Naudsonce | Page 8

bursts, in the air!"
A Marine pointed a submachine gun skyward and ripped off a string of
shots, then another, and another. There was silence after the first burst.
Then a frightful howling arose.
"Luis, you imbecile!" Meillard was shouting.
Gofredo jumped onto the top of an airjeep, where they could all see
him; drawing his pistol, he fired twice into the air.
"Be quiet, all of you!" he shouted, as though that would do any good.
It did. Silence fell, bounced noisily, and then settled over the crowd.
Gofredo went on talking to them: "Take it easy, now; easy." He might
have been speaking to a frightened dog or a fractious horse. "Nobody's
going to hurt you. This is nothing but the great noise-magic of the
Terrans...."
"Get the presents unloaded," Meillard was saying. "Make a big show of
it. The table first."
The horn, which had started, stopped blowing. As they were getting off
the long table and piling it with trade goods, another lorry came in,
disgorging twenty Marine riflemen. They had their bayonets fixed; the
natives looked apprehensively at the bare steel, but went on listening to
Gofredo. Meillard pulled the (Lord Mayor? Archbishop? Lord of the
Manor?) aside, and began making sign-talk to him.

When quiet was restored, Howell put a pick and shovel into a
wheelbarrow and pushed them out into the space that had been cleared
in front of the table. He swung the pick for a while, then shoveled the
barrow full of ground. After pushing it around for a while, he dumped
it back in the hole and leveled it off. Two Marines brought out an
eight-inch log and chopped a couple of billets off it with an ax, then cut
off another with one of the saws, split them up, and filled the
wheelbarrow with the firewood.
[Illustration: We can't use the computer till we can tell it what the data
is data about!]
The knives, jewelry and other small items would be no problem; they
had enough of them to go around. The other stuff would be harder to
distribute, and Paul Meillard and Karl Dorver were arguing about how
to handle it. If they weren't careful, a lot of new bowie knives would
get bloodied.
"Have them form a queue," Anna suggested. "That will give them the
idea of equal sharing, and we'll be able to learn something about their
status levels and social hierarchy and agonistic relations."
* * * * *
The one with the staff took it as a matter of course that he would go
first; his associates began falling in behind him, and the rest of the
villagers behind them. Whether they'd gotten one the day before or not,
everybody was given a knife and a bandanna and one piece of flashy
junk-jewelry, also a stainless steel cup and mess plate, a bucket, and an
empty bottle with a cork. The women didn't carry sheath knives, so
they got Boy Scout knives on lanyards. They were all lavishly supplied
with Extee Three and candy. Any of the children who looked big
enough to be trusted with them got knives too, and plenty of candy.
Anna and Karl were standing where the queue was forming, watching
how they fell into line; so was Lillian, with an audiovisual camera.
Having seen that the Marine enlisted men were getting the presents
handed out properly, Howell strolled over to them. Just as he came up,

a couple approached hesitantly, a man in a breechclout under a leather
apron, and a woman, much smaller, in a ragged and soiled tunic. As
soon as they fell into line, another Svant, in a blue robe, pushed them
aside and took their place.
"Here, you can't do that!" Lillian cried. "Karl, make him step back."
Karl was saying something about social status and precedence. The
couple tried to get into line behind the man who had pushed them aside.
Another villager tried to shove them out of his way. Howell advanced,
his right fist closing. Then he remembered that he didn't know what
he'd be punching; he might break the fellow's neck, or his own
knuckles. He grabbed the blue-robed Svant by the wrist with both
hands, kicked a foot out from under him, and jerked, sending him
flying for six feet and then sliding in the dust for another couple of
yards. He pushed the others back, and put the couple into place in the
line.
"Mark, you shouldn't have done that," Dorver was expostulating. "We
don't know...."
The Svant sat up, shaking his head groggily. Then he realized what had
been done to him. With a snarl of rage, he was on his feet, his knife in
his hand. It was a Terran bowie knife. Without conscious volition,
Howell's pistol was