‘There’s an abrupt discontinuity in soil types between the two biomes,’ I said, ‘and the rain clouds scudding in from the ocean, Calyptra, west of the Wild, seem generally to dump their moisture well before reaching the veldt. Lush forest growth continues to the edge of the veldt, we assume, because of the permeability and moisture-conducting capacity of the forest soil, a kind of – well, as odd as it may sound, a kind of porous laterite beneath two or three centimeters of amazingly rich humus. The variations in soil types and the differences in rainfall account for the topographic features of BoskVeld.’
‘Couldn’t the permeable laterite and the humus you speak of be symptoms rather than causes of the planet’s topographic division? Couldn’t the soil pattern in the Wild result from the fact that a tropical rain forest has overlain it for so long?’
‘Theoretically, I suppose. I’m not sure it’s very likely. Your reasoning suggests an ecological equivalent to artistic debates about the separation of style and content. More than likely, the two go hand in hand.’ I swiveled away from the window and looked at Elegy. ‘Why does the subject interest you at all? Does it really have anything to do with finding your father?’
But she asked, ‘How many native animal species does BoskVeld boast?’
‘The Asadi are the principal one,’ I responded, as if saying a catechism. ‘Discounting a wide variety of marine forms we’re only now beginning to study, some native insects, and a few vaguely reptilian land-going creatures. Why?’
‘How likely is it, then, that the Asadi originated here?’
‘The argument of an extra-Denebolan origin isn’t a particularly new one, Civ Cather. In fact—’
‘I’d prefer that you call me by my first name.’
‘All right,’ I said tentatively, without saying it. ‘In fact, Frasier himself was the first to propose it. He argued that the technologically advanced ancestors of the Asadi, from whom they supposedly devolved as solar and climatic conditions changed, must have come from another planetary system. Nobody has any idea which one, however, and the archaeological record here on BoskVeld isn’t all that helpful. At times, to tell the truth, it’s downright muddled and self-contradictory.’
‘Is it possible that the Asadi’s ancestors could have terraformed – maybe “engineered” is a better word in this case – BoskVeld to suit their physiological and cultural needs? Hence, vacant prairie out there’ – she gestured with her poncho – ‘and sheltering rain forest over here.’
‘Anything’s possible, Elegy. But probability is another matter, and I’d say you’re roaming aimlessly around its edges.’
Elegy got up and circled my desk so that she was standing at my picture window gazing into the Wild. ‘Edges,’ she murmured ruminatively. ‘Edgewise. On edge. Edge-yoo-cated.’ Her voice grew louder: ‘I’m ready to get off the uncertain edge of this enterprise, Ben, and go straight into the jungle after my father.’
‘Why?’ I pushed myself and my chair away from the desk so that I could scrutinize Elegy’s attractive but somewhat shelf-browed profile.
‘Because it’s what I came here for,’ she declared almost defiantly.
Sitting, I felt at a disadvantage – even more so when a cockroach scurried over my boot, then sculled beneath my desk and across the floor toward the other end of the prefab. After heaving myself out of my chair, I paced away from Elegy to assassinate this fellow inhabitant of my sleazy private ecosystem.
‘I still don’t understand,’ I said, grinding my toe on the cockroach. ‘You don’t even share your father’s name, Elegy.’
‘I do, however, possess a goodly number of his genes.’
‘And that’s enough to commit you to a wholehearted but probably doomed attempt to uncover his bones?’
‘Not merely his bones, Dr Benedict – his person.’
With the edge of my boot sole I scraped aside the crushed carapace of the cockroach. Then I looked at Chaney’s daughter. She was nimbused by the light pouring in through my window, and, momentarily, it was as if I were holding a conversation with either a hologramic image or a ghost. The unreality of the young woman’s presence disoriented and upset me.
‘You’re not likely to find him mummified or turned conveniently to stone in a climate like the Wild’s,’ I said.
‘That’s not what I’d want, in any case. What would you say if I told you I have hopes of finding my father . . . alive?’
‘Dengue fever, maybe. I’d urge you to return to the hospital for metaboscanning and treatment.’
‘I’ve had all my shots,’ she said, laughing. ‘Kretzoi, too.’ She sat down in my chair, and the light gentled and transfigured her features, making her again a creature of flesh and blood.
I approached the desk. ‘After six years? Not bloody likely, Elegy. How can you even justify such a hope to yourself?’
‘Even though my father believed that by returning to the Asadi he was signing a warrant of self-execution, he had a friend out there. A friend.’
‘The Bachelor?’ I asked incredulously.
‘The Bachelor,’ she affirmed, ‘who became the Asadi chieftain or dominant male upon the death of Eisen Zwei.’
I shook my head. ‘No one’s seen The Bachelor since your father’s disappearance. And we’ve had a few people in the Wild doing daytime field work – nothing so intensive as when Egan was in there, admittedly, but enough to confirm or deny The Bachelor’s continued existence, I’d wager.’
‘Then maybe they’re together, Ben.’
‘More than likely, they’re both dead. That’s a pretty unappealable, and unappealing, form of togetherness. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Alive or dead, well, that’s what Kretzoi and I are here to find out.’
After that, we worked to prepare the formal prospectus that Eisen had demanded of us at Chaney Field. Elegy knew exactly what she intended to do and how she wished to go about it, and, as a consequence, the document we contrived together was apparently little more than an abridged reprise of her application for the Nyerere Foundation grant that had brought her to BoskVeld. It came to about two and a half pages of double-spaced text, neatly paragraphed and speedily printed in triplicate
