With Friends Like These... Part 7

Once, their ancestors had been lords of the planet. Time had changed things and they had slipped back. But they were still a formidable factor in T'ang's world. Despite their speed and ability, though, T'ang would make short work of one if it darted too close.

The isky-man knew it. After a sharp glare at T'ang, he gunned his propulsors and shot off hi search of prey of his own.

Yes, a good day to be alive and emperor.

There were many of the sky-folk about, cavorting in the downy-warm air. None flew near T'ang Lang. T'ang was not anxious. He'd fed well the previous day. For the nonce he was mildly satisfied. High karma.

The great light-eater, the Bodikiddartha, rose many thousands of body-lengths above T'ang's present platform. Soaring toward the sun, it stood quietly on the other side of the Green Plain, breathing. Someday T'ang would cross that plain and climb the great bulk. If only to see the world on the other side.

Perhaps-a slip of motion caught his eyes. So intent had he been on the panorama in front of him, he had failed to notice the approach of a cyuma, a castle-man, to the cl.u.s.ter of foodstuffs.

It hadn't spotted T'ang.

With infinite slowness, slower than the planet aged, he shifted his head to gain a better view. The torpid creature seemed concerned only with the foodstuffs.

89.. ..

The castle-men were glamorous and daring, skilled weaponeers with their deadly rapiers. They had speed and agility to support their arrogance. Some believed themselves kings of the world.

And Tang Lang? They found it convenient to avoid him.

It was an adolescent castle-man. He was edging uncaringly about the foodstuffs. Preparing to gorge himself, no doubt. Who would dare attack one of the castle-folk?

Pang leaned gently forward. He had gone into killing mode. Now nothing in the universe could distract him until he struck. The castle-man grew until it swallowed the world, became the world. And it was going to die.

Knives at the ready, always ready. Superbly crafted and designed, they could penetrate with such speed and force that sometimes a victim would expire of shock.

The castle-man was stupid. His inferior genes would not be saved for transfer to others of his kind. No one would grieve for him.

T'ang Lang struck.

The castle-man shrieked once as he was. .h.i.t. Tang struck with such power that several blades pierced clear through the castle-man's body. With easy strength, T'ang automatically absorbed the recoil. He pulled the mortally wounded youth toward him. Desperately, writhing and squirming, the castle-man shifted his rapier. He jabbed, missed, and jabbed again.

To the majority of inhabitants in Tang's world that rapier was death. Even the Moving Mountains, whose size would seem to protect them, feared that blade.

It hit once, skidding harmlessly off Tang's gleaming armor. It was a last pa.s.s.

T'ang inspected his pinioned, helpless victim. His method for the coup de grace was efficient and rarely varied. He went for the skull. The castle-man was lucky. He died instantly. Others had not been so for- 90.The Empire of T'ang Lang runate. Tang was not especially concerned whether or not his victims were dead before he began eating.

The flesh of the castle-man had been good, juicy, and succulent, if spare. Having completed his meal, T'ang absently shoved the cleaned skeleton off the side of his platform. He did not bother to watch it go crashing to the earth below.

He finished cleaning his utensils, ascertained once more the position of the sun, and set himself again.

It was late afternoon, almost evening, when the encounter took place.

Two of the Moving Mountains came into view. Although they were not as tall as the light-eater T'ang sat upon, they ma.s.sed many, many more times. Only the Bodikiddartha itself was greater.

T'ang had thought occasionally about the Moving Mountains. Were they intelligent? It seemed not. They moved about too much, with a great deal of wasted motion and energy. The city-builders were as active, but there was visible purpose behind everything they did. Not here.

Their great, mooning eyes were simple. None possessed a thousandth of the power of concentration T'ang could muster. He had seen them several times before, but they had not seen him. He feared only their clumsiness.

But today, with the sun dying near the horizon, it was to be different. Perhaps he still could have avoided them. Perhaps not. Each ma.s.sed many million times his body weight. And although they could not move nearly as fast as T'ang, they had great reach. Still, it was their bulk that was most impressive.

T'ang never doubted the force of his mind. He would not run and scramble to avoid them! He'd picked his platform and he was going to stay there. If they wished a confrontation, so be it. He would not be the one to run and hide! He was T'ang Lang, the killer, emperor.

They saw him together, it seemed. In their ponder- 91.ous, clumsy way they turned (so slow, thought T'ang, so slow!) and stared across at him. From his high platform, T'ang could return their stare eye to eye.

Those faces-monstrous, distorted, bloated things! Obscenities beyond imagining! T'ang did not flinch at the nightmare visions. Soft and flabby, surely for all their size they could not be much in the way of warriors.

Could they communicate, perhaps? He chose the smaller of the two Mountains, thought at ft: CAN YOU THINK? WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THE UNIVERSE? ARE YOU IN HARMONY? FOR ALL YOUR SIZE I FEAR YOU NOT. COME AND FIGHT, IF YOU WILL.

NO? YOU HAVE CROSSED THE GREEN PLAIN, I HAVE SEEN YOU DO IT. WAS IT FOR A PURPOSE? OR DO YOU ALWAYS WANDER AIMLESSLY? I AM T'ANG LANG, THE KILLER! STAY AND FIGHT, OR GO IN PEACE.

The Moving Mountain made no answer. Definitely, T'ang Lang was not impressed. In fact, he was by now a little bored. He still had hunting to do and these great, ludicrous beings obscured his vision. Did they mean to stand there forever?

The sun, now that was impressive. The Bodikid-dartha was impressive. But these? They were simply big. f.a.gh!

The smaller Mountain of the two leaned forward, ponderously. Its bulk shut out the sun. A great misshapen limb extended itself toward T'ang's platform.

So it was to be battle after all? Come, then! T'ang steadied himself. All the power of his mind was directed outward hi one great withering blast of mental energy.

The limb paused, hesitated. The huge saucer-shaped eyes blinked. Slowly, the limb was retracted. The Mountain looked at Us companion for a moment. Then the two turned and lumbered off across the Green Plain, their size devouring the distance.

92.The Empire of T*ong Long T'ang had won.

Giver of light and warmth, and sun had sunk lower in the sky. It was dragging the heat down with it. T'ang could sense the approaching chill. It crawled at his back armor.

He'd made another kill, a late one. A tube-man, this time, though not the same one he'd seen earlier. It had been fat and plump, a good meal.

Perhaps he would rest among the platforms of this light-eater tonight. It was a good spot.

He thought again on the Moving Mountains. Could he have been wrong? Mightn't they be intelligent, after all? If only he could compare thoughts with another emperor! Or even an empress. But that was quite unthinkable-for now, at least.

He sighed and turned, working his way back toward the heart of the light-eater. Intelligent or no, T'ang did not feel sanguine about the possibilities of contact.

It pained him.

93.A Miracle of Small Fishes Arguments between materialists and religionists occasionally get round to the question of "miracles." Are they truly the products of divine dispensation, as the religionist would claim, or are they merely coincidental sequences of perfectly natural events, as the materialist might argue?

It's a fine, fine line, and sometimes the obvious answer isn't all that obvious. Sometimes both theologian and rational apologist find their cert.i.tude wavering ever so slightly.

Only one person doesn't question the reasoning behind a miracle-the beneficiary. .

These days the old purse seiner had the long dock pretty much to itself. Few fishing boats were left in San Quintin; and only one went out with any regularity. But Grandfather Flores was fortunate. The dock was kept in good repair for the powerful cruisers and sailing yachts of the rich men from Mexico City and Acapulco, and for the wealthy Norteamericanos who made San Quintin a quaint overnight stop on their journeys.

He waved to Josefa, then vanished into the little 94.A Miracle of Small Fishes cabin below the bridge. Moments later he reappeared and tossed the line over the side. He could still vault the ship's rail, and did. But the vault was lower than it had once been, the hand on the rail taking more care in its grip. And he did not bend as easily as before when he stooped to make fast the line to the rusty red cleat.

Grandfather had a long brown face, with smooth lines in it like the crinkled sand dunes in the Desert Vizcaino to the south. His hair was nearly all gone gray now, and when he smiled his teeth flashed many colors besides white. But the light in the back of his eyes still winked as regularly as the old buoy marking the bay entrance. And although Josefa was no longer a baby, but a fine slim girl of nine, the powerful muscles under the stained shirt could still lift her a thousand meters high for a friendly shake, bring her close for a warm kiss redolent of garlic and onions.

Josefa preferred Grandfather's breath to the new-linen smell of roses in the church garden. He did not take her hand as they walked into town-that would have been unseemly. But he slowed his pace carefully so that she would not have to run to keep up.

Grandfather's body was cold steel-until he coughed. Then the sun dimmed a little and the shadows of the houses moved closer.

"How was the fishing today, Grandfather?" She knew the answer, but any break in this ritual would have worried him.

"Not too bad, querida. A few yellowtail, some bo-nita, one good shark-"

"And the sardines, Grandfather?"

He shook his head and smiled sadly. "No, querida, the sardines did not come this week. Perhaps it is too early in the season for them."

He coughed then, a long dry rasp like burning eucalyptus. To Josefa that was more horrible than any scream. She gave no sign of this, but waited until it was finished and Grandfather had resumed the walk.

No, it was too early in the season for the sardine.

95.. ..

It had been too early in the season since before the second great war of the nations. Then San Quintin and the other villages along the coast had supported many fishing boats. The men had gone out every morning in season and returned with fine, smelly catches, for the beautiful and delicious California sardine had sp.a.w.ned from Mexico to Alaska.

But there had been too much fishing, especially by the Norteamericanos of Monterey and San Francisco. Were not the schools of sardine never ending, like the buffalo and pa.s.senger pigeon? Then suddenly there were no sardines. The long purse seines brought up only free swimmers and last survivors. And not all the demands of the markets or the rise in prices could entice the sardine back. For many, many years after that there were none at all.

Now there were more sardines than ever before. But hot for Grandfather's net. The great fishing fleets of Alta and Baja, California, trapped them all past the Bahia de Todos Santos, far to the north.

Josefa had never seen the great fleets. But the young men of the village, sons of fishermen's sons, went every year to work on them. Grandfather's little Hermosa would be only a lifeboat for such ships, and not a very big one at that.

Grandfather could have gone too. At least, he could have gone a few years ago, before the cough had come to weaken him so much. But fie would not go like the others.

"That is not fishing," he told them, wagging a k.n.o.bby finger at those who would listen. "That is manufacturing," And he would tell Josefa to look for the difference between the bread her mother baked in the little brick oven at home and the pale white things Diego's store kept on its shelves for the tourist boats. She did not understand, really, but since Grandfather said it was so, there must be some truth in it.

"Perhaps the sardines will come next week, Grandfather."

"Perhaps," he replied, nodding down at her.

96.A Miracle of Small Fishes Another attack of the cough came, and this time it bent him over and he had to put a hand against a wall for support. Josefa wanted to scream. Instead she looked away to where a dog was sniffing at a mousehole. Grandfather stopped coughing, forced a grin at her.

"That was a bad one. But I know how to handle it. You must roll with the cough, the way the Hermosa rolls with the big seas in a storm. Now I think it is time for you to go home, querida"

"I would rather go with you, Grandfather, and make the tea for you."

"No." He bent to kiss her in the parting of the night-black hair that fell to her waist. "Your mother and father would not like it. Go home now, and maybe I will see you tomorrow. I will have some splices to make in the net and you can help."

He turned and walked away from her, a tall, proud silhouette against the evening sunset. But he was only a sh.e.l.l. Josefa could remember, just two years ago, when Grandmother had left them. That had weakened Grandfather more than the cough. Soon the seas would grow too high for him to roll with. Then he would join Grandmother in the little family plot behind the church.

She ran home, but she did that often, these days.

Thousands of kilometers to the north, past huge smoking cities and lime-colored cliffs, past thousand-year-old trees and day-old babies, a billion young sardines swam idly in a cool deep sound and waited without awareness of their impending destiny.

Father Peralta permitted himself a quiet, inward smile of satisfaction. It had been a good ma.s.s and a fine sermon. Now he would listen to the simple confessions of his simple people, and then maybe he could get some work done with the new books that had been sent by the university.

He settled himself comfortably ha the box. There 97.had been a big celebration in the village two nights ago-a wedding-and a small fight had broken out. Nothing serious, but unusual for San Quintin. This day would be longer than most.

The voices he knew. Martin, Benjamin, Marceal, Carmen, little Josefa Flores . ,.

"Father, Maria Partida got a new dress last 'week. I envied her for it."

"Perhaps you just admired it, nifia" "No, Father. I desired it badly." Father Peralta thought. The Flores were not as well off as some of the other villagers.

"This is a small thing, nina, that will pa.s.s quickly. Do not worry on it."

There was a pause from the other side. A long pause.

What is it, child?"

"Last week, Father, Jose and Felipe-" Jose and Felipe. Peralta knew them. Good boys, made a little wild by too much money too soon. And those motorcycles, ay!

"-they laughed at Grandfather when he was going out to fish. I thought some terrible things about them, Father."

"Why were they laughing, child?" "They said Grandfather would catch more fish at the market than he would with the Hermosa. They called it a hotel for worms and said the only way to fish was with the new ships they use at Ensenada and San Diego."

"And how did your grandfather respond to this?"

"He ignored them, Father. He always ignores such things and pretends they do not bother him. But I know. It's not the poor fishing he minds so much, I think. But the laughter hurts him inside. Even his friends wish he would go to Diego's and sit with them on the porch and play checkers and watch the tourists."

Peralta smiled. "I know your grandfather, nina.

He is not one to sit on a porch and spend his days staring at the sun. Now, you must not hate Jose and 98.A Miracle of Small Fishes Felipe, or the others. They laugh because they are still young and do not know better. Since the big fishing fleet makes work for all, few in the village the age of Jose and Felipe have known hard times. They cannot understand why your grandfather would never work for another man, for a salary. When they are older they will understand.

"You must try to understand now, nina."

"I think I do, Father," she replied quietly, after another pause. "Father, why don't the sardines come south anymore?"

Father Peralta considered. How could he explain the economics of managed migration and sp.a.w.ning and factory-ship mechanics to a nine-year-old girl?

"They do not come anymore, nina, because the great, great engines make much better livings for them in the north, at special times and places. And the big ships are so good and smart that they take all the fish above Ensenada before they can swim this far south."

"But there must be so many fish, Father," she said. "Surely some must swim pa.s.s the nets?"

Peralta shook his head, realized foolishly that the girl couldn't see the gesture.

"No, nina, none get through. The big boats and the fishermen on them are too good for that."

"If Grandfather could only make one more catch," came the small voice. "Just one more catch-before the cough takes him. Then he could laugh, too. And Jose and Felipe and all the others would have to say they were wrong."

"I'm afraid that would take a miracle, nina."

"Then I will pray for a miracle!""The words were excited and determined, with just a shading of grandfather's steel in them. "I will light candles and pray to San Pedro for one more catch for my grandfather."

Peralta smiled. "And I will pray for that, too, child."