His shout was smothered almost instantly by the fog-bound trees. There was no answer except for the angry chattering of birds overhead.
Maxim returned to the fire, tossed on some branches, and peered into the kettle. The broth was boiling. He found a spoon of sorts, sniffed it, dried it with grass and sniffed it again. Then he carefully skimmed off a grayish scum and flicked it over the rim. He stirred the broth, scooped some from the edge, blew on it, and pursing his lips, tasted it. Not bad. Something like broth made from a takhorg liver. Only stronger. Setting the spoon aside, he took down the kettle carefully with both hands and placed it on the grass. Then he looked around again and called out: “Breakfast! Come and get it!”
He still sensed that the owner of the dwelling was somewhere nearby, but all he saw were motionless bushes, wet from the fog, and dark gnarled tree trunks. There were no sounds except the crackling of the fire and the restless cross-chatter of the birds.
“Well, OK,” he said aloud. “Do as you please, but I’m breaking the ice!”
He developed a taste for the broth very quickly. Before he knew it, a third of the soup had vanished from the kettle. Regretfully, he moved away, rested for a while, and dried the spoon. But he couldn’t control himself: he scooped up from the very bottom more of those delicious brown chunks of meat that melted in his mouth. Then he moved away, dried the spoon again, and placed it across the top of the kettle. Now the time had come to express his appreciation to his invisible host.
He jumped up, selected several thin branches, and entered the house. Treading cautiously on the rotten floorboards and trying to avoid looking at the remains in the shadows, he picked some mushrooms, selecting the firmest, and threaded their crimson caps onto a branch. “You could use some salt and a little pepper, but never mind. You’ll do for an introduction. We’ll hang you over the fire, steam out every bit of your poison, and you’ll be delicious. You’ll be my first contribution to the culture of this inhabited island.”
The house darkened almost imperceptibly and he felt someone’s eyes on him. Suppressing the desire to turn sharply, he counted to ten, rose slowly, and with an anticipatory smile turned his head.
A long dark face with large doleful eyes and lips drooping at the corners looked at him blankly through the window. They stared at each other for several seconds, and it seemed to Maxim that the gloom emanating from the face was flooding the house, sweeping over the forest, and engulfing the entire world. Everything around him turned gray, gloomy, and mournful. Then the house became still darker. Maxim turned toward the door.
A stocky man, topped by a shaggy mop of red hair and wearing an ugly jump suit, straddled the threshold with his short sturdy legs and blocked the entrance with his broad shoulders. Maxim was pierced by a pair of blue eyes, very steady and hostile, yet almost cheerful—perhaps in contrast to the all-pervasive gloom spreading from the window. Obviously this was not the first time this rough-looking native had encountered a visitor from another world. But it was also obvious that he was used to dealing with annoying visitors promptly and harshly, dispensing with such amenities as communication and other unnecessary complications. An ominous-looking thick metal pipe suspended from a leather belt around his neck was aimed directly at Maxim’s abdomen. It was clear that he hadn’t the slightest notion of the value of human life, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, of humanism’s lofty ideals, even of humanism itself.
Having no choice in the matter, Maxim extended the branch of skewered mushrooms, smiled more broadly, and spoke in carefully articulated words. “Peace! Everything is OK. Everything is fine!” The gloomy face behind the window responded to this greeting with a lengthy but unintelligible sentence that succeeded in clearing the air. Judging from the sounds outside, dry twigs were being tossed into the fire. Behind the unkempt red beard, the blue-eyed figure produced clanging sounds that reminded Maxim of the iron dragon at the crossing.
“Yes!” Maxim nodded vigorously. “Earth! Space!” He pointed the branch toward the zenith and Redbeard obediently looked up at the broken ceiling. “Maxim!” continued Maxim, poking himself in the chest. “Maxim! My name is Maxim! Maxim!” “Mac Sim!” bellowed Redbeard. He had a strange intonation. His eyes glued on Maxim, he shot a series of rumbling sounds over his shoulder. “Mac Sim” was repeated several times. The doleful character replied with some eerie, melancholy syllables. Redbeard’s blue eyes and yellow-toothed jaws opened wide and he began to guffaw. Evidently there was something funny here that Maxim failed to grasp. Finished with his fun, Redbeard dried his eyes with his free hand, lowered his death-dealing weapon, and signaled Maxim to come out.
Maxim was delighted to obey. On the porch, he again held out skewered mushrooms to Redbeard. Redbeard seized the branch, inspected it carefully, sniffed it, and tossed it aside. “No!” Maxim protested. “This stuff is good.” Maxim bent down and retrieved the branch. Redbeard did not object but slapped Maxim on the back several times and shoved him toward the fire, forcing him to sit down. He attempted to communicate something, but Maxim was busy studying the gloomy one sitting on the other side of the fire and drying out a dirty rag. One foot was bare, and he kept wiggling his toes. Five, not six.
2.
Guy sat on the edge of the bench by the window and polished the insignia on his beret with his cuff while Corporal Varibobu prepared his travel orders. The corporal’s head was tilled to one side, eyes opened wide. With his left hand he held a red-bordered form while he slowly traced out a fine calligraphic script. “What handwriting,” thought Guy somewhat enviously. “Ink-stained old fogey: twenty years in the Legion and still a measly clerk. Just look at those eyes goggle—the pride of the brigade. Watch that tongue come out. Yup, there it is. Full of ink, too. So long, Varibobu, you old paper pusher. I won’t be seeing you again. I feel sorry to leave—good men they’ve got here, and the officers, too. And the job we do is useful and important.” Guy sniffed and looked out the window.
Outside the wind was blowing white dust along the broad sidewalkless street paved with hexagonal slabs. The long walls of identical buildings housing administrative and engineering personnel gleamed white. Mrs. Idoya, a stout imposing woman, walked past the window, shielding herself from the dust and holding down her skirt. She was a courageous woman, not afraid to gather up her brood and follow her brigadier husband to these dangerous parts. The sentry in front of the CO’s headquarters, a recent recruit wearing an unwrinkled trench coat and a beret pulled down over his ears, presented arms. Then two truckloads of trainees passed—probably going for their shots. “That’s right, sergeant, give it to ’em. Don’t stick your head out. There’s nothing to see here,” Guy thought. “Where do you think you are—on some main drag?”
“How do you spell it?” asked Varibobu. “G-a-l?”
“No. My last name is Gaal—G-a-a-l.”
“Too bad,” said Varibobu, sucking his pen. “Gal would fit on one line.”
“Come on, write,” thought Guy. “It won’t do you any good to save lines. This jerk is a corporal? Can’t even polish his buttons. Some corporal. Two stripes, but you can’t shoot worth a damn, and everybody knows it.”
The door flew open and Captain Tolot, wearing the gold arm-band of duty officer, strode into the room. Guy jumped to his feet and clicked his heels. The corporal rose slightly but continued writing.
“Aha.” The captain tore off his dust mask in disgust. “Private Gaal. Yes, I know, you’re leaving us. Too bad. But I’m glad for you. I hope you’ll serve as conscientiously in the capital.”
“Yes, sir, captain!” said Guy. He was very fond of Captain Tolot, an educated officer and former high school teacher. The captain had singled him out.