Free Balance of Power by Brian Stableford Page A

Alex, Who You? He didn’t look angry. I couldn’t tell whether he looked puzzled or not—his brow wasn’t built for furrowing.
    He said something to the next in line, who answered monosyllabically. Then he said something else to me.
    Affably, I said: “Don’t just lie there, help me!” I didn’t take my eyes off the alien while I said it.
    Mariel said: “You’re doing fine,” and giggled. It didn’t seem to me to be any time for merriment. I hoped that she wasn’t showing her teeth—it’s rumored that that’s one of the most dangerous things to do when trying to chat to other species. Not that the guy who started the rumor had any practical experience in the matter.
    Then the big one came to a decision. He dropped his spear, reached out his long furry arms and gripped both my wrists. The way he did it brought my own fingers round into contact with his wrists, and it seemed natural to join the clasp. I did. He let go a long sound that was halfway between a purr and a muffled war-whoop. The other four began chattering. The whole atmosphere seemed much more relaxed.
    “Congratulations,” said Mariel.
    My new friend let got of my left arm but transferred grip on the other to take me by the elbow and guide me away. I let him guide me. Mariel picked up the lantern. One of the younger aliens picked up the leader’s weapon. And off we went—heading west.
    At the first opportunity, I asked Mariel what had happened.
    “I’m not sure,” she said. “They obviously decided that we’re worth getting to know. They haven’t captured us...they’re just taking us home to meet the folks. What I can’t understand is why the big one seemed so very pleased when he decided to be friends.”
    “You think he’s seen humans before?”
    “Maybe. I can’t tell.”
    We were all walking as a group, now. All friends together, following our leader. I swapped curious glances with the younger aliens. They talked—presumably about us—and we talked about them. It was all very amicable. I had difficulty keeping it in mind that we didn’t know what the hell was happening. It all seemed so natural.
    “Well,” I said, “you got your chance. Whatever else happens you met your aliens. You have time to get to know them. Maybe all the time in the world.”
    “Count your blessings,” she said. “They’re friendly. And they have fishing boats. It could be we’ve got a better chance of ultimately getting home than Ogburn’s pirates.”
    “Whoever built that dhow,” I said, “it wasn’t this lot. These are swidden farmers...forest people. They migrate from place to place, burning out areas of forest and cultivating the ashy soil. They can only stay in one place for a couple of years—then the soil begins to become exhausted and they move on, letting the forest grow back. They aren’t the kind of people who build boats.”
    “They aren’t the kind of people who make steel, either,” she said. “But look at those knives.”
    I looked at the knives carried by the younger men. I had assumed that they were beaten iron, but now they’d been called to my attention I saw that they were strangely smooth. Not rusted. Their edges looked good and sharp. I checked the spear that the big one had been carrying when first we saw him. That was iron, and rusted. It had been hammered out, and carried no edge at all—just a blunt point.
    “They trade,” I said, stating what was now the obvious. “And what’s more, they trade with someone who has a fairly sophisticated knowledge of metalwork.”
    “The dhow builders,” she said.
    I wondered. We had no dependable information about the accomplishments of the more civilized aliens to the north, but dhows and stainless steel struck me as being pretty advanced. More advanced than we could possibly have anticipated.
    While we marched, they made no attempt to open communication. They didn’t attempt to exchange names, or teach us words of any kind. But they talked to one another, and