what he was doing there,” said Rodriguez.
“You noticed the distance between the two?” said Brenner.
“Yes,” said Rodriguez. They had been about five feet apart. They were thus farther apart than one would expect for two males together or two females together, but not nearly as far apart as one would have expected between individuals of opposite sexes.
“That is what they were doing there,” smiled Brenner.
“I don’t like it,” said Rodriguez.
“The Pons would not hurt a fly,” said Brenner.
“The members of their own group are not flies,” said Rodriguez.
Brenner looked at him.
“Primitive peoples do not look lightly upon the violation of taboos,” said Rodriguez. “And the Pons are subprimitive. They are even subrational. They are simian, at best.”
“I understand,” said Brenner.
“Say nothing to anyone about what we saw,” said Rodriguez.
“I will not, of course,” said Brenner.
Chapter 17
“Apparently something called the Festival of the Harvesting of Seed is to take place shortly,” said Rodriguez.
“It is fall,” said Brenner. “That makes sense, to gather in seed for the planting in the spring.”
They were standing in the clearing, in the center of the village. In this clearing, on a table, in a small, open-sided shelter, its thatched roof supported by four pillars, was a tiny, wire-barred cage, presumably obtained in trade from Company Station. In this cage was a tiny, gray git, not the one which had been captured in the forest, which had been released after the ceremony, with elaborate apologies, but another.
“Greetings, little fellow,” said Brenner to the git.
It was large for a git. It crouched on one side of the cage, on some crumbled leaves. Its fur was oily. Its eyes were like bright spots.
Brenner tapped the cage, a little.
“Do not put your finger too close to it,” said Rodriguez. “They are wild.”
“It should be fed by now,” said Brenner.
“There are many varieties of totemism,” said Rodriguez, looking down at the git. “Even the concept of the totem animal is interesting, and varies from group to group. I assume the Pons are typical, but it is difficult to get clear on the matter. Certainly the totem animal is seldom identified with a particular animal, which might die or be killed. But, too, it is seldom understood as a species of animal, at least in the scientific sense. It is too real for that. The concept seems to be primitive, substantial, and mystical. It is alien to civilized understanding. The totem is an individual, and alive, as alive as that git, but it is somehow present in many places. It is one in many, so to speak. It lives in many houses. It is neither, say, the git as a species nor that git alone. It is more than both, and beyond both. It sees through both.”
The tiny animal in the cage lifted its head, and those tiny, bright eyes regarded Brenner.
“Let us return to the hut,” said Brenner.
“The keeper should be along soon,” said Rodriguez.
“Let us return to the hut,” said Brenner.
But Rodriguez was looking down, at the git.
“Totemism is an insanity,” said Brenner, suddenly, angrily.
“It is too widespread for that, in too many cultures, on too many worlds,” said Rodriguez.
“We have been here for weeks,” said Brenner. “We know little more about the Pons now than we did when we first came through the gate.”
“We have gathered a great deal of data,” said Rodriguez.
“But it does not fit together,” said Brenner. “There is no unity in it, no sense, no meaning.”
“There is a meaning in it,” said Rodriguez. “It is only that we have not yet detected it.”
“There is something about these little beasts which frightens me,” said Brenner.
“The Pons?” asked Rodriguez.
“Yes,” said Brenner.
“What?” asked Rodriguez.
“I do not know,” said Brenner. “They are too simple, too kindly, too inoffensive, too innocent, too good.”
“You should be pleased,” said Rodriguez. “They confirm all the theories which are so important to you.”
Brenner was silent. The git seemed to be looking at him.
“They are the beginning,” said Rodriguez. “They are the proof you have always desired, that the rational races did not begin in crime, that they did not emerge bloodily from the wars of nature in virtue of an uncompromising and superior ruthlessness, that they did not survive, and surpass, their competition in virtue of a more tenacious will and greater savagery, that their success is not to be attributed to the darkness of a heart which, in pride and mercilessness, will proclaim itself chieftain and king. The club, you see, is for pounding grain. It is not a heavier, crueler paw. The