or 1318, Uchjin or Ashinshyh. Got anything on them?”
Ortega’s multiple arms whipped through maps, charts, and diagrams while he kept up a steady stream of frustration-induced curses. If things were going to get this complicated, he preferred to be the one doing the complicating.
Northern maps were only so-so. They marked oceans, for example, but the oceans could be methane or any one of a dozen other more lethal compounds. Nothing up there bore the slightest kinship to him, not even as close a kinship as he, a six-armed snake-man, bore to Gol Miter, a giant spider. Some Northern races were so alien that there was no common frame of reference possible with what he and the others of the South considered normal existence.
One thing for sure, he saw, looking at the map. Uchjin and Ashinshyh were both nontech or semitech hexes and could not support a sophisticated power system like that of a ship.
He sighed. “Gol, even if they survived the crash, which I doubt, they’re only as good as their air. I don’t know what the hell these symbols for Uchjin mean in terms of atmosphere, but there’s sure no oxygen in it. The Ashinshyh are a little better—there’s some oxygen and even water there—but there’s so much hydrogen around they may have blown half the hex to hell.”
Miter agreed. “Since we’ve had no reports of disaster, and no sign of Well activation, I’d say Uchjin, then. How about your Northern contacts? Anything we can use?”
“I doubt it,” Ortega replied sourly. “Nobody I know near there. I haven’t even the slightest idea what the Uchjin look like. They may have an ambassador on station, though, or somebody close might. Worth a try. I hate to see the Northerners brought into this, though. I don’t trust what I can’t understand, and some of those boys are nasty customers with alien motives.”
“No choice,” Miter responded pragmatically. “I’ll send somebody up to North Zone and see what can be done. That crash has
“Not
Technicians had been in and out for half the day setting up special equipment. He punched the direct line to Ambassador Vardia.
“Czill,” came a voice.
“Ortega here. We’ve got another one down in the North. Get on it. Any word on the Teliagin business yet?”
“Hmmm… the North,” mused the plant-creature. “No, nothing from the Teliagin sector yet. The Lata party went in pretty quickly, though. Be patient, Serge. It’s only been two days.”
“Patience is a virtue best left to the dead, who can afford it,” growled Ortega, and switched off.
Teliagin
Even walking, twenty kilometers isn’t really that far—if you know where you’re going. But sunrise on the second day had brought heavy clouds totally obscuring the sun. All through the night there had been the far-off toll of drums, messages relayed from one point to another throughout the hex in an unknown and unguessable code.
Mavra Chang suspected that the messages involved speculations about the strange beings, rather small, who had crashed in some sort of flying machine and were now on the loose somewhere in the land.
At least it didn’t rain; they were thankful for that. It continued dark and ominous all day, though; the cover was much too thick to see the sun and guess direction. In ordinary circumstances, Chang would have waited for clearer skies despite the dangers, but she knew that the deadly disease was eating away at her two companions, and if she didn’t make those mountains and that coast quickly, there would be no hope.
Every once in a while doubt would creep into the back of her mind, doubt born of the logical probability that the new lands would be no more friendly than this one. The denizens—for all she knew, more cyclopses—would be no friendlier, no more advanced, no more able to help.
And, worse, although she was certain that they weren’t backtracking, she really didn’t know in which direction they were going. She had started off in the same direction, of course, but the woods were thick; there were some broad dirt roads and wide meadows to avoid, and who knew whether they had picked up in the same way after they had been forced to divert?
About the only good news had been the apples. At least, they looked a lot like apples, although they grew on bushes and had a funny, purple skin. Almost in desperation, she had gambled on some food source—and the lower-level wildlife looked warm-blooded and somewhat familiar. If alien bacteria hadn’t already gotten to them, then it was probably not going to—or so she prayed.
The big rodents ate the fruit with abandon, and she decided to risk doing likewise. Nikki, despite having her appetite drug-depressed, was still the hungriest, and she probably couldn’t have been restrained much longer, anyway. Mavra let the girl eat one, knowing they should wait several hours for the test to be conclusive, but when she reported the fruit to be sweet and good and easily chewed, the temptation to Mavra, whose own appetite could not be depressed, became too much to ignore.
They satisfied, they were good, and they were plentiful, apparently an important part of the upper animal food chain of this place. And they were doubly important. They proved that, no matter what else happened, Mavra Chang could survive here.
The second day had been a lot more satisfactory than the first. Even so, she was uncertain. The other two, now, had seen the great cyclopses, with their fierce expressions and nasty fangs, pulling wooden hand-hewn carts along the roads and tending flocks of animals that looked much like common sheep in the meadows.
Neither of the two spongies had shown much change as yet, but that was deceptive, she knew. In normal conversation there was little difference between an IQ of 100 and an IQ of 150. There was no question that Nikki would deteriorate faster; she was a little above average, but no genius.
As darkness fell at the end of the second day, the mountains were still nowhere in sight and the landscape didn’t seem to have varied much at all. There was a chill in the air from the damp, humid skies and a light drizzle. Neither Renard nor Nikki was at all comfortable; they had no protection, in or out of those filmy things from New Pompeii, and although Mavra’s clothing provided decent protection, she was by far the smallest of the three and had nothing to spare that could fit either of the others.
The darkness of the second evening was as much in their spirits as in the night surrounding them.
She tried bunching them all together for body warmth, but she was so small and their skin so cold and clammy that all this seemed to do was transfer their misery to her. Nikki, being heavy and unaccustomed to exercise, was, as usual, the first to fall asleep, leaving her with Renard, as before. They sat there awhile, thinking of little to say. He had his arm around her, holding her close to him, but it was not a romantic gesture, not an advance. It was a binding together in the face of adversity.
Finally, he said, “Mavra, do you really think there’s any point to all this? You and I both know we don’t even know where we are or what’s over the next hill or even whether the next hill isn’t some previous hill.”
The question irritated her, because it vocalized her own inner doubts. “There’s always a point to it until you’re dead,” she replied, and she believed it.
“You really think so?” he responded. “Not just brave talk?”
She shifted slightly, looking away from him, out into the blackness.
“I was raised by a rough freighter captain. Not the most ideal parent, I guess, but, in her own way, she did love me, I think, and I loved her. I grew up in space, the big freighter my playground, the big ports new and dazzling amusements every few weeks.”
“Must’ve been lonely,” he commented.
She shook her head. “No, not at all. After all, it was all I ever knew. It was normal to me. And it taught me how to be on my own for long periods of time—conditioned me against the loneliness, made me rely on myself. That was important, because my mother was doing a lot of illegal stuff. Most freighter captains do, but this must’ve been really big. The Com Police busted her and the ship was seized. I was about thirteen then, and I was
