CHAPTER VI

THE ARTIFACTS: On a day not far from then Folsom goes alone to the village beyond the clearing. Now that communication has been established with the alien everything proceeds apace; even Stark and Closter, it seems, have resolved their tensions in the new task of exploring with the alien the facets of his culture, explaining to him our own purposes. Nina the linguist is, of course, deeply involved with this and the first, tentative experi­ments which are being run, leaving Folsom with more time, more idleness, perhaps, than he would have thought that the com­mander of the expedition would have. Resultantly he resolves to go to the village alone. Perhaps he will see something worth dis­covering. Perhaps he will make contact with a native of his own. Folsom’s real problem is that he feels at loose ends and left out of the process although, of course, he would never admit this, least of all to himself. Much of what Folsom has discovered comes back, rather in flashes of retrospection.

Folsom did not expect matters to develop in this way. He did not think that the expedition would leave him essentially on the periphery of its purposes. Part of this has to do with the fact that he is not an introspective man, a good quality for a commander but a bad one, perhaps, for one who is now living in alien quar­ters. Folsom, assigned by the Bureau after years of preparation to be the commander of this voyage, expected something rather different: dim visions of quest stirred in his blood, a dream of “victory” over the aliens whom he somehow thought of as rep­resenting a sinister, alien force. These kind of easy, paranoiac shifts are quite common in the thinking of those who have the mentality of the command post: Folsom has a good deal of insight, he is not aware of all of his condition but he is aware of a good part of it. Striding through the forest, moving toward the village where the natives could once again be glimpsed going about their alien and repetitive tasks Folsom indulged himself in a fantasy: that he would be able to find some universal language, a universal source of communication that would be able to establish direct communication with the natives without all those laborious devices with which Stark, Closter and Nina were working upon the captive Elder. Folsom, no linguist he, would be able to establish a direct communicative link. He would speak with the assembled natives, he would inform them of the purpose of the mission, the beneficent goals of the Federation and they would nod with a solemn and joyous understanding. Yes, they would say to Folsom, similarly speaking in universal tongue, yes, that is exactly right. That is exactly the way that we glimpse things as well. Thank you very much for bringing this to our attention. They would invite Folsom to sit in the center of their fires, they would come one by one to tender him with shyness and bring him trusting gifts, they would kneel at his feet while he explained to them the history and condition of the Bureau to say nothing of many interesting personal anecdotes from his own past. The natives would nod with delight and encourage him to tell more. Eventually aliens and Folsom would join in a clamp of trust: Folsom would then convey the band back, perhaps two hundred of them, to the clearing in the forest where the others of the expedition were working on the Elder and would show them exactly what he had accomplished. You see, he would say, as the natives stood behind him beaming and chattering, all of this was unnecessary. All that I had to do was to talk reasonably to them and they responded. You have made far more of this than was truly necessary. There was never any difficulty whatsoever. You should have listened to and trusted me from the first.

Yes, that is what Folsom has in mind, some easy triumph which will restore in a twinkling his command position (he admits that he is feeling somewhat displaced after the capture of the native, the beginning of communication; he has lost his old cen­trality and influence) but the colder, bolder, saner part of his mind informs him that this will not be so and that he is engaging in fantasy: the natives will give him nothing. They will yield him no more than they have yielded any of them in the past, all except the one that willingly followed: they will retreat to their dwellings, look at Folsom with hostility, make menacing gestures. They will do everything in fact except physically attack him. That is all for the best. Folsom is loaded with incendiary devices, weaponry of various sorts, canisters of poison gasses which if flung would de­stroy the atmosphere of the planet for a thousand years. Further-more he is fully authorized to use them; instructions on this point were most explicit. Within his sole judgment is the decision as to how to quell alien attacks if they should develop.

Of course it is not expected that they will. They never have.

Stumbling through the forest, little patches and snatches of song bubble through Folsom’s consciousness, memories as well of Nina moving against him on the floor of the forest before she became involved with the communications effort. He realizes that he is probably jealous. Underneath the patches and snatches of song, however, hymns that the Bureau itself made part of its train­ing, is something more profound, dream-memories like fish fil­tering through that screen of unconscious so that he can in small glimpses remember how it might have been, lying in stasis, for two and a half years during the voyage. Something to do with pain, violent, irretrievable pain as if a cosmic bolt had struck the ship, causing it to sway in the void for several minutes or weeks, the vats in which Folsom and his companions were encased churning violently with the force of that unknown impact. For just a moment Folsom thinks that he can literally get hold of it; that he can remember what it was that he is trying to recover in that tank of memory but then, piscine, it slips away through the fumbling hands of his memory, deserting him. He comes from the forest, stands on a high place then, looking down upon the village. The natives are not in sight; it is still dawn, near dawn anyway, the natives probably asleep safely in those tentlike structures or mumbling prayers in their unknown language to some god. Perhaps they think that Folsom is God.

This gives him a twitch of amusement, the conception that they might think of him, of the expedition as gods, and Folsom allows himself to smile thinly. It is common, the Bureau has advised, for stage three cultures to react to the invaders from the far places in a fashion both mystical and religious and it is quite likely that, awe of gods being one of the primary facets of primitive cultures, they might regard Folsom and his expedition in exactly that way. On the other hand they might not, they might think of them as devils—this is also possible, the Bureau has advised, al­though not as likely—in which case Folsom can hardly stand self-congratulation.

Looking down at the village he has, in any event, a proprie­tary feeling, much the feeling that a godmight have looking upon something in the well of the world, in the well of his own un­conscious. This is his planet, these must therefore be his people, whether they respond to him or not, these unthinking primitives are within his province and tutelage; they are his responsibility. Folsom’s chest expands. Really, he had never thought of the mat­ter in quite this way: they are his children, he is their keeper, they are his subjects, he is their king, he is their shepherd, they are his flock . . . his interest in them is proprietary. For all of their faults, for all of their stubbornness, their resistance, they are in his charge and in the future, at some awful date in the infinite future when they have taken their place within the Federation as responsible and contributing members they will look upon him, Hans Folsom, as their father. Throughout eternity this will be known as Folsom’s Planet, Folsom himself will be the Founder. This knowledge, this new way of looking at things moves Folsom beyond pride to tears, he feels that flash of humility which has always overtaken him at important moments of accomplishment in his life and he reels forward one step, reels forward another, takes a third toward his destination, his village, and his ankle turns on something, catches a stone buried in the earth and he falls in an undignified spread-eagling fashion, his nose working its way into the dirt, his tall, handsome frame wrenched in an undignified way.

“Son of a bitch!” Folsom says.

Suddenly breathless, not at all hurt (if nothing else his train­ing has taught him how to take a fall correctly) but shaken up, he feels a deep flush of humiliation overtaking him, seeming to start in the space between his shoulder blades, then working down in small opening circles through his back, spreading into his gaunt, handsome frame. He is afraid, Folsom is, that he might have been seen, that his undignified tumble might have been somehow witnessed within the village (he is in quite a conspicu­ous position) but a quick, verifying glance below shows him that it has not. The square remains vacant. He begins, then, on hands and knees, keeping his burning face averted from any spectator who might be in a hut or embankment, to look for the source of his tumble and finds it then—a large rock, half buried, half exposed in the earth, gray slate, about two feet across and a foot high in the revealed section, glinting at him in little swatches of sun.

Peculiar, Folsom thinks, peculiar that he has never seen this rock before. He has, after all, been on this rise; he has made sev­eral hikes to the village and it is strange that he would not have noticed this. Certainly it is conspicuous, it is hardly something that would have evaded his attention before (even though he had not seen it to stumble upon it this time) but its position deep in the mud, flecked with streaks of dirt upon it, would indicate that it is not new. It must have been here all the time; it does not give indication of having suddenly dropped into position. The natives would not ambush this position . . . would they?

Interested, Folsom runs his hand over the rock. It has a smooth, fascinating feeling coming from underneath his splayed palms, a strange and comforting warmth which surges through the blank surfaces into his fingers, and embarrassed at the luxu­riance of the sensations, the close to sensuous feeling which they impart, he looks up, his features suddenly feline with suspicion, casts hurried glances to the right and left, down the embankment to see that he is definitely unobserved, to make sure that no one is witnessing his pleasure . . . and then with an almost impercep­tible little grunt, Folsom gives himself over to the rock completely, fluttering his palms up and down its surfaces, enjoying the sheen, his fingers shaking, his arms themselves vibrating in sympathy as he absorbs the warmth pouring in little waves from the rock and then delicately, working on it as a man might tug a ripe fruit from its peeling, he begins to work it to and fro to free it from the earth.

It feels sogood , that it is the embarrassment, the source of his little cries. Folsom could not have imagined the simplicity and warmth of the sensations which the rock has given him. Sex with Nina is not to be minimized, particularly as it has been sanctified by the mating bond; he is not denying either some of the very sensuous experiences he has had in his lifetime . . . but it is theunexperiences of what the rock gives him, the jarringly out-of-context nature of his pleasure which fills him with something near a dark glee. Unprepared for delight, he has found it. Inured by his commander’s role to all sensation, he has been overcome by it. Humming once again, a new song filling his mouth, emerging in parched hoarse whispers as if from the inmost part of it, Folsom continues his struggles with this rock. He must dislodge it. He must find out its true proportions.

What can it be? He does not know; it is curiosity mingling with the pleasure which drives him through his efforts. The smoothness and warmth of the rock do not decrease but instead seem to heighten as he works his hand through the earth to the undiscovered parts of it, trying to get a hold underneath, palms slipping . . . and as these undiscovered parts lurch against his hands each of them imparts a sensual message of their own, much as the suddenly revealed parts of a woman’s body, Folsom thinks, each delivers its message in turn, Grunting, his palms already beginning to become damp in the drenched air of morning, he slides his hands to the elbows underneath the earth and as he works his way through finally he finds some end to the rock; it seems to terminate about three feet below the surface. Frantic with desire which he cannot even name, Folsom digs his other hand through the soft, dense mire of his planet, his hands meeting underneath the rock in an obscure and tormenting clasp, embracing one another, and closing his eyes, contracting his hard, impressively flat commander’s stomach, Folsom inhales once and then uses all of his strength to propel the rock upward.

It comes up so quickly, almost weightless in his hand that he overbalances, then scrambles back gracelessly, the rock still embraced as it literally explodes from the mire. He could not have imagined that it was so light; it must be hollow inside. Prepared for an enormous effort he has instead found collaboration underneath.

He lies on the ground embracing the rock. It covers him from waist to neck, side to side, a weight under which a man could expire except that it could not possibly weigh more than fifteen pounds. Hollow inside, he judges. Running his palms once again up and down the surfaces he judges that they cannot be more than an inch or two thick, a synthetic substance of some sort, inside the rock, emptiness. He might be able to crack it with a blow; then core the rock like a fruit. But he has no curiosity about what is inside.

His curiosity has ended at the moment that the rock exploded upward. Sensuous in its mystery, it has already lost some of its attractiveness for him; Folsom finds that he cannot, touching the surface, restore the sensations which originally compelled him to yank it from the earth. With his fine, lucid commander’s intelli­gence he wonders whether or not this might have been deliberate, whether the rock in some way is not, perhaps,sentient , was trapped in the earthlonging to get out of it, was emitting strange thought rays which, operating on the pleasure principle, induced an onlooker to help it separate itself . . . no, he will not pursue this line of thought. There is simply no point in it and besides, strictly speaking, it is not entirely rational. Once you begin to believe that rocks on an alien world are alive it is only a matter of time and space until you get into other bizarre stuff like believing that the aliens are contriving a plot to destroy you or the other members of the crew are secretly working together to plot your overthrow. There is just no end to this kind of thinking once you let it overpower you and begin to seize control of your mind.

Folsom pivots to his knees, draws them up, works himself toward a standing position. The rock falls from him suddenly holding no further interest; he finds himself indeed scrambling from it. Suddenly he wants to put distance between himself and the rock, return to the encampment, see what they are doing with the native, whether they are extracting language from him, whether Nina might be interested, in the midst of her research, in nevertheless retiring once again to the floor of the forest . . . his thoughts, in short, are a welter of buzzing and flapping like busy insects circulating through the dome of his head, illumined by little shafts of desire. He wishes to get away from here. But as Folsom begins to move into the forest something as palpable as an enormous hand seems to touch him on the shoulder, yank him around and he turns, faces the rock once more, his eyes blinking, his hand rubbing the shoulder as if it had been injured.

The sensation of having been clouted is so real that Folsom finds himself looking for a piece of bark, the extraterrestrial ob­ject, the fleeing native that might have struck him . . . but the clearing is silent, there is no one there and after a moment Folsom understands that the blow must have been merely within his own consciousness; that is to say that it was some sneeze of the nerves, a convulsion of the central nervous system which yanked his at­tention around. Actually there is no one here at all. Smoke coils peacefully from a hut in the distance, little chirps of contentment seem to echo through the forest: this pastoral scene is over­whelming . . . and yet there was that enormous clout on the shoul­der, as real as a fist, a call to attention as abrupt as anything which Folsom has ever incurred. His great commander’s heart swells toward alertness; he cannot refuse this challenge. His at­tention is needed. Something must be understood. Perhaps it was his own subconscious which clouted him so although Folsom does not believe in deep convolutions of the psyche. He turns his at­tention toward the rock. The rock is the only fully unknown el­ement in this scene, the call from the unconscious must somehow emanate from there. He moves toward the rock, crouches, peers, inspects it closely.

And yes, he sees what he should have seen before. Or, pos­sibly, he sees what was not there before: there is no way of being sure. Perhaps it has suddenly manifested itself. Perhaps the rock is alive.

There is writing on it.

Raised off the surface in glowing little letters which seemed chiseled away as if with an inner fire are an intricate network of characters grouped together, separated by opened spaces as if they too were words. The characters seem to writhe as Folsom looks at them; like little animals they shudder away on the surfaces of the rock and then as he continues to stare at them, as if reproved, they cease their motion and lie flatly.

The symbols, of course, are in a language which Folsom cannot fathom. Never a linguist at best he finds himself stupefied by the circumstances in which he glimpsed this writing: there seems to be something menacing about it as if the rock had journeyed from a far place for no other reason than to taunt him with this message, almost as if the message itself in its indecipherable way contains an insult so deep, so scurrilous that it would have to be couched in a language which Folsom does not know if it were to be presented to him:



What does it mean? He stares at it and once again the letters begin to writhe; as if their secret of motility had been discovered and they therefore had nothing left to conceal, they do so almost defiantly, moving on the rock as if they were sheathes for crea­tures underneath which in their perilous footholds humped and relaxed their backs. Folsom shakes his head and moves toward the rock, raising his hand in a threatening way.

The letters smooth down.

Folsom looks at the rock, purses his lips, groans. His mission is clear and yet he does not know if he can bear it. His respon­sibility is absolute and yet he does not know if he can measure it. His obligation as commander is inflexible and yet he does not know if he believes in it.

Within Folsom’s vast bosom, within his mighty heart the two beasts entwine and break apart, foaming, battling with one another. One of the beasts represents revulsion, disavowal, with­drawal, an unwillingness to pursue that which is not his direct concern: the other, a much older and stronger beast, calls itself Duty and is inflexibly opposed to that which it thinks of as the Enemy. But even though the Enemy is both younger and cowardly (it has existed only since the latch of the ship opened onto Fol­som’s Planet and this wretched but inevitable expedition began), it has its own advantages: low cunning, desperation, and the utter conviction that it is right.Leavetherockalone! the Enemy shrieks and hurls itself, little claws and talons flapping, across the hon­orable beast of Duty, there is that which you are not meant to know; do not concern yourself! don’t you ever want to get away from this miserable place? and puts into Duty a bite so grave that Duty thunders with pain, reels, then unleashes a paralyzing blow to the Enemy which causes the Enemy itself to stagger away and quickly then, Duty is all over the hapless body of the Enemy, gnawing here, biting there, here a streak, there a clear, ringing slash to bring blood and the Enemy’s cries turn into plaintive rumbles and at last whimpers as the strength flows from it and it lies, finally, on the desert of Folsom’s interior, quite battered, beaten by God, Duty standing over it breathing heavily, looking at it with a fierce expression of envy peeping from its demented eyes. At the heart, then, Duty can take no satisfaction. It knows that this has been a fixed struggle.

Grunting, cursing, moaning, pleading with himself, Folsom lurches over to the rock, picks it up. It vaults into the air almost weightless, no heft to it, no solidity, only its vast dimension ob­scuring his vision, making it difficult for him to see. Nevertheless, he must see, is that not correct? He has got to convey the rock back through the forest. Tears and sweat already obscuring his vision, a profound self-loathing in every pore, Folsom weaves and scuttles his way through the forest, stumbling from tree to tree, looking around the rock with the wild, tormented glances of a trapped animal to spot his way. He must take it back to the rest of them. He must show them what he has found. Then, at last, they will remember that he is the commander and that what he has brought to them could have been found by no one else. He wants them to believe that. He wonders if the rock might be coated with an alien fungus which will affect his usual and highly de­pendable sources of strength.