Silence is Deadly. Lloyd Biggle jr.
on their stable roof and thus avoided tramping their owner’s flower-filled yard.
Darzek returned to the house. Again he paused at the front door, and then he stepped through it and turned for a careful look at the front facade of the building. A moment later, walking in the same direction as the now thinning line of vehicles, he set off for the mart.
But he felt alertly cautious, rather than bold. He was accustomed to wandering about on strange worlds, but those worlds were accustomed to the presence of gawking, blundering aliens, of strange aspect, customs, and mannerisms. The world of Kamm did not know of the existence of aliens. If he gawked and blundered, he would be considered a gawking and blundering native and treated as such. Perhaps gawking and blundering had contributed to the loss of those nine or ten Synthesis agents.
He reminded himself not to gawk, and to keep his wits about him so he wouldn’t blunder.
But even a seasoned traveler like Darzek found it difficult not to gape about him on his first glimpse of a spectacularly beautiful world. It was hideously noisy; in direct compensation, as though the deaf Kammians had deliberately set about developing their remaining senses, it was vividly, dramatically, extraordinarily colorful.
And it was just as vividly, dramatically, and extraordinarily scented.
The very cobblestones underfoot had been selected for their colors, and they had been laid out by an artist. The varying shades of pink had been sorted and matched and arranged in a fabric of color that formed a magnificent mosaic, a textured pattern that was unending, that caught the eye and carried it as far as any winding section of the lane permitted, with striking visual motifs that received endlessly varied repetitions.
And where each narrow sublane appeared on either side—the city was not laid out in squares, and the lanes came and went haphazardly—colors flowed into colors, for each lane had its own individual shades and hues and patterns.
The stone dwellings were constructed in equally vivid patterns. They were two or three stories tall, set close on the lane with narrow yards at the sides and a vast expanse of yard in the rear—inevitably terminated by a low, flat-roofed nabrula stable.
The yards were filled with flowers, and floral ornaments and displays were seen everywhere. Vines with strikingly colored leaves entwined over lintels, providing splashes of contrast against the softer shades of the stones. Flowers filled windows and lined balconies. The yards were flower gardens without apparent formal planning; but colors shaded into colors and blossoms into strikingly hued foliage.
And on the fronts of the dwellings, placed with artful care, were baskets and ceramic containers of growing and cut flowers.
Kamm, the Silent Planet: World of color and of scent.
Each flower garden wafted such potent blendings of perfume that Darzek thought the owners arranged the plants as much for their scents as for their colors. And in the entranceway of each house, an alcove in which the door was set, hung a large ceramic beehive of a contraption, fashioned with artist’s care and fired with splendid multicolored glazes. It was an incense burner. Each poured out its own highly individual scent: pungent, spicy, sweet, or bitter; or it burned a blended, delicate orchestration of scents. Did each householder have his own aromatic insignia? Or was the scent perhaps a greeting or a signal to the passer-by: welcome, stop in any time. Or—busy today, come back tomorrow. Darzek pondered the labyrinthine twists and turns of the alien mentality and was awed.
There was a scattering of pedestrians in sight, all of them headed in the same direction as Darzek. For a time Darzek observed the couple walking in front of him, probably a husband and wife. In the fashion of Kammian females, each plait of the wife’s enormously long hair had been dyed a different color. These were piled into a towering headdress, where they were woven into vividly contrasting patterns. This edifice was a suitable companion piece for the tall, patterned hat of her husband; the two structures attained approximately the same altitude.
The female wore a tunic and flopping trousers matching those of her husband, but hers were in variegated color patterns where his were the solid colors of his profession. Her trousers were longer, extending to her ankles, and she seemed to be wearing low-topped shoes instead of boots. Her attire looked more masculine than her husband’s because she wore no artisan’s apron.
Darzek assiduously studied the male for a time—his gait; his mannerisms; the way he carried his hands when he walked; his chivalrous posture in politely bending over his wife’s flickering fingers when she spoke to him, as though every syllable had monumental importance to him and he wanted her to know it.
The lane veered again, and its rows of residences ended at a broad boulevard. It continued on the opposite side as a lane of artisan’s shops. He could see the mart beyond, with its makeshift avenues of tents, booths, wagons, carts. Darzek turned and strolled along the boulevard. Here the buildings were enormous—office warehouses, he speculated, for shipping and importing companies; through the mingled aromas that impinged on him from all sides, he had caught the tang of sea air.
He crossed to the stretch of park that lay in the middle of the boulevard. Stone paths crisscrossed it; rocks of striking shape or color were piled up in seemingly haphazard fashion, but these were used as seats by resting pedestrians. Around them grew lush plants and shrubs of such peculiar form and coloration that Darzek guessed them to be exotic imports. Vendors were selling food and beverages.
Darzek found himself a seat on a large rock and watched the passers-by. Almost at once he made an important discovery. When two males of the same craft or profession met, they exchanged signals that varied with the occupation and sometimes were extremely complicated. For one purple-patterned pair, an uplifted palm. For a pair with green and black, a hand gripping the wrist. For one with pink and white, a bent elbow. The only exception occurred when one male was carrying something. Then both exchanged shrugs.
Darzek continued to watch. Eventually he saw two perfumers exchange their own mystic salute: Index finger of right hand held against the nose. Darzek got to his feet and walked on.
A moment later he was confidently exchanging the finger-against-nose signal with a fellow perfumer. He crossed to the far side of the boulevard and strolled down one of the narrow lanes of artisan shops, marveling at the variety and quality of workmanship—carvings, furniture, jewelry, knickknacks, every kind of item he could think of and not a few whose function he could not imagine, all fashioned exquisitely out of wood. There were lovely ceramics in dazzling colors, masterfully woven rugs and cloths, varieties of baskets and containers that looked like wickerwork. Occasionally he saw a representation of the hideous Winged Beast, the mythical symbol of Kamm’s death religion, in plaques, ornaments, or jewelry. He was surprised to see it so seldom. It seemed to play a much more minor part in Kammian thought than Rok Wllon had believed.
He had seen both men and women carrying thin sided ceramic pots with gaping mouths, a sort of shopping bag into which they stuffed their purchases. He also had observed that the Kammian with his hands occupied was excused from the amenities of greetings or casual conversation.
“When in doubt,” he told himself, “keep your hands shut.”
He stopped at a ceramics shop and bought a pot. He found it astonishingly light. As he moved on down the street he added a few casual purchases that he thought he couldn’t go wrong on—a bundle of scented candles, a chunk of exquisitely scented soap, a pie-shaped loaf of bread that seemed as strongly perfumed as the soap and was handed to him wrapped in a thin, crinkly substance he was unable to identify. With these credentials as a shopper and householder, and relieved of any obligation to make conversation, he blithely strolled on.
Now he was able to study the Kammians at close range. They were a sturdy race. The females, once he became accustomed to their outlandish hairdos, were handsome with a well-built rustic appeal. The flowing garments hinted at sensational Earth-type figures, which of course was an impossibility. The Kammians gave birth to live, dependent young, but they were not mammals. The males were stocky and robust.
Then he made a shattering discovery.
The Kammians were as fascinated with him as he was with them. Each person he passed turned