Junior scurried behind the figure and satisfied himself on that score.
“-have long, fleshy probosces, and short, shriveled ears. Their diets are unspecialized, hence the rather all-purpose teeth, and they are nocturnal, hence the large eyes. It’s all simple, really. Now, does that dispose of you, youngster?”
And then Junior, having thought and thought about it, came out with a disparaging: “He looks just like an Eekah to me, though. Just like an ugly, old Eekah.”
Raph stared at him. Apparently he had missed a point: “An Eekah?” he said, “What’s an Eekah? Is that an imaginary creature you’ve been reading about?”
“Imaginary! Say, Pa, don’t you ever stop at the Recorder’s?”
This was an embarrassing question to answer, for “Pa” never did, or at least, never since his maturity. As a child, the Recorder, as custodian of the world’s spoken, written, and recorded fiction, had, of course, had an unfailing fascination. But he had grown up-
He said, tolerantly: “Are there new stories about Eekahs? I remember none when I was young.”
“You don’t get it, Pa.” One would almost suppose that the young Raph was on the very verge of an exasperation he was too cautious to express. He explained in wounded fashion: “The Eekahs are real things. They come from the Other World. Haven’t you heard about that? We’ve been hearing about it in school, even, and in the Group Magazine. They stand upside down in their country, only they don’t know it, and they look just like Ol’ Primeval there.”
Raph collected his astonished wits. He felt the incongruity of cross-examining his half-grown child for archeological data and he hesitated a moment. After all, he had heard some things. There had been word of vast continents existing on the other hemisphere of Earth. It seemed to him that there were reports of life on them. It was all hazy-perhaps it wasn’t always wise to stick so closely to the field of one’s own interest.
He asked Junior: “Are there Eekahs here among the Groupings?”
Junior nodded rapidly: “The Recorder says they can think as good as us. They got machines that go through the air. That’s how they got here.”
“Junior!” said Raph severely.
“I ain’t lying,” Junior cried with aggrieved virtue. “You ask the Recorder and see what he says.”
Raph slowly gathered his papers together. It was Closed-Day, but he could find the Recorder at his home, no doubt.
The Recorder was an elderly member of the Red River Gurrow Grouping and few alive could remember a time when he was not. He had succeeded to the post by general consent and filled it well, for he was Recorder for the same reason that Raph was curator of the museum. He liked to be, he wanted to be, and he could conceive no other life.
The social pattern of the Gurrow Grouping is difficult to grasp unless born into it, but there was a looseness about it that almost made the word “pattern” incongruous. The individual Gurrow took whatever job he felt an aptitude for, and such work as was left over and needed to be done was done either in common, or consecutively by each according to an order determined by lot. Put so, it sounds too simple to work, but actually the traditions that had gathered with the five thousand years since the first Voluntary Grouping of Gurrahs was supposed to have been established, made the system complicated, flexible-and workable.
The Recorder was, as Raph had anticipated, at his home, and there was the embarrassment of renewing an old and unjustly neglected acquaintanceship. He had made use of the Recorder’s reference library, of course, but always indirectly-yet he had once been a child, an intimate learner at the feet of accumulated wisdom, and he had let the intimacy lapse.
The room he now entered was more or less choked with recordings and, to a lesser degree, with printed material. The Recorder interspersed greetings with apologies.
“Shipments have come from some of the other Groupings,” he said. “It needs time for cataloguing, you know, and I can’t seem to find the time I used to.” He lit a pipe and puffed strongly. “Seems to me I’ll have to find a full-time assistant. What about your son, Raph? He clusters about here the way you did twenty years ago.”
“You remember those times?”
“Better than you do, I think. Think your son would like that?”
“Suppose you talk to him. He might like to. I can’t honestly say he’s fascinated by archaeology.” Raph picked up a recording at random and looked at the identification tag: “Um-m-m-from the Joquin Valley Grouping. That’s a long way from here.”
“A long way… The Recorder nodded. “I have sent them some of ours, of course. The works of our own Grouping are highly regarded throughout the continent,” he said, with proprietary pride. “In fact”-he pointed the stem of his pipe at the other-”your own treatise on extinct primates has been distributed everywhere. I’ve sent out two thousand copies and there are still requests. That’s pretty good-for archaeology.”
“Well, archaeology is why I am here-that and what my son says you’ve been telling him… Raph had a little trouble starting: “It seems you have spoken of creatures called Eekahs from the Antipodes, and I would like to have such information as you have on them.”
The Recorder looked thoughtfuclass="underline" “Well, I could tell you what I know offhand, or we could go to the Library and look up the references.”
“Don’t bother opening the Library for me. It’s a Closed-Day. Just give me some notion of things and I’ll search the references later.”
The Recorder bit at his pipe, shoved his chair back against the wall and de-focused his eyes thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I suppose it starts with the discovery of the continents on the other side. That was five years ago. You know about that, perhaps?”
“Only the fact of it. I know the continents exist, as everyone does now. I remember once speculating on what a shining new field it would be for archaeological research, but that is all.”
“Ah, then there is much else to tell you of. The new continents were never discovered by us directly, you know. It was five years ago that a group of non-Gurrow creatures arrived at the East Harbor Grouping in a machine that flew-by definite scientific principles, we found out later, based essentially on the buoyancy of air. They spoke a language, were obviously intelligent, and called themselves Eekahs. The Gurrows, of the East Harbor Grouping, learned their language-a simple one though full of unpronounceable sounds-and I have a grammar of it, if you’re interested-”
Raph waved that away.
The Recorder continued: “The Gurrows of the Grouping, with the aid of those of the Iron Mountain Grouping-which specialize in steel works, you know-built duplicates of the flying machine. A flight was made across the ocean, and I should say there are several dozens of volumes on all that-volumes on the flying machine, on a new science called aerodynamics, new geographies, even a new system of philosophy based on the plurality of intelligences. All produced at the East Harbor and Iron Mountain Groupings. Remarkable work for only five years, and all are available here:’
“But the Eekahs-are they still at the East Harbor Groupings?”
“Um-m-m. I’m pretty certain they are. They refused to return to their own continents. They call themselves ‘political refugees.’ “
“Politi. …what?”
“It’s their own language,” said the Recorder, “and it’s the only translation available.”
“Well, why political refugees? Why not geological refugees, or oompah refugees. I should think a translation ought to make sense.”
The Recorder shrugged: “I refer you to the books. They’re not criminals, they claim. I know only what I tell you.”
“Well, then, what do they look like? Do you have pictures?”
“At the Library.”
“Did you read my ‘Principles of Archaeology?’ “
“I looked through it.”
“Do you remember the drawings of Primate Primeval?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then, look, let’s go down to the Library, after all.”
“Well, sure.” The Recorder grunted as he rose.
The Administrator of the Red River Gurrow Grouping held a position in no way different in essentials from that of the Museum Curator, the Recorder or any other voluntary job holder. To expect a difference is to assume a society in which executive ability is rare.
Actually, all jobs in a Gurrow Grouping-where a “job” is defined as regular work, the fruits of which adhere to others in addition to the worker himself-are divided into two classes: one, Voluntary Jobs, and the other, Involuntary or Community Jobs. All of the first classification are equal. If a Gurrow enjoys the digging of useful ditches, his bent is to be respected and his job to be honored. If no one enjoys such burrowing and yet it is found necessary for comfort, it becomes a Community Job, done by lot or rotation according to convenience-annoying but unavoidable.
And so it was that the Administrator lived in a house no more ample and luxurious than others, sat at the head of no tables, had no particular title other than the name of his job, and was neither envied, hated, nor adored.
He liked to arrange Inter-Group trade, to supervise the common finances of the Group, and to judge the infrequent disagreements that arose. Of course, he received no additional food or energy privileges for doing what he liked.