The young riffmar were racing around like crazy. They were cute, but they'd surely be a nuisance running around underfoot. Better Cephean should take them somewhere else to drill, anyway.
"So. Well. I can help you get out to Ornipsee Park, which isn't too far. That way you'll be able to get back to the spaceport if you want. And you'll be able to stay here if things don't work out in the forest, or if you decide you want to fly again." Carlyle turned away then, not wanting to show how angry he felt. He walked into the kitchenette which separated his room from Cephean's, and he started looking for something to eat. Enough of worrying about cynthian and riffmar; he had problems of his own.
When he touched open the cupboard, he found the shelves littered with torn wrappings where his stash of pressed Garsoom nut-fruits had been. His blood pressure surged, and he turned and shouted, "Cephean!" He closed his eyes and held them shut, but he couldn't hold the anger in. "Did you eat all my damn food?" When he had
offered
Cephean the nut-fruits, the reply had been a rumble of disgust. But today, it seemed, Cephean had changed his mind and torn through the entire stock. "Did you do this?" he cried furiously.
The cynthian looked around and hissed softly. (
Surprise. Annoyance.
Distant
pleasure.
)
"Well, jeesus, you didn't have to take it
all
, did you? You might have left a little!"
"Buss hyou hofferdss iss. Hi ss-ry iss h-and ate-ss iss."
"Yes, I see that." His fury was diminishing, but his exasperation was not. Hell. Now what was he going to eat? He'd have to send down to the supply room for a restocking.
And hope he could find something that the cynthian wouldn't develop a taste for.
* * *
Escorting Cephean to Ornipsee Park, which was at the edge of a large parcel of virgin territory to the east, took up the better part of a day. At first Cephean insisted that the baby riffmar should
walk
out with them, but Carlyle dissuaded him; the little ferns would be trampled underfoot. Finally Cephean agreed to place all the riffmar in a hand-trolley which Carlyle would personally push; a "slave-cart," keyed to the cynthian, floated along behind. Cephean was willing to entrust his supplies, anyway, to the slave. He would be taking it with him, and he wouldn't have to do anything except allow it to follow him around.
Once they were loaded in the car and airborne, Carlyle ran a thin chain around Cephean's neck, a chain bearing a medallion which identified him as a rigger guest and carried a credit coding in case he needed to make purchases. "Just don't lose this chain," Carlyle cautioned. Cephean sniffed.
When they finally landed at Ornipsee Park, he introduced Cephean at the park headquarters and alerted the rangers there to the possibility that Cephean might require assistance from time to time, whether in obtaining food or arranging for transport back to Jarvis. Only when he was satisfied that Cephean would not be stranded did he go outside with the cynthian and the riffmar to say good-bye at the edge of a deep cedaric forest.
The riffmar danced madly, scuttling over the carpet of fallen needles. Cephean hissed and radiated a mélange of emotions, most of them so primally cynthian that Carlyle could not begin to understand them. But the cynthian's eyes sparkled brightly, and his whiskers and ears stood out alertly. "Caharleel," he hissed. "Hi gho h-now. Hyou gho findss hyor frenss?"
"I'm going to try," Carlyle said. "I might have to be away from the spaceport for a little while, myself, but I'll see you back there if you decide not to stay in the forest. I'll wait for word from you before I leave the planet, so if you decide you're not coming back, tell the people here, so they can tell me and . . . well . . . I hope you like the kind of trees we have here, and I hope the little ones like them, too." His stomach knotted.
Cephean twitched his whiskers. Carlyle squatted for a moment and held out a hand toward Idi and Odi. At first they simply danced in place, rustling; then, first Idi, then Odi shuffled forward shyly and brushed their ferny hands against Carlyle's. Their touch was dry and cool. They danced away, shepherding the little ones, and Carlyle stood up again. For a moment he thought to pat the cynthian also, but he held back, and he pursed his lips and said, "Well, Cephean, good-bye."
"Hyiss," Cephean said, his eyes pulsing with light. "Ghuudss ffy." He turned and padded into the trees, the riffmar racing ahead of him. (Carlyle caught, in the whirlwind, both
joy
and
sadness
.) Only when the cynthian was almost lost in the trees did he look back, and then just for a moment. Carlyle pressed his lips together and hurried back toward the car.
* * *
His first destination back in Jarvis was Kloss Shipping Lines downtown. Dressed in formal rigger attire, he boarded a skyrail shuttle and rode into the city on a great curving silver thread that cut across and beneath the aircar lanes. The city of Jarvis was beautiful, and it hurt to see that beauty. Jarvis was a new city, on a world that had been settled for only a hundred years. It was a city which graced its surroundings, partly because of its attractive design, and partly because the heaviest industries were located far out in space, orbiting. Huge Circadie ferries brought the manufactured products down to the planet, mostly to the Jarvis spaceport.
The skyline was silver and gold and deep brown, and the predominating theme in aboveground architecture was upward-curving lines. Scarcely was there a straight or flat-featured building in the skyline, except to complement the dishes and helices outlined against the horizon. The skyrail swept in on its own curve and wound among the buildings.
Carlyle's shuttle set down in the middle of the city. It was only a short walk to the address of Kloss Shipping, but he hurried, feeling pressed. Part of him still worried about Cephean, but his unanswered questions about
Lady Brillig
and his shipmates were rapidly engulfing his mind. What would they tell him here?
The building was graceful but unostentatious. Kloss Shipping occupied only a few offices, marked by a small metal sign next to a reddish opaque-door. He touched the entry plate, and when the door paled he walked in.
A woman, probably in her nineties, slid her chair around to the front desk and said with a waxen expression, "Yes, may I help you?" She noted his uniform with her eyes.
"Well, maybe. I hope so," he said. "Is Mr. Kloss in right now?"
"No, he isn't. May I help you?"
"Well, I think I probably really have to talk to him. It's about a ship he used to own, that I used to fly," he said edgily.
"Lady Brillig?"
The woman looked at him. "Yes?"
"Well, I'm trying to find out what happened to it. Her." He tried to smile and felt as though his arteries would burst.
"I see," she said. "You'd have to speak with Mr. Kloss about that. Shall I make you an appointment?"
"Will he be in tomorrow?"
"He's gone for several weeks. The soonest I could make an appointment for you would be four weeks from now." Her face remained expressionless.
"Well, is there any way I can reach him?" Desperation was creeping into his voice.
"Let me see," she said, turning to a console and running her finger down the display. "Yes." She stopped, pressing her lips together. "But it says that only in emergency situations is he to be reached at this location. And I don't know—"
"This is definitely an emergency. Really it is. It couldn't be more of an emergency."
She pursed her lips and eyed his rigger uniform again. Was it his imagination, or did she shrink back a little? She nodded. "Well, in that case, he'll be at the Lake Taraine offices during the next two weeks, and if you want to call there and make an appointment perhaps he will see you." She finished on a firm note, and he knew the conversation was concluded.
"Well, thank you," he said, his heart still racing. "Lake Taraine. Thank you very much." He turned and left. Only when he was standing outside the building again did his heart finally slow down. He tried to walk unhurriedly and let the nervousness drain from him; he prayed that no one would try to speak with him.
Well, he had found out where Kloss was. At Lake Taraine. Now he had to find out where Lake Taraine was.
* * *
Back at the Guild Haven he went to the resources office. Lake Taraine, he learned from a travel adviser, was located north of Jarvis and inland a few hundred kilometers. There was an exclusive resort at the lake, in the midst of which were "branch offices" of a number of large firms. Carlyle asked if the Guild could arrange him transportation up there.
"How about flying up tomorrow morning?" the adviser said.
"Couldn't I get there sooner? Today?"
"We could get you there today, but I don't know that we could get you a place to stay."
"I don't have to stay. I just want to talk to someone and come back."
"I'm afraid," the Guildsman said gently, with a gesture toward the setting sun, "that it's probably too late for that today. You'd be better off seeing him at the offices tomorrow."
"Oh." Carlyle nodded and went back to his quarters to think. What should he say to Kloss, anyway? Perhaps he should be open with him—the man had seemed like a decent person when Carlyle had seen him, and he was one of the few shipowners who cared to visit his ships and meet their crews. Perhaps it was because he wasn't a really
big-time
shipowner. He had been friendly when he came around, and that counted for a lot coming from a nonrigger.
Carlyle wandered into his kitchenette, then peered beyond it into Cephean's quarters. Mighty quiet, for a change. Almost too quiet. Cephean was probably taking care of himself quite well, out there alone in the woods.
He rummaged through the cupboard and found a package of nut-leaf cookies. Cephean must have missed them. He unzipped the package; the cookies broke and crumbled to the floor. He stared down, kicked the pieces in irritation, and walked out of the kitchen, around his room once, and out. He'd eat in the Guild restaurant, or maybe even the spaceport restaurant. No, the Guild restaurant; maybe he'd see somebody he knew. And he didn't feel like facing outer society tonight.
In the Guild restaurant one could sit either in alcoves equipped with privacy-shadows, or in the more gregarious setting of a sunken central area, softly carpeted, with round tables. He chose the latter; he really didn't feel like talking, but neither did he feel like sitting in seclusion. What he wanted was to sit comfortably with friends. He looked around. Several of the other round tables were occupied, one by three riggers talking together, another by two riggers seated apart looking as though they wanted to talk. He'd watch for anyone he knew.
The menu glowed in the tabletop. He studied it for a moment, almost decided on stuffed highland ferns, then thought of Idi and Odi and changed his mind. He decided to have broiled Lacerta bladefish instead. A signal pulsed gently, asking whether he preferred automatic or attended service. He almost touched
auto
, then moved his finger to
attended.
The waiter arrived just as Carlyle sighted three riggers crossing the far side of the room. His heart jumped, lifting him halfway out of his seat. Two men and a woman, and they looked like . . . they turned toward him then, and he sank back. It was not his friends. He glanced at the waiter, who could not have missed seeing his convulsive movement. The waiter simply asked if Carlyle would like something to drink before dinner. "Mineral wine," Carlyle said, and waved him away. The first group of three now got up from their table, but others were coming in—still no one familiar. He kept looking, studying faces. The waiter returned with the wine. Another group came down into the central section and took a table.
He was hungry. He sipped the wine. It was slightly bitter, but lifting. He glanced to the side—and started.
There was a rigger he knew—a slender young man, walking by with another rigger. What was his name? Jenis, Jamis, something like that? He had known the man in training school. Not well, but enough to say hello to. He waited; perhaps he could renew the acquaintance. As he watched, though, the rigger and his companion turned suddenly and vanished into one of the alcoves. A privacy-shadow went up. Carlyle frowned. Perhaps the man simply hadn't noticed him. Perhaps he
had
noticed. Carlyle shook his head as the waiter brought him his dinner.
An hour later, he gave up with a sigh. There was no point in staying. He could go to one of the lounges and have a drink, of course, but . . . no, tomorrow was going to be a difficult day.
* * *
He got up early and caught a shuttle downtown, and then a small commercial flyer to Lake Taraine. The city and its outskirts passed beneath the flyer, and then they were high over thickly forested land pocketed by russet meadows and glinting lakes. Overhead the sky was deep blue, with streaks of clouds.
Carlyle stared out nervously. This was his homecoming—but not the homecoming he wanted. No matter how hard he tried to enjoy this one bit of the past which had
not
changed, it just wasn't the same. There was a gulf between him and the land. He counted the passing kilometers.
Most of his fellow passengers looked like businesspeople, and he scarcely gave them a second glance after making sure that Kloss was not among them. Halfway up the cabin, however, was an attractive young woman whom he looked at more times than twice, but she too looked like a businesswoman, and soon he forgot her as well.
After an hour, the flyer began its descent. A clear lake came into view on the left, and Carlyle thought perhaps it was Lake Taraine; but it passed behind them, and the flyer banked right, and a longer and deeper lake broke into view. Visible at the end of this one were the buildings of the resort village. The flyer dropped quickly, and landed at the settlement's edge.
Carlyle walked into the village and tried to get his bearings, but everything looked different from the holo-pictures he had seen earlier. Well, he would have to ask for directions.