The Onglentine
						Written in the spring of 2001
								by Dave Laird
						Copyright 2001 by Dave Laird


[Syrillis, Third Planet from the twin suns of Abda Major and Abda Minor]
[Home of Onglentine Dsstruz, a Syrillian politician] [Time approximately
current]

Onglentine reared his gray and green head from amidst a bowl of excellent
munchberries that had just been brought in from the garden. He blissfully
closed his eyes as he savored the taste of the ripe tart berries, ignoring a
tiny piece of vine that dangled out one corner of his leathery mouth.
Peering across the room, he reminisced of other times and places when the
tiny red berries were not so well developed, when instead of being sweet,
but ever so slightly tart, they were mean of spirit and bitter as the
winter's winds. One never knew why some years, perhaps once in one hundred
years, the berries simply were not worth the time it took to pick them off
the vine, and on those years, but no one in their right mind would eat the
berries.

Instead of hordes of Syrillian workers going out into the cool gray dawn of
the world's twin suns to pick berries, on those years when the munchberries
didn't properly mature, giant dawksh birds would descend from the mountains
to the East in one great coughing, screeching mass of feathers and leathery
skin and eat the berries right off the vines. They never came during the
good years, and only rarely did you otherwise see even a handful of the
giant grease-colored birds appear. They were never a nuisance nor a problem
to anyone. It was almost as if someone had told the dawksh birds when the
munchberries had a bad year. It was one of the minor mysteries of the
planet.

"Now that I come to think of it," he suddenly spoke softly to himself,
"Although quite good, these berries are not nearly so good as some I had
when I was a young tatterling, living with the rest of my brood on the
Sargus Plain. We had a much better harvest then..."

His brood mate, Sythria, came into the room, her long flowing gown
whispering as she crossed the room and sat down opposite him at the table.

"I see you discovered the munchberries," she said with a smile. "I hope they
find favor in your eyes. They have only just started to ripen, and although
not nearly so good as other years, they are a pleasant reminder of what they
once were. The report, according to the Board of Trade, is excellent for
this year's crop."

"Indeed, they are quite pleasant to the taste," he said smacking his
mandibles together in what approximates sublime contentment among the
Syrillian race. "I was just recalling other years, when the berries were
bad, and those dreaded Dawksh birds filled the skies above our home. Growing
up on the plains, we were quite lucky in that we had an excellent farm, one
that only rarely had an off year. Our munchberries were among the best on
the planet, although these are quite good, quite good, indeed."

Onglentine had more than just a passing romance with the munchberries, as
the Vice-Chancellor of trade for all of Western Syrillia, and thus being a
member of The Politmech, which oversaw all commerce on the planet, was very
influential in such matters. A great number of people looked up to him and
reverently would turn their eyes downward as he made his way through the
marketplace or when he stood to speak during public meetings.

The Syrillian race had existed since before time, at least as we know it,
began. Their earliest history, written on giant parchment scrolls stored
inside hardened glass show cases at the Refectory of Progress and Science,
contained entries that started over 30,000 turns ago of their dual suns,
Mtor and Mbar. Every Syrillian, including Onglentine and his brood mate,
Syrthria, could trace their lineage back to the earliest settlers on this
planet, and once each year, they held a planet-wide festival to commemorate
those who had gone on before them.

Other than some of their physical qualities, they were quite like human
beings. The Syrillians walked upright on a well-developed set of back legs,
and had a had a front set of highly adaptable hands with six fingers and an
opposed, double-jointed member quite similar to the human thumb. Their skin
was leathery, and they had mandibles that were quite powerful, since, for
the most part, they ate hard seeds, sun-dried pods and other tough plant
life. Unlike human beings, they mated once, for life, at maturity.

Just the day before, Onglentine had been asked to help coordinate the annual
festival ninety turns into the future, which was an honor, indeed. Having
such great tribute bestowed upon him, so early in his professional career at
PolitMech, although not unheard of, was nonetheless a rarity. Normally
people appointed to the prestigious festival committees were older, more
mature, and better connected politically to the upper echelons of the
PolitMech. Even now, lingering over his breakfast of husks and munchberries,
he felt heady, almost euphoric, at the unseen opportunities that awaited him
in days to come.

"I was reading some of the old scrolls when I was at the Refectory last week
with my class of students," Sythria said softly, taking his hand gently in
hers. "One of the students, a terribly bright student of mine, asked whether
there were other life forms out across the Universe as we know it to be. As
always, I tried to answer him from our history, rather than from conjecture,
as is befitting my position as his mentor."

"What did you find in the history scrolls?" Onglentine asked, raising an
eyebrow cautiously. One did not ever toy idly with anything contained in
their history scrolls, for it was among one of the most sacred possessions
of the Syrillian race. "What did your research indicate?"

"There have been multiple instances over the last 900 turns of our suns
where our men of science felt they had established conclusive proof that
there was at least one other race of beings across the Universe. Each time,
when they brought forth their proof, mostly in the form of radio recordings
taken at the Astrogation Center atop Mount Caebo, they were told that their
evidence was insufficient to support their theories."

"I vaguely remember reading some of the comments that were made back then,"
Onglentine stated cautiously. "One must, of course, be careful about any
observations made about an official TechMech ruling, such as that. They get
very peevish about anyone who questions their authority."

"Oh, I know, Onglentine," she demurred, her eyes appropriately cast
downward. "I appreciate your position at TechMech, and I am so very proud of
your recent promotion. It is a great honor, indeed, bestowed upon you. I was
simply trying to answer my student's question as accurately as possible
without creating any questions of my loyalty to history." She briefly raised
her eyes, peering at him in a cool, calculating way, and gently asked,
"Since you, as an official of TechMech, have access to some of those most
early records, I was wondering if it wouldn't be too much to ask if you
would perhaps get copies of them for our class? It would mean a great deal
to the students if we could read the records of that time."

"I don't see that would be a problem," Onglentine said reassuringly, patting
her hand, as he rose from the table. "I'll look into it this morning."

Later that same morning, in between several meetings that were really
nothing of importance, Onglentine approached one of the officials he knew in
the Refectory and inquired politely about access to the controversial
rulings that had been made over the years regarding the scientific theories
regarding sentient life throughout the Galaxy. The aged bureaucrat, who was
quick to recognize a rising star when he saw one, quickly gave Onglentine
the necessary keys to open certain archives, and left him to his
examination.

The scientists, most of whom worked in solitude atop the Mount Caebo, had
exhaustively tracked certain radio transmissions, which seemed to emanate
from a little-known area of the Galaxy, near a sun called Sol. Although
largely gibberish and unintelligible, there was a systematic pattern to the
transmissions, which suggested to the scientists, that there was a strong
probability the transmissions came from a structured society of some kind.

Once Onglentine had made copies of all the various documents relating to the
scientific theories expounded over the years, he returned to the front desk,
where he was awaiting the clerk to stamp each of the documents with the
official seal, thus indicating that they had been acquired through
appropriate channels. As he stood beneath the Great Seal, his eyes noting a
list of the history of munchberries, which was hanging on a tapestry, he
noted the number of "bad years" which were recorded throughout their
history.

As he waited for the official bureaucratic stamp of approval for the records
he had obtained for his brood mate's class at the school of knowledge, he
noticed the top record of radio transmissions corresponded with that of one
of the worst years in their history of munchberry harvests. He was skilled
enough as a public servant, that his leathery face showed no emotion, as he
quietly turned to the next record, quickly comparing it to the history of
munchberry harvests on the wall, and to his surprise, it, too, matched.

By the time the harried archivist had returned, bearing a rubber stamp in
one hand, he had compared each of the records where radio transmissions had
been received by the scientists, and each time, after those cryptic messages
had arrived, there had been a bad munchberry harvest, and the dawksh birds,
with their red eyes, drooling, and fearsome screaming, had arrived from the
east.

They had just received another series of those enigmatic messages last
month, the first in nearly 80 turns, according to the records he now
possessed.

On his way back to his office, he thoughtfully stopped by the Syrillis Board
of Trade's main headquarters.

"I want to sell every bit of stock Sythria and I now hold based on the
future of munchberry crops," he stated quietly, his eyes furtively glancing
around to make certain no one was within earshot. "We will take the modest
profit from this year's excellent crop and reinvest it in something else."

The young trader clacked his mandibles together harshly, a sign of vapid
amusement, and cackled in an undertone, "Do you think the bottom is going to
fall out of the munchberry market this year? I don't think so. Some of the
reports we are just now getting from the big farms on the plains indicate a
better-than-average crop this year."

"No," he said gently, "With my recent promotion to the Festival Committee,
one can never be too cautious. Above all else, we must, as responsible
members of TechMech, strive to be fiscally responsible and above all else,
show all deference to History in all things."

The young trader snapped his mandibles together in approval, and quickly
drew up the necessary trading forms to complete the transaction.

On his way back to his office, Onglentine mused over what he had just done,
but then justified it my whispering to himself, "I have paid deference to
history, as anyone in our society must do. Either way, whether the
munchberries come in bad next year, or a normal harvest, I have paid homage
to history. One must always pay homage to history."