beyond the point where we could record the treecats’ use of them.”
Anders could tell he wasn’t going to get through, so he went on with his plans, embarrassingly aware that there was a certain adventure story quality to them. Experimentation had shown that for someone of his weight, walking on the surface of the bog was relatively safe-as long as he didn’t stick his foot on one of those areas where only a thin screen of vegetation covered the sucking mud beneath. Dr. Calida had explained that in more normal situations traversing the bog would not have been as safe.
“I’m guessing,” she said, “that in addition to the wetlands providing the treecats with drinking water, an interesting variety of useful plants, and fresh fish, the bog also provided a natural moat. A creature as heavy as a hexapuma would think twice or even three times before crossing that area. The risk of getting trapped would be too great.”
After consulting his SFS guide book to make certain he would not be exposing himself to any toxic saps, Anders cut a quantity of undergrowth from the edges of the bog in which the air-van had sunk. This he dragged out onto the bog itself and arranged it on a slight rise in a large X pattern. He was very careful where he stepped, but even so, his shoes-the only pair he had brought with him-got thoroughly muddy, and he had reason to be glad that he’d packed extra socks.
He was also reassured to know that Dacey Emberly was keeping watch on him from her perch in the treetops. The elderly painter might be less than active, but she was earning the gratitude of the expedition. Not only was she tending to the unconscious Langston Nez, but she minded the pots simmering on the cookstove-fresh food could not be prepared as quickly as the camping staples Anders had been familiar with before this. She also had assigned herself the role of watch-not only for aerial traffic, of which there was depressingly little, but also for ground-level hazards.
“I don’t know much about Sphinx,” Dacey said, “but I haven’t associated with a xenobiologist all these years without learning that water always draws the wild things. Though that area’s dry for a bog, it’s still plenty wet to provide drinking water.”
When Anders expressed concern that despite his efforts to place it safely, his brushwood X would simply doom another vehicle to land and sink, Dacey had chuckled.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve been spotting wood rats-and even a smaller critter or two Calida tells me might not yet be in the official zoological record. I got pictures, even!” She turned serious. “Honestly, I’m not going to miss something the size of an air car. If one comes here, I’m going to holler so loud that, first, they don’t fail to know we’re here, and, second, they set down somewhere else.”
Making the X, especially under the demands of fifteen percent added gravity, wore Anders out thoroughly enough that he didn’t get on to the next part of his plan until the third day. That day, after once again helping Dr. Calida with the foraging, then helping Dacey with cleaning and turning the still unconscious Langston Nez, Anders set off on a slow climb to the top of one of the highest of the picketwood trees.
He’d had to argue with his father about this part of his plan-not because Dr. Whittaker was worried about Anders falling, but because he was concerned about contamination of the treecat habitat. In the end, Anders won, but only when he promised that the blazing he planned to do would not be permanent. That meant he’d need to carry even the post for the flag he planned to erect with him-adding to both his weight and to the awkwardness of his climb. At least the “flag” itself would not be too heavy.
Most of what Langston Nez had tossed out of the sinking van had been gear brought along for the expedition, rather than the personal property of the crew. Dr. Whittaker had not stopped grumbling that his goodie bag had gone to the bottom, but at least the bag containing his and Anders’ clothing had made it out. Poor Virgil didn’t have even a change of clothes until Anders gave him some. Neither of the Emberlys’ clothes had made it out, but Langston had made a point of making sure that the small satchel in which Dacey kept her medications-along with her painting supplies and camera-had been among the first he retrieved.
That meant all three women were at least partially dressed out of Kesia Guyen’s rather flashy wardrobe. Happily, Kesia was very full-figured, so although her clothing hung loosely on the two Emberly women, it did fit. Now Kesia’s bag supplied what Anders needed for his treetop expedition.
“Good thing I like scarves,” she said, pulling out half a dozen, “and that they roll up so small I always keep a supply tucked in my travel bag.”
She’d grinned at him. “Nothing like a scarf to change your appearance when you’re short on other clothes. I bet your mama knows that.”
Now some of those scarves were stuffed into the front of Anders’ shirt as he began his laborious climb toward the top of the picketwood, the flagpole he’d shaped from a sapling lace willow strapped to his back and hanging down behind like a tail.
Here and there, as he climbed, Anders saw evidence of the treecats’ past use of the tree. He might have been defeated in one place where sometime in the distant past a branch had broken off, leaving no hand- or footholds, but he used a vibro-blade to cut himself toeholds.
More than once during that climb, Anders wished he could switch on his counter-grav unit. It would have carried him to his destination much more quickly-and if he had lost his grip, his fall would have been of much lesser consequence. However, he didn’t do so. Already he was regretting the extra power he’d used when picking near-pine pods with Dr. Calida. Dacey kept watch over the stack of power packets, but even with setting the counter-grav units at minimum, that stack was diminishing rapidly.
Soon, Anders thought, someone is going to have to go without. It can’t be Langston or Dacey. Why do I think Dad’s going to have excuses why it can’t be him? I’m guessing Virgil will volunteer. He’s still feeling stupidly guilty over the problem with the uni-links-even though Dad’s as much to blame. Or maybe Dad will suggest that since I’m not a “real” part of the expedition, I can do without. Maybe he’d even be right.
When he reached the top of the picketwood tree, Anders braced himself and began tying the scarves into long, brilliantly colored streamers at the narrow end of his pole. Then, holding short lengths of rope in his mouth, he lashed the flagpole into place. He’d practiced this part when he was lower down, but he hadn’t counted on the steady press of the wind that tried to wrestle the length of lace willow from his hands.
The streamers snapped in the occasional cross-draft, one stinging him across his face like a whip. Eventually, however, he got the flagpole into place. When he did, the scarves-most of which were at least a meter wide-billowed out and flew, defiant slashes of unnatural color against the Sphinxian sky.
He stayed up at the top of the picketwood for a while, watching, hoping, he knew against hope, to see some air car that he could wave down. But the sky remained empty, and once again Anders found himself regretting an SFS policy that restricted use not only of some wild lands, but of the airspace above them.
At last Anders made his slow, careful way down. That evening over a dinner that included some interesting results of Dr. Calida’s foraging combined with the last of their supplies, speculation was rife as to when they would be located.
“Tomorrow, certainly,” Dr. Whittaker said. “Last night we didn’t report in as planned. Certainly, some searching was done today. Indeed, I’m surprised we haven’t been located already.”
His tone was disapproving, as if with an entire planet to search, the SFS should have homed in on them at once. No one reminded Dr. Whittaker that the SFS had no idea where to look, but from the expressions on various faces, Anders was certain he was not the only one who remembered.
Despite Dr. Whittaker’s confident assertions, the fourth day of their castaway existence passed without their being found. On the fifth day, morale was distinctly low.
On the third day, Kesia Guyen had done her part to solve the question of who had access to the increasingly diminished supply of power packs for the counter-grav units by refusing to have anything more to do with surveying the remnants of the treecat community.
“I do have training in fieldwork,” she said, “but my primary skills are linguistic. I’ve had it with climbing trees, knowing I’ll bust my butt-or something a lot less well-padded-if I fall. I’m going to go sit with Dacey and turn my belt unit off unless I absolutely need to move.”
Anders watched in trepidation as Dr. Whittaker-he just couldn’t think of him as “Dad” when he got this way-ballooned up like a ship’s captain facing incipient mutiny.
Then Langston Nez coughed. The injured man had been doing more of this. The stuff coming up his throat didn’t look good: thick, viscous, and the color of mud. Anders tried to believe that it was good that some of this stuff was coming out, but it was hard to convince himself. Langston only had a low-grade fever, the sort even a
