For once, he had actually gotten rather bored. It took quite some time before he saw the flying pod again, or one like it — most of a waking cycle and half the following sleep cycle. He noted the unremarkable repetition of the previous sighting, then drifted back off to sleep.
He barely ate anything for breakfast and immediately sequenced the ship to anchor and slip the south pole up under it. Immediate safety checks showed the air was breathable, a light wind with cool temperatures. The humidity was predictably high for a shrouded planet. There were no perceptible threats anywhere near, just a tent some distance away. There appeared some life, but the sensors had trouble getting back much more than white noise. The visual display seemed similarly afflicted, barely making out the tent before what seemed a fog bank enveloping everything.
There seemed nothing left but to don appropriate clothing and step out. The airlock had little to do in this case, and his exit was almost as fast as he could normally move. A built-in platform grating folded out from beneath the portal just before he stepped onto it. His first surprise was the view was much clearer than the sensors indicated, though the clouds hung quite low. The tent in the distance was sharply defined and the horizon swept away to some low humpy ridges in the distance. Glancing about, he noted one quarter of the horizon presented actual mountains.
The air tasted of the seashore, and a variable wind blew. The ground was rocky, but the stones were mostly flat and dark, like broken shards of slate. The ship had extended the landing legs fully, so he turned and backed down the ladder attached to one of them. The broken slate seemed rather packed and solid beneath his boots. His coveralls seemed sufficient for the ambient air temperature. As he strode in the direction of the tent, his hand checked for the tiny energy weapon in the low breast pocket — it was about the size and shape of any stylus.
As he approached the tent, a figure stepped out through the open doorway. There were as many protocols as there were inhabited planets, and many more which vied for the most common use in situations like this. For his own steady, faintly cautious gate, the fellow from the tent approached with some energy, though not quite in a hurry. Dr. Plimick stopped with just a few paces between them. The other fellow wore a light robe, falling just below the knees, over a comfortable looking tunic of the same length. The coloration was mostly brown and gray, but there were what appeared to be decorative patches and trim of dark red and green. The man’s bearded face wore a wide, toothy grin, and closed the distance to about arm’s length between them.
The man was a bit taller, clearly older, yet full of life. He quickly bowed slightly from the waist, then spoke. It was an almost musical, lilting dialect of standard galactic trade language. The vocabulary was fairly old, but Dr. Plimick had no trouble following it.
“Welcome to Dalorius Four, which we like to call ‘Misty’ for obvious reasons. I am called Elder Manley, but I would prefer you use my personal name, George.”
Old Earth names. Dr. Plimick quickly matched George’s bow. “My name is Doctor Plimick, and you can call me Fortis.”
“We haven’t had visitors in a while, Fortis. I’m personally very pleased to see a stranger to our planet, and I assure you that reflects the sentiment of those I represent.” He waved his hands to indicate the landscape around them. “It’s a rather dreary place to meet visitors, but it’s the simplest and best answer to a very complicated situation. I’ll be glad to explain more later. For now, I wonder if you have any traveler’s needs?”
The man’s bubbling sing-song enunciation was matched by wide ranging facial expressions and body language. On the one hand was the thoroughly trained wariness of any anthropologist visiting a foreign world, but this man’s mere presence was altogether disarming. Dr. Plimick tried to avoid betraying any of this, but George seemed too aware, almost reading his mind.
“Fortis, please, take all the time and precautions you need to feel comfortable. Here on Misty, you will find us altogether unhurried. It is not merely our culture, but the necessary nature of our existence under this white foamy sky.”
His hands indicated the billowing cloud bottoms rolling around above them, seemingly just a couple hundred meters from the ground. Here and there in the distance, an occasional wisp would drift downward to the ground. Then George crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back with a peaceful smile. Such an obvious gesture of patience made Dr. Plimick feel just a little embarrassed.
“My apologies, George. While the wars across the galaxy have quieted a great deal during the past decade, the relative calm seems always to be a hard, and brittle shell over something dangerous which never dies. To encounter someone who is utterly open is so rare, we have this gut reaction to be suspicious.”
“So we understand from our news gathering birds,” George answered quietly. Then with a renewed animation, “But I believe you will find I am a fair representation of what you’ll find on the entire planet. Unlike most worlds, we did not develop such a widely diverging mix of cultural array. The population is fairly sparse, we live a largely pastoral and agricultural existence. The original colonists were mostly one extended family with only a few extra influences married in, so genetic variation is fairly narrow. There are no urban centers to offer the breeding ground of highly specialized interests, and the resulting rapid shift in language and culture. You will find us quite boring as anthropologists measure things.”
Dr. Plimick’s eyebrows rose at the mention of his academic specialty. How did this man know?
Again, George seemed to read his mind. “Then you are an anthropologist yourself?” He took Dr. Plimick’s half-smile as affirmative. “We had anticipated something like that. Every time trade stops for awhile, and our birds pick up mostly encrypted traffic, we know there is war. Then, after the bloodlust has spent itself, it’s typical to see explorers of various sorts as the initial restoration of outside contacts. Surely you know there is a bit of the anthropologist in every explorer, whether his underlying motive is trade, war or anything else?”
Dr. Plimick’s smile was slowly broadening. “So you are the anthropologist’s reception committee?”
“It is among the responsibilities I bear. I was hoping to offer you a summary of things you are likely to find of interest before we go and visit the Old Ones — that’s what we call our governing council. We are eager to renew trade, but for us, eagerness means we expect things to get going again in a year or so.” He stopped and took on a solemn face. “However, it is my duty to ask you to ensure your ship’s computer is able to navigate itself back out past our cloudy envelope without the typical sensing measures. Once out of our atmosphere, everything will work as you expect, but inside the envelope, almost nothing works. Depending on technological specifics, your ship may have trouble leaving. We would be loathe for you to find yourself trapped here.”
