The Krinpit, Jorrn-fteet, reared back to study him more carefully, its stubby claws waving. “Your meaning is not loud,” it rattled.
“No matter. Let us move on.” Dulla was in no mood for a nice chat with these grossly hypertrophied bugs, however useful they were to him. “Go carry the litter and my bag; I will walk,” he ordered. “It is too steep here for riding.” They were climbing from the shallow valley of the river now, up through the last of the forested slopes onto the dry highlands. The vegetation began to change from many-trees and ferns to things like succulents, stubby barrels with glowing, bright red, luminous buttons. Dulla looked at them all with distaste. Study the plants, find new products; it is in this way that my fathers became independent of the machines of the outside world. So Feng Hua-tse had advised before he left; but Dulla was an astrophysicist, not an herbal healer, and he had no intention of following the fool’s instructions.
There was no overhang between him and the sky now, and he could see the little biplane circling, far off toward the bright white line of the Heat Pole. So. The Greasies had their helicopter, the Fats now had a plane, and what did the representative of the People’s Republics have to take him to this meeting? A litter carried by animals that looked like squashed crustaceans. Dulla fumed. If Feng had listened to him, they would have insisted that the three-party meeting be held at their own camp. So they would have been spared this humiliation of arriving on a plastic frame carried by creatures out of some children’s nonsense fable — if not the humiliation of exposing to the Fats and the Oilies the meanness of their encampment. What a disaster! And all Feng’s fault, or Heir-of-Mao’s. The expedition should have been properly supplied and reinforced in the first place, but leave it to the Chinamen to hoard coppers to the ruination of the project.
Without warning the Krinpit stopped, and Dulla, lost in his thoughts, almost tripped over them. “What, what?” he complained. “Why are you standing here?”
“A very loud thing moves quickly,” rattled Jorrn-fteet.
“I do not hear anything.” But now that he was awakened from his reverie he did see something, a swell of dust behind the hills. As he watched, a machine topped the rise, coming toward him. It was still a kilometer away, but it looked like a half-track.
“Another triumph of conspicuous waste,” sneered Dulla. “How dare they come for me, as though I could not make the journey by myself?” The Krinpit rattled inquiringly, and he added, “Never mind. Put down the litter; I will carry my knapsack myself now. Hide yourselves. I do not want the Greasies to see you.”
But the words conveyed no meaning to the Krinpit. A Krinpit could never hide from another Krinpit as long as they were close enough to hear each other. Dulla struggled to explain. “Go back to the place behind the hill. The Greasies will not hear you there. I will return in the space it took us to come up from the river.” He was not sure they understood that, either. The Krinpit had a clear sense of time, but the vocabulary of terms to mark its units did not map well from one language based on a diurnal cycle to another which had evolved on a planet without easy temporal reference points. But they lurched away obediently, and Dulla walked steadily toward the approaching half-track.
The driver was a Kuwaiti, apparently a translator, because he greeted Dulla in flawless Urdu. “Would you like a lift?” he called. “Jump in!”
“You are very courteous,” smiled Dulla. “Indeed, it is a little warm for strolling today.” But it was not courtesy at all, he fumed internally, it was only more of their damnable arrogance! Ahmed Dulla was quite sure that he was the only person on Jem whose native language was Urdu, and here the Greasies had made sure they had someone who could speak to him! As though he himself were not already proficient in four other languages!
The time would come, he promised himself, when he would humble the ostentatious swine. So he rode up over the gullied hills toward the Greasy camp, chatting amiably with the Kuwaiti, remarking politely on the fine appearance of their camp, his face smiling and his heart swelling with rage.
The official host for the meeting was named Chesley Pontrefact, London-born but not of native roots that went many generations back. His skin was purplish brown and his hair white wool. Coded tactran messages had given Dulla a good deal of background on every member of the Greasy expeditions, as well as the Fats, and he knew that Pontrefact was an air vice-marshal and nominal commander of the Greasy expedition. But he also knew that real power belonged to one of the civilians from Saudi Arabia.
Pontrefact bustled about the long conference table (wood! shipped all the way from Earth!) offering drinks and smokes. “Brandy do you, Dr. Dalehouse?” he inquired solicitously. “And perhaps a Coca-Cola for you, sir? I’m afraid we don’t have orange juice, but at least there’s ice.”
“Nothing, please,” said Dulla, seething. Ice! “I suggest we begin our meeting, if that is convenient.”
“Certainly, Dr. Dulla.” Pontrefact sat down heavily at the head of the table and glanced inquiringly around. “Mind if I take the chair, just for form’s sake?”
Dulla watched to see if any of the Fats were going to object and spoke a split second before they did. “Not at all, Marshal Pontrefact,” he said warmly. “We are your guests.” But one should show courtesy to guests, and what was this seating arrangement but a deliberate insult? Pontrefact at the head, two of his associates at the foot — the Kuwaiti translator and a woman who could be no one but the Saudi civilian who was the Greasies’ decision maker. On one side of the table were all three of the Fats — Dalehouse, their Russian pilot, and their own translator; and on the other — only himself. How much more deliberately could they point out that he was alone and insignificant? He added diffidently, “Since we are all conversant, I believe, with English, perhaps we can dispense with the translators. It is an old saying of my people that the success of a conference is inversely proportional to the square of the number of participants.”
Quickly, “I shall stay,” said the Fats translator. Pontrefact raised his white-caterpillar eyebrows but said nothing; Dulla shrugged politely and gazed toward the chair, waiting for the proceedings to begin.
The Saudi whispered to the interpreter at some length. Across the table, Dalehouse hesitated, then got up to extend his hand to Dulla. “Good to see you looking fit, Ahmed,” he said.
Dulla touched his hand minimally. “Thank you.” He added grudgingly, “And thank you for assisting in returning me to my own camp. I have not had a chance to express my gratitude since.”
“Glad to help. Anyway, it’s good to see someone from your expedition — we don’t see many of you, you know.”
Dulla glared. Then, stiffly, “I have come a long way for this meeting. Can we not begin?”
“Oh, hell,” said Pontrefact from the head of the table. “Look, mates, the whole reason for this meeting is to try to work together better. We know what a balls-up our masters have made at home. Shall we see if we can do a bit better here?”
Dulla said happily, “Please limit your observations to your own people.” It was as he had suspected; the Greasies were going to insult everyone but themselves. Let this West Indian whose grandfather was a ticket collector on the London Underground make a fool of himself if he chose. Not of the People’s Republics.
“But I’m in dead earnest, Dr. Dulla. We invited you here because it’s clear we are all working at cross-purposes. Your own camp is in serious trouble, and we all know it. The Food people and our own lot are a bit better off, yes. But you don’t have a proper doctor, do you, Dr. Dalehouse? Not to mention a few other things. And we can’t be expected — that is, we don’t have limitless resources either. Under the UN resolution we are all supposed to cooperate and divide the responsibilities. Particularly the science. We undertook the geology, and you can’t say we haven’t played fair about that. We’ve done a great deal.”