Power Lines (13 page)

Usually, he had found, there was a ringleader, or maybe more accurately, an opinion maker, generally someone suffering from the borderline schizophrenia that passed for “creativity.” These people had to be stabilized and adjusted, or eliminated. Elimination was not the preferred option, simply because one such person would invariably be replaced by another leader, whereas if one used the power they had already built up among their fellows for one’s own purposes, results were much quicker.

As an anthropologist, he had made a particular study of the sort of beliefs people were apt to indulge in, and from what he’d heard of Petaybee, their mass illusion was not an especially unusual one.

They thought their planet was sentient. Quite likely all these seemingly remarkable incidents of meteorological and geological shifting were merely coincidental, possibly a delayed reaction to the TerraB process—and he faulted Whittaker Fiske for not remarking on that probability. Certainly these natural occurrences should not be attributed to some gigantic powers or some sort of immense alien life-form, dabbling in so-called adaptive changes.

He was no fool. He had studied the autopsies and all of the Kilcoole group’s other “evidence.” He was more inclined to think that the claims were more in the nature of a local belief than a planetwide one. The “adaptive changes,” which bordered on extremes, were no doubt mutations from some latent toxins contained by this world which had previously gone undetected. They would, of course, need to be eliminated—or the inhabitants removed, which would suit Intergal’s purposes quite well.

But the commission wouldn’t do so on his unsupported opinion. His wisest course was to find other opinion leaders who held beliefs different from those of the people in Kilcoole, to demonstrate to the commission that local superstition on the part of one group should not be allowed to be taken as a planetwide condition.

To that end, he ordered a helicopter for his own use while Marmion was out and busy charming the locals. He was told that a pilot named Greene could be made available to him.

“Destination, sir?”

“I wish to travel to the settlements on the
southern
hemisphere,” Matthew said. “I will need transport and accommodations for myself and three assistants.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said with an apologetic wince. “The only craft now available has room for the pilot and two other people. That’s all.”

“Then make another craft available. Do you think my work is so trivial it can be performed unaided?”

“You said that, sir, not me.”

“What is your name?” Matthew sputtered.

“Rhys-Hall, sir. Captain Neva M. Rhys-Hall, communications officer. No offense intended, sir. If it’s the pilot’s name you’re wanting, sir, it’s John Greene. He’s scheduled for Harrison’s Fjord anyway at 1220 hours, can refuel there and take you southward. If you can be ready and at the field by then, you’ll save time and be there before dark.”

“And accommodations?”

“You’re on your own there, sir. Up till recently, the company never considered this planet worth
two
depots and command centers. I’d take a sleeping bag and a survival tent, if I were you.”

“Thank you for the advice, Captain. I will not forget it.” Or you, you impertinent bitch, he told himself.

One assistant, then? The decision was not difficult to make. Braddock Makem, a man who thought much as Matthew himself did, was the most trusted and resourceful of his assistants. He found Braddock in his spartan quarters, studying the various reports, and to1d him what was required of him, in perfect confidence that the gear and Braddock would be ready at the appointed time.

9

When Marmion arrived at the building—which was painted a really awful murky dark green—where Matthew Luzon had set up his office, she found only his five minions, all industriously tapping out commands while their screens showed curves and graphs and columns of figures. She didn’t approve of statistics of any kind: they only proved what the statistician wished them to. Credit reports and prospectuses were, of course, in an entirely different category.

They had the good manners to stand when she entered the room, so she smiled at them while she made a show of peering about.

“I don’t see Dr. Luzon, and I did so wish to have a word with him,” she said, beaming at the nearest of the lot. “You are . . .” She struggled to remember Sally’s tips on how to distinguish them one from another. “Ivan, aren’t you?”

“Yes’m.”

“And where is Dr. Luzon?” Marmion noted the absence of one—Braddock Makem—and began to realize she might have underestimated Matthew’s devious zealotry. How embarrassing. “Has he gone off into the wilds on adventure and left you here, slogging away at the tedious details?”

One after another of the physically fit young men cleared their throats.

“Ah, I see that he has, and it’s very much too bad of him, as I’d arranged for Captain O’Shay to take
all
of us to that so-mysterious cave for an on-site investigation. Matthew’s so keen to do on-sites,” she put in, managing a little moue of disappointment, “and this is one of the most important ones, so Whittaker Fiske assured me.” She paused to consider her disappointment. Then, brightly, she smiled around at them. “But that doesn’t mean that
you
can’t come with me, since it’s so
hard
to get a big enough copter to take us all. In fact, just us will take up all the room. So, come on, now. Save those important programs, laddie bucks, grab your anoraks and let’s be off . . .” When another of them—ah, yes, the very blond one was Hans—started to object, she said, “Now, now, I won’t hear any excuses from you, Hans. This is as important as all those figures, because it’s
sub
jective, not
ob
jective,
and it will certainly show the commission how diligent you are in examining every facet of this investigation.”

Sally and Millard had deftly slipped in behind her and were handing out outerwear to the men, who were so accustomed to obeying authority that they automatically complied. They were out the door and in the personnel transport and on their bumping way across to the big copter before they knew what had happened.

Rick O’Shay hurried them aboard, directing the seating in order to balance the load. “Real glad you fellows could make the time for this side trip, because you don’t see much from a shuttle. Blink your eyes and you’re past the interesting points. Miz Algemeine, you’re up front . . . Hey, where’s Dr. Luzon?” Rick looked around, surprise and disappointment on his face. “I thought he was the one wanted so much to come.”

Marmion could have kissed the young man—he was very attractive, anyway—because Ivan and Hans were obviously having second thoughts about the advisability of this sojourn.

“Hell’s bells.” Rick shook his head, a lugubrious expression on his face. Then he brightened up and took a deep breath. “Well, you guys can give him a full report on what he’s missing. That’s it, now buckle up.”

The big copter swung up and headed north by east, barely troubled by the turbulence.

Sally was wedged between Hans and Marcel, with Millard at the window and facing Ivan, George, Jack, and Seamus Rourke, whom Marmion had introduced as their expedition guide. Seamus had been Clodagh’s suggestion. “He’s as good, bar Sean or myself, as you’d want or need,” Clodagh had assured her.

“You’ve often been to this cave site, Mr. Rourke?” Sally asked conversationally when she saw the first hint of “should we really be here?” anxiety on Jack’s well-tanned, handsome face. With Marmion out of earshot in the front, Sally felt responsible for keeping things running smoothly in back.

“Not this particular one, Miz Sally,” Seamus said affably, twiddling his thumbs: sitting down, doing nothing while traveling a long distance was new to him. “Been in most on the east coast, whenever the folk there invite us to a latchkay. We exchange hospitality like, us in Kilcoole and them on the coast, once a year. Good things, latchkays,” he went on when he saw her look of inquiry. “Gets folks from nearby and as far away as the weather permits figurin’ out how to solve any problems that’ve come up since the last one. And we get some fine singing done. Too bad you weren’t all here for the last one we had.
Fine
songs from Major Maddock and young Diego. Kind of songs that ease the heart and mellow the soul. Maybe we could fix it that we have another one, sort of to welcome you all to Petaybee,” he added. “What with the early thaw, we couldn’t’ve planned another short of June, but I don’t see why we can’t show you lads a bit of
Petaybean hospitality while you’re here. You do like dancing, don’t you?” He asked that with such skepticism that one of Luzon’s men had to reply.

“I think we all do, sir,” Hans told him.

“We wouldn’t expect you to sing a’ course, unless,” Seamus hastily added, not wishing to insult anyone, “you had a song you wanted to share with us.”

Luzon’s men looked totally out of their depth. Sally and Millard managed to keep their expressions merely receptive, but they dared not look at each other.

“Ah well, you can always listen,” Seamus said, “and eat some real good chow, and a’ course, Clodagh makes the best blurry on Petaybee.”

“Blurry?” Hans jumped on the word.

Everyone turned toward Seamus.

“Blurry’s a tradition here,” Seamus said, warming to his subject. “Drink it cold, warm, hot, and it soothes the cockles of the heart. Doesn’t take a man’s senses from him like al-ki-hall-ics do—” He frowned. “—and no one’s ever had a hangover like the SpaceBasers get from that rotgut they drink. You could say . . .” He considered his next words carefully. “. . . that it’s a tonic for what ails you. Give it to the kids when they’re feeling puny, and next day they’re up and out again. ’Bout the only thing it can’t cure is frostbite, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Clodagh’ll figure out how to do that soon, too.”

Sally and Millard exchanged significant glances. Marmion Algemeine would have to hear every detail of this.

“Is this blurry of yours good for indigestion?” Sally asked, seizing on the common complaint as the safest.

“Sure it is, and as good for labor pains as it is for flatulence, heartburn, and yer all-purpose bellyache,” Seamus assured her, turning his face toward her so that she alone saw the broad wink.

“Do you use many . . . local remedies here, Mr. Rourke?” Ivan asked, his eyes sharp on the old man’s face.

“We’ve not much else to use, laddie,” Seamus said, hitching his hands up under the slight sag of his belly on his thighs. “And I’m not criticizing SpaceBase folk if they keep their own medicine for their own people. We got ours and it works for us. Petaybee takes care of us real well, you know.”

“That’s exactly what we’re here to decide,” Hans said, setting his jaw at an obstinate angle.

Inwardly Sally groaned. Maybe kidnapping these young men out from under Matthew’s rigid authority had not been such a good idea after all. Certainly having Seamus Rourke as a guide was turning disastrous, since he had already implied the existence of one questionable substance in the “blurry.” The wink had indicated that perhaps he was simply having a joke on them, but people like Matthew Luzon had no sense of humor, and Sally knew that Luzon would be delighted to learn of blurry’s “miraculous” properties and suggest the possibility of “drug-induced hallucinations.” First thing she would do when they returned to SpaceBase would be to get herself some blurry and run it through exhaustive tests, just to be safe. Sometimes even innocuous elements, when combined, produced potent, if not lethal, results.

A glance at Millard told her he was thinking the same thing.

Fortunately, before any other dangerous subjects could be raised, the helicopter went into hover mode and began its descent. The cliff loomed over them higher and higher, rock crags like upturned claws avoided by inches as Rick Arnaluk O’Shay neatly put the skids in the footprint of his previous landing.

There was the bustle of disembarkation, with Rick and Millard distributing hand torches, a blanket—”to sit on during the show”—and a packet of rations, so that Sally didn’t have a chance to report to Marmion. When Seamus enthusiastically urged them to follow him into the cave, there was no option to refuse or hang back, especially with Rick acting as rear guard.

One of Luzon’s lads was talking into a handheld recorder, but when Sally got close enough to hear him, he was merely mumbling about the composition of the rock surfaces and reminding himself to look up examples of luminescent rock types.

Suddenly they were in a cavern that stretched incredibly far in all directions, with Seamus chivying them to find themselves a comfortable spot, in case they had to wait a bit.

“What? No blurry?” one of the lads murmured.

“You don’t need no blurry in a cave, boy,” Seamus said severely. With a sniff of disgust, he found himself a comfortable knob to settle on.

“What’s this ‘blurry’?” Marmion asked Sally.

“It’s a native drink,” Sally began. Then she noticed the mist rising from the water, and started taking note of their surroundings. “Why, Marmion, this is just like—”

Marmion’s hand on her arm stopped her surprised exclamation. “Exactly what Whittaker Fiske
and
that doubting Thomas of a son of his reported . . . We’ll talk later.”

Marmion always sat upright and managed to do so even on the hard surface of the cave, crossing her legs and resting her hands lightly on her knees. Sally felt that the ancient meditational position was quite suitable and copied it as the mist began to thicken and swirl around them.

She remembered sniffing deeply, wondering if there was some sort of hallucinogenic in the very air they were breathing, but if there was, it was nothing she had ever encountered anywhere. And she had been just about everywhere Intergal went.

Everyone heard the
thwump-thwump
of the copter echoing back and forth across the fjord. Yana rushed out of the kitchen where she’d been helping cut veg for the evening meal. Shielding her eyes against the westering sun, she saw the flash of sunlight off the rotors.

Fingaard and some of the other men were rushing down the switchback road to the wide terrace of the wharf area. Sean had gone out with the fishermen that morning. Turning her back on the incoming copter, Yana looked down the long high-walled fjord for a glimpse of returning fishing boats. She’d been appalled when she’d seen how insubstantial the curraghs were: no more than hides bound to a larchwood framework with a wide slat, bored through the center so a slim mast could be stepped into the hole and a small sail attached. The current carried them out with the tide and in with the tide; otherwise it was a long, hard paddle up the fjord unless the wind was just right to use the sail.

She breathed a sigh of relief to see black blobs on the horizon raise small white triangles of sails as they made their way up the fjord. Then she turned again to head in the direction of the approaching copter. She had her foot on the first step when Nanook casually barred her way.

“C’mon now, I need a word with Johnny, Nanook!”

From the big black-and-white cat issued a noise that was half snarl, half voice command. Bunny had said Nanook could speak to those he chose to have listen to him. This comment didn’t need words. Nanook’s warning was too clear.

“Something’s wrong with the copter, Nanook?” Yana asked.

Nanook sneezed and sat down, barring her way up the steps.

She peered more intently and saw two men in the front of the copter. And only one of them was someone she wanted to see.

“Ooops!” She turned and hurried back into the house. Nanook followed. That
did
surprise her. “I won’t go out if you don’t want me to,” she told him.

He sneezed again and settled himself by the hearth.

“Ardis, is there any way you can hint to Johnny Greene that I’m here, and Sean’s out with the curraghs? They’re on their way in.”

“Sure, if that’s what’s needed,” Ardis said, grinning as she hauled off her apron. “Johnny might just have a letter for me from my sister up New Barrow way. She’s expecting—again.”

The last cat in McGee’s Pass was named Shush, because in her youth she had been a noisy kitten. Those days were long past. Shush was not the last cat left in the pass because she lacked discretion. She was silent as smoke, quick as a spark, and very, very discreet. She had learned discretion shortly after Satok came to live among the people. The skull on his staff had once graced her father’s shoulders. It was she who had sent word to the Kilcoole cats that the people of McGee’s Pass would vote to mine, as Satok had been urging them to do. Frankly, she didn’t know if they would or not, but saying so could have brought someone to challenge Satok. Stupid cats of Kilcoole to send only two half-grown kittens! And now Satok had taken one of them. Perhaps soon her skull would be an ornament for him, as well.

Shush’s family had been murdered. More critically from her viewpoint, all the toms had been murdered. She had gone through heat after heat alone, risking death in the woods to keep her cries from reaching the ears of Satok. Krisuk Connelly commiserated with her occasionally, but everyone else had been told the cats were spies; which, of course, they were, since it was only natural to lurk and spy and satisfy one’s curiosity.

Until she had heard from the Kilcoole cats, in fact, she had imagined herself the last cat on Petaybee.

Well, the last
proper
cat anyway. There were lynxes, of course, and bobcats, and she had once or twice heard the hunting cry of a track-cat, but her mother had told her that those sorts of creatures, if you caught them on a bad day or when they had nothing in particular to socialize about, would eat you as soon as look at you.