NONE OF THEM said anything much. Grego and Harry Steefer and the
rest were the kind of people who always got sort of tongue-tied
when it came to verbal sympathy. Come right down to it, there
wasn’t a Nifflheim of a lot anybody could say. Jack shook
Grego’s hand with especial warmth. “Thanks for
everything, Victor. You all did everything you could.” He and
Gerd van Riebeek turned away and went to the aircar.
“You want to fly her, Jack?” Gerd asked.
He nodded. “Might as well.” Gerd stood aside, and he
got in at the controls. Gerd climbed in after him, slamming the
door and dogging it shut, then said, “Secure.” He put
the car on contragravity and fiddled with the radio compass; when
he looked out, Yellowsand was far below and he could see out into
the country beyond the Divide. The scarps of the smaller ranges to
the south rose, one behind the other, on the other side.
“Maybe we ought to have stayed a little longer,” he
said. “It’s starting to clear now; all blue sky to the
south. Be clear up here by noon.”
“What could we do, Jack? The Company cops and survey-crews
are ready to throw it in now. So’s George and Hirohito. If
there’d been anything to find, they’d have found
it.”
“You don’t think we’ll ever find
him?”
“Do you, Jack?”
“Oh, Gerd, he might have gotten out again. The current
could have carried him to the side . . . .” He used an
obscenity like an eraser on his previous words. “Who the hell
do I think I’m kidding beside myself? If he isn’t in
the North Marsh by now, it’s because his body’s caught
on a snag and being sanded over.” He was silent again.
“Just no more Little Fuzzy.” He repeated it again,
after a moment: “No more Little Fuzzy.”
THEY WERE ALL angry with him, Stonebreaker and Lame One and
Fruitfinder and Other She and Big She—especially Big She. Even
Stabber and Carries-Bright-Things were not speaking for him.
“Look at place Wise One bring us!” Big She was
railing. “Wise One tell us, to sun’s left hand is good
place, always warm, always good-to-eat things. This is what Wise
One say; Wise One not know. Wise One bring us to this place. Big
moving-water, not cross. Rain make down, rain make down, make wet,
all time cold. Not find good-to-eat things, everybody hungry. And
look at moving-water; how we cross that?”
“Then we go up moving-water, find place to cross. And rain
stop some time; rain always stop some time,” he said.
“Is everybody-know thing.”
“You not know,” Lame One said. “This is
different place. Maybe all time rain here.”
“You make fool-talk. Rain all time, water
everywhere.”
“Much water here,” Other She said. “Big wide
water-places. Maybe much rain here.”
“Sky look brighter,” Stabber remarked. “Wind
blow, too. Maybe rain stop make down soon.”
And the gray not-see was gone, too; soon the rain would stop and
the sun would come out again. But how to get across this big water?
The moving-water was wide and deep, there were no stony places; it
was a bad not-cross moving-water, and there were all the big
wide-waters, and it would be far-far to where they would be able to
cross over.
“Hungry, too,” Fruitfinder complained. “Not
eat since long time before last dark-time.”
He was hungry himself. If he had been alone, he would have gone
on, hoping to find something, until he was able to cross the
moving-water. None of the others, not even Stabber, would do that,
however. They wanted to eat now.
“Animals stay under things, stay out of rain, not move
about,” he said. “Be where brush is thick. We go hunt
different places. Anybody kill anything, bring back here, all
eat.”
They nodded agreement. That was the way they did it when it was
best not to hunt all together. He thought for a moment. He
didn’t want Big She and Fruitfinder and Stonebreaker hunting
together. They would all the time make talk against him, and when
they came back they would make bad talk to the others.
“Stabber, you, Big She, go that way.” He pointed
down the river. “Take care, not get in bad not-go-through
place. Lame One, you, Other She, Stonebreaker, go up moving-water.
Carries-Bright-Things, Fruitfinder, come with me. We go back in
woods. Maybe find hatta-zosa.”
They were all angry with him because it had rained and because
they had come to this big not-cross moving-water, and because they
had found nothing to eat. They blamed him for all that. It was hard
being Wise One and leading a band. They all praised Wise One when
things went well, but when they didn’t they all blamed him.
But when he told them how to hunt, they all agreed. They had to
have somebody to tell them what to do, and nobody else would.
BEGINNING OF A new era for our planet, the smooth, ingratiating
voice came out of thousands of telecast-speakers all over
Zarathustra, in living rooms and cafes, in camp bunkhouses and
cattle-town saloons. Already, Mallorysport assumes a festive air in
preparation to greet the Honorable Delegates to the Constitutional
Convention which will begin its work a week from today.
There is a note of sadness, however, to mar our happy
enthusiasm. Word from the CZC camp at Yellowsand is that the search
for Little Fuzzy, lost, presumably in the torrent of Yellowsand
River, has been definitely called off; no hope remains of finding
that lovable little person alive. A whole planet mourns for him,
and joins with his human friend and guardian, Jack Holloway, in his
grief.
Good-bye, Little Fuzzy. You were only with us a short while, but
Zarathustra will never forget you.
NONE OF THEM said anything much. Grego and Harry Steefer and the
rest were the kind of people who always got sort of tongue-tied
when it came to verbal sympathy. Come right down to it, there
wasn’t a Nifflheim of a lot anybody could say. Jack shook
Grego’s hand with especial warmth. “Thanks for
everything, Victor. You all did everything you could.” He and
Gerd van Riebeek turned away and went to the aircar.
“You want to fly her, Jack?” Gerd asked.
He nodded. “Might as well.” Gerd stood aside, and he
got in at the controls. Gerd climbed in after him, slamming the
door and dogging it shut, then said, “Secure.” He put
the car on contragravity and fiddled with the radio compass; when
he looked out, Yellowsand was far below and he could see out into
the country beyond the Divide. The scarps of the smaller ranges to
the south rose, one behind the other, on the other side.
“Maybe we ought to have stayed a little longer,” he
said. “It’s starting to clear now; all blue sky to the
south. Be clear up here by noon.”
“What could we do, Jack? The Company cops and survey-crews
are ready to throw it in now. So’s George and Hirohito. If
there’d been anything to find, they’d have found
it.”
“You don’t think we’ll ever find
him?”
“Do you, Jack?”
“Oh, Gerd, he might have gotten out again. The current
could have carried him to the side . . . .” He used an
obscenity like an eraser on his previous words. “Who the hell
do I think I’m kidding beside myself? If he isn’t in
the North Marsh by now, it’s because his body’s caught
on a snag and being sanded over.” He was silent again.
“Just no more Little Fuzzy.” He repeated it again,
after a moment: “No more Little Fuzzy.”
THEY WERE ALL angry with him, Stonebreaker and Lame One and
Fruitfinder and Other She and Big She—especially Big She. Even
Stabber and Carries-Bright-Things were not speaking for him.
“Look at place Wise One bring us!” Big She was
railing. “Wise One tell us, to sun’s left hand is good
place, always warm, always good-to-eat things. This is what Wise
One say; Wise One not know. Wise One bring us to this place. Big
moving-water, not cross. Rain make down, rain make down, make wet,
all time cold. Not find good-to-eat things, everybody hungry. And
look at moving-water; how we cross that?”
“Then we go up moving-water, find place to cross. And rain
stop some time; rain always stop some time,” he said.
“Is everybody-know thing.”
“You not know,” Lame One said. “This is
different place. Maybe all time rain here.”
“You make fool-talk. Rain all time, water
everywhere.”
“Much water here,” Other She said. “Big wide
water-places. Maybe much rain here.”
“Sky look brighter,” Stabber remarked. “Wind
blow, too. Maybe rain stop make down soon.”
And the gray not-see was gone, too; soon the rain would stop and
the sun would come out again. But how to get across this big water?
The moving-water was wide and deep, there were no stony places; it
was a bad not-cross moving-water, and there were all the big
wide-waters, and it would be far-far to where they would be able to
cross over.
“Hungry, too,” Fruitfinder complained. “Not
eat since long time before last dark-time.”
He was hungry himself. If he had been alone, he would have gone
on, hoping to find something, until he was able to cross the
moving-water. None of the others, not even Stabber, would do that,
however. They wanted to eat now.
“Animals stay under things, stay out of rain, not move
about,” he said. “Be where brush is thick. We go hunt
different places. Anybody kill anything, bring back here, all
eat.”
They nodded agreement. That was the way they did it when it was
best not to hunt all together. He thought for a moment. He
didn’t want Big She and Fruitfinder and Stonebreaker hunting
together. They would all the time make talk against him, and when
they came back they would make bad talk to the others.
“Stabber, you, Big She, go that way.” He pointed
down the river. “Take care, not get in bad not-go-through
place. Lame One, you, Other She, Stonebreaker, go up moving-water.
Carries-Bright-Things, Fruitfinder, come with me. We go back in
woods. Maybe find hatta-zosa.”
They were all angry with him because it had rained and because
they had come to this big not-cross moving-water, and because they
had found nothing to eat. They blamed him for all that. It was hard
being Wise One and leading a band. They all praised Wise One when
things went well, but when they didn’t they all blamed him.
But when he told them how to hunt, they all agreed. They had to
have somebody to tell them what to do, and nobody else would.
BEGINNING OF A new era for our planet, the smooth, ingratiating
voice came out of thousands of telecast-speakers all over
Zarathustra, in living rooms and cafes, in camp bunkhouses and
cattle-town saloons. Already, Mallorysport assumes a festive air in
preparation to greet the Honorable Delegates to the Constitutional
Convention which will begin its work a week from today.
There is a note of sadness, however, to mar our happy
enthusiasm. Word from the CZC camp at Yellowsand is that the search
for Little Fuzzy, lost, presumably in the torrent of Yellowsand
River, has been definitely called off; no hope remains of finding
that lovable little person alive. A whole planet mourns for him,
and joins with his human friend and guardian, Jack Holloway, in his
grief.
Good-bye, Little Fuzzy. You were only with us a short while, but
Zarathustra will never forget you.