“I’m afraid not—though that’s grass, isn’t it?”
“Well, technically, almost everything here is. Grass includes all the cereals—barley, rice, maize, wheat, oats... We grow them all except rice.”
“But why—I mean, except for scientific and archaeological interest?”
“Isn’t that sufficient? But I think you’ll find there’s more to it than that, when you’ve had a look around.”
At the risk of being impolite, Duncan persisted. He was not trying to be stubborn, but was genuinely interested.
“What about efficiency? Doesn’t it take a square kilometer to feed one man, with this system?”
“Out around Saturn, perhaps; I’m afraid you’ve dropped a few zeros. If it had to, this little farm could support fifty people in fair comfort, though their diet would be rather monotonous.”
“I’d no idea—my God, what’s that? ”
“You’re joking—you don’t recognize it?”
“Oh, I know it’s a horse. But it’s enormous. I thought...”
“Well, I can’t blame you, though wait until you see an elephant. Charlemagne is probably the largest horse alive today. He’s a Percheron, and weights a little over a ton. His ancestors used to carry knights in full armor. Like to meet him?”
Duncan wanted to say, “Not really,” but it was too late. Washington brought the car to a halt, and the gigantic creature ambled toward them.
Until this moment, the limousine had been closed and they had been traveling in air-conditioned comfort. Now the windows slid down—and Primeval Earth hit Duncan full in the nostrils.
“What’s the matter?” asked Washington anxiously. “Are you all right?”
Duncan gulped, and took a curious sniff.
“I think so,” he said, without much conviction. “It’s just that—the air is rather—” He struggled for words as well as breath, and had almost selected ‘ripe’ when he gratefully switched to ‘rich’ in the nick of time.
“I’m so sorry,” apologized Washington, genuinely contrite. “I’d quite forgotten how strange this must be to you. Let me close the window. Go away, Charlie—sorry, some other time.”
The monster now completely dwarfed the car, and a huge head, half as big as a man, was trying to insert itself through the partially open window on Duncan’s side. The air became even thicker, and redolent of more animal secretions than he cared to identify. Two huge, slobbering lips drew back, to disclose a perfectly terrifying set of teeth...
“Oh, very well,” said Professor Washington in a resigned voice. He leaned across his cowering guest, holding out an open palm on which two lumps of sugar had magically appeared. Gently as any maiden’s kiss, the lips nuzzled Washington’s hand, and the gift vanished as if inhaled. A mild, gentle eye, which from this distance seemed about as large as a fist, looked straight at Duncan, who started to laugh a little hysterically as the apparition withdrew.
“What’s so funny,” asked Washington.
“Look at it from my point of view. I’ve just met my first Monster from Outer Space. Thank God it was friendly.”
20. The Taste of Honey
“I do hope you slept well,” said George Washington, as they walked out into the bright summer morning.
“Quite well, thank you,” Duncan answered, stifling a yawn. He only wished that statement were true.
It had been almost as bad as his first night aboard Sirius. Then, the noises had all been mechanical. This time, they were made by—things.
Leaving the window open had been a big mistake, but who could have guessed? “We don’t need air conditioning this time of year,” George had explained. “Which is just as well, because we haven’t got it. The Regents weren’t too happen even about electric light in at four-hundred-year-old house. If you do get too cold, there are some extra blankets. Primitive, but effective.”
Duncan did not get too cold; the night was pleasantly mild. It was also extremely busy.
There had been distant thumpings which, he eventually decided, must have been Charlie moving his thousand kilos of muscle around the fields. There had been strange squeakings and rustlings apparently just outside his window, and one high-pitched squeal, suddenly terminated, which could only have been caused by some unfortunate small beast meeting an untimely end.
But at last he dozed off—only to be wakened, quite suddenly, by the most horrible of all sensations that can be experienced by a man in the utter darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber. Something was moving around the room.
It was moving almost silently, yet with amazing speed. There was a kind of whispering rush and, occasionally, a ghostly squeaking so high-pitched that at first Duncan wondered if he was imagining the entire phenomenon. After some minutes he decided, reluctantly, that it was real enough. Whatever the thing might be, it was obviously airborne. But what could possibly move at such speed, in total darkness, without colliding with the fittings and furniture of the bedroom?
While he considered this problem, Duncan did what any sensible man would do. He burrowed under the bedclothes, and presently, to his vast relief, the whispering phantom, with a few more shrill gibberings, swooped out into the night. When his nerves had fully recovered, Duncan hopped out of bed and closed the window; but it seemed hours before his nervous system settled down again.
In the bright light of morning, his fears seemed as foolish as they doubtless were, and he decided not to ask George any questions about his nocturnal visitor; presumably it was some night bird or large insect. Everyone knew that there were no dangerous animals left on Earth, except in well-guarded reservations...
Yet the creatures that George now seemed bent on introducing to him looked distinctly menacing. Unlike Charlemagne, they had built-in weapons.
“I suppose,” said George, only half doubtfully, “that you recognize these?”
“Of course—I do know some Terran zoology. If it has a leg at each corner, and horns, it’s not a horse, but a cow.”
“I’ll only give you half marks. Not all cows have horns. And for that matter, there used to be horned horses. But they became extinct when there were no more virgins to bridle them.”
Duncan was still trying to decide if this was a joke, and if so what was the point of it, when he had a slight mishap.
“Sorry!” exclaimed George, “I should have warned you to mind your step. Just rub it off on that tuft of grass.”
“Well, at least it doesn’t smell quite as bad as it looks,” said Duncan resignedly, determined to make the best of a bad job.
“That’s because cows are herbivores. Though they’re not very bright, they’re sweet, clean animals. No wonder they used to worship them in India. Hello, Daisy—morning, Ruby—now, Clemence, that was naughty—”
It seems to Duncan that these bovine endearments were rather one-sided, for their recipients gave no detectable reaction. Then his attention was suddenly diverted; something quite incredible was flying toward them.
It was small—its wingspan could not have been more than ten centimeters—and it traced wavering, zigzag patterns through the air, often seeming about to land on a low bush or patch of grass, then changing its mind at the last moment. Like a living jewel, it blazed with all the colors of the rainbow; its beauty struck Duncan like a sudden revelation. Yet at the same time he found himself asking what purpose such exuberant—no, arrogant—loveliness could possibly serve.