The strange craft circled and recircled the clearing, blowing the grass flat with its jets, whipping leaves and dust high in the air. Lian turned her back and closed her eyes against debris. She heard rather than saw the craft set down. There was a hissing sigh as the motor shut off. A hatch spring sang out. Brushing her hair back from her face, she turned and saw a man running toward her, a stranger.
He was tall, brown skinned, and gaunt. His curly
white hair gleamed in the sun, but he appeared younger than her father. He was dressed in tan clothes and work boots, and tools jangled from his belt.
"Are you all right?" he called. His accent was cultured and of Earth. Now that she could see him clearly, she relaxed somewhat. His face was kind if not handsome, his expression a mixture of concern and puzzlement. "Should you be walking about? You look rather pale." As he came up to her, he reached out and gently but firmly touched her chin and turned her bruised face to the light. "Is that very painful?" he asked, frankly studying her.
"It's fine," she said, wondering who he was. "I'm always pale. It comes from studying at night and sleeping days." She took a step back. "I'm very glad to see you. Who are you?"
"A reasonable question," the man said and smiled. "Jeffrey Farr." He nodded toward his aircraft. "As
you probably guessed by the flags, we're here on a field trip."
Lian had not noticed the insignia. It was painted on the open hatch and identified the craft as belonging to the "Balthor Archaeological Research Expedition, Interstellar Geographic Society and Central Pacific University, Joint Sponsors. Dr. J. Farr, Comm."
"What are archaeologists doing on Balthor? I thought this was a Class Five planet. There's no civilization—is there?"
"No more," the man agreed, "but there was once. We don't know yet if it was native or if the planet served as a colony for another world, but habitations do exist. Now, if you will forgive my curiosity, who are you?"
She stared at him. "Lian Webster, of course. Who were you searching for?"
He suppressed a smile. "No one—living."
Lian felt herself blush with confusion. "You didn't know I was here?"
"No," the man said. "I was site-hunting. I saw the sun glinting off your aircraft, wondered what it was, and flew over to check. Are you alone?"
"Yes—I crashed last night—"
"Good Lord! Lian Webster, where are you from?"
"Mount Balthor Observatory."
"That's a thousand miles away at least! How did you end up here? We must call them at once." His obvious concern was somehow very comforting.
She told him and then looked down at her white pants and jacket. They were dirt-stained and spotted with blood from her split lip. "Do I look very terrible? Will they be upset when they see me on the screen?"
"I imagine they're upset already, but your appearance won't be an added shock. There's no screen on my craft. Just a radio."
It took almost five minutes to get the observatory to respond to their call. When someone finally answered, it was Max, one of the maintenance crew. He seemed surprised to hear she was not in Limai. "We
17
thought the storm grounded you," he said. "It's still raining there, and we've got heavy snow a mile below us."
Lian didn't really care about his weather report. "Can I speak with either of my parents?"
"Sorry. They're both in the big dome. They've got the no-admittance, no-calls rule in effect."
"This is an emergency, Max. You can interrupt."
"Look—uh—give me your channel code," he said, and then, to her extreme irritation, went off the air with, "I'll get back to you."
Nobody even noticed I was missing, she thought, but said aloud, "He's going to call back," which was unnecessary since Dr. Farr had heard the entire conversation.
"Yes." His tone was noncommittal, and he was staring off into space as if distracted by another thought. "Your parents are—" he started to say and then took a deep breath and changed his mind. "Are you hungry?"
"I'm starving," she said honestly. "I haven't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. And I'm very thirsty!"
"Good. I've just the thing."
As he rummaged about in a container under the bolted-in pilot's seat, she looked the craft over. "What kind of vehicle is this? I never saw one like it."
"Tolat truck. Great design, isn't it? It's a bit functional—but they don't need seats—here we go!" He handed her several food boxes.
Over the fruit drink and chocolate protein bars she told him the details of her adventure. He listened with Ms eyes, so closely that his own fleeting expressions registered any changes in her face. She sat on the open hatch, he cross-legged on the ground, totally at ease.
"It pounded on the wing?" he said. "In rage or pain?"
"I don't know—I was too scared to tell."
He nodded. "I would have been too." He looked over at her aircar and shook his head in wonder. "You're one fine pilot, Lian Webster!"
18
"I'm one lucky pilot," she said, and he grinned at
her.
"That animal of yours bothers me a little," he said. "There aren't supposed to be dangerous animals of that size around here. According to the experts. I never trust experts in things like that." He stood up. "There's really no point waiting here. Your people can pick you up at our base far more conveniently than here."
"What about my aircar? It doesn't look like much now, but it's very expensive equipment."
"We'll call the wrecker at Limai. They can come pick it up with a magnetic hoist." He walked over to the wreck. "Do you want to salvage the supplies?"
"If we can."
While they were transferring cartons to the other ship, the radio beeper went on again. Dr. Farr was in the truck and took the call. It was very brief, and he seemed to spend most of the time listening. He came out with a bemused expression.
"That was Max," he said, and Lian frowned. "Would you—uh—like to join us on the dig? Be our guest?"
"If I could," she said politely, wondering why he was issuing an invitation now. "How long will you be on Balthor? You see, we're expecting a star to supernova any time now, and that's going to keep us all busy. It's very lucky—you don't often get to see the actual explosion. . . ." The expression on his face made her pause. "What is it?"
"Well, that's just it. Apparently the nova has occurred and no one ... I suggested we fly you back to Limai and they could meet us there. .. ." He paused to choose the kindest words. "None of the observatory staff can be spared to pick you up at the moment. And I'm afraid our trucks can't brave the high mountains with the chance of r
unnin
g into a storm up there."
"Oh," said Lian, and suddenly she was very tired. But not surprised by the decision. It was quite like her parents. She appreciated Dr. Farr's tact but knew exactly what the reality was. They were in charge of the observatory. It was a choice between having their full
19
staff recording a supernova as it happened or someone's missing part of that experience to come and get her. And since she was safe, after all, she could wait. They would have let anyone else wait. Her personal interest In the event was incidental. Their work came first. Tears burned her eyes, and she turned her back and blinked rapidly, not wanting a stranger to see. "How long until they—"
"At least a week."
"That's an imposition on you," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all," he assured her. "It will be a pleasure to have you as our guest."
lian said very little during the hour's ride to the archaeologists' base. She politely answered Dr. Farr's questions, but after several futile attempts to draw her into conversation her rescuer decided she was worn out from her ordeal and left her alone. But it wasn't fatigue that kept her silent. She was thinking, trying to decide if, in her parents' position, she could have done the same thing.
I can understand, she thought. They cannot make exceptions for me. But it seemed to her that, if the situation had been reversed, she would have hurried to them even if three stars went into supernova and formed a black hole on camera. Perhaps that was because she was young. They ascribed many of her "wrong" deci-sions to her youth. Perhaps, when she was their age, when she had spent so many years studying distant lights in the sky, her perspective of human affairs would have altered. But at the moment her feelings were hurt. She did
not
understand. She did not want to understand. She wanted to cry.
"That's our base there—on the bluff above the bend in the river," Dr. Farr announced. "If you look down the valley to the southeast, you'll see the outline of an old city."
The base was obvious, with its street of yellow-dome housing units and large white X-mark landing pad. All she could see in the forest to the southeast was a series of large wooded mounds. Only slowly
20
did she realize the mounds formed a pattern of a great green eye. A red dirt road led from the camp to the corner of the eye, like a tear's trace.
As she looked down on it, a curious murmur filled her mind, like a song remembered in a dream. She could almost understand the words, as if she had once known what they meant. Then it stopped.
She glanced over at Dr. Farr; he appeared unaffected. The phenomenon was probably the result of too many altitude and air pressure changes on her inner ears, she decided. Or perhaps the protein bar had disagreed with her.
In the ancient structure below, beneath the center of the eye, the Counter added One.
In the time between landing and late after-
noon, Lian forgot her hallucination. Dr. Farr led her directly from the truck to the medical dome, where she spent a naked hour alone being analyzed and intimidated by the medicom's probings. When she emerged, she had had a medicated shower, a thorough physical, which found her tired and bruised but healthy, and her fill of that pushy machine's smug androgenous voice issuing orders.
She had often been told it was an immature trait— being irked by computers. Perhaps it was, but Lian secretly thought most machines developed personality traits of their own, and some were hostile to humans
or
felt superior. Which means I am probably paranoid as well as childish, she was thinking as she came out, combing her ..wet hair with her fingers.
Dr. Farr was waiting, sitting on his haunches on the path by the door. Seeing her expression, he stood up, concerned. "Everything O.K.?"
"Fine. Just cuts and bruises. And your medicom
wants me to cut my hair to avoid contamination by mold spores."
"It tells us all that," he said with a grin. "I suspect it was programmed by a bald fanatic. Ignore it and come see where you'll be staying. I fixed up the guest module for you, and we moved in some clothes and toiletries, as Dr. Scott calls them. She's our language expert, Earthly and otherwise. She's a redhead and was born in the spring. Her parents named her Robin, but if you're wise, you'll call her Scotty. Let's get you some real food, and you can meet the staff when they come back for lunch . . . and I'll show you . . ." He chatted on so cheerfully and was so obviously glad to have her there that her spirits began to rise.
Of all the people she met at lunch, human and non-human, the only face she remembered was Dr. Scott's. Perhaps because the woman had eyes that crinkled into laughter at unexpected moments. Lian was at that stage of physical exhaustion where the mind functions on instinct; she could not have rationally explained why she liked Dr. Scott on first hello; she just did. Just as she disliked the staff photographer, whose name was Vincent. By the time lunch was over, she hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, and all she wanted to do was take a nap.
Her guest house resembled a small yellow igloo with two round windows and a vent pipe. Inside, a bath module made one wall flat. In contrast to the brilliant exterior, the interior was a restful beige, the furnishings spartan but adequate. The bed felt wonderfully soft. Luxuriating in the feel of it, she stretched and yawned and pushed a pillow under her left ear.
Dr. Fair and Dr. Scott had told her so much over lunch that it was hard to remember it all. There were some fifty staff members, about half of them human. There were five amalfi—lavender creatures with bodies like four tubular arms, bulbous heads, and purple beaks that spoke in rapid clicks. Highly intelligent, they came from a world wetter than Balthor. They suffered discomfort here and wore breathing-assist ap-
23
paratuses but persisted because they sought evidence of a long-lost colony of their own. The balance of the staff were dwarf tolats. The tolats' names all sounded like interrupted snores. A race crablike in appearance, they were known for their engineering and mechanical talents, durability, and total lack of imagination. The airtruck was of tolat design, as was much of the equipment here.
She rather liked the assortment, the variety of the mix, Lian decided, thinking it over. At the observatory the staff was all human; there once had been several amalfi, but they had been unable to endure the dry cold of the mountains and of the human mind. She had never talked with a tolat, and she found them very alien. But that, no doubt, would change, she thought, and fell into a long, deep sleep.