Far back in the tunnel, something screamed. The echoes went by them—ee-yah, ee-yah, ee-yah—ricocheting along the walls, fading into quiet.
“Hurry,” something said in their minds. The Terran word pulsated at them, black letters on orange, large, plain capital letters, underlined, with an exclamation point. “HURRY!”
“What?” Marjorie whoofed. “What was that?”
“He does that sometimes,” Mainoa breathed. “He’s not much interested in written words, but sometimes he picks one up from me and broadcasts it.”
Another picture, this one of all of them mounted and running. It had scarcely faded before they were all on horseback, lying flat while the horses trotted rapidly through the water, blindly moving into darkness as though moving in accordance with some guidance system known only to themselves. The prisoners, hastily thrown across Irish Lass, snarled and complained.
“Shut up, or we’ll leave you for the Hippae,” Rillibee commanded. The climbers fell silent.
Then there was rosy light, slightly above them and far ahead. The way sloped upward. The horses dug in with their rear legs, pushing. A foxen was silhouetted against the light, then gone. Then they too were out in the world once more. The tunnel emerged on a tiny island. Pools of water surrounded them. Ahead, the trees stopped and the land sloped up toward a red-flushed sunset. Illusory shapes prowled out of the tunnel behind them and took to the trees.
“Go,” the word said, red on white, imperative. “Go!”
They went. The horses walked-swam to the edge of the trees and lunged up onto the long slope. The riders stared back, expecting horror to erupt behind them. Nothing. No sound. Perhaps the foxen had bought them time.
“I’ll take these two to the order station,” said Rillibee, tugging on the rope that bound the captives. He pointed up the hill. “That’s the hospital. Where Stella and your husband are, next to the Port Hotel.”
Marjorie urged Don Quixote up the slope, covering half of it before she realized that she was actually going to a place where Rigo was. Rigo. She said the word to herself. Nothing resonated. He was someone she knew, that was all. Normally the thought of him brought feelings: guilt and anxiety and frustration. Now she felt only curiosity, perhaps a slight sorrow, wondering how it would feel to see him after all that had happened.
The Port Hotel was packed with people, anonymous groups going here and there, anonymous faces turning to stare curiously at Marjorie and the others. Someone shouted. Someone else pointed. Then Sebastian Mechanic separated himself from the mass and came running toward them.
“Lady Marjorie,” he cried. “Your son’s here, and your daughter and husband.”
She dismounted stiffly, wiping at her muddy face. “Rillibee told me,” she said. “I need to see them. I need somewhere to wash.” Then Persun Pollut was beside her, leading her in one direction while Sebastian and Asmir led the horses in another.
“Lady Westriding, I’m glad you’re here.” His heart lay in his eyes, but she did not see it there. “They’ll take the horses to the barn. How can I help you?”
“Do you known where Rigo is?”
“In there.” He pointed through a door to a crowd of people, seemingly all talking at once. “The doctor let him get up a few hours ago. They’re talking about the plague and whether the Hippae are going to get in and eat us all!”
“The plague!” She could see Rigo’s lean form at the center of the mob. He sat in a chair, pale and haggard, but he seemed to be functioning. Still, to be talking about the plague!
“Everyone knows, ma’am. Your husband is there, trying to bring some order out of it all….”
“I’ll join them,” Brother Mainoa said from behind them. “I have to tell them about that tunnel … something has to be done about it.”
“And Stella?” Marjorie asked Persun.
“Through there,” Persun pointed toward a hallway.
“I’ll go with you,” said Rillibee, as Brother Mainoa, leaning heavily on Father James’s arm, went in to join the crowd.
Persun guided Marjorie and Rillibee along the building, into it through a small side door and down a corridor to a corner room which was almost filled by a humming box, a Heal-all.
“In there,” Persun said.
She peered down through the transparent lid to see Stella lying below, slender wires and tubes connecting her to the box.
“Are you her mother?” The doctor had come in behind them.
Marjorie turned. “Yes. Is she? I mean, what do you….”
The doctor gestured toward a chair. “I’m Doctor Lees Bergrem. I’m not entirely sure yet what the prognosis is. She’s been here only a little more than a day. There was no … well, no lasting physical damage.”
“They had done something to her … to her body?”
“Something. Something in the pleasure centers of the brain and nervous system, in the sexual connections to it. I’m not yet sure exactly what was done. Something perverse. Sexual pleasure seems to result from obeying commands. I think I can fix that part.”
Marjorie didn’t say anything. She waited.
“She may not remember everything. She may not be just the way she was. She may be more as she was as a child….” The doctor shook her head. “You know about Janetta bon Maukerden? Had you heard that another one has been found? Diamante bon Damfels. It’s as though they were wiped clean, except for that one circuit.” She shook her head again. “Your daughter is more fortunate. She hadn’t been disconnected yet. Even if she loses something, she’ll have time to rebuild, relearn.”
Marjorie didn’t reply. What was there to say? She felt Rillibee’s hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “I have a feeling.”
She wondered if she should cry. What she felt was anger. Anger at Rigo. Anger even at Stella herself. Rigo and Stella had done this with their foolishness. And the bons had done this. Forget the Hippae, malevolent though they were. It was human foolishness that had
