Trouble with the Natives

“Good morning my man,” he said in his best B.B.C. accent. “Could you direct us to the nearest hamlet, village, small town or other such civilized community?”

“Eh?” said Sam. He peered suspiciously at the strangers, aware for the first time that there was something very odd about their clothes. One did not, he realized dimly, normally wear a roll-top sweater with a smart pin-striped suit of the pattern fancied by city gents. And the fellow who was still fussing with the little book was actually wearing full evening dress which would have been faultless but for the lurid green and red tie, the hob-nailed boots and the cloth cap. Crysteel and Danstor had done their best, but they had seen too many television plays. When one considers that they had no other source of information, their sartorial aberrations were at least understandable.

Sam scratched his head. Furriners, I suppose, he told himself. Not even the townsfolk got themselves up like this.

He pointed down the road and gave them explicit directions in an accent so broad that no one residing outside the range of the B.B.C’s West Regional transmitter could have understood more than one word in three. Crysteel and Dan-stor, whose home planet was so far away that Marconi’s first signals couldn’t possibly have reached it yet, did even worse than this. But they managed to get the general idea and retired in good order, both wondering if their knowledge of English was as good as they had believed.

So came and passed, quite uneventfully and without record in the history books, the first meeting between humanity and beings from Outside.

“I suppose,” said Danstor thoughtfully, but without much conviction, “that he wouldn’t have done? It would have saved us a lot of trouble.”

I’m afraid not. Judging by his clothes, and the work he was obviously engaged upon, he could not have been a very intelligent or valuable citizen. I doubt if he could even have understood who we were.”

“Here’s another one!” said Danstor, pointing ahead.

“Don’t make sudden movements that might cause alarm. Just walk along naturally, and let him speak first.”

The man ahead strode purposefully towards them, showed not the slightest signs of recognition, and before they had recovered was already disappearing into the distance.

“Well!” said Danstor.

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Crysteel philosophically. “He probably wouldn’t have been any use either.”

“That’s no excuse for bad manners!”

They gazed with some indignation at the retreating back of Professor Fitzsimmons as, wearing his oldest hiking outfit and engrossed in a difficult piece of atomic theory, he dwindled down the lane. For the first time, Crysteel began to suspect uneasily that it might not be as simple to make contact as he had optimistically believed.

Little Milton was a typical English village, nestling at the foot of the hills whose higher slopes now concealed so portentous a secret. There were very few people about on this summer morning, for the men were already at work and the women folk were still tidying up after the exhausting task of getting their lords and masters safely out of the way. Consequently Crysteel and Danstor had almost reached the centre of the village before their first encounter, which happened to be with the village postman, cycling back to the office after completing his rounds. He was in a very bad temper, having had to deliver a penny postcard to Dodgson’s farm, a couple of miles off his normal route. In addition, the weekly parcel of laundry which Gunner Evans sent home to his doting mother had been a lot heavier than usual, as well it might, since it contained four tins of bully beef pinched from the cookhouse.

“Excuse me,” said Danstor politely.

“Can’t stop,” said the postman, in no mood for casual conversation. “Got another round to do.” Then he was gone.

“This is really the limit!” protested Danstor. “Are they all going to be like this?”

“You’ve simply got to be patient,” said Crysteel. “Remember their customs are quite different from ours; it may take some time to gain their confidence. I’ve had this sort of trouble with primitive races before. Every anthropologist has to get used to it.”

“Hmm,” said Danstor. “I suggest that we call at some of their houses. Then they won’t be able to run away.”

“Very well,” agreed Crysteel doubtfully. “But avoid any thing that looks like a religious shrine, otherwise we may get into trouble.”

Old Widow Tomkins’ council-house could hardly have been mistaken, even by the most inexperienced of explorers, for such an object. The old lady was agreeably excited to see two gentlemen standing on her doorstep, and noticed nothing at all odd about their clothes. Visions of unexpected legacies, of newspaper reporters asking about her looth birthday (she was really only 95, but had managed to keep it dark) flashed through her mind. She picked up the slate she kept hanging by the door and went gaily forth to greet her visitors.