The Isles of Greece . . .
That phrase, that scrap of half-remembered verse, possessed a magic insofar as Grimes was concerned. And there were the memories, too, of that odd planet called by its people Sparta, that Lost Colony with its culture modelled on that of the long-dead City State. He would have liked to have seen what the real Sparta was like . . . He could have made his landing in Egypt or in Palestine, in Italy or in Spain, in Carthage—but he decided upon Greece. He was unable to recollect his Terran geography, even with the mind-probing assistance of his telepaths, and the ship's data bank was no help at all, but it didn't matter. The outlines of the Archipelago were unmistakable enough, even if he could not say just where Sparta or Athens stood, or would stand. He relied upon his instruments to select what appeared to be a good landing site—flat, between sea and mountains, on the bank of a small river. The descent at sunrise was standard survey practice; the almost level rays of light would show up every irregularity and then, once the landing had been made, there would be a full day to get settled in—or during which to decide to get the hell out.
Slowly, carefully, Grimes brought Faraway Quest down through the still, clear morning air. As the ship lost altitude he could see streamers of blue smoke rising almost vertically a little to the north of where he had decided to land. Cooking fires? A village? Carnaby stepped up the magnification of the periscope screen and the huddle of huts along a bend in the river could be seen clearly.
And what of the villagers? Surely they must have heard by this time the uncanny thunder beating down from a clear sky; surely they must have seen the great, gleaming shape dropping down from the heavens. And had this event, or similar events, given the ancient Greek dramatists their favourite, labor-saving gimmick, the deus ex machina? Grimes smiled at the thought. It was odd, though, that this convention existed only in Greek drama.
Yes, there were people. And they had come out into the open, were not cowering under cover. They were standing there, outside their huts, staring upwards. Grimes was tempted to use his reaction drive to give them a show for their money, but restrained himself. A sudden display of dazzling, screaming fire could well engender panic. It was amazing that there was no panic already.
Not allowing his attention to stray from his instruments, his controls, he asked, "And what do they make of us, Ken?"
Mayhew replied, "They think that we're gods, of course. They're frightened, and have every right to be, but are determined not to show it . . ." The psionic communications officer laughed briefly. "I admire their attitude towards gods in general, and towards us in particular. Superhuman, but not supernatural. Their deities are, essentially, no more than better than life-size men and women . . ."
"And no less," said Grimes. "And no less . . ."
It occurred to him that he, himself, would be regarded as a god by these aborigines. A sort of minor Zeus, perhaps—or not so minor. He regarded the prospect with a rather smug equanimity. He would not complain. After all, wasn't he a Commodore, a Master Astronaut and a Master Mariner? At long last he would be getting his just due.
He chuckled briefly to himself, then concentrated on landing the ship. He focused his attention on a spot to sunward of a great, quartzite boulder that was casting a long, black shadow over grass that was more brown than green. His sounding radar told him that the ground was solid enough to support the great weight of the ship. It was not quite level, but the tripedal landing gear was self-adjusting.
And there, plain in the screen, was a good target—a patch of grass that, for some reason, was more yellow than brown or green. Was it grass or was it a myriad of small flowers? The distinction was of no importance; Grimes applied a hint of lateral thrust and brought the natural beacon exactly into the center of the cartwheel sight. He was almost down. Altitude dropped from tens of meters to meters, then to less than a meter. The ship hung there for long seconds, her inertial drive grumbling to itself irritably. Slowly, slowly she settled. There was the slightest of jars, an almost undetectable rocking motion as the huge recoil cylinders of her landing gear took the shock, as her long axis maintained the vertical. The irregular beat of the drive faded to a mutter. Yes, she was solid enough in the vaned tripod.
"Finished with engines," said the Commodore.
"Go an' see them?" asked Williams. "Or let them come to see us?"
"Mphm . . ." grunted Grimes. He looked at the screen, which was now depicting the village on which the big telescope had been trained. He watched the people. They were tall, well proportioned; their scanty clothing or lack of any clothing at all made this obvious. Blond hair predominated among both men and women, although a substantial minority of the villagers were darkly brunette. All the grown men were bearded. They stood there, men, women and children, in a loose group, staring at the shining tower that had fallen miraculously from the skies. Even the dogs—shaggy, wolflike beasts—were staring. The other domestic animals—sheep, were they, or goats?—were going about their business as usual.
The Commodore looked at them, feeling a certain envy. Here was the myth of the Noble Savage made flesh and blood. Here were people who were fitting ancestors to the Hellenes who later (how much later?) were to populate this land.
He said, prosaically, "How about getting some fresh air into this tin can, Commander?"
"Ay, ay, Skipper!" replied Williams, cheerfully. He used a telephone to give the necessary orders to the engineroom. Within seconds the fans were no longer circulating the spaceship's too many times used and re-used atmosphere but were drawing directly from outside. Somebody sneezed. The scent of pine trees was strong and mingled with it was a spicy, unidentifiable aroma.
At the village there was activity. People were going back into their huts and then reappearing. What would become a small procession was starting to assemble. There was a big man, taller than his fellows, who had put on crude body armor of leather, who was carrying a short, broad sword that gleamed like gold (that had to be bronze) in the morning sunlight. There were half a dozen other men, also armored, bearing flint-headed spears. There was a shambling giant—not as tall as the leader but much broader, heavily muscled—with the shaggy skin of some animal draped carelessly about his thick waist, the fur of it almost matching the hairiness of his own pelt. He was armed with a club, a roughly trimmed branch from a tree. And there were musicians—two pipers with primitive bagpipes, three drummers with skin-covered sections of hollowed-out log slung before their bodies. Their drumsticks—bones, they looked like—gleamed whitely.
Somebody in the control room extruded and switched on an exterior directional microphone. The rhythmic thud and rattle of the drums came beating in, and the thin, high skirling of the pipes. For the benefit of any among his people boasting Scottish ancestry, Grimes remarked that that music hadn't changed much over the centuries. Williams asked, "Are you sure this is Greece, Skipper?" "I can't see any kilts," contributed Carnaby, who was more interested in the women bringing up the rear of the procession than the men. "Not even a sporran . . ."
"Mphm," grunted Grimes, with a this-has-gone-far-enough intonation. With his officers he looked at the screen. The villagers were marching steadily towards the ship, led by the big, armored man and the skin-clad giant. They were followed by the musicians, behind whom were the spearmen. Bringing up the rear came the women, naked, all of them, moving with the grace that comes naturally to those accustomed from childhood to carrying burdens on their heads. And these women were so burdened—with big jars, with baskets. One had the carcass of some small animal, a kid or a lamb.
"Sacrifices?" Grimes asked Mayhew.
"No, Commodore. Not exactly . . . These are awkward minds . . . They're transmitting, after a fashion, but there doesn't seem to be a receiver among the bunch of them. Sacrifices? Peace offerings, I'd say."
"An odd sort of reaction from a bunch of primitives . . ."
"Not so odd, perhaps. They've yet to evolve a theology, with all the trimmings. As I said before, their gods, such as they are, are superhuman rather than supernatural . . ."
"And I suppose I'd better go down to receive these . . . peace offerings."
"I . . . I think so . . ."
Briefly Grimes pondered the advisability of changing into dress uniform with its stiff linen, frock coat, fore-and-aft hat and ceremonial sword. But such regalia would be meaningless to these people—and, besides, the air temperature outside the ship was already twenty-five Centigrade degrees, and rising. His shorts and shirt would have to do, and his best cap with the scrambled egg on the peak of it, the golden laurel leaves, still undimmed by time. (And wasn't it in Greece where the laurel wreath, as a mark of honor, first originated?)
He said to Williams, "All right, Commander. Have the after airlock door opened, and the ramp down." And to Hendriks, "Extrude your light armament to cover the immediate vicinity of the ship. And I'm warning you, don't be trigger happy. Fire only on direct orders from myself or Commander Williams—" Finally, "I'd like a guard of honor, Major. Yourself and six of your most reliable men. Yes, wear your dress helmets, but with normal tropical khakis."
"And weapons?" asked Dalzell, adding "sir" as an afterthought.
"Mphm. Stunguns only."
"I'd suggest projectile pistols. Apart from its lethal qualities a fifteen-millimeter makes a nice loud bang."
"Stunguns only," repeated Grimes firmly. "If they are required, and if they aren't effective, Mr. Hendriks will be able to make enough noise with his toys to keep you happy."
The Major made no reply, saluted with deliberate sloppiness and stalked out of the control room. Another unsatisfied customer . . . thought Grimes. But the ruffled feelings of his Marines were the least of his worries.
He went down to his quarters to collect his cap. He watched Sonya as she changed from her short uniform skirt into sharply creased slacks. He said nothing, guessing that it was her reaction to the unashamed nudity of the native women. Like the majority of married men he had long since ceased to expect logical behavior from his wife.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she replied.
He led the way down to the after airlock.