The Ringworld Throne by Larry Niven Page B

Serpentstrangler, made introduction. Louis tried to remember their names. His translator would retrieve them, if he could remember even a syllable. Shans explained, “We trade for cloth, yes? We compete. When Hishthare Rockdiver and I offer to broil this monster fish the Sailors catch downstream, the Sailors offer, too. Afraid we talk to Kidada, learn something needful. Get a lower price.”
    “Meanwhile we argue over how to cook our fish.” That was the Sailor, Wheek. “Kidada at least gets his birds the way he wants.”
    “I’d say those birds are done,” Louis said. “I can’t guess about the fish. When did you start?”
    “It will be perfect in a hundred breaths,” Shans said. “Cooked on the down side for the Sailors, warm on the up side for us. How do you like it?”
    “Down side.”
    The Weaver population half dried themselves and came to eat. The birds came off the hot rocks and were torn apart. The fish continued to cook. Louis would find his own vegetables, tomorrow.
    And they talked.
    The Weavers’ nimble fingers wove nets to catch mid-sized birds and beasts of the forest; but they wove cloth for river traffic. Peekaboo clothing, hammocks, fishnets, belt pouches and back pouches, a variety of things for a variety of species.
    Fishers and Sailors traded up and down the river, carrying Weaver kilts, smoked and salted fish, salt, root vegetables ...
    It was shop talk. Louis eased out of that. He asked Kidada about his scar, and was told of a fight with what sounded like a monster bear. Weavers withdrew: they’d heard the tale. Kidada told a good tale, though from the sound of it, the scar should have been in front.
    At sunset all the Weavers seemed to melt away. Sawur led him to a ring of tents, their feet crunching in dry brush.
    Sailors and Fishers remained in conversation around the dying coal bed. One called advice after him: “Don’t wander. Only the Night People walk these paths at night.”
    They stooped under the edge of the wicker cage. Sawur rolled against him and fell asleep at once. Louis felt a moment’s irritation; but species differ.
    Sleeping in a strange place hadn’t bothered Louis in falans ... no, in years. Nor sleeping in a strange woman’s arms, nor rubbing against fluffy fur ... like sleeping with a big dog ... nor both together. But knowing the Hindmost’s eye was near, that kept him awake for some time.
    Sometime in the night, he dreamed that a monster sank teeth into his leg. He woke holding back a scream.
    Sawur spoke without opening her eyes. “What is it, teacher?”
    “Cramp. In my leg.” Louis rolled out of her arms and crawled to the door.
    “I get cramps, too. Walk.” Sawur was asleep.
    He limped outside. The side of his calf was shrieking. He hated muscle cramps!
    The daylit arcs of the Ringworld reflected far more light than Earth’s full moon. The medical kit would give him medicine for a cramp, but it didn’t act any quicker than just walking it off.
    His foot crunched dry twigs.
    Low dry brush surrounded the guests’ huts. Friendly as they were, the Weavers must have some way to discourage thieves. This dry stuff might be their defense.
    The cramp had eased, but he was wide-awake. His cargo plates floated outside the guest hut. He pulled himself aboard. He crossed the brushy barrier without a sound, weaving among the tree trunks.
    Not a bit nocturnal, these Weavers. No sign of any of them. Sleeping like the dead, how would they catch a thief? The visiting aliens had retired, too. Lanterns lit the bow and stern of a long, low sailboat he hadn’t noticed earlier.
    In a minute or two Louis was floating silently above the pool, lit by Archlight real and reflected.
    Motion within the cliff ... and a light blazed in his face.
    Louis squinted, cursing. He looked into the glare ... through a window with fuzzed-out edges, at an impressive cinder cone capped in what seemed dirty snow. On any world, that would be a volcano. Here it could be a meteor crater