Clad in the usual blouse and slacks of townsfolk, she stood tall, long-legged, barely on the feminine side of leanness. Her head was long too, the face rather narrow though bearing a wide full mouth, nose classically straight, eyes cobalt blue and heavy-lashed under level brows. Sunlight had browned and slightly freckled a fair skin. Dark- blond and straight, her hair fell to her shoulders, controlled by a silver-and-leather filigree band he had given her. She had stuck a bronzy saru feather in the back of it.
“You’re ready to be bred, all right,” Larreka agreed. “When and who to?”
He hadn’t expected she would flush and mumble, “Not yet,” then immediately ask: “How’s the family? Did Meroa come along?”
“Yes. I left her at the ranch.”
“Shucks, why?” she challenged. “You’ve got a far nicer wife than you deserve, for your information.”
“Don’t tell her.” His pleasure faded. “This is no furlough for me. I’m bound on to Sehala for an assembly, afterward back to Valennen as soon as may be; and Meroa will stay behind.”
Jill stood quite still for a space before she responded low: “Are things getting that bad there?”
“Worse.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“The trouble blew up damn near overnight. I wasn’t sure at first. We could just have been having a run of foul luck. When I knew better, I called to demand an assembly, then took ship.”
“Why didn’t you call us for air transport?”
“What use? You can’t bring in everybody. Even if you had enough aircraft, which I doubt, a lot of speakers wouldn’t ride in them. So we couldn’t get a quorum together sooner than I could arrive by sea and land.” Larreka gusted a sigh. “Meroa and I needed a vacation anyway—it’s been spiky, this past year—and the trip gave us that.”
Jill nodded. He had no cause to explain the reasons for his route to her. Under better conditions, the fastest way would have been entirely waterborne, from Port Rua in the South of Valennen to Liwas at the mouth of the Jayin and upriver to Sehala. But at present there were too many equinoctial gales, swelled by the red sun. Besides risk of shipwreck, sailors faced the likelihood of a voyage that contrary storms lengthened by weeks. Safest was to island-hop through the Fiery Sea, make harbor on the North Beronnen coast, then hike across the Dalag, the Badlands, the Red Hills, the Middle Forest, and the Thunderhead Range to the Jayin Valley: mostly wilderness and a lot of it pretty barren, but nothing that an old campaigner couldn’t get through at a goodly clip.
“Well, I’ve been out in the field awhile,” she said. “Fossilling around in the Stony Mountains till day before yesterday. Probably I’ve not gotten what news God or Ian Sparling now have.” Her reference wasn’t theological; Goddard Hanshaw was the mayor.
“They don’t, aside from doubtless having heard the speakers will assemble soon. How could I’ve called them on the march? That’s why I’ve stopped off here, to see your leaders and try for a word from them that I can bring along to Sehala.”
Again Jill nodded. “I forgot. Silly of me. I’m too used to instant communications, simply add hot air and stir.”
She was in a different boat from him, Larreka reflected indulgently. A standard-size portable transceiver would reach to one of the relays the humans had planted throughout the southern half of this continent, and it would buck the voice on. But greater distances required a big transmitter and those relays the newcomers had put on the moons. Thus far they hadn’t built more than four such stations—being, after all, at the end of a mighty long and thin supply line from Earth—Primavera, in Sehala, in Light Place on the Haelen coast, and, barely ten years ago, in Port Rua. It was ironic that, posted away off to Darkness-and-gone in the northern hemisphere, he’d been able to talk from end to end of the Gathering, a meridian arc ten thousand kilometers in length; and then, as he approached the center of civilization, his walkie-talkie had gone deaf and dumb.
Jill took his arm. “They don’t expect you, hey?” she said. “C’mon, let me make the arrangements. I want to listen in.”
“Why not?” he answered. “Though you won’t like what you hear.”
An hour passed. Jill whirled off to collect the men she had mentioned, who were carrying out jobs in the neighborhood. Meanwhile Larreka led his troopers to the single inn Primavera boasted. Mainly it dealt in beer, wine, pool games, darts, the occasional dinner out; but it had accommodations for humans, whether these be transients or new chums who’d soon get permanent digs, and for visiting Ishtarians. Larreka saw his squad settled in and told the proprietor to bill the city for them as per long-standing agreement. He didn’t warn them not to run it riotously high. They were good lads who’d keep the honor of the legion in mind.
Nor did he make arrangements for himself. Jill had written two years ago that she’d moved from her parents’ home to a rented cottage which had an Ishtarian-outfitted chamber—it dated back several of her generations, to when scholars of both races were working constantly and intimately in an effort at mutual understanding— and if he didn’t stay with her anytime he was in town, she’d be cut to the squick. (“That’s ‘squick.’ It bleeds more.”)
He proceeded to the mayor’s home-cum-office. A community like Primavera needed little steering. Most of Hanshaw’s duties involved Earth; shipping companies, individual scientists and technics considering a job here, bureaucrats of the World Federation when they got the urge to meddle, national politicians who could be a bigger nuisance.
The house was typical, built for a climate the humans called “Mediterranean.” Thick walls, pastel-painted, gave insulation as well as strength; to the rear, a patio opened on a flower garden. Sturdy construction, steel shutters for the windows, an aerodynamically designed heraklite roof, were needful against tornados. Larreka had been told that Ishtar’s rotation made storms more frequent and violent than on Earth.
Hanshaw’s wife admitted him but didn’t join the conference in their living room. Besides the mayor and Jill, Ian Sparling was present. Those were ample. Get more than a few Terrestrials together, and it was incredible what time they’d dribble away in laborious jabber. Sparling was chief engineer of the rescue project, therefore a key man. Moreover, he too was a good friend of Larreka’s.
“Howdy, stranger,” boomed Hanshaw. He’d changed almost shockingly, the commandant saw, turned gray and portly. He still seemed vigorous, however, and still insisted on shaking hands rather than clasping shoulders.
“Flop yourself.” He gestured at a mattress spread on the floor to face three armchairs. Nearby, a wheeled table held an executive-desk console. “What’ll you have? Beer, if I know you.”
“Beer indeed,” Larreka replied. “In many large mugs,” He meant brew of breadroot flavored with domebud; to him, the stuff gotten from Earth grains tasted vile. That wasn’t true of all such plants. After a hearty shoulderclasp with Sparling, he drew a pipe from his pouch and drawled, “Furthermore, I haven’t blown tobacco for seven years.”
The engineer grinned, ordered his supply, and on getting it back stuffed a briar of his own. He was a tall man—two full meters, which put him brow to brow with Larreka—in his mid-forties, wide-shouldered but otherwise gaunt and rawboned, hands and feet large and knobbly, movements looking awkward though they did everything he wanted them to. High cheekbones, curved nose, deep creases around thin lips, weatherbeaten skin, unruly black hair tinged with gray, tuneless voice, eyes big and brilliantly gray-green, had little changed since last time. Unlike Hanshaw, Sparling was as careless a dresser as Jill, but lacked her flair.
“How’re the wife and youngster?” Larreka asked him.
“Oh, Rhoda’s about as usual,” he replied. “Becky’s a student on Earth—you didn’t know? Sorry. I always was a rotten correspondent. Yes, she’s back there. I saw her last year on a trip. She’s doing fine.” Larreka recalled that humans were entitled to home leaves every four of their native years. Some, like Jill, had never taken any; this was home to them, and they were in no hurry to make an expensive tour. But Sparling returned oftener than that. to present his latest plans and argue for support of them.
“I’ve kept better track of your work than of your family.” Larreka meant no offense. Whatever would ease the disasters ahead was top-rank in every civilized mind. “Your flood control dams—” Seeing the engineer scowl, he stopped.
“That’s become part of our whole problem,” Sparling said stiffly. “Let’s settle down and get at it.”
Olga Hanshaw brought the refreshments her husband had ordered by intercom, and announced lunch in an hour. “I’m afraid it’ll be nothing fancy,” she apologized to Larreka. “The storms this past summer hurt the crops, your people’s as well as ours.”
“Well, we realize in your position, you’ve got to set an example of austerity,” Jill said to her. “I know a hog
