Not
for the first time she silently cursed the singularity that had caused her to
age so badly. How could she blame him? When he had left it was he who was the
elder by six years. Now it was she who was older by almost fifteen years. At
fifty-four most humans were just sliding past middle age. Calla had already
fallen over the edge. Years of grimacing from the pain were etched in her face.
She was old, and she knew it. He knew it, too.
“It
must be through here,” she heard Marmion say.
“What?”
She’d barely been aware that they’d left the main chamber and were in a tunnel
that branched north and northeast. Marmion was shining his lamp in the
northeast tunnel, moving on ahead because the way was narrow. Calla glanced
down at the plat, satisfied herself that Marmion had selected the right way and
followed him. The sandstone gave away completely to crinkly limestone through
which a trough had been bored to carry chemical drainage lines, with a raised
walking platform left for installing the lines and maintaining them.
“Light
up ahead,” Marmion said. “You have your stellerator on?”
“It
is now,” Calla said, flicking the switch on the front of the vest. The
stellerator was silent to those who could not hear the low end of audible
sound. Calla had no difficulty hearing the hums resonate in the narrow
passageway. She was annoyed to think that this was something aging saved some
humans. Her hearing was perfect.
At
the end of the trough, Marmion and Calla turned off their lamps. There was
plenty of natural light from outside even though the limestone cliff where the
trough broke through was in shadow. Calla stepped down into the trough to peer
through the opening. They were near the base of a cliff, vertical but weathered
limestone rock above them, a steep slope of rubble-rock and gravel that gave
over to tenacious deciduous growth below. They could hear the sound of running
water, but they could not see water anywhere. The greenery below was too thick.
Off to the right and left Calla could see fresh scars that revealed half a
dozen more troughs, just like the one they were standing in.
“Looks
all right from here, “ Marmion said. “Some of it we can just dump right over
the edge, though to be safe I think we should elbow the acid and solvent drains
down to the rocks. We’ll lose a lot of that greenery, but . . .”
“I
want everything piped all the way down to the water,” Calla said.
“We
don’t have to worry about cleanup around here,” Marmion started to say, then he
saw the set of Calla’s jaw and nodded, “But I guess there’s no reason not to be
neat, even here.”
“Can
we get down?” Calla said, looking at the rock for laser-chipped handholds. “I
want to take a look at the waterway, get an idea of its volume.”
“What
for?” Marmion said. “If it isn’t enough, it isn’t, and there’s nothing we can
do about it. No time to build holding tanks.”
“I
want to know,” Calla said. She looked from the rock back at Marmion. He was
staring out at the green canyon, no doubt thinking of how it would look when
the acids and solvents were running through it. Normally, being certain that no
damage was done to the terrain was part of his responsibility, but not in this
assignment. His job ended right here at the wall. Fortunately, his training did
not.
“
I
can get down,” he said finally.
From
the way he’d spoken, Calla was pretty sure he meant
she’d
probably break a leg if she tried to climb down. He probably
was right, so she nodded and reached over to take his lamp and anything else he
cared to relieve himself of. He gave her his hip pack, first hooking his radio
onto a clip on the stellerator. Then he backed off the ledge, lowering himself
about one body length before jumping the final two meters to the loose gravel.
He landed on his feet and slid, then jump-stepped until he had his balance.
Soon he disappeared in the underbrush, but she got occasional glances of his
khakis contrasted against the deep green colors.
“It’s
pretty small,” she heard him say through the radio after about ten minutes. “But
it’s swift. Can’t tell how deep . . . still murky after the
rains last night.”
“Will
it carry everything safely?” Calla said into the mic on her shoulder.
“Can’t
tell without knowing how deep it is.”
“So
find out,” Calla said.
“Timekeeper
be damned, Calla. If it’s deep, it may carry me.”
“Use
a stick. You can tell how deep by measuring the wet part,” she said.
“Funny,
but a stick won’t do it. I’m going to wade out a ways . . . cold
as ice. But the grip-boots work pretty well on the wet rock.”
“Careful.”
“I’m
only up to my knees; if there’s no drop-offs, I’ll be . . . yeow!”
“Marmion?”
Calla stood up trying to see some sign of him below. She couldn’t even see the
water, let alone the perfectionist. “Marmion!” Then, where she thought Marmion
ought to be she saw a rainbow climb steeply out of the undergrowth. She could
just make out the shape of strongly arched wings in the blur of color before
the rainbow disappeared over the cliffs. “Marmion?”
“I’m
all right. Did you see?”
“Yes,
some danae. They’re harmless, but they move fast. Did they startle you?”
“No,
they shat on me. They were in a bough over the stream. I saw them and
recognized what they were, so I wasn’t worried. But when they saw me they let
loose with a load of crap. I think they threw up, too. Disgusting.”
Over
the mic, Calla heard the water sounds intensify. “They regurgitate food and
empty their bowels in order to lighten weight and take off in an emergency,”
Calla said.
“Yeah,”
Marmion said. “I read the reports, too. They didn’t mention the stink . . .
nor the stain. This uniform is ruined.” After a moment he added, “I’m headed
back up.”
“Will
the waterway carry?”
“Just
barely would be my guess, but like I said before, there’s nothing we can do
about it if it can’t.”
Well,
nothing easy, Calla thought, but surely something. She’d check for other water
sources in the area to see what could be done about increasing the volume if it
became necessary. Jason’s rangers ought to be capable of building a dam and
diverting some water into the canyon.
Marmion
was in view again, moving slowly up the slope.
Calla
could hear him breathing heavily through the mic. Like everyone else who’d come
from the
Belden Traveler
, the
perfectionist was in less than perfect physical condition after the long
journey, and the stellerator was heavy. Calla kept finding herself adjusting
the vest-like apparatus to shift the weight, and she was sweating beneath it
though it was cool here on the ledge. At last Marmion climbed from the scree
slope to the wall, and he came steadily up the rock. His khakis were still wet
and stained with blue-green smears across the chest and shoulders.
“Won’t
come off,” he said when he noticed her looking at him. “But at least the water
took care of the worst. What’s my hair look like?”
“Like
your shirt,” Calla said, trying not to laugh. His eyebrow was green. “Let’s go
back . . . unless you want to verify the slope on the rest of
the troughs before we go.” She smelled flowers and glanced back at the canyon.
“It
can wait.” He took his gear back from Calla and turned on the lamp. “I think
that shit had esters in it, or your perfume fills the canyon.”
The
smell of esters was sweet and getting sickening. “Let’s go back,” Calla agreed.
She took the lead, hoping to stay ahead of the smell. It helped until they
reached the big sandstone chamber, and then there was enough room for Marmion
to walk alongside and she could not go fast enough to get ahead of him again.
His stride was naturally longer, and he did not have arthritis in his hip to
slow him down. He dropped behind again when they started up the ramp-tunnel
that led to the shuttle landing site, for crew were bringing in the plumbing
pipes in banded sheaves that took almost the full width of the tunnel. The
draft was toward the opening now and was strong, so the sweet flowery smell did
not seem so bad. Even so, some of the stevedores were giving them sidelong
glances, but that may have been as much for Marmion’s green-spattered hair as
the smell.
Near
the entrance, Marmion stopped to right a fallen lamp, which then turned out to
be broken. Calla took it from him and waved him on. “I’ll fix it myself. You go
do something about that smell.”
“Probably
be pleasant if it were diluted a bit,” Marmion said. “Weird creature. But if I
had to be shit on to find out where they hang out, I’m glad it’s esters and not
phenols. Can’t wait ’til we have time for a little hunting.”
“Hunting?”
Calla looked at him sharply.
“I
guess they call it mining here. Doesn’t matter. It’s still exploiting the
natural resources. Guess we should share that find, since I’d never have gone
down there if you hadn’t insisted. Don’t worry. I won’t go without you.”
“Marmion,
what are you talking about?”
Marmion
frowned, his green brow arching. “I thought you said you read the reports.”
“I
did, at least, I read everything under the indigenous topic.”
The
perfectionist shook his head. “It was under mining. The crystallofragrantia isn’t
a rock at all. It comes from the danae. The danae have a gall that’s worth its
mass in diamonds.” He held up his fist. “That big in an old one. I wouldn’t
mind having a few to take home.”
Calla
stared at him, momentarily stunned. “The species isn’t doing well,” she finally
said, frowning as she tried to remember why. “Something to do with migratory
patterns.”
Marmion
nodded. “The ranger reports say the count goes down each year. They speculate
that it has to do with migratory patterns being disrupted by the reversal
process of the magnetic poles. And could be, too, that they’re experiencing
unfavorable mutations because of the constant cosmic ray zapping. Whatever the
reason, the rangers have recorded a noticeable drop in the danae population
three years in a row. So, better we get our hunting done this year while there’s
still something left to hunt. You with me, Calla?”
“No,”
she said slowly, remembering Old Blue-eyes and Tonto with wings like prayer
scrolls. Even stronger was the image of Jason smiling for the first time in
thirty years, smiling because the danae were nearby. “Marmion, you saw them.
They’re exotic, so beautiful. Could you really kill one of those creatures?”
Marmion
shrugged. “The ranger-governor set up some regulations. He said in the reports
that he couldn’t stop it, so he was going to control it. Some people would
shoot their mothers for a lot less . . . or their governor. See
you at dinner, Calla.”
Calla
tightened the connector on the back of the lamp. It flashed on and she righted
it. She looked at the tunnel entrance where Marmion’s big frame was silhouetted
now against strong sunlight. He was a factory man, not given to hunting for
thrill or sport. He wouldn’t even consider hunting for mere pocket change. No
doubt every man and woman in her contingent knew the real value of the danae’s
gall, except her. She got to her feet to go back to the shuttle, determined to
lock herself up with Jason’s reports again. And this time she wouldn’t skim
over the dull stuff.
The overhead lights in the comm-room were dimmed; light
from the flatscreens silhouetted the comm-tech ranger in the duty chair. His
back was to the transparent door.
“Open,”
Jason said. As the door
whooshed
, the
ranger turned to give him a grin.
“It’s
good to see a ranger uniform come through that door for a change,” the
comm-tech said. “Hasn’t been anything but Praetorian guards since morning.” The
flatscreen beeped for attention. The comm-tech rolled his eyes and turned
around. “More bills of lading from the
Belden
Traveler
,” he commented, “and still no newsbean. Two full days and nothing
for us, yet.”
Jason
glanced quickly at the traffic register, noticed that the shuttle had been
cleared to land three times during the shift. A typical supply ship would have
shuttled goods only once per rotation, its crew using the ground time to gossip
with the rangers and miners about interesting asides that weren’t in the
newsbeans and to do official and unofficial bartering. No announcement had gone
out over the airwaves to the miners this time, for
Belden Traveler
was strictly a military transport and its holds
would be empty on the return trip to the Hub. He wasn’t surprised that the
newsbeans hadn’t been brought down yet, not with Calla’s communication
restrictions. Her people hadn’t taken over the comm-room yet; the newsbeans
wouldn’t be sent until they did.
There
was nothing requiring his attention in the traffic register. Jason picked up
the danae observation notes. Those he read with interest.
Again
more danae than usual were present in the terrace garden, some feeding on the
tidbits provided by the Round House kitchen, others observing all the unusual
activity the shuttle landings had caused. The comm-tech noted that all the
danae seemed spellbound by the shuttle flights, eyes turned skyward even before
the official landing request appeared on the flatscreen. A bonded pair were
sighted gliding the thermals toward the Amber Forest, a pair that hadn’t been
seen since fall when they flew south. Jason hoped a few more danae of the Amber
Forest population would yet return now that winter was truly over.
He
kept count of the returning migration; last year seven danae failed to return.
The miners complained that the returning migrations of the unprotected danae
seemed more scant every year. That worried Jason a great deal. He feared they
were dying out, no more able to cope with the increasing cosmic rays than
humans would be without stellerators. Or it could be that the incomplete
reversal of the magnetic poles had disturbed the migration pattern, which might
be even more devastating. There wasn’t enough information to determine if either
assumption was correct. He shook his head and put down the notes.