Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [10]
If their numbers were few and, in theory, not much of a match for the Subtle Army, they had a better knowledge of the theatre of operations, and one of Mason’s missions was to avoid that kind of conflict at all cost. Then, too, he had to take into account the presence of the mysterious black airship that, as he had himself remarked, might sooner or later be connected, if it wasn’t already, to his other concerns. If Eskimos were to be equipped, by some channel or other, with an allied air force, it might not do any harm to take into account what they had to say.
“I understand your worries,” Mason said, articulating carefully as if he were talking to children. “I propose we come to an agreement to limit,”—raising his voice, for while he was talking, Tiblit murmured something into Tuluk’s ear, so that Tuluk was lagging behind on the translation—“to limit the quantity of food we take. If our hunt exceeds this limit, the surplus will be returned to you.”
Uitayok seemed to ponder this, but Brentford could guess what he would answer.
“This is very kind of you. But it happens that one likes to hunt for oneself, even if one is a bad hunter,” he said, showing maybe more pride than he intended.
“Of course,” said Mason. “So, I shall see that a decent limit is not exceeded.”
Brentford doubted very much that Mason could control his men as well as he said, when they were patrolling in the wild. From hunters they would turn into poachers, and that was all.
“Why not collaborate?” he allowed himself to say. “It would be more convenient if our friends could set the limit themselves by offering their surplus or even by hunting for the Fortress. In exchange they could benefit from the surplus of the Greenhouse that is being built.”
Brentford, who could not himself stomach even the sight of a plate of spinach, was well aware that Inuit would not be overexcited at the idea of eating their greens. But he hoped that they would know a fair deal when it came to them, waving a white flag. Mason was casting him a somewhat darkened look, but he could not admit that he wanted to allow his men to have some sport at the expense of the Inuit.
“But would there be surplus at the Greenhouse?” asked the captain-general, playing his last card.
“I do not know,” conceded Brentford, “but I doubt very much that sweet peas and french beans run the risk of becoming extinct.”
Uitayok and his cohorts followed the exchange with, Brentford could see, much curiosity and expectation but also, or so it seemed, some amusement. They had been witnesses to enough betrayals and murders between qallunaat to know that if white men could be bad to them, there was always a chance that they would be still more wicked to one another.
“But,” said Mason, who had obviously found another card up the sleeve of his uniform, “if these gentlemen hunt for us,” this with a note of contempt that made Brentford flinch inwardly, “we will not be as independent as your plan intended to make us. Why do not we define zones where we are allowed to hunt?”
Uitayok, after having listened to Tuluk’s version, answered this better than Brentford could have done. He drew from a bag some pieces of driftwood that, to the qallunaat’s amazement, he organized to make a map that corresponded precisely to the geography of North Wasteland, though there was little chance that he had ever seen the area otherwise than by paddling around. He pointed to various zones, miming the migrations of species.
“It happens that the animals move. The lines, they do not know. If qallunaat have them all what will the Inuit do? And the Inuit, they have to move with the animals.”
Mason