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open‑sided thatched roof, a shed without walls. Limber
three‑fingered hands worked with tools of bone, shell, beak, and stone.
At the moment the native was working on one of three table legs. Each was
roughly a meter in length and magnificently incised. One had already been
inlaid with carved shell and bone and rubbed to a high polish.
Technology the Parramati might not have, but their culture was clearly of a
high order. Pulickel knew the table legs alone would fetch a good price in
Ophhlia.
He couldn't imagine what the intact, completed table might bring from a
collector on Earth or New Riviera. Aborigi-nal alien artifacts were one
product modern technology couldn't synthesize, hence their continuing value to
the cognoscenti.
And the art of each island group, each archipelago, was unique and different.
Based on what he'd seen so far, that of Parramati could stand with the best of
it.
Noticing their approach, the elderly big person put down his tools and rose
from his working crouch. Plac-ing his head upon the ground and flattening his
ears, he executed a simple backward roll.
"Jorana can't do the flip anymore," Fawn informed her companion.
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"What do I do? If I do the somersault will he be insulted?"
"You don't have to do anything," she assured him. "Jo-rana's used to my lack
of acrobatics. It's not expected of humans." Raising her voice, she switched
to the lilting singsong dialect of Parramat.
"Hello, Jorana! May your road be straight and clear."
"As may yours, F'an." Despite the slight quaver in his speech, Pulickel had no
trouble understanding him.
"This is the coming of the other human I told you about." She indicated her
attentive companion. "He is called Pulickel."
The old one's jaws ground slowly from side to side as if he was grinding bone.
"Pu'il. A difficult name."
"I am sorry," Pulickel replied fluently. "Pu'il will be perfectly
satisfactory."
"But your real name is longer. Will it satisfy you to be so identified?" Long
cat‑eyes gazed speculatively at the xenologist.
"So long as you don't confuse it with one belonging to one of your wives."
Pulickel knew alien humor was al-ways a difficult proposition, but he'd never
been cautious where language was concerned.
A gargling sound came from the Parramati's throat, signifying not only
acceptance and understanding but ap-preciation. Fawn looked on admiringly.
Jorana turned to her. "Is Pu'il a big person among your kind?"
"Bigger than I. Big enough to talk about things I can-not talk about."
The alien turned back to his work. "Well, it is always good to talk," he
commented noncommittally. "Come and sit. I am working on a Pr'ithma ceremonial
table."
The two xenologists accepted the invitation, settling themselves crosslegged
close to the Parramati and be-neath the shade of the thatched shelter. This
left the alien squatting on its haunches, looking down at them. The seni used
tables and beds, but not chairs. With their pow-erful hind legs, they could
remain in a squatting/sitting position for hours at a time.
They watched quietly while their host used a wooden block lined with tiny
sharp‑edged shells to sand a rough section of tabletop. "One cannot
reduce the beauty of the wood," he murmured. "But one can transform it." A
slit-ted eye glanced at Fawn. "Ascela was asking for you."
"Who's Ascela?" Pulickel inquired.
His companion reverted to terranglo for the explana-tion. "Another Torrelauapa
big person. Much younger than Jorana, not as big or as strong, but maybe
smarter."
"But that doesn't mean he ranks Jorana."
She smiled approvingly. "Now you're getting the hang of it. And Ascela is
female. " Turning back to the wood-worker, she swung her pack off her back and
resumed speaking in the local tongue. "I have something for you, Jorana."
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Reaching into the carryall, she brought out a glassine envelope containing a
dozen colorful titanium fishhooks. Pulickel was quick to note that the
smallest was the size of his little finger. Apparently the Parramati diet
included some fairly sizable denizens of the deep.
Taking the bag, Jorana made a show of inspecting the contents. Then, with a
regretful yip, he handed it back. "I am sorry, F'an, but I cannot accept
these."
Her expression fell. "Why not?"
"Because we hunt the waters with straight points, not curved ones."
"I know, but what you do with these is put a little bait on them and tie them
to a line. The coliat or metikim smell the bait and try to eat it. They catch
themselves on the hook."
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"But why wait?" Jorana was genuinely curious, his long, pointed ears arched
sharply forward. "Any decent fisherman can go out on a boat, look into the
water, and spear his quarry."
"But you don't always come back with something that way," Fawn argued.
"Sometimes the spears miss and the boats come back empty."
"That is true." The carver scrutinized the package and its gleaming,
high‑tech contents. "And this works every time?"
"Well, no. The quarry has to take the bait and the fisher-man has to make sure
the hook is set before he tries to pull it in."
"I see." As Pulickel winced, the native emptied the bag's sharp contents into
his open palm. Apparently that smooth, beige‑hued skin was tougher than
it looked. Jorana returned them to the gift‑giver by placing the hooks
on the ground in front of her. Then he held up the empty bag.
"This, however, is another of your wonderful carrying containers, and for this
gift I thank you."
"See?" Fawn spoke again to her companion in their own language. "Any other
seni society would have been glad to have the hooks, if only to trade with
another is-land group. Not the Parramati. Here, a gift must be deemed
immediately useful or it's refused."
"You should have this." Digging through a pile of wooden shapes, Jorana
extracted an exquisite carving a little larger than Pulickel's palm. Finely
polished, the wood was jet black streaked with red. The carver had fashioned
it into the likeness of a local animal with four legs, a stubby body, and two
eyes protruding on stalks. The eyes had been carved so that they contained
only the red grain, and a double set of external gills appeared made of lace,
though they were also part of the single piece of hardwood.
Fawn was taken aback. "I can't accept that," she protested. "Not in exchange
for a lousy plastic bag."
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