we—uh— yavzi —you know—elevate you!”
Which they did with rough enthusiasm, hoisting Hobart to a sitting position on a shield carried on stalwart shoulders. For at least an hour they paraded around the camp, the men singing while the women screeched and waved torches and the children bawled.
Hobart’s protests and requests to let him unhitch Theiax went unheard and unheeded. The old man was the only barbarian he had met besides Khurav with whom he could communicate, and the elder was lost in the torch-splashed shuffle. He rematerialized when the shield-bearers finally put Hobart down in front of his tent, saying: “You not go yet; Parathai must swear loyalty!”
The old boy took his place at the head of the line that was rapidly forming. He seized and wrung Hobart’s hand vigorously and rattled off a sentence in Parathaian. He moved on, and the next man repeated the performance. And the next and the next. By the time he had shaken a hundred hands, Hobart’s own hand began to ache. At two hundred it was swollen and red, and his feet were bothering him. At three hundred his eyes were glassy and he was swaying with fatigue. At five hundred . . .
He never know how he stuck it out, with each handclasp shooting pains up to his elbow. At last, wonder of wonders, the end of the line drew near. Hobart touched the last man’s hand briefly, snatching it away before a squeeze could be applied, and thanking God that the women didn’t have to swear fealty, too.
He turned dead eyes on the oldster. “May I go now?” The man nodded; Hobart added: “What’s your name?”
“Sanyesh, chief of hundred families.”
“Okay, Sanyesh; I’ll want to see you first thing in the morning.”
Hobart slouched into the tent—and his arms were seized from the two sides. Hobart gave one more convulsive start—assassins?—and there was feminine laughter and the jingle of ornaments.
Behind him came the reedy voice of Sanyesh: “These your wives, Sham. Thought you like know, yes?”
“But I don’t want —”
“Too bad, but you beat Khurav, so they yours. Is all done. They nice girls, so you not disappoint them, no? Goodnight.”
Rollin Hobart stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth to keep from screaming.
10
Khurav’s widows served Hobart breakfast when he awoke. They waited on him assiduously, but with reproachful looks that said as plainly as words: “In what way have we displeased you, lord?” Well, they would have to bear their disappointment as best they could. Even if the spirit had been willing . . .
The breakfast comprised a mess of assorted organs and glands from one of the tribal sheep. Probably, thought Hobart, the one whose meat he had eaten the night before. It was no doubt economical, and necessary to keep the barbarians supplied with vitamins. But he’d be damned if anyone would make him like it.
The trouble with him was that he was too easy-going; too readily persuaded into accepting responsibilities, each of which merely led in this crazy world to more responsibilities, so that his goal of return to his own earth and work receded farther the more he pursued it. Well, what else could he have done? Every time he tried to take a firm stand, Theiax came along with his mouthful of teeth, or the barbarians with their swords, and bullied him into further commitments. Perhaps if he began by bumping off Theiax—but no, he couldn’t do that. Treachery was not one of his faults, and besides the social lion was an amusing and likeable companion.
He’d have to go through with or evade his present commitments as best he could. The official positions that had been forced upon him should not be entirely disadvantageous; he might be able to use his prerogatives to locate Hoimon the ascetic . . .
He shooed his “wives” out before dressing, a procedure that utterly mystified them, and went in search of Theiax. The lion was duly found and unchained, but, understandably, chose to be one-hundred-percent sulky.
Which they did with rough enthusiasm, hoisting Hobart to a sitting position on a shield carried on stalwart shoulders. For at least an hour they paraded around the camp, the men singing while the women screeched and waved torches and the children bawled.
Hobart’s protests and requests to let him unhitch Theiax went unheard and unheeded. The old man was the only barbarian he had met besides Khurav with whom he could communicate, and the elder was lost in the torch-splashed shuffle. He rematerialized when the shield-bearers finally put Hobart down in front of his tent, saying: “You not go yet; Parathai must swear loyalty!”
The old boy took his place at the head of the line that was rapidly forming. He seized and wrung Hobart’s hand vigorously and rattled off a sentence in Parathaian. He moved on, and the next man repeated the performance. And the next and the next. By the time he had shaken a hundred hands, Hobart’s own hand began to ache. At two hundred it was swollen and red, and his feet were bothering him. At three hundred his eyes were glassy and he was swaying with fatigue. At five hundred . . .
He never know how he stuck it out, with each handclasp shooting pains up to his elbow. At last, wonder of wonders, the end of the line drew near. Hobart touched the last man’s hand briefly, snatching it away before a squeeze could be applied, and thanking God that the women didn’t have to swear fealty, too.
He turned dead eyes on the oldster. “May I go now?” The man nodded; Hobart added: “What’s your name?”
“Sanyesh, chief of hundred families.”
“Okay, Sanyesh; I’ll want to see you first thing in the morning.”
Hobart slouched into the tent—and his arms were seized from the two sides. Hobart gave one more convulsive start—assassins?—and there was feminine laughter and the jingle of ornaments.
Behind him came the reedy voice of Sanyesh: “These your wives, Sham. Thought you like know, yes?”
“But I don’t want —”
“Too bad, but you beat Khurav, so they yours. Is all done. They nice girls, so you not disappoint them, no? Goodnight.”
Rollin Hobart stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth to keep from screaming.
10
Khurav’s widows served Hobart breakfast when he awoke. They waited on him assiduously, but with reproachful looks that said as plainly as words: “In what way have we displeased you, lord?” Well, they would have to bear their disappointment as best they could. Even if the spirit had been willing . . .
The breakfast comprised a mess of assorted organs and glands from one of the tribal sheep. Probably, thought Hobart, the one whose meat he had eaten the night before. It was no doubt economical, and necessary to keep the barbarians supplied with vitamins. But he’d be damned if anyone would make him like it.
The trouble with him was that he was too easy-going; too readily persuaded into accepting responsibilities, each of which merely led in this crazy world to more responsibilities, so that his goal of return to his own earth and work receded farther the more he pursued it. Well, what else could he have done? Every time he tried to take a firm stand, Theiax came along with his mouthful of teeth, or the barbarians with their swords, and bullied him into further commitments. Perhaps if he began by bumping off Theiax—but no, he couldn’t do that. Treachery was not one of his faults, and besides the social lion was an amusing and likeable companion.
He’d have to go through with or evade his present commitments as best he could. The official positions that had been forced upon him should not be entirely disadvantageous; he might be able to use his prerogatives to locate Hoimon the ascetic . . .
He shooed his “wives” out before dressing, a procedure that utterly mystified them, and went in search of Theiax. The lion was duly found and unchained, but, understandably, chose to be one-hundred-percent sulky.
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