throats. The only thing is to intimidate them.’
‘All right! Do your stuff, then,’ growled Devine. He was obviously losing faith in his partner.
Weston cleared his throat and again rounded on the elderly hross.
‘We kill him,’ he shouted. ‘Show what we can do. Every one who no do all we say—pouff! bang!—kill him same as that one. You do all we say and we give you much pretty things. See! See!’ To Ransom’s intense discomfort, Weston at this point whipped out of his pocket a brightly coloured necklace of beads, the undoubted work of Mr. Woolworth, and began dangling it in front of the faces of his guards, turning slowly round and round and repeating, ‘Pretty, pretty! See! See!’
The result of this manœuvre was more striking than Weston himself had anticipated. Such a roar of sounds as human ears had never heard before—baying of hrossa, piping of pfifltriggi, booming of sorns—burst out and rent the silence of that august place, waking echoes from the distant mountain walls. Even in the air above them there was a faint ringing of the eldil voices. It is greatly to Weston’s credit that though he paled at this he did not lose his nerve.
‘You no roar at me,’ he thundered. ‘No try make me afraid. Me no afraid of you.’
‘You must forgive my people,’ said the voice of Oyarsa—and even it was subtly changed—‘but they are not roaring at you. They are only laughing.’
But Weston did not know the Malacandrian word for laugh: indeed, it was not a word he understood very well in any language. He looked about him with a puzzled expression. Ransom, biting his lips with mortification, almost prayed that one experiment with the beads would satisfy the scientist; but that was because he did not know Weston. The latter saw that the clamour had subsided. He knew that he was following the most orthodox rules for frightening and then conciliating primitive races; and he was not the man to be deterred by one or two failures. The roar that went up from the throats of all spectators as he again began revolving like a slow-motion picture of a humming-top, occasionally mopping his brow with his left hand and conscientiously jerking the necklace up and down with his right, completely drowned anything he might be attempting to say; but Ransom saw his lips moving and had little doubt that he was working away at ‘Pretty, pretty!’ Then suddenly the sound of laughter almost redoubled its volume. The stars in their courses were fighting against Weston. Some hazy memory of efforts made long since to entertain an infant niece had begun to penetrate his highly trained mind. He was bobbing up and down from the knees and holding his head on one side; he was almost dancing; and he was by now very hot indeed. For all Ransom knew he was saying ‘Diddle, diddle, diddle.’
It was sheer exhaustion which ended the great physicist’s performance—the most successful of its kind ever given on Malacandra—and with it the sonorous raptures of his audience. As silence returned Ransom heard Devine’s voice in English:
‘For God’s sake stop making a buffoon of yourself, Weston,’ it said. ‘Can’t you see it won’t work?’
‘It doesn’t seem to be working,’ admitted Weston, ‘and I’m inclined to think they have even less intelligence than we supposed. Do you think, perhaps, if I tried it just once again—or would you like to try this time?’
‘Oh, Hell!’ said Devine, and, turning his back on his partner, sat down abruptly on the ground, produced his cigarette-case and began to smoke.
‘I’ll give it to the witch-doctor,’ said Weston during the moment of silence which Devine’s action had produced among the mystified spectators; and before anyone could stop him he took a step forward and attempted to drop the string of beads round the elderly hross’s neck. The hross’s head was, however, too large for this operation and the necklace merely settled on its forehead like a crown, slightly over one eye. It shifted its head a little, like a dog worried with flies, snorted gently, and resumed its sleep.
Oyarsa’s voice now addressed Ransom. ‘Are your fellow-creatures hurt in their brains, Ransom of Thulcandra?’ it said. ‘Or are they too much afraid to answer my questions?’
‘I think, Oyarsa,’ said Ransom, ‘that they do not believe you are there. And they believe that all these hnau are—are like very young cubs. The thicker hmān is trying to frighten them and then to please them with gifts.’
At the sound of Ransom’s voice the two prisoners turned sharply around. Weston was about to speak when Ransom interrupted him hastily in English:
‘Listen, Weston. It is not a trick. There really is a creature there in the middle—there where you can see a kind of light, or a kind of something, if you look hard. And it is at least as intelligent as a man—they seem to live an enormous time. Stop treating it like a child and answer its questions. And if you take my advice, you’ll speak the truth and not bluster.’
‘The brutes seem to have intelligence enough to take you in, anyway,’ growled Weston; but it was in a somewhat modified voice that he turned once more to the sleeping hross—the desire to wake up the supposed witch-doctor was becoming an obsession—and addressed it.
‘We sorry we kill him,’ he said, pointing to Hyoi. ‘No go to kill him. Sorns tell us bring man, give him your big head. We go away back into sky. He come (here he indicated Ransom) with us. He very bent man, run away, no do what sorns say like us. We run after him, get him back for sorns, want to do what we say and sorns tell us, see? He not let us. Run away, run, run. We run after. See big black one, think he kill us, we kill him—pouff! bang! All for bent man. He no run away, he be good, we no run after, no kill big black one, see? You have bent man—bent man make all trouble—you plenty keep him, let us go. He afraid of you, we no afraid. Listen——’
At this moment Weston’s continual bellowing in the face of the hross at last produced the effect he had striven for so long. The creature opened its eyes and stared mildly at him in some perplexity. Then, gradually realizing the impropriety of which it had been guilty, it rose slowly to its standing position, bowed respectfully to Oyarsa, and finally waddled out of the assembly still carrying the necklace draped over its right ear and eye. Weston, his mouth still open, followed the retreating figure with his gaze till it vanished among the stems of the grove.
It was Oyarsa who broke the silence. ‘We have had mirth enough,’ he said, ‘and it is time to hear true answers to our questions. Something is wrong in your head, hnau from Thulcandra. There is too much blood in it. Is Firikitekila here?’
‘Here, Oyarsa,’ said a pfifltrigg.
‘Have you in your cisterns water that has been made cold?’
‘Yes, Oyarsa.’
‘Then let this thick hnau be taken to the guesthouse and let them bathe his head in cold water. Much water and many times. Then bring him again. Meanwhile I will provide for my killed hrossa.’
Weston did not clearly understand what the voice said—indeed, he was still too busy trying to find out where it came from—but terror smote him as he found himself wrapped in the strong arms of the surrounding hrossa and forced away from his place. Ransom would gladly have shouted out some reassurance, but Weston himself was shouting too loud to hear him. He was mixing English and Malacandrian now, and the last that was heard was a rising scream of ‘Pay for this—pouff! bang!—Ransom, for God’s sake—Ransom! Ransom!’
‘And now,’ said Oyarsa, when silence was restored, ‘let us honour my dead hnau.’
