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They would be in the nursery, attended to by designated elders. The nursery was the one
part of the village the Pendju had not allowed their human visitors to see. In that they had
been very insistent. With so much else to see and study, Prentice and his companions were
hardly about to force the issue.
As Boutu . . . poor, lamented Boutu . . . had once explained in response to their queries,
infants were not presented to the rest of the community until they reached a certain stage
of development, until they had learned how to make themselves presentable in society.
Prentice fully intended to have a look at the nursery, but it would have to be under the
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right circumstances. He wasn't about to risk the excellent relationship they had
established with the Pendju by violating what seemed to be their one formal taboo. The
nursery could wait its turn.
He doubted it would turn out to be anything special. Elders caring for young until they
were old enough to appear in public. Several primitive human tribes had once tended to
their offspring in very similar fashion.
At the moment he was much more concerned with and involved in the interaction between
the Pendju and the Quwanga. His recorder, like those of his colleagues, hummed away,
noting every detail of the formal proceedings.
The Quwanga emerged from the forest by twos, with no segregation by gender. They
alternated turning to left and right, forming a line opposite the Pendju on the wooded side
of the crackling bonfire. When all had finally assembled, their nominal leader, an
impressive-looking male wearing an elaborate headdress fashioned of polished c 'soufa
shell that trailed down the back of his long hair, stepped forward.
He was met by Troumo, who had the equivalent status of a respected elder. The Pendju
and presumably also the Quwanga did not have formal chiefs. Decisions within the tribe
were made by a vote of the majority, with certain respected individuals carrying additional
weight but with no one possessing anything like a veto power.
As he watched the two elders converse, Prentice was struck by their solemn aspect and
imposing appearance. The Xicans seemed not to age gradually, but to jump directly from
adolescence to young adulthood, thence to middle age, and lastly to seniorhood. There
were no seam-visaged middle-aged, no youthful-looking elders. Transitions between the
generations were much more abrupt than in humans. Someone had once told him Balinese
women aged in similar fashion. He'd thought it a joke, never having been to Bali. Only
later had he learned the reality of what was a striking human phenomenon.
Both elders were smiling now; those same petite, shy smiles that had proven so charming
to the explorers. They exchanged an odd sort of handshake, or rather, armshake. The
gesture reminded Prentice of snakes mating. The two males walked three times slowly
around each other, then turned toward their respective, respectful peoples and waved.
This was the signal for both sides to break out in enthusiastic cheers.
As near as Prentice could tell, there was no difference in language, no variations in dialect,
between the tribes.
Members of both groups rushed to embrace one another. At the appropriate time they
would try their best to massacre those they were presently hugging. But not this night.
Cheeks rubbed against cheeks and there was much casual, affectionate touching. It was all
one big, happy family, and as baffling as ever.
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Hands began to clap and primitive musical instruments were brought forth. Like the
Pendju, the Quwanga made use of wood flutes, drums, and your basic primitive
percussion: sticks, shells, and stones knocked together. There were no stringed
instruments. Individuals were laughing and chanting as a grand communal dance
blossomed around the flames.
Then a pair of Pendju were pulling him forward, the dancing blaze reflected in their
capacious eyes, laughingly urging him to join in, to participate. He protested weakly:
brazen public displays were not his forte.
Off to one side he saw the Carnavons displaying surprising vigor as they demonstrated
several styles of human dance to the delight of the natives. A grinning Theodore Halstead
lumbered about surrounded by slimmer Xicans while Lejardin's hair flew as Simna
whirled her around the bonfire. The night had become a colorful, chaotic mass of swirling
shapes, of flying hair and huge, multihued eyes, of tinkling-voiced aliens, throbbing music,
and deep-throated human laughter.
His natural reticence fell away and he allowed himself to be drawn into the spirit of the
celebration. Still running, his recorder bounced against his belt. The account it would
make from now on would be exhilarating but difficult to study.
Someone pushed him toward the fire and he stumbled as he rollicked past. A pair of
Quwanga ... Pendju? ... became his satellites, spinning and darting around him.
Maybe this was the more civilized way of conducting warfare, he told himself. Better a
Jewish wake than a Greek tragedy.
For a while nowhere to be seen, the Carnavons reappeared soon thereafter, hauling with
them a portion of the expedition's modest liquor supply. At their urging every-one, even
the teetotaling Simna, was induced to have a sip. Or two. Prentice accepted his in the
midst of a wild spin with Lejardin. As was often the case he couldn't tell whether she was
laughing with him or at him. Her fingers slipped from his as she darted away to pirouette
with Simna The two of them exchanged whispers before parting to link up with new Xican
partners.
It was a shame the others couldn't be present, he reflected. O'Sandringham, Stevens, and
Ramirez were stuck looking after Base Camp. He could already envision their complaints
when they saw the recordings. They would not accept that had all been conducted in the
spirit of serious scientific inquiry.
Another pair of bright-eyed Xicans spun him around, and for once he managed to forget
about colleagues both present and absent.
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