"You can recite almost two hundred biographies from memory?"
"Yes."
I went over to my bed and stretched out. As I stared up at the smoke being sucked through the crack in the chamber’s ceiling, I began to understand what Jerry meant by feeling lost. A Drac with several dozens of generations under its belt knew who it was and what it had to live up to. "Jerry?"
"Yes, Davidge?"
"Will you recite them for me?" I turned my head and looked at the Drac in time to see an expression of utter surprise melt into joy. It was only after years had passed that I learned I had done Jerry a great honor in requesting its line. Among the Dracs, it is a rare expression of respect, not only of the individual, but of the line.
Jerry placed the hat it was sewing on the sand, stood and began.
"Before you here I stand, Shigan of the line of Jeriba, born of Gothig, the teacher of music. A musician of high merit, the students of Gothig include Datzizh of the Nem line, Perravane of the Tuscor line, and many lesser musicians. Trained in music at the Shimuram, Gothig stood before the archives in the year 11,051 and spoke of its parent Haesni, the manufacturer of ships…"
As I listened to Jerry’s singsong of formal Dracon, the backward biographies—beginning with death and ending with adulthood—I experienced a sense of time-binding, of being able to know and touch the past. Battles, empires built and destroyed, discoveries made, great things done—a tour through thousands of years of history, but perceived as a well-defined, living continuum.
Against this: I, Willis of the Davidge line, stand before you, born of Sybil the housewife and Nathan the second-rate civil engineer, one of them born of Grandpop, who probably had something to do with agriculture, born of nobody in particular. Hell, I wasn’t even that! My older brother carried the line; not me. I listened and made up my mind to memorize the line of Jeriba.
We talked of war:
"That was a pretty neat trick, suckering me into the atmosphere, then ramming me."
Jerry shrugged. "Dracon fleet pilots are best; this is well known. I saw a Vikaan pilot once. He was very good, but Dracon fleet pilots are best."
I raised my eyebrows. "That’s why I shot your tail feathers off, huh?"
"Lucky shot."
"And ramming my ship with a crippled fighter at five times the speed of sound with no pilot wasn’t a lucky shot, is that it?"
Jerry shrugged, frowned, and continued sewing on the scraps of snake leather. "Why do the Earthmen invade this part of the galaxy, Davidge? All this horrible business on Planet Amadeen. We had thousands of years of peace before you came."
"Hah! Why do the Dracs invade? We were at peace too. What are you doing here? We didn’t start things, you know."
"We settle these planets. It is the Drac tradition. We are explorers and founders."
"Well, toad face, what do you think we are, a bunch of homebodies? Humans have had space travel for less than a hundred years, but we’ve settled almost twice as many planets as the Dracs—"
Jerry held up a finger. "Exactly! You humans spread like a disease. Ashrak—criminals! Enough! We don’t want you here!"
"Well, we’re here, and here to stay until every last Drac is off Amadeen. Now what are you going to do about that?"
"You see what we do, Irkmaan, we fight!"
"Phooey! You call that little scrap we were in a fight? Hell, Jerry, we were kicking you junk jocks out of the sky—"
"Haw, Davidge! That’s why you sit here sucking on smoked snake!"
I pulled the little rascal out of my mouth and pointed it at the Drac. "I notice your breath has a snake flavor too, Drac!"
Jerry snorted and turned away from the fire. I felt stupid. I mean, what’s the point in trading macho shots with a hermaphrodite? Anyway, we weren’t going to settle the problems of war in between snake snacks. Also, I wanted to have Jerry check my recitation. I had over a hundred generations memorized. The Drac’s side was toward the fire, leaving enough light falling on its lap to see its sewing.
"Jerry, what are you working on?"
"We have nothing to talk about, Davidge."
"Come on, what is it?"
Jerry turned its head toward me, then looked back into its lap and picked up a tiny snakeskin suit. "For Zammis." Jerry smiled and I shook my head, then laughed.
We talked of philosophy:
"You studied Shizumaat, Jerry; why won’t you tell me about its teachings?"
Jerry frowned. "No, Davidge."
"Are Shizumaat’s teachings secret or something?"
Jerry shook its head. "No. But we honor Shizumaat too much for talk."
I rubbed my chin. "Do you mean too much to talk about it, or to talk about it with a human?"
"Not with humans, Davidge; just not with you."
"Why?"
Jerry lifted its head and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You know what you said… on the sandbar."
I scratched my head and vaguely recalled the curse I laid on the Drac about Shizumaat eating it. I held out my hands. "But, Jerry, I was mad, angry. You can’t hold me accountable for what I said then."
"I do."
"Will it change anything if I apologize?"
"Not a thing."
I stopped myself from saying something nasty and thought back to that moment when Jerry and I stood ready to strangle each other. I remembered something about that meeting and screwed the corners of my mouth in place to keep from smiling. "Will you tell me Shizumaat’s teachings if I forgive you… for what you said about Mickey Mouse?" I bowed my head in an appearance of reverence, although its chief purpose was to suppress a cackle.
Jerry looked up at me, its face pained with guilt. "I have felt bad about that, Davidge. If you forgive me, I will talk about Shizumaat."
"Then I forgive you, Jerry."
"One more thing."
"What?"
"You must tell me of the teachings of Mickey Mouse."
"I’ll… uh, do my best."
We talked of Zammis:
"Jerry, what do you want little Zammy to be?"
The Drac shrugged. "Zammis must live up to its own name. I want it to do that with honor. If Zammis does that, it is all I can ask."
"Zammy will pick its own trade?"
"Yes."
"Isn’t there anything special you want, though?"
Jerry nodded. "Yes, there is."
"What’s that?"
"That Zammis will, one day, find itself off this miserable planet."
I nodded. "Amen."
"Amen."
The winter dragged on until Jerry and I began wondering if we had gotten in on the beginning of an ice age. Outside the cave, everything was coated with a thick layer of ice, and the low temperature combined with the steady winds made venturing outside a temptation of death by falls or freezing. Still, by mutual agreement, we both went outside to relieve ourselves. There were several isolated chambers deep in the cave; but we feared polluting our water supply, not to mention the air inside the cave. The main risk outside was dropping one’s drawers at a wind chill factor that froze breath vapor before it could be blown through the thin face muffs we had made out of our flight suits. We learned not to dawdle.
One morning, Jerry was outside answering the call, while I stayed by the fire mashing up dried roots with water for griddle cakes. I heard Jerry call from the mouth of the cave. "Davidge!"
"What?"
"Davidge, come quick!"
A ship! It had to be! I put the shell bowl on the sand, put on my hat and gloves, and ran through the passage. As I came close to the door, I untied the muff from around my neck and tied it over my mouth and nose to protect my lungs. Jerry, its head bundled in a similar manner, was looking through the door, waving me on. "What is it?"