Tatja Grimm's World

asked, “When will you ascend, then?”

Tatja answered, “Sometime in the afternoon. Say twenty-six hours. We’ll stay here and rest until that time.”

Now the other nodded. “Very well. We’ll clear some quarters for you.” He leaned across the table, and for a moment his face twisted with the anger of a moment before. “My people will dedicate much of their remaining existence to punishing you.”

The generals smiled at this threat, made by the leader of a second-rate military power against the greatest nation in the world. Tatja didn’t smile. She respected the determination and technical competence that lay behind the Doomsday religion. Had she been nothing more than the Queen of Crownesse, this would have been a threat to fear. Mikach’s promise was the sort which starts crusades.

Twenty-three

Someone had given him a crossbow. It was a powerful model, its cross-spars steeply angled. One full winding could shoot its entire six-bolt magazine. And each bolt contained enough explosive to put a hole through three inches of wood.

At the moment Svir felt no curiosity as to why he, who barely knew how to sight a bow, had been given the weapon. He had not noticed that out of the two-hundred-member party, only Jolle, Tatja, and he were armed.

Jolle and Tatja had originally planned to make the ascent alone, but the ingenious Doomsdaymen had made that impossible. The priests claimed that all the picture-making equipment was at O’rmouth for a general overhaul. This was plausible, since the observatory was too small to contain a machine shop. Unfortunately, more than a hundred Celestial Servants were then needed to carry the gear necessary to Jolle’s project. The climb would take two days, with stops at Doo’d’en outposts along the way. So there had to be a number of Crown’s Men along to watch this mob of potential saboteurs. Everyone was surprised when Marget demanded they all go unarmed. The Servants were pleased with the requirement, the Crown’s Men frankly angry.

If he had thought about it, Svir would have understood why only the three of them were armed … but he was thinking about very little.

For two days, they had walked up a steep tunnel toward the top of the world. Above the snowpack ceiling, the wind hummed endlessly across the mountain face. Where light holes punctured the roof, the hum became a scream. Sunlight glared brilliant through those holes, splashed whiteness on the figures trudging slowly upwards.

For a thousand feet at a time, the tunnel climbed so steep there were steps cut in the ice. Yet this journey was a walk in paradise compared to the climb that had faced the first explorers. They had gone across the top of the snow, through the wind, with no shelters along the way. The atmospheric pressure here was only one-fifth that at sea level. It was difficult to maintain body temperature, much less to work. If it had not been for what the Doo’d’en called the “perfume of life,” no amount of sacrifice or faith would have been sufficient to build the observatory and live there.

The perfume of life—to “heathen” chemists, it was simply oxygen. At sea level the partial pressure of oxygen was about three pounds per square inch. At O’rmouth it was 1.4. It had been known for almost a century that the partial pressure of oxygen determines whether the air can sustain life. Thus, though scentless, oxygen is the perfume of life. For the last forty years Doo’d’en had used differential liquefaction to produce large amounts of oxygen. The gas was compressed into containers and allowed to slowly escape—as perfume might from an aerator. With some skill, it was possible to raise the partial pressure of oxygen at the observatory from 0.7 to 1.4 pounds per square inch, even though the total pressure inside the observatory was the same as outside. The procedure was simple and effective. No hermetic seals were needed.

Thirty men pulled the carts carrying the oxygen tanks. The aerators could occasionally be heard behind the hum of the wind. For the benefit of the Crown’s Men, Tatja had insisted on bringing enough tanks to maintain a partial pressure of 2.0 psi. The enriched air made their climb possible. Barely. And after two days in march, the Celestial Servants seemed as fatigued as the lowlanders; the Servants were carrying the equipment and hauling the carts. Several times the group became so spread out that the aerators couldn’t cover everyone. Then, without any warning, walking became impossible, and Tatja or Jolle would push them into a compact formation and move the tanks so everyone was within ten feet of “perfume.”

Each step sent bright spurts of pain up Svir’s calves. Each breath burned at his lungs. At first, the task of walking had made it easy for him to retreat from the events around him. No more. No more. For the first time in twenty hours, Svir found himself facing reality. Ancho was dead. Cor was dead. He believed that. And now that he did, the hate could blossom. Profirio must die—not because he wished to kill millions, but because he had killed the most important person in the universe. By himself, Svir had little chance against the monster. But he had two powerful allies, and he had a weapon. For the moment, he had a purpose.

Where the tunnel cut near the surface, the roof was pearly bright. Elsewhere, the light was fading. The sun would be lowering now, its light shining but indirectly through the roof holes. And in some places, the tunnel was very dark. Algae pots were useless in this cold, and a torch would consume more oxygen than one hundred men. The men around him were shadows, bent to their own pain. He knew that Jolle and Tatja were somewhere behind the whole group. It was a strategic certainty that one of those men who appeared so tired was actually alert, calculating. Walking behind the rest, the queen and the alien could watch with sensitive eyes. If they did not discover Profirio, they at least would not be surprised from behind.

Svir had ended up near the head of the column. Even with good lighting, his two friends would have been out of sight most of the time.

Hmm. If he were Profirio, he would walk up here, too. Svir looked around with new interest. Who seemed a bit too lively? That was probably the wrong thing to look for: Profirio would be a great actor. Under other circumstances these thoughts would have filled him with fear: It was dark, the figures were indistinct, and one of them, perhaps right behind him, was a monster.

Svir was abruptly aware of the cold. He pulled his parka close and tensioned his crossbow.

There was conversation nearby. Low muttering came past the sounds of the wind. There was more than one voice; maybe three or four. Some people can grumble even when they’re exhausted. And one of the speakers might be Profirio, gathering supporters. No doubt he could be as fiendishly persuasive as Tatja and Jolle. Svir dropped back till he was even with the sounds. His prospects were in front of the lead cart. Two of them were pulling it. The six-foot tank on the cart emitted its perfume in tiny hisses.

A hand closed on his shoulder. He leaped half a foot into the air, spastically squeezing his crossbow’s trigger. But the safety was set and he was spared the mortal embarrassment of shooting himself with an explosive bolt.

“Sorry, friend, I slipped.”

Svir turned to look at the other. It was possible the fellow really had slipped. Though the floor was covered with decomposed granite, there were open patches of ice. But at the head of the column, such patches were quite dry. The man released his arm. There was a glimmer from above, and Svir saw that he was fairly old, though muscular. This could be it! The other’s face showed just a bit too much fatigue. And the man was a Celestial Servant. Profirio would most likely pose as one of them.

Svir made no attempt to start a conversation. He had a dubious advantage over Profirio. The alien must nullify the armed men in the party. Since Svir was one-third of that force, Profirio would either manipulate him with conversation—or kill him. The ploys were limited, and for once it might be possible to compete with a mind like Tatja’s. When the “old soldier” finally spoke, Svir felt a flash of triumph.

“You’re one of the Crown’s Men, aren’t you?” The soldier’s voice quavered overmuch, Svir thought.

“That’s right,” he replied, with as much disinterest as he could muster.

“I don’t mean offense, but I see you’re armed. You must be important. Maybe you can tell me. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” His reply was not an evasion. The Servant’s question seemed disconnected from the dangers that floated through his mind.