“Excuse me,” said Julian. “All this is vastly entertaining and speaks well for your training, certainly in the field of animal identification. But I am anxious to arrive at Mad Mountain Lodge, so that I can get my survey organized.”
“Just as you like,” said Glawen.
The flyer proceeded: over mountains and forests, lakes and wide rivers; majestic vistas unfolded, one after the other. At noon the land rose to become a wide upland, dotted with small lakes. Far to the west a mountain range of twenty lofty peaks dwindled away to north and south.
Glawen pointed below, to wisps of smoke rising from beside a forest. “There’s a banjee camp now. The fires, incidentally, are neither for cooking nor for warmth, but to boil up the glue which they use to fabricate their helmets and armor.”
“How far now to Mad Mountain?”
“You can see it ahead: that old volcano with the shattered peak. We’re flying over the Plain of Moans. There’s Lake Dimple, down to the right.”
Five minutes later the flyer settled upon the landing pad to the side of the lodge. The four alighted and climbed a short flight of steps to the terrace at the front of the lodge.
The four entered the lobby: a tall room with red, white and black rugs on the stone floor. Banjee artifacts were everywhere to be seen: battle-axes arranged in a crescent pattern over the fireplace; a dozen weirdly beautiful helmets on a rack; spheres and tablets of polished malachite, cinnabar, nephrite and milk opal, each about three inches in diameter, in a case at the registration desk. The clerk noticed Wayness’ interest. “Those are banjee magic stones. Don’t ask me how to use them; I don’t know.”
“Are they for sale?”
“From a hundred sols for the cinnabar to five hundred for the nephrite to a thousand for the milk opal.”
The four were assigned rooms; at the same time photographs were made of each.
The clerk explained: “The hall yonder leads to the dining room; it is also the gallery where we display pictures of guests who have been killed by the banjees. If you should be so unlucky, we prefer to hang the ‘before’ picture rather than the after – especially since the gallery is on the way to the dining room.”
“Ridiculous!” said Julian. “Shall we have lunch?”
“Give me time to wash my face,” said Wayness.
The four met on the terrace, and went to stand by the balustrade which overlooked the Plain of Moans. Milo asked: “Where is this notorious battlefield?”
“Just down there, almost below us,” said Glawen. “See those parallel mounds, or rows, running across the plain? They are detritus cast aside by banjee hordes over thousands and thousands of years. They mark the migration routes. One route goes east to west, another north to south, and they cross just below the lodge. When the hordes collide, they don’t act like gentlemen, but hit each other with axes.”
“For a fact, it does seem rather pointless,” said Wayness.
“It’s absurd and disgraceful, and it ought to be stopped,” said Julian.
“An overpass should solve the problem nicely,” said Milo.
“Although, I must say, the routes are remarkably wide.”
“Easily a hundred yards across,” said Glawen.
Julian stood frowning down at the battlefield. Wayness asked gently: “Did you know that the routes were so wide?”
Julian gave his head a curt shake. “This is my first visit to Mad Mountain, as you must know. Let’s have our lunch.”
The four were seated at a table, and lunch was served. “Perhaps we can help Julian with his calculations,” said Milo. “The overpass should be a hundred yards wide, in order to match the route. The span will also be at least a hundred yards, with a clearance of - how much clearance are you planning, Julian?”
“Really, I haven’t given the matter much thought.”
“A clearance of forty feet will allow the banjees to march below without dipping their lances. If Julian designs his ramps with a six percent grade, each approach will be about seven hundred feet long. Julian, how many cubic yards of material do you think you will require for your ramps?”
“I haven’t gone anywhere near that far in my thinking. An overpass may or may not be the optimum approach. I am here to discover if a practical solution exists.”
Wayness spoke in a soothing voice. “Don’t let Milo’s foolishness disturb you. You do your surveys and think and plan as much as you like, and we’ll keep out of your way. Glawen, what do you suggest for this afternoon?”
“We can walk up Mad Mountain. There are some interesting ruins along the way: a stone platform and what seems to have been a tower. Archaeologists think they were built by an extinct tribe of banjees. You’ll also see some blue darters. They pretend to be flowers so that they can catch insects. Tourists who try to pick them run into trouble. First, the blue darter spits on them, then shrieks and finally throws off its decoration, curls up its tail and stings.”
“Interesting: What else?”
“You’ll probably see rockorchids with glass flowers and creeping arbutus, which moves about planting its own seeds. Farynxes live up the mountain. They hunt in a most ingenious fashion. One hides in the bushes; the other lies on its back and exudes the odor of carrion which presently attracts a scavenger bird. The hidden farynx makes a quick leap and both dine on fowl.”
“You still haven’t told us why it’s called Mad Mountain.”
“The story doesn’t amount to much. A crotchety old gentleman came tottering down the trail shouting, ‘The mountain is mad!’ It seems that he had gone up to study the ruins. Along the way he picked a blue darter which spit into his beard, stung his hand, screamed and ran away. He sat down on a creeping arbutus, which squirmed out from under him. He came upon what appeared to be a sick farynx, about to be torn apart by a fine fat corbalbird. From the kindness of his heart, the old man chased away the bird, and both farynxes jumped at him and bit his leg. He limped on up to the ruins and there he found a troupe of poets performing interpretive dances, and this is when he lost touch with reality. He tottered back down the trail, and Mount Stephen Tose has been ‘Mad Mountain’ ever since.”
Milo looked at Wayness. “Do you believe him?”
“I have no choice. But I’d like to see these marvels for myself.”
“I’ve had my lunch and I’m ready at any time,” said Milo.
“I’m ready,” said Wayness. “Let’s go. Julian, we’ll be back before too long. Certainly before dinner.”
“Just a minute,” said Julian. “Glawen was assigned to me as an assistant. I may need him.”
Glawen stared in astonishment. “What’s this? Am I hearing correctly?”
“You heard correctly,” said Milo. “Julian needs someone to run back and forth carrying the end of his tape measure.”
Glawen shook his head “I fly the aircraft and identify animals. I will even try to save Julian’s life if and when he does something foolish. My duties extend no further.”
Julian swung away with a set expression on his face. He went the balustrade, looked out over the plain for a moment, then turned back to the others. “I’ve seen all I need to see, at least for the moment.”
“Come along, then, and walk up the mountain,” said Wayness.
“That’s a good idea,” said Julian. “Let me change into my walking gear; I’ll just be a minute.”
So passed the afternoon. With Syrene low in the sky the four returned down the mountain. They went to sit on the terrace, where they drank sundowners and watched Syrene descend into the far mountains.
Wayness pointed out across the plain. “What is that dazzle out there? It must be Lake Dimple.”
“Correct,” said Glawen. “When Syrene drops low you can see the reflection. There’s nothing much out there but the banjee camp, which isn’t worth visiting unless you find a magic stone.”
“What are the chances?”
“Fair, unless the banjees are using the camp. Then the probability becomes zero.”
“We’d have to ride bunters?”
“It’s a very long walk.”
“Why can’t we take the flyer?” asked Julian.
“A tempting idea, but against regulations, since it causes problems with the other guests.”
Julian shook his head in deprecation. “Well, no matter. According to the guidebook, the bunters are irascible beasts, but quite safe if one wears the proper riding habit. This puzzles me. Are the bunters so very conventional?”
“Mainly, they have a vile disposition and would gladly kill us if we gave them the chance. Before anyone rides them, the stablemen prepare them and put them in a good mood.”
“And apparently the rider must dress to suit the bunter’s notion of what is proper costume.”
“The riding habits actually serve a practical purpose. The bunter is pacified by a curious procedure. The Yip stablemen feed the bunter well, then tease it with sticks until the bunter is beside itself with rage. At this point the stablemen throw out a straw puppet dressed in a black hat, white coat, black breeches and a red sash - the riding habit. The bunter savages the puppet, stomping and kicking tossing it in the air, and finally, when the puppet is thoroughly trounced, the bunter tucks it up on its back, to be eaten later, since it is not now hungry.
“The bunter’s rage is discharged and it becomes relatively docile. The Yips drop blinders over its eyes; the rider takes the place of the puppet, lifts the blinders and rides away in comfort.
“To dismount, the rider must drop the blinders, otherwise the bunter thinks its victim is escaping and kills it again. So: if you ride a bunter, remember! Never dismount without dropping the blinders.”
“I think I understand,” said Milo. “If I want to find a magic stone worth a thousand sols, I ride a bunter to Lake Dimple and search till I find one.”
“That is more or less correct.”
“And my chances of returning alive?”
“Good to excellent; provided that, first, the bunter is properly teased and baited; second, that you remember to drop the blinders before you dismount; third, that the banjees do not discover you prowling around their camp; fourth, that you are not attacked by other wild animals, such as thuripids or upland fells.”
“How do you recover stones which have been thrown into the lake?”
“You can wade out and feel through the mud with your toes. You are not allowed to use mechanical equipment; that becomes ‘exploitation.’ It’s borderline in any case, but the authorities have relaxed a trifle, and classify the stones as ‘souvenirs’ rather than ‘precious minerals.’”
“I’m willing to make the effort,” said Milo.
“I am too,” said Wayness. “Although I’m far from easy in my mind. What if the bunter gets hungry along the way and decides to eat its lunch?”
“Then you must blow its head off. Everyone carries a gun.”
“I wish I weren’t such a coward,” said Wayness. “But I’ll be nice to my bunter and maybe it will be nice to me.”
“That’s how I’d feel if I were a bunter,” said Glawen. “In fact, I might carry you far off over the hills, and keep you for a pet.”
Julian frowned in displeasure, clearly deeming the remark inappropriate or even presumptuous. He surveyed Glawen through narrowed eyes. “Small chance of that. I’d catch you up before you had trotted half a mile.” He spoke with a thin smile although his voice lacked any trace of humor. “Your escapade would earn you no applause; to the contrary.”
Glawen, somewhat taken aback, made a rueful response. “Even if I weren’t a bunter, I’d like her for a pet.”
Julian spoke to Wayness: “Please ignore my overgallant assistant; his pleasantries are a trifle overfamiliar, under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances are these?” asked Glawen.
“It is not particularly your affair, but I may say that Wayness and I have an understanding of long duration.”
Wayness gave an uneasy laugh. “Flux, Julian! Everything moves, everything shifts. As for Glawen, despite his grim practicality, he has a poet’s soul, and you must tolerate his flights of fancy.”
“I am, after all, a Clattuc,” said Glawen. “We are famous for our romantic excesses.”
“I can cite a case in point,” said Milo. “I refer to the legendary Reynold Clattuc. He risked his life to save a beautiful maiden from a blizzard out on the Kaskovy Waste. He carried her through the storm to a way station; he built fires to warm her, rubbed her hands and feet and patiently fed her hot soup and morsels of buttered toast. She ate as much as she could, then, relaxing in her chair, found herself compelled to belch, which so outraged Reynold Clattuc’s sensibilities that he put her out in the snow again.”
“Milo, that story is not altogether credible,” said Wayness.
“She must have done something else as well,” said Glawen. “I don’t think I’d put her out for such a transitory offense.”
“What do you think she did?” asked Milo.
“It’s hard to say. She might have scolded him for burning the toast.”
“Clearly the tradition persists,” said Milo. “It’s wise to mind one’s manners while dining with a Clattuc!”
“I’ll be careful,” said Wayness. “I would not want Glawen to think me vulgar.”
Glawen rose to his feet. “Right now I think that I had better order the bunters made ready for tomorrow. Julian, will you be inspecting the battlefield or do you care to try your luck at Lake Dimple?”
Julian wrestled with himself. In a subdued voice he said: “I’ve seen enough for the present. I’ll go out to Lake Dimple.”
Glawen and Milo went off to the stables. Julian watched the two cross the terrace, and gave his head a disparaging shake. He turned to Wayness. “Romantic or not, I find that Clattuc fellow definitely objectionable. I quite resent the way he looks at you. He seems to forget that you’re a Naturalist and a goodly cut above Station personnel, no matter what airs they put on. For a fact, you should put him right and quite sharply.”
“Julian, I’m surprised! I thought that LPFers endorsed the classless society, with everyone marching arm in arm into the dawn of a new era.”
“Up to a point. In my personal life I make very definite distinctions, which I consider to be my prerogative. I represent the highest level of the Gaean race, and I refuse to tolerate or associate with anything other than the very best - in which category I am pleased to include you.”
“I also have a high opinion of myself,” said Wayness. “I too don’t care to associate with lesser folk, by which I mean fools and hypocrites.”