They had not evolved much; any more than had the parent stock on Planet 24.
The prohibitions against covering themselves, and eating cooked and prepared food had not vanished, but had reversed; it was now for their ceremonies that they had to be naked and eat raw meat and roots and fruit. They lived as before in various types of crude shelter, hut or cave; they hunted; they wore skins; they used fire. Their basic unit was the family and not the tribe: this seemed to be retarding them. At least, as I travelled about that planet, which was adequately endowed with plant and animal life, though meagre compared to other planets—Rohanda, for instance—I was comparing these animals with the savages of the high plateaux whom Klorathy had thought it worthwhile to instruct: and such was the contrast that I was wondering for the first time if the superiority of those others was due to something innate, a superiority of a different kind and classification to those we Sirians could use, and which Klorathy and officials on his level would be able to measure? The point was that the Lombis had no capacity for development, or seemed not to have.
I was examining these short, squat, half-furred creatures, with their immensely powerful shoulders and arms, living in their groups of three or four—up to or eight, but no more—each group suspicious of its patch of hunting ground, its wild fruit trees, its sources of roots and vegetables, able to mingle with other groups only on ritual occasions when they all crowded together—and remembered with admiration things that I had scorned. Where were the customs that can make even hundreds of individuals a mutually supporting and culturally expanding unit? Where the intricate ceremonial dances? The finely worked garments with their fringes, their ornamentation, the delicately used feathers? The necklaces of carved bones and stones? The instruction of the young through tales and apprenticeship? The specialisation of individuals, according to innate talent, into storytellers, craftsmen, hunters, singers? Where was… but I could see nothing here like the skills and knowledge of the Navahis and Hoppes.
Now I come to what was painful and pitiful in their situation. How often as I travel from one of our Colonised Planets to another am I forced to remember the natural advantages of Rohanda, with her close and shining moon, her nightside that is crammed with brilliant star clusters?
This planet was a dark one, by nature and position. No moon here. The Lombis must have had somewhere in their gene-memory the knowledge that nights could be lit with infinite variation from a star hanging so close it seemed like a creature, a living being—and changing from a full and bright disc to the tiniest of yellow cracks one had to peer towards and watch for… The Lombis had known what it was to wait for that moment when a sun seems to slide away into dark—and then up flash the stars, giving light when a moon is temporarily absent.
Not only was there no moon, but the nightside looked out into an almost empty sky—black upon black. In one or two places there was a faint sprinkling of light, stars far beyond our Galaxy, more like a slight greying of the night. And their sun was small and distant compared with the rumbustious Rohandan sun from which one may have to shelter, even now when it is further than it was. The Lombis’ “shining ones” were now these infinitely faint and nearly invisible stars. Their old festivals of the full moon took place once a year, when a vast windy plain became filled with groups of these animals who travelled long distances to be there—and they stood in their family groups, lifting their flat sorrowful faces up to their black night, and sang of “shining ones.”
And their sun was a “shining one,” too, but their worship of it was ambiguous and double, as if it was an impostor, or tried to claim more than was due. When our spaceship descended, a crystal and sparkling globe that evoked from them memories or half-memories buried in them by their environment, it was as if an original primal light had suddenly appeared to them. Oh, those black stuffy nights… those interminable unaltering nights, that seemed to settle on the nightside with the sun’s disappearance like a physical oppression. A complete black, a heavy black, where a fire burning outside a cave or inside a leafy shelter seemed to hold back a felt and tangible pressure of darkness. I have never experienced anything like night on Planet 25. Never been on a planet where nothing could be done after sunset. In the daytime the Lombis ran about, and attended to their sustenance, but at night they gathered with the first sign of the sun’s going into their groups and pressed together around their little fires, cowering and waiting for that moment when a rock, or a leaf, would emerge greyly from the thick black and tell them that once again they had survived the extinction of the light.
I left as soon as I could, making a dramatic exit from the planet, which they took on their faces, thanking me for my gracious appearance to them and my love for them. Yet I had promised nothing, told them nothing, given nothing: so easy it is to be “a high shining thing”!—and, speeding thankfully from that oppressive place, I was remembering the apes on Rohanda under Canopean tutelage, and again my old dream, or if you like, ambition, revived in me, and I wondered if I could not persuade Canopus now to part with some of those skilled colonists, the Giants: after all, a considerable time had passed.
If nothing could be improved in the Lombis, what was the point of keeping them as they were?
I sent in a report on my return home, reminding my superiors of the Lombis’ remarkable strength: this was on the lines of what they would have expected from me. Meanwhile, I decided on guile, but nothing beyond what I believed then, and believe now, to be legitimate: only a question of interpreting my standing orders more liberally than would been expected of me.
Our relations with Canopus had been limited for some time, because of our cutback in colonial development.
I summoned a meeting of my peer group, the Five, reminded them that it our policy to maintain full liaison with Canopus, and asked permission to apply for a rendezvous with Klorathy: after all, it had come from them, originally, though of course the idea had been in my mind, that I should maintain contact with Klorathy. The fact that it had not led to anything then, or did not seem to have led to anything, did not mean there could never be benefits for us. I felt no enthusiasm in them, but I had become used to being the odd one out among the Five, always slightly at an angle to current norms of thought. They did not criticise me for this: it was recognised to be my role, or function. Nor did they discourage me beyond saying that since Canopus could not solve her own problems, she was unlikely to contribute to the solution of ours. This was in line with our attitude at that time; the thriving planets of Canopus, her busy trade routes, her enterprise and industriousness, was being classed by us as “superficiality and lack of experiential and existential awareness.” I quote from a learned journal of that time.
The invitation I got from Klorathy was to meet him on their Planet 11. I was first gratified, since I had long wanted to see this planet that we had heard was “important” to Canopus and unlike any other known to either their Empire or ours. And then I found myself succumbing to suspicion: why Planet 11 and not Planet 10? For Klorathy must believe I was still after his Giants!
Their Planets 10 and 11 were neighbours: planets of the same sun. I even thought of making a landing on 10, with the excuse of power trouble, but decided to go on, and the first thing I saw on 11 was a group of Giants walking from the terminal to a hovercar. I told myself that I should put aside my readiness for suspicion: but wondered if Klorathy’s plans for me to see the Giants here, at work and occupied, was another way of refusing me. By now I had got into my own hovercar.
What I could see from the windows was a flat featureless landscape, greyish in colour, under a greyish sky. The sun was pale and large. As I looked, the sun plunged out of sight. A reddish disc appeared over the opposite horizon. A moment later, close to it, came a smaller bilious green disc. These two moved fast across a lurid sky, giving me a sensation of whirling rotation. Looking out made me feel queasy, so I read the information sheet on the wall.
It said that this planet was a well-lit one, with two fast-moving moons, and its nightside well starred. It had no seasons, but had zones of differing climatic conditions, being generally warm and mild with extremes of cold only at the poles, which were left uninhabited. Visitors should not be surprised to find that most long-term inhabitants wore little or no clothing. They might find they needed more sleep than usual, this being the most common reaction to the fast alternations of light and dark. They would probably lose their appetites for a while. Adaptation might be slow, but a longer acquaintanceship with the planet would…
As an old hand at interpreting these benign messages, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable time. And in fact fell asleep, for when I woke up it was day again, and we were still skimming over a grey-green surface, under a grey sky. I was looking for something on the lines of the mathematical cities of old Rohanda: on a new planet I was always on the watch for them: they had perhaps become something of a fixation with me. My mental picture of the Canopean Empire included planets covered with these fabulous, these extraordinary cities. I knew there were none on the Canopean Mother Planet… But why not?
I had asked Klorathy, one evening among the tents of the savages, where I might see these cities and he said: “At the present time, nowhere.” I saw now nothing but a dreary sameness, at more or less regular intervals rough dwellings like sheds, which I supposed to be some sort of storage shed. And then I saw that outside some of them were Giants, and had glimpses of a type of creature that did not attract me at all.
Just as I had understood that these dwellings were what I could expect to see on this planet, and that there were probably no cities, the hovercar stopped suddenly, near one of the structures, and Klorathy came out of it. It was a single-storey building, flat roofed, surrounded by a type of low rough grass, which was clearly the characteristic vegetation. As I entered the place, dark descended again.
Klorathy and I were alone in a rectangular room, painted white, which was a relief after the dim colours of the sky and the landscape, lit by lines of soft wall lights that automatically came on and went off as the daylight and dark alternated outside.
Because we were alone I at once began to hope for the exchange of understandings that I associate with real companionship, but it was not to be. My set of mind forbade it: it was defensive, and critical; and my physical state forbade it, too, for I feeling sick and a little giddy.
This shack, or shed, had in it some low seats and a table. The window apertures and the doorway had screens that could be pulled over them, but they were open now and Klorathy said at once: “Better if you do not shut out the outside: otherwise you won’t get used to it.”
I submitted. I sat down. On the table was a meal. Klorathy said I would feel better if I ate at once, and I tried to do so, but could not get a mouthful down. Meanwhile, he ate and I watched. The food was standard galactic fare.
We were sitting opposite each other, the table between us. He was smiling and easy, I on my best official behaviour, because it was a way of holding myself together.
I remember thinking that connoisseurs of the contrasts so plentifully offered by the Imperial experience would have found the sight of us two piquant: Klorathy, the bronze man, so strong, well-built, solid, with me, who am usually described—affectionately and otherwise—as “a little wisp of a thing,” with my yellow locks and “luminously pale” or “unhealthily pallid” skin—as the case might be. A good deal of our art, the more popular forms of it, dealt with such contrasts, which are found endlessly entertaining, particularly when suggestive or openly sexual. I am not above finding it so myself. But at the time I wanted only to lie down, and in fact, did drop off to sleep suddenly, and woke to see through the apertures, in the full Planet 11 light, contrasts rather stronger than anything Klorathy and I could provide. There was another shed not far away, and outside it were two Giants, twice Klorathy’s size and nearly three times my size, one a totally black man, shining in the pale lemon glare, the other a rich chocolate brown, both virtually naked. I had always seen them clothed, because during conferences everyone made sure of being well clothed, regardless of the local climate, for the sake of giving least offence during occasions that were always quite rich enough opportunities for annoyance or criticism. They were magnificent men: I never seen anything like them. But they were in a group of creatures half their size, who seemed like frail and pale insects—that was the impression made on me.
As I looked, the dark swallowed everything, and almost at once the two moons appeared, large and small, lighting everything with a strong yellow glare. Their colours seemed different from when I had seen them in the hovercar, and again I dropped off to sleep, with the strain of it all, and when I woke it was light, and Klorathy was outside, talking to group of the “insects.” They were not much different in plan from the physical structure common throughout our Galaxy.
They were in fact not very short, being taller than myself, but seemed so, because they were so extremely thin and light in build, and of a silvery-grey colour that made one believe them transparent when they were not. They no hair on their tall domed heads. Each hand—and it was their hands one had to take note of first—had ten very long fingers, nailless, giving the impression of bunches of tentacles in movement. They had three eyes, quite round, bright green, with vertical black pupils. There was a pattern of nostrils—simple holes—in the centre of their flat faces, three, or four or even more. No nose. And no mouth at all.
I was glad that I was able to examine them from a little distance, and even more glad that Klorathy was not there, because I have never been to overcome an instinctive abhorrence for creatures dissimilar to my own species. This has been my single greatest handicap as a Colonial Servant. Attempts to overcome the weakness have cost me more than any other effort, such as learning languages and dialects, and having to acclimatise myself to places like this Colony 11, with its rapid rotation that one could feel and its violent alternations of light.
Despite my repugnance, I able to watch Klorathy’s lips in movement and his animated face, but could not see how they talked, with no mouth. After a time the same two Giants rejoined the group and Klorathy came in to rejoin me.
I could see no sign in him of repugnance.
Without speaking, he pulled the low seats to a window, and we sat side by side and observed the two Giants and the “insect people.”
As I was thinking this unflattering description of them, and looking at the tentacles that seemed to flow around them and in the air around their heads, Klorathy said: “You are wrong. They are more highly evolved than any but one of our peoples.”
“More than the Giants?” I could not help sounding sarcastic, the contrast between the noble and handsome black men and the “insects” was so great.
“They complement each other,” was the reply. And he looked at me, leaning forward to impress on me the force of his amber gaze.
I could not prevent myself sighing—it was impatience, and also tiredness. This atmosphere was exhausting—not the chemical balance of it, though it had slightly less oxygen than I was used to, but suddenly again the sun had gone, and now there was one moon shining blood orange this time, and then appeared the little moon, a sort of greenish colour, and the scene we had been watching, of low greyish grass, the two enormous Giants, and the cluster of the others, was lit by a horrible reddish light, and the Giants seemed to be made of blood, and the shapes of the “insects” were absorbed, and all I could see was a mass of waving tentacles. I abruptly left my seat and turned my face inwards.
I said, “I don’t think Colony 11 suits me.” And tried to make it humorous. He said nothing and I asked: “And you?”
“I spend a good deal of time here.”
“Why?”
“At this time, for our present needs, this planet is important to us.”
I understood that this reply was specific, and contained information that I been reaching out for. But I felt ill and discouraged; my strongest thought was that if after so many ages I still could not control an instinctive response to creatures physically different, then it was time I gave it all up and retired!
“It is not the physical difference as such,” said Klorathy.
“Well then? I suppose they talk with their tentacles?”
“Their tentacles are sensors. They sense the variations in the atmosphere with them.”
“And I suppose they use telepathy?" We had no races in all our Empire who were telepathic, but had heard there were such races, and believed that Canopus had several. I was being sarcastic again, but Klorathy said, “Yes. They are telepathic. The Giants talk like you and me. The others in their own way. The two species get on well enough.”
“And they have no mouths.” I could not help a shudder.
“Have not noticed something quite unique about this planet?”
“No. All I know is that it makes me feel very sick indeed, and I am going to leave it.”
I looked out again. The moons were in the sky, but the sun was, too. The moons, sunlit, were faintly green and yellow in a grey sky, and each sent off a glow of illuminated gases.
“Wait just little.”