It wasn’t all that warm, either.
Now all the ages mixed as the Weavers gathered around the visiting alien, the teacher. Newly met species always had the same questions.
“My companions and I steered our great ship to the shore of the Great Ocean, forty falans ago. We found desolation. Long before any of you were born, Fist-of-God raised the shore forty manheights along twenty thousand daywalks of shoreline…”
Confusion. Louis’s translator would translate Sol system measurements into the Ringworld’s thirty-hour day, seventy-five days to a falan; but daywalks and manheights varied by species. Louis floated on his back, treading water while they spoke of distance, time, height. No hurry. He’d done this dance before.
“People to spinward remember Fist-of-God in their legends. Something bigger than any mountain struck the floor of the world from underneath at hellish speed, thirty-five hundred falans ago”; A.D. 1200, by Louis’s best guess. “It pushed the land up and then ripped through as a fireball. You can see the mountain it made from here, a hundred thousand miles away, and the deserts all around it. The shore of the Great Ocean moved a thousand miles seaward. All the patterns of life changed…”
The water was armpit-deep, shallower at the end where the children gathered. A kind of dance was going on here: not a courtship game, but the women around Louis were of mating age, and men their age were hanging back. Ring pattern. A rishathra dance?
His eye kept snagging on Strill’s attentive look and wonderful smile. They all had questions. The same questions always. But Louis had seen the glitter of bronze on the bare cliff above his head. The fractal spiderweb was out of a Weaver’s reach, and the water flowing down the rock wasn’t washing it off.
So he spoke for an unseen audience. “We had to stay with the ocean or we’d have had nothing to eat. We spent two falans cruising along the shore, and finally we realized we were in a river mouth. We continued upstream. The fertility has returned to the soil along the Shenthy River valley. We’ve been in this vast river valley for thirty-five falans. My City Builder friends left me at a village downstream, twenty falans ago.”
“Why?”
“They have children now. But I continued upstream. The people are friendly everywhere. They like hearing my tales.”
Sawur asked, “Why does that surprise you, Louis Wu?”
He smiled at the older woman. “When a visitor comes to your village, he probably doesn’t eat what you eat or sleep where you sleep or feel quite comfortable in your house. An alien doesn’t compete with his host. And he might have something to teach. But the Ball People are all one species on all the worlds. A visitor can be bad news.”
A moment’s uncomfortable silence followed. One of the brawny boys settled behind Strill broke it. He called, “Can you do this?” He reached around his back, one arm above, one below, and clasped wrists with himself.
Louis Wu laughed. Once he could have. “No.”
“Then you should have your back washed,” the boy said, and they all moved in.
The great thing about the Ringworld was its variety. And the great thing about variety was that rishathra wouldn’t work at all if it required an elaborate dance.
“How do your folk manage rishathra?”
“If you will state your gender—”
“How long can you hold your breath?” Sea Folk.
“No, but we like to talk about it.”
“We cannot. Don’t be offended.” Red Herders.
“It was thus we ruled the world!” City Builders.
“Only with sapient species. Here, solve this riddle—”
“Only with nonsapient species. We prefer not to become involved.”
“May we watch you with your companion?” Louis had once had to explain that Chmeee was not a hominid, and was male besides. He wondered how much the Weavers knew about the bronze spiderweb above their heads. They were pairing off now, but not mating in public. How would Weavers rish?
Sawur led him out of the water. She squeezed a liter of water from her brown and white fur, with Louis’s help. When she saw he was shivering, she wiped him down with his shirt.
Louis could smell roasting bird flesh.
They dressed. Sawur led him into a circle of woven wicker cages. “Council House,” she said of one. Birds were roasting above a barbecue pit. The smelts were wonderful. Birds and a huge fish, tended by… “Sawur, those aren’t Weavers.”
“No. Sailing Folk and Fishers.”
One Weaver of middle age was tending the pit with the help of seven aliens. They weren’t all of the same species. Two males had webbed hands and broad flat feet, and oily straight hair slicked along their bodies in a smooth curve. The other five, three men and two women, were burly, powerful versions of the Weavers, with altered jaws. Close enough that they might still mate, maybe. All seven were wearing the fantastic Weaver kilts.
The big Fisher, Shans Serpentstrangler, made introduction. Louis tried to remember their names. His translator would retrieve them, if he could remember even a syllable. Shans explained, “We trade for cloth, yes? We compete. When Hishthare Rockdiver and I offer to broil this monster fish the Sailors catch downstream, the Sailors offer, too. Afraid we talk to Kidada, learn something needful. Get a lower price.”
“Meanwhile we argue over how to cook our fish.” That was the Sailor, Wheek. “Kidada at least gets his birds the way he wants.”
“I’d say those birds are done,” Louis said. “I can’t guess about the fish. When did you start?”
“It will be perfect in a hundred breaths,” Shans said. “Cooked on the down side for the Sailors, warm on the up side for us. How do you like it?”
“Down side.”
The Weaver population half dried themselves and came to eat. The birds came off the hot rocks and were torn apart. The fish continued to cook. Louis would find his own vegetables, tomorrow.
And they talked.
The Weavers’ nimble fingers wove nets to catch mid-sized birds and beasts of the forest; but they wove cloth for river traffic. Peekaboo clothing, hammocks, fishnets, belt pouches and back pouches, a variety of things for a variety of species.
Fishers and Sailors traded up and down the river, carrying Weaver kilts, smoked and salted fish, salt, root vegetables…
It was shop talk. Louis eased out of that. He asked Kidada about his scar, and was told of a fight with what sounded like a monster bear. Weavers withdrew: they’d heard the tale. Kidada told a good tale, though from the sound of it, the scar should have been in front.
At sunset all the Weavers seemed to melt away. Sawur led him to a ring of tents, their feet crunching in dry brush.
Sailors and Fishers remained in conversation around the dying coal bed. One called advice after him: “Don’t wander. Only the Night People walk these paths at night.”
They stooped under the edge of the wicker cage. Sawur rolled against him and fell asleep at once. Louis felt a moment’s irritation; but species differ.
Sleeping in a strange place hadn’t bothered Louis in falans… no, in years. Nor sleeping in a strange woman’s arms, nor rubbing against fluffy fur… like sleeping with a big dog… nor both together. But knowing the Hindmost’s eye was near, that kept him awake for some time.
Sometime in the night, he dreamed that a monster sank teeth into his leg. He woke holding back a scream.
Sawur spoke without opening her eyes. “What is it, teacher?”
“Cramp. In my leg.” Louis rolled out of her arms and crawled to the door.