“The Elders have authorized me,” he said, “to offer you an alliance of blood brotherhood. You and I, representing the leading clans of our peoples, will mingle our blood together in a beautiful and highly symbolic ceremony, then break bread, take salt—”
“Sorry,” Danton said. “We New Tahitians don’t hold with that sort of thing. It has to be marriage.”
“But damn it all, man—”
“That is my last word.”
“We’ll never accept! Never!”
“Then it’s war,” Danton declared and walked into the jungle.
He was in a mood for making war. But how, he asked himself, does a single native fight against a spaceship full of armed men?
He was brooding on this when Simeon and Anita came to him through the jungle.
“All right,” Simeon said angrily. “The Elders have decided. We Hutters are sick of running from planet to planet. We’ve had this problem before and I suppose we’d just go somewhere else and have it again. We’re sick and tired of the whole native problem, so I guess—”he gulped hard, but manfully finished the sentence—”we’d better assimilate. At least, that’s what the Elders think. Personally, I’d rather fight.”
“You’d lose,” Danton assured him, and at that moment he felt he could take on the Hutters single-handed and win.
“Maybe so,” Simeon admitted. “Anyhow, you can thank Anita for making the peace possible.”
“Anita? Why?”
“Why, man, she’s the only girl in the camp who’d marry a naked, dirty, heathen savage!”
And so they were married, and Danta, now known as the White Man’s Friend, settled down to help the Hutters conquer their new land. They, in turn, introduced him to the marvels of civilization. He was taught Twelve-hand Bridge and Mass Dancing. And soon the Hutters built their first Subway—for a civilized people must release their aggressions—and that game was shown to Danta, too.
He tried to master the spirit of the classic Earth pastime, but it was obviously beyond the comprehension of his savage soul. Civilization stifled him, so Danta and his wife moved across the planet, always following the frontier, staying far from the amenities of civilization.
Anthropologists frequently came to visit him. They recorded all the stories he told his children, the ancient and beautiful legends of New Tahiti—tales of sky gods and water demons, fire sprites and woodland nymphs, and how Katamandura was ordered to create the world out of nothingness in just three days, and what his reward for this was, and what Jevasi said to Hootmenlati when they met in the underworld, and the strange outcome of this meeting.
The anthropologists noted similarities between these legends and certain legends of Earth, and several interesting theories were put forth. And they were interested in the great sandstone statues on the main island of New Tahiti, weird and haunting works which no viewer could forget, clearly the work of a pre-New Tahitian race, of whom no trace could ever be found.
But most fascinating of all for the scientific workers was the problem of the New Tahitians themselves. Those happy, laughing, bronzed savages, bigger, stronger, handsomer, and healthier than any other race, had melted away at the coming of the white man. Only a few of the older Hutters could remember having met them in any numbers and their tales were considered none too reliable.
“My people?” Danta would say, when questioned. “Ah, they could not stand the white man’s diseases, the white man’s mechanical civilization, the white man’s harsh and repressive ways. They are in a happier place now, in Valhoola beyond the sky. And someday I shall go there, too.”
And white men, hearing this, experienced strangely guilty feelings and redoubled their efforts to show kindness to Danta, the Last Native.
FISHING SEASON
They had been living in the housing project only a week, and this was their first invitation. They arrived on the dot of eight-thirty. The Carmichaels were obviously prepared for them, for the porch light was on, the front door partially open, and the living room a blaze of light.
“Do I look all right?” Phyllis asked at the door. “Seams straight, hair curly?”
“You’re a vision in a red hat,” her husband assured her. “Just don’t spoil the effect by leading aces.” She made a small face at him and rang the doorbell. Soft chimes sounded inside.
Mallen straightened his tie while they waited. He pulled out his breast handkerchief a microscopic fraction farther.
“They must be making gin in the cellar,” he told his wife. “Shall I ring again?”
“No—wait a moment.” They waited, and he rang again. Again the chimes sounded.
“That’s very strange,” Phyllis said a few minutes later. “It was tonight, wasn’t it?” Her husband nodded. The Carmichaels had left their windows open to the warm spring weather. Through the venetian blinds they could see a table set for Bridge, chairs drawn up, candy dishes out, everything in readiness. But no one answered the door.
“Could they have stepped out?” Phyllis Mallen asked. Her husband walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway.
“Their car’s in.” He came back and pushed the front door open farther.
“Jimmy—don’t go in.”
“I’m not.” He put his head in the door. “Hello! Anybody home?”
Silence in the house.
“Hello!” he shouted, and listened intently. He could hear Friday-night noises next door—people talking, laughing. A car passed in the street. He listened. A board creaked somewhere in the house, then silence again.
“They wouldn’t go away and leave their house open like this,” he told Phyllis. “Something might have happened.” He stepped inside. She followed, but stood uncertainly in the living room while he went into the kitchen. She heard him open the cellar door, call out, “Anyone home!” And close it again. He came back to the living room, frowned and went upstairs.
In a little while Mallen came down with a puzzled expression on his face. “There’s no one there,” he said.
“Let’s get out of here,” Phyllis said, suddenly nervous in the bright, empty house. They debated leaving a note, decided against it and started down the walk.
“Shouldn’t we close the front door?” Jim Mallen asked, stopping.
“What good will it do? All the windows are open.”
“Still—” He went back and closed it. They walked home slowly, looking back over their shoulders at the house. Mallen half expected the Carmichaels to come running after them, shouting “Surprise!”
But the house remained silent.
Their home was only a block away, a brick bungalow just like two hundred others in the development. Inside, Mr. Carter was making artificial trout flies on the card table. Working slowly and surely, his deft fingers guided the colored threads with loving care. He was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear the Mallens enter.
“We’re home, Dad,” Phyllis said.
“Ah,” Mr. Carter murmured. “Look at this beauty.” He held up a finished fly. It was an almost replica of a hornet. The hook was cleverly concealed by overhanging yellow and black threads.
“The Carmichaels were out—we think,” Mallen said, hanging up his jacket
“I’m going to try Old Creek in the morning,” Mr. Carter said. “Something tells me the elusive trout may be there.” Mallen grinned to himself. It was difficult talking with Phyllis’s father. Nowadays he never discussed anything except fishing. The old man had retired from a highly successful business on his seventieth birthday to devote himself wholeheartedly to his favorite sport.
Now, nearing eighty, Mr. Carter looked wonderful. It was amazing, Mallen thought. His skin was rosy his eyes clear and untroubled, his pure white hair neatly combed back. He was in full possession of his senses, too—as long as you talked about fishing.