what happens when you don’t.”

“What good would it have done, when that monkey-man cut the rope?”

“If you’d taken a swing at him, he’d have been too busy for rope-chopping. I hope you don’t mind eating cold food and sleeping under the stars for the next few days. Not to mention losing the stuff I packed to turn us into Krishnans.”

Marot sighed. “All right, I was wrong. Now are you happy? As for cold food, I have put up with hardships in the field before. At least, I still have my longevity capsules.”

The longevity capsules or “LPs” to which Marot referred were universally used by human beings to retard aging. By consistently taking them from early adulthood on, the human life span could be approximately tripled. Hence, while Reith had lived the equivalent of more than forty Terran years, in appearance and physical condition he was not over thirty. Marot continued:

“Why do the tailed ones attack us without provocation?”

“Because the tailless Krishnans raid them for slaves, so to them the only good tailless person is a dead one.”

“We can replace our lost equipment in Mishé, no?”

“I hope so,” said Reith. “It’ll help that I’m on good terms with the Knights of Qarar. They want me to bring my next gaggle of tourists there, so the Republic of Mikardand can tax their shopkeepers’ profits. But getting more gear will take time.”

Hours later, Reith pointed. “There’s some high ground for our camp. It’ll keep us out of the swamp and away from the leeches.”

They led their ayas to the hillock, pushing through dense, fernlike green-and-scarlet vegetation, and tethered their mounts. Reith gathered sticks and started a fire with his wooden piston firelighter. Marot said:

“I should think that the authorities would at least let us bring matches. This seems like carrying the technological blockade to absurdity. That Scottish engineer who gave us copies of his maps—what was his name? Strashan?”

“Kenneth Strachan.” Reith rhymed the surname with the city of Aachen. “Some say Stracken; some say Strawn; but Ken, who’s a kind of professional Scotsman, gives it the full guttural. What about him?”

“He lectured me on the iniquity of the technological blockade. He would like to abolish it.”

“I know. To his way of thinking, if the Krishnans develop nuclear bombs and blow up their planet, that’s their worry. But the official line is stricter than ever since the Gorchakov scandal.”

“Was that the case of the paranoid security officer who got a female missionary drunk and, when she woke up, told her she was his wife? And pursued her when she fled to that nature cult on an island?”

“Yes. What really shook up the system was not so much their personal conflict as the fact that Gorchakov took a gun with him. That’s the worst possible violation of Interplanetary Council rules.”

“How did it come out? My informants seemed secretive about it.”

“No wonder, since that’s Novorecife’s biggest black eye. Two other Earthmen fled with the girl. When Gorchakov caught up with them and one of the Terrans tried to protect her, Gorchakov killed him. Then one of the locals killed Gorchakov.”

“What became of the missionary?”

“She married the local.”

“Is that legal?” asked Marot.

“Depends on where you are. Now help me find some more dry wood. We’ll need a pile of it before morning.”

As darkness fell, they sat across the fire from each other, slapping at flying pests and trying to heat their emergency rations by toasting them on sharpened sticks. Luminous winged arthropods, scarlet specks like animated sparks, wove looping patterns against the dark. When a real spark flew up, several arthropods would swoop upon it in a futile attempt to mate. Marot said:

“Mr. Reith—”

“Call me Fergus,” Reith interrupted.

“Hokay, then call me Aristide, if you please.”

“Fine, Aristide. Isn’t that the name of some ancient Greek politician, who was exiled for always being right?”

Marot chuckled. “Something like that. Actually, me, I was named for a Saint Aristide, because I was born on the thirty-first of August. The saint, I suppose, was named for this ancient Aristides. How do you know about such things?”

“I taught school before I got into the travel business and became a tour guide. But you were about to ask something.”

“Yes; what was it? Ah, I remember. How much delay will the loss of our equipment cause?”

Reith shrugged, “Maybe ten or fifteen days. I’ll try to expedite things; but it’ll still take more time than if we had gone the longer, safer route.”

“All right; you need not rub it on.”

“I think you mean rub it in,” said Reith.

“In any case, I hope you can try to catch up our lost time. I do not wish Foltz to get any more of a start on us.”

“So that’s why you insisted on the route through the swamp, to save a couple of days! What’s between you and Foltz? Aren’t you both scientists, devoted to the truth regardless of petty personal feelings?”

“Hah! Whoever told you that the scientists were godlike thinking machines, free of normal human failings and prejudices? If someone did, my friend, he misinformed you.”

“Well,” said Reith, “who is this Foltz? I haven’t met him.”

“Warren Foltz—a countryman of yours—calls himself a scientist, and he has the degrees and experience. But he has the temperament of a fanatic, which does not mix with the science. He has an unorthodox theory, which he is determined to prove no matter what—would you say skull dodgery?—he has to commit.”

“I think you mean skullduggery.”

“Hokay, skullduggery. Oh, that villainous queux!” Marot clenched a fist. Reith was surprised to see that mention of Foltz actually enraged his usually good-natured companion.

“What’s his nutty theory?”

“It was not nutty when Krishnan biology was new to Terrans. Then it was plausible. But, since then, the weight of evidence has accumulated against it.”

“But what is it?” Reith persisted.

“It is a matter of the descent of the two main classes of Krishnan terrestrial vertebrates, the oviparous Tetrapoda and the viviparous Hexapoda, with four limbs and six limbs respectively. Most of my colleagues and I now believe that they evolved separately from aquatic predecessors, dwelling in different land-locked seas on this planet. But Foltz is determined that the Tetrapoda are merely an offshoot of terrestrial Hexapoda, who have lost one pair of limbs.”

“In other words, it’s a question of whether the four-leggers branched off from the main stem before or after they crawled out of the water?”

“That is an oversimplification, but you have stated the general idea.”

“Seems like a funny thing to get fanatical about. I can imagine getting all hot over a political cause, or a personal relationship, or even a work of art; but not over something that happened a hundred million years ago.”

Marot spread his hands with a wry smile. “You do not know some of my fellow scientists, especially those who go to other planets for field work. For that you must—how do you say—go for bust?”

“Go for broke.”

“Yes, yes; for broke. It is a lifetime commitment in a way. You get on a spaceship and spend perhaps a year in transit and in the field, and when you return you find that a quarter or half of a century has elapsed, because of the Fitzgerald contraction. If the human life span had not been tripled by longevity medicine, nobody would undertake a round trip to an extra-solar planet.”

“How far ahead of us is this Foltz character?”

“They told me at Novo that he left ten days before we did. Were you not there when he was at Novorecife?”

“No; I was running a tour, mostly Arabs and other Middle Easterners.”

Marot said: “They told me at Novorecife that you had had adventures on your tours to lift the hair.”

“I’ve had some. On my first tour, everything that could go wrong did, including the kidnapping of my whole tour group. We were lucky to get out alive. The second time, when I had a party of oh-so-polite East Asians, everything went as smooth as silk. The third tour would have gone well except that I had certain—umm—personal difficulties.”

“Oh? I have heard rumors of that.”

“Yeah. That was the tour that started the breakup with my wife.”

“Oh. I am most sorry, Fergus. I did not mean to intrude on painful matters.”

“That’s okay. I’ve put it all behind me.”

“Was your wife that Krishnan princess they say you married in Dur?”

“No; that was annulled long ago on grounds of coercion.”

“You mean you were compelled?”

Reith grinned. “Yes, sir! The Regent of Dur caught us in flagrante delicto, and I had the choice of marrying this Krishnan squid or being carved into small pieces, a piece at a time. Nice kid, but no brains. The Regent staged the whole thing, knowing that Vázni and I couldn’t produce an egg to hatch and grow up to take Tashian’s power away, as a legitimate prince would have done. After a few moons of this world’s most exquisite boredom, I escaped.”

“Is the—ah—the poum-poum with Krishnans pleasurable?”

“Just as much fun as with Terrans, although there are differences in the way they function. They’re the only extraterrestrial species you can say that about.”

“An amazing example of convergent evolution!”

“Oh, sure! But then, Krishna’s the most Earthlike planet we know of; so we shouldn’t be surprised to find some pretty Earthlike organisms. But the fact that Earthmen can mate with Krishnan females doesn’t mean they’re entitled to unlimited free pussy.”

“Kitten? Oh, I see. You mean the foutre.”

“Krishnan sexual customs vary at least as widely as ours. One of these jaspers hears of a place where the women of the house bed down with male guests as a matter of normal hospitality. So he jumps into an occupied bed in some place where the customs are different, and khlk!” Reith drew a finger across his throat.

“I will be most cautious in making advances. But this other wife of whom you spoke, if you do not mind?”

“That’s Alicia Dyckman, the xenanthropologist—or xenologist as most people call it.” Reith shook his head sadly. “She’s the prettiest thing I know of as well as the most brilliant and charming. I first met her the day she got back with Percy Mjipa from the Khaldoni countries, where they’d had hair-raising adventures. It was one of those instantaneous things; we practically fell into each other’s arms. The first moon of our marriage was wonderful.

“But she insisted on going along on my third tour. Then she interfered with all my arrangements and tried to take over the tour direction. On a thing like that, you can’t have two leaders; but that’s my little Lish.”

“You do not approve of executive women?”

“That’s not it at all! I’ve worked for women bosses and never had trouble. But when I’m in charge, I won’t put up with anyone’s taking over my job so long as I’m conscious and able-bodied. I don’t care if it’s a he, a she, or an it. Poor Lish can no more help taking over and setting everyone right than Comandante Glumelin could help his drinking before he took the treatment. It’s sad; she’s such a marvelous person in other ways. But living with her is like taking a bath in lava.”

Marot mused: “They say the new Moritzian therapy can abate self-destructive personality traits, given the time and the money.”

“Maybe so; but we’ve got nothing like that out here in the matagais.”

“What has become of the lady?”

“On my fourth tour, I flatly refused to let her come along; and when I got back to Novo, she’d flown the coop. I haven’t seen her since. She wasn’t around Novo when I got back from my last tour, and somebody hinted she’d gone off to shack up with some guy. They wouldn’t tell me more; I suppose they were afraid I’d go after him with a sword.”

“Would you have?”

Reith shook his head. “Nope. What my ex does is her business.”

“I heard a rumor that Foltz had left Novorecife with a woman. Could this have been your former wife?”

“I don’t know.” Feeling a painful tension rising within, Reith changed the subject. “How about you, Aristide? What’s your situation?”

“I am in something of your predicament, my friend. My dear wife decided that she preferred to go off with a younger man, to ‘find herself,’ whatever that means. I generally know where I am and so have no need to find myself. This fellow was what you would call a drifter, with vague artistic pretensions and an invincible aversion to the work. I could not see his attraction; but I suppose to some, fossil-hunting seems dull, and my little Marcelline said she wanted more adventure and excitement in her life. So off she went, and I have heard nothing since.”

“People who go to extra-solar planets, like this one,” said Reith, “rarely have close ties on Terra, because of the Rip van Winkle effect.”

“Yes indeed,” said Marot somberly. “Things being what they were with me, I had few qualms about cutting my Terran ties.” He yawned. “My friend, I am worn out and sore in the fesse”

“Okay, we’ll turn in. But we must post watches. The Koloftuma don’t move about much at night, but we might get a short or a yeki. The best defense is a good, bright fire.” Reith paused, listening to the symphony of buzzes, clicks, chirps, trills, and squeals of nocturnal Krishnan life. “Now get that sword out, old boy, and keep it within easy reach!”

Marot fumbled in his gear, saying: “Fortunately the weapon was packed on this aya. I am not used to going armed, since I have worked in several soi-disant wild parts of Terra without difficulty. When I went to Texas to dig in the Permian beds there, my friends warned me that Texans were a fierce and dangerous lot. If a Texan disliked my appearance or accent, I was told, he would cry: ‘Draw!’ and whip out a pistol; and pan! one paleontologist the fewer. But I had no trouble; in fact I found the Texans polite and hospitable. Who has been in Chilihagh to report on conditions?”

“Strachan and his partner Lund surveyed the Dashtate of Chilihagh after their work on the railroad in Dur. They had to do it by simple plane-table methods, since Novo wouldn’t let them carry proper transits, let alone modern wave-pulse stadiometers.”

“I did not meet Mr. Lund.”

“He’s up in Ruz but expected back shortly,” said Reith. “The partnership busted up.”

“How?”

“Over a woman. Both made a play for Kristina Brunius, the secretary.”

“The tall blonde, is it not?”

“Yes. She picked Sigvard Lund, because he was the only one around she could talk Swedish with. So Siggy and Kristina were married, and we danced Swedish folk dances around them. Strachan went off in a snit on a contract with the Republic of Katai-Jhogorai, so the partnership remained dead. It’s silly, because Ken’s probably dipped his wick with more females of both species than any other Terran on this planet.”

“But what about Chilihagh?” persisted Marot.

“The only other Terran I know of who’s been there lately was the writer, Esteban Surkov. At least, that’s where he was headed the last we heard of him.”

“That is a peculiar name.”

“He’s a South American—forget which country—of Russian ancestry. He went off to Chilihagh to get material for a book, and then—silence.”

“Do you mean he has disappeared?” asked Marot.

“As far as Novo knows, he has. We may never learn what happened to him. I promised Castanhoso to inquire around.”

“Are such disappearances frequent?”

“Not unusual. People go off and vanish. Once in a while Novo hears that so-and-so was eaten by a yeki, or was drowned crossing a river, or is the chief of a backward tribe, or has been beheaded for violating some religious tabu.”

“Does Novorecife do nothing to protect its people?”

“They make treaties with the nearer states and try to persuade the others to use Terrans kindly. But the Interplanetary Council forbids anything smacking of imperialism, so in the end all Novo can do is to tell the Terran that the place he means to go to is dangerous. If he goes there, he’ll be on his own.”

“What species of person was this Surkov?”

Reith shrugged in the darkness. “Nothing special; just a little dark guy. He seemed a bit starry-eyed—you know, impractical and absent-minded. Those qualities don’t make one a good insurance risk here.” Reith yawned. “Okay, do you want first watch?”

“You get some sleep, please. All this talk has awakened me again. Do you mind if I play this for a little?” He held up a flute.

“No; go ahead. It’ll put me to sleep.”

“Good!” Marot settled himself and tweetled a melancholy air.

Dawn was paling the greenish Krishnan sky when Reith, on watch, abruptly sat up. His ears had caught a faint sound that was not that of the smaller Krishnan wild life. He leaned over and shook Marot.

“Wake up, Aristide!” he whispered. “I think I hear Koloftuma on the causeway.”

“Hein? Que diable… Oh, it is you, Fergus. What—”

“Quiet! Our tailed friends must have marched all night to catch up with us. Listen!”

A susurration of guttural voices grew. Then Reith’s ears caught the slap of bare feet on the causeway.

“What shall we do?” breathed Marot.

“Keep quiet and hope the ayas don’t give us away.”

“I thought they did not travel at night—”

“So did I; but I must have been wrong. Now move very slowly to where we can see the road. Keep behind me!”

They crept to the flank of the hillock. Presently a score of Koloftuma came in sight, muttering and chattering. They were armed in the same fashion as yesterday’s group, but Reith could not be sure whether they were indeed the same. When sighted, they were already abreast of the hill.

“Damn!” whispered Reith. “Now they’re between us and our destination, and in this muck we can’t circle round and get ahead of them.”

“Why did we not get on the road sooner?”

“Because I’m stupid. Hey, look at that!”

He pointed to Marot’s left leg. A leech had inserted its head through one of the eyelets in Marot’s boot and gnawed through tongue and sock to reach flesh. It was now engorged to the size of a tennis ball and purple from the blood beneath its tightly-stretched skin.

“Pouah!” said Marot, reaching for the parasite.

“Don’t pull it off,” said Reith. “Wait here.”

Moving silently, Reith returned to the nearly dead campfire. He found a stick whose end could still be blown to redness and went back to Marot, who sat staring disgustedly at the leech. A touch of the glowing end caused the creature to drop off, and Marot stamped it into bloody slime.

The Koloftuma passed out of sight, although their voices could still be heard. Reith said: “The best thing I can think of is to get out on the road and ride straight at them, waving our swords and yelling like hell. My guess is we’ll get through again.”

“But suppose one of those sacred animals trips on a body and falls?”

“Not likely, with those six legs.”

“But suppose—”

“Damn it, have you a better suggestion? Do you want to go back to Novo?”

“No, but—”

“All right, then. Saddle up!”

A quarter-hour later, the rearmost Koloftuma whirled about at the clatter of hooves. At the sight of two screaming Terrans charging with bared blades, the tailed Krishnans leaped off the causeway and scattered with cries of dismay. The three ayas galloped through unscathed. This time the Koloftuma did not even try to pursue.