"And what now?" Grimes asked Mayhew. He looked with pity towards the groaning Herak, still huddled on the grass, now in a foetal position. He said, "Perhaps I should send for the Doctor to do what he can for that poor bastard . . ."
"No, sir. I advise against it. I have an idea that the local wise woman or witch or whatever will be out soon from the village to take care of him . . ."
"And what's the king saying?"
"He's ordering his women to present the gifts to you."
"Oh. And what do I do?"
"Accept them graciously. Smile. Say something nice. You know."
"Mphm. I think that can be managed. And do I reciprocate?"
"Only to the king, sir. His name, I think, is Hektor . . ."
"And what would he like?"
"He's rather hoping, sir, that you'll present him with something fancy in the way of weapons . . ."
"Firearms are out of the question," snapped Grimes testily. He was feeling out of his depth. On a normal survey voyage there would have been a horde of specialists to advise him—experts in linguistics, sociology, zoology, botany, geology . . . The list was almost endless. Now he had not so much as a single ethologist. He was lucky to have two excellent telepaths; their talent helped him to surmount, after a fashion, the language barrier.
"Your dress sword . . ." suggested Sonya. "I never did like that anachronistic wedding-cake cutter."
"No."
"If I may make a suggestion, sir," said Dalzell, "my Artificer Sergeant has been amusing himself making some rather good arbalests—crossbows. He thought that such weapons could be useful if, at some time, we ran completely out of ammunition for our projectile rifles and pistols . . ."
"Thank you, Major. One of those should do very nicely . . ."
Dalzell spoke into his wrist-transceiver, then said to Grimes, "The arbalest will be down in a couple of seconds, sir."
"Good."
The king was approaching slowly, his gleaming sword once again held proudly aloft. Behind him marched the women with the jars and the baskets, the slaughtered lamb, balanced on their heads. They moved gracefully, their naked bodies swaying seductively as they walked. Some of them were blondes and some brunettes, and the skins of all of them were a lustrous, golden brown. Grimes—and the other men—watched them with undisguised admiration.
Sonya said sharply, "Beware the Greeks when they come bearing gifts!"
"Ha!" snorted Grimes. "Ha! Very funny."
"But rather apt, my dear."
The king stood to stiff attention, a little to one side of the line of advance of the gift-bearers. Slowly the leading woman, a statuesque blonde, approached Grimes. With both hands she lifted the jar from her head and then, falling to her knees with a fluid motion, deposited it on the grass at the commodore's feet. She got up, bowed, then turned and walked away.
"You didn't thank her," said Sonya. "But no doubt your mind was on other things, although not higher things . . ."
"I think that's oil in the jar," said Mayhew. "Olive oil."
Grimes was ready for the other women. As each of them made her presentation he smiled stiffly and murmured, "Thank you, thank you . . ." Some of the baskets, he saw, contained grain and others held berries. Probably, he thought, some of the jars would contain wine or beer. He began to wonder what it would be like . . .
"Sir, sir!" It was Dalzell's Artificer Sergeant. "The crossbow, sir."
"Oh, yes." Grimes took the. weapon in his right hand. It was heavy, but not overly so. He examined it curiously and with admiration. There was a stirrup at the head wide enough to take even a big foot. For cocking it there was not a small windlass, as was used in the first arbalests, but an ingeniously contrived folding lever. The construction was metal throughout. Modern in design and manufacture as it was, it would never be the superb rapid-fire weapon that the longbow became (was to become) but it was powerful, and deadly, and accurate . . . The king had approached Grimes, was standing over him. Eager anticipation was easy to read in his bearded face.
"Would you mind demonstrating, Sergeant?" asked the commodore, handing the crossbow back to the man.
"Certainly, sir." The sergeant lowered the stirrup to the ground, put his right foot into it, then heaved upwards with both hands grasping the cocking lever, grunting with the effort. There was a sharp click as the pawl engaged. He then took a steel quarrel from the pouch at his belt, inserted it into the groove. He raised the skeleton butt to his shoulder. He kept it there, but looked puzzled. "What's me target, sir?" he asked.
The king guessed the meaning of the words even if he did not know the language in which they were spoken. He smiled broadly, pointed to the unfortunate Herak. The defeated wrestler had managed to sit up, was being attended to by a filthy old hag in a tattered skin robe who was holding a crude, clay cup of some brew to his lips.
The sergeant would have been quite capable of using this target—but, "No," ordered Grimes firmly. "No."
"But I could shoot the mug outa her hands, sir . . ."
"You're not to try it. Use that!" That was a small, yellow-white boulder about two hundred meters distant.
"But it'll damage the quarrel, sir."
"That's too bad. Aim. Shoot!"
"Very good, sir," responded the man in a resigned voice.
The taut wire bowstring twanged musically. The short, metal shaft flashed in the sunlight as it sped towards the rock. It hit in a brief, sudden explosion of glittering dust. And when this cleared the boulder was seen to be split in two; sheer good chance had guided the projectile to a hidden fault line.
The king rumbled obvious approval. He thrust his sword into the ground, held out both his big hands for the new toy. He took hold of it lovingly and then, with almost no fumbling, succeeded in cocking it. The sergeant handed him a bolt. Grimes moved as unobtrusively as possible so that his body was between the native ruler and what probably would be his choice of targets.
But there was a herd of goats drifting slowly over the grassy plain towards the ship. The king grinned again, took careful aim on the big, black buck in the lead. He seemed to be having a little trouble understanding the principle of the sights with which the weapon was fitted, but at last pulled the trigger.
It was another lucky shot, catching the hapless animal squarely in the head, between the horns.
What have I done? Grimes asked himself guiltily. But surely the bow was already in existence, and the introduction of the arbalest into this world, even though it might be a few centuries too early, would make very little difference to the course of history.
"We have a satisfied customer, sir," said Dalzell smugly.
"Mphm," grunted Grimes.