The Space Trilogy. C. S. Lewis

them in making and shaping things as none can match us in singing. But let Hmãn see.

      He turned and spoke to one of the younger hrossa and presently, passed from hand to hand, there came to him a little bowl. He held it close to the firelight and examined it. It was certainly of gold, and Ransom realised the meaning of Devine’s interest in Malacandra.

      ‘Is there much of this thing?’ he asked.

      Yes, he was told, it was washed down in most of the rivers; but the best and most was among the pfifltriggi, and it was they who were skilled in it. Arbol hru, they called it – Sun’s blood. He looked at the bowl again. It was covered with fine etching. He saw pictures of hrossa and of smaller, almost frog-like animals; and then, of sorns. He pointed to the latter inquiringly.

      ‘Séroni,’ said the hrossa, confirming his suspicions. ‘They live up almost on the harandra. In the big caves.’ The frog-like animals – or tapir-headed, frog-bodied animals – were pfifltriggi. Ransom turned it over in his mind. On Malacandra, apparently, three distinct species had reached rationality, and none of them had yet exterminated the other two. It concerned him intensely to find out which was the real master.

      ‘Which of the hnau rule?’ he asked.

      ‘Oyarsa rules,’ was the reply.

      ‘Is he hnau?’

      This puzzled them a little. The séroni, they thought, would be better at that kind of question. Perhaps Oyarsa was hnau, but a very different hnau. He had no death and no young.

      ‘These séroni know more than the hrossa?’ asked Ransom.

      This produced more a debate than an answer. What emerged finally was that the séroni or sorns were perfectly helpless in a boat, and could not fish to save their lives, could hardly swim, could make no poetry, and even when hrossa had made it for them could understand only the inferior sorts; but they were admittedly good at finding out things about the stars and understanding the darker utterances of Oyarsa and telling what happened in Malacandra long ago – longer ago than anyone could remember.

      ‘Ah – the intelligentsia,’ thought Ransom. ‘They must be the real rulers, however it is disguised.’

      He tried to ask what would happen if the sorns used their wisdom to make the hrossa do things – this was as far as he could get in his halting Malacandrian. The question did not sound nearly so urgent in this form as it would have done if he had been able to say ‘used their scientific resources for the exploitation of their uncivilised neighbours’. But he might have spared his pains. The mention of the sorns’ inadequate appreciation of poetry had diverted the whole conversation into literary channels. Of the heated, and apparently technical, discussion which followed he understood not a syllable.

      Naturally his conversations with the hrossa did not all turn on Malacandra. He had to repay them with information about Earth. He was hampered in this both by the humiliating discoveries which he was constantly making of his own ignorance about his native planet, and partly by his determination to conceal some of the truth. He did not want to tell them too much of our human wars and industrialisms. He remembered how H. G. Wells’s Cavor had met his end on the Moon; also he felt shy. A sensation akin to that of physical nakedness came over him whenever they questioned him too closely about men – the hmãna as they called them. Moreover, he was determined not to let them know that he had been brought there to be given to the sorns; for he was becoming daily more certain that these were the dominant species. What he did tell them fired the imagination of the hrossa: they all began making poems about the strange handra where the plants were hard like stone and the earth-weed green like rock and the waters cold and salt, and hmãna, lived out on top, on the harandra.

      They were even more interested in what he had to tell them of the aquatic animal with snapping jaws which he had fled from in their own world and even in their own handramit. It was a hnakra, they all agreed. They were intensely excited. There had not been a hnakra in the valley for many years. The youth of the hrossa got out their weapons – primitive harpoons with points of bone – and the very cubs began playing at hnakra-hunting in the shallows. Some of the mothers showed signs of anxiety and wanted the cubs to be kept out of the water, but in general the news of the hnakra seemed to be immensely popular. Hyoi set off at once to do something to his boat and Ransom accompanied him. He wished to make himself useful, and was already beginning to have some vague capacity with the primitive hrossian tools. They walked together to Hyoi’s creek, a stone’s throw through the forest.

      On the way, where the path was single and Ransom was following Hyoi, they passed a little she-hross, not much more than a cub. She spoke as they passed, but not to them: her eyes were on a spot about five yards away.

      ‘Who do you speak to, Hrikki?’ said Ransom.

      ‘To the eldil.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Did you not see him?’

      ‘I saw nothing.’

      ‘There! There!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Ah! He is gone. Did you not see him?’

      ‘I saw no one.’

      ‘Hyoi,’ said the cub, ‘the hmãn cannot see the eldil!’

      But Hyoi, continuing steadily on his way, was already out of earshot, and had apparently noticed nothing. Ransom concluded that Hrikki was ‘pretending’ like the young of his own species. In a few moments he rejoined his companion.

       12

      They worked hard at Hyoi’s boat till noon and then spread themselves on the weed close to the warmth of the creek, and began their midday meal. The war-like nature of their preparations suggested many questions to Ransom. He knew no word for war, but he managed to make Hyoi understand what he wanted to know. Did séroni and hrossa and pfifltriggi ever go out like this, with weapons, against each other?

      ‘What for?’ asked Hyoi.

      It was difficult to explain. ‘If both wanted one thing and neither would give it,’ said Ransom, ‘would the other at last come with force? Would they say, give it or we kill you?’

      ‘What sort of thing?’

      ‘Well – food, perhaps.’

      ‘If the other hnau wanted food, why should we not give it to them? We often do.’

      ‘But how if we had not enough for ourselves?’

      ‘But Maleldil will not stop the plants growing.’

      ‘Hyoi, if you had more and more young, would Maleldil broaden the handramit and make enough plants for them all?’

      ‘The séroni know that sort of thing. But why should we have more young?’

      Ransom found this difficult. At last he said:

      ‘Is the begetting of young not a pleasure among the hrossa?’

      ‘A very great one, Hmãn. This is what we call love.’

      ‘If a thing is a pleasure, a hmãn wants it again. He might want the pleasure more often than the number of young that could be fed.’

      It took Hyoi a long time to get the point.

      ‘You mean,’ he said slowly, ‘that he might do it not only in one or two years of his life but again?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But why? Would he want his dinner all day or want to sleep after he had slept? I do not understand.’

      ‘But a dinner comes every day. This love, you say, comes only once while the