Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [77]
He began to tug and push at the container. It did not open. The tummy-bellies quickly lost interest and wandered away. Gren himself would have flung the thing aside, had the morel not kept him at it, poking and pressing. As he ran his fingers along one of the longer sides, a lid flipped open. He and Yattmur looked askance at one another, then peered down at the object in the container, squatting in the dirt and gaping with awe.
The object was of the same silky yellow material as its container. Reverently, Gren lifted it out and placed it on the ground. Releasing it from the box activated a spring; the object, which had been wedge-shaped to conform to the dimensions of its resting place, suddenly sprouted yellow wings. It stood between them, warm, unique, perplexing. The tummy-bellies crept back to stare.
‘It’s like a bird,’ Gren breathed. ‘Can it really have been made by men like us and not grown?’
‘It’s so smooth, so…’ Words failing, Yattmur put out a hand to stroke it. ‘We will call it Beauty.’
Age and the endless seasons had puckered its container; the winged thing remained as new. As the girl’s hand ran over its upper surface, a lid clicked back, revealing its insides. Four tummy-belly men dived for the nearest bush. Fashioned of strange materials, of metals and plastics, the insides of the yellow bird were marvellous to behold. Here were small spools, a line of knobs, a glimpse of amplifying circuits, a maze of cunning intestines. Full of curiosity, the two humans leant forward to touch. Full of wonder, they let their fingers – those four fingers with opposed thumb that had taken their ancestors so far – enjoy the delight of toggle switches.
The tuning knobs could be twiddled, the switches clicked! With scarcely a murmur, Beauty rose from the ground, hovered before their eyes, rose above their heads. They cried with astonishment, they fell backwards, breaking the yellow container. It made no difference to Beauty. Superb in powered flight, it wheeled above them, glowing richly in the sun.
When it had gained sufficient altitude, it spoke.
‘Make the world safe for democracy!’ it cried. Its voice was not loud but piercing.
‘Oh, it speaks!’ cried Yattmur, gazing in delight at the flashing wings.
Up came the tummy-bellies, running to join in the excitement, falling back in apprehension when Beauty flew over them, standing baffled as it circled round their heads.
‘Who rigged the disastrous dock strike of ’31?’ Beauty demanded rhetorically. ‘The same men who would put a ring through your noses today. Think for yourselves, friends, and vote for SRH – vote for freedom!’
‘It – what is it saying, morel?’ Gren asked.
‘It is talking of men with rings through their noses,’ said the morel, who was as baffled as Gren. ‘That is what men wore when they were civilized. You must try to learn from what it is saying.’
Beauty circled round one of the tall stalkers and remained overhead, buzzing slightly and emitting an occasional slogan. The humans, feeling they had gained an ally, were greatly cheered; for a long while they stood with their heads back, watching and listening. The tummy-bellies beat their stomachs in delight at its antics.
‘Let us go back and try to unearth another toy,’ Yattmur suggested.
After a moment’s silence, Gren replied, ‘The morel says not. He wants us to go down when we do not want to; when we want to go, he does not. I do not understand.’
‘Then you are foolish,’ grumbled the morel. ‘This circling Beauty will not get us ashore. I want to think. We must help ourselves; especially I wish to observe these stalker plants. Keep quiet and don’t bother me.’
It did not communicate with Gren for a long while. He and Yattmur were free to bathe again in the pool, and wash the underground dirt from their bodies and hair, while the tummy-bellies lolled near at hand, scarcely complaining, hypnotized by the yellow bird that circled tirelessly above them. Afterwards, they hunted over the ridge of the islet, away from the tumbled stones; Beauty wheeled above them following,