Chapter 2 An Opportunity
The wind descends over the cliff, surrounded by trees. In the center of the land, the roof of a three-story house is made of stones and wooden boards, grown from seeds brought by wild birds. The green buds trembled with the breeze.
The house is built with tightly combined sand and slate, using local clay mixed with plant sap as a strong and effective glue to fill the gaps. It looks almost a complete whole, with only the windows using hollowed-out materials to dig out the squares. .
Paints made from grinding local stones and plants are used to paint some random scenes on the exterior walls; a small hand-carved stone lion statue stands at the door, as well as various unfinished leopards and griffons scattered around and wild boar carvings. There are some pointed awls, stone hammers and measuring rulers placed on the low stool.
The owner of the house seems to have no patience to complete a complete handicraft, and this is where the boy who is currently standing in front of the door with his arms folded on his chest expresses his complaints.
"Why don't you finish them?" said Perturabo sarcastically.
Morse came out of the house after a while, carrying a handmade wicker chair. He gently dragged the wicker chair into the sunshine and breeze, and then tipped it over. His messy black hair spread out into the shape of algae.
"When you analyze with me from the outside to the inside, why you have to follow me home, I will tell you." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sunshine.
Morse values fairness. If Perturabo cannot come up with enough words to exchange, he will not have the patience to explain to the child.
Perturabo shut up again.
This was the type that Morse found most troublesome. He hated coddling children and conforming to their tempers.
Perturabo is walking, the dry earth is in contact with his bare feet, and the sand scrapes the grass seeds in the cracks of the rocks. The sound of his breath rubbing against the fabric was slightly distant. Morse raised his eyelids a little, and sure enough, the child stood up straight next to the finished stone statue of Perseus that he had built before.
Perturabo is a unique boy.
Objectively speaking, he has a young appearance, smooth skin, well-coordinated limbs, and a face that is more solemn and angular than handsome.
But he looks like more than just a boy. His arrogant aura, behavior and demeanor often imply that his mental age has exceeded his appearance, and he has innate wisdom that transcends physical limitations. Morse won’t deny his extra length.
But he still calls him boy.
Thinking of this, Morse smiled.
Because Perturabo's mental growth is quite consistent with his appearance, even a bit childish.
I don’t know why the craftsman who created this humanoid creature wanted to create such an inconvenient tool: it was so troublesome that even if the tool did not belong to him, it was enough to make him empathize deeply. .
"What do you think of my stone statue?" Morse asked.
"Answer my question first." Petula put his knowledge to use.
Morse opened his eyes completely, put his hands behind his head, and let gravity drive the natural rocking of the wicker chair.
“Isn’t this something that can be learned?” He commented nonchalantly, “One requirement is exchanged for a price, one payment is a transaction and one gain. I don’t complete them because I have a lazy temperament and lack of interest in animal stone carvings. It's your turn."
Perturabo's throat seemed to be blocked by stones and it was difficult to speak. His eyes briefly crossed the sky and then he deliberately avoided it, and then he said: "I don't know."
Morse laughed briefly. When Perturabo thought he would have no further reaction, Mors suddenly stood up, and the groan of the branches of the cane chair was as sharp and harsh as teeth biting bones, accompanied by a foreboding of brokenness and danger.
With a stern look on his face, he stepped within ten inches of Perturabo in two steps. He could see panic starting to appear in the boy's confident eyes. He glanced at a non-existent area in the sky for the second time. His tense cheeks were trembling, and his whole body was stiff from his spine down. His soles stepped into the soil tenaciously, suppressing the instinct to retreat. .
Morse stretched out his hand to hold the boy's head, feeling the stubble as hard as sawdust under his hand. Perturabo's trembling stopped completely, but the stiffness became more obvious, like a piece of iron stone that was suddenly cooled during the forging process and took a strange shape.
Who built this amazing appliance? He is so similar to humans, yet he strives to show his differences in every aspect.
He began to recall a list of friends who were capable of such artistic creations.
Sureka? Joe? Wren? Orpeson?
He doesn't know.
Countless time has passed since the last time he contacted any of them.
Using some innocuous psychic energy, Morse turned Perturabo's head towards where the statue of Perseus was. He was in control of the boy's head, and the boy was in control of his body.
“Look.” He whispered, raising his left hand and pointing the hand wrapped in black cloth at the statue.
"In order to recreate this ancient work of art, I didn't use concrete. Fortunately, I found marble, clay, wood, I also got gold and sometimes iron. I didn't get ivory, the planet There is no creature so beautiful that I can show my cruelty."
"Do you know his story?" Morse asked, adding: "This is an extra. Ask a question, even if you don't exchange information, I will give you the answer."
"I know." Perturabo answered quickly, he only dared to win the game here. "Perseus was instructed by Athena to take the head of the banshee Medusa."
Perturabo looked at the wings on Perseus' helmet and the blade in his hand, and seemed to be comparing them. What. Gradually, he began to have to hide his surprise.
Morse looked at the statue. He spent some time carving it, bringing it completely back from time.
On a planet that has regressed too much due to the loss of culture, there are not many entertainment activities for him to enjoy.
"Continue." He softened his voice.
Perturabo was encouraged, and the corner of his eye glanced at the sky for the third time. His breathing will be disrupted for a moment.
Morse noticed this.
“The art of the same period of this statue did not form a unified style. Artists would compete to express their own characteristics, such as strengthening the modification of details, emphasizing imagination and novelty, focusing on human body depiction, and the layout would use perspective. "The technique is sometimes beyond common sense and goes against reason." This word made him exhale disdainfully. "The beauty of the form and the reserved and arrogant characteristics are disturbing."
He hid his dissatisfaction with Morse in hostility to the artistic style of the statue.
Morse affirmed approvingly: "You know a lot, good boy." He rubbed the boy's head, and then let go of Perturabo, who still seemed to be immersed in his sudden praise. Inside, unable to get out.
And he has obtained a lot of information. For example, the person who instilled the memory module into this tool was born at least 30,000 years ago, and there is no upper limit.
Who could it be?
Morse picked up a pointed awl, took two steps back, and looked at the Mannerist sculpture that reflected the strength and external beauty of the human body. Then he suddenly raised his hand and quickly raised the awl, quickly and accurately. , there was a shock and the sound of stones falling to the ground, and the left hand of the statue holding the skull was broken on the spot.
There was the sound of the boy inhaling behind him, the fabric vibrated, and his heels scraped against the ground. Morse confirmed that Perturabo had taken a step back.
He raised the awl again, and the second break occurred in the right hand of the statue. The stone blade shattered under the iron tool, first with cracks, then with gravel, and finally with dust.
"I don't like his story," Morse shouted. "Get God's guidance and kill a monster."
The sharp cone scratched the hero's face, piercing a crack from the corresponding part of the maxillary bone on one side, the marble cracked, and the hero lost his appearance. Destruction is much easier than creation, but it is as exciting as the joy of creating something.
Morse rarely takes the initiative to enjoy excitement. He has no interest in attracting unwarranted attention and crisis.
"Do you like this story?" he asked. "Relying on some god-given knowledge that comes from nowhere, relying on arrogance that has no source, to defeat something you fear?"
He turned around and threw the sharp cone to Pettu. Rabo. The boy's limbs could catch the tool without even a mental reaction, and for the first time there was a hint of hollow pain in the boy's eyes.
Morse looked at the sky. It was clear, clean, and full of the clarity unique to primitive non-industrial planets.
He couldn't see what Perturabo feared, but he had some guesses.
"You don't like this story." He bit each syllable, chewing them, and spit them out in a measured cadence, "because you can't even conquer your fear. Tell me what it is, Perturabo, This is your only chance. I'll only ask this once."
Morse grinned. "Otherwise I'll take a nap."
(End of Chapter)