The Fugitive Worlds (11 page)

He jetted forward, bound the bluehorn's back feet
together, paid out a short length of line and repeated the
process with the forelegs. He was not accustomed to that
kind of work, and all the while was half-expecting a violent
response from the captive animal, but it allowed him to
complete the operation without mishap.

By that time the chaos above was being brought under control. The stricken ship was being abandoned. Overland's
surface was almost completely occulted by condensation
trails as crewmen from other vessels began the work of
salvaging supplies. They were shouting to each other, sound
ing almost cheerful as they realized how slight was the damage
to the fleet as a whole, compared to what it could have been.
It occurred to Toller that the expedition had been lucky in
another respect—if the encounter with the meteor swarm
had not happened so close to the weightless zone recovery
from it would have been much more difficult, if not imposs
ible. Every object he could see was falling towards Land,
but the rate of descent was so leisurely that in practice it
could be disregarded for the time being.

Men were also jetting upwards from the four ships of the first echelon, among them Sky-commodore Sholdde, chief
executive officer for the expedition. Sholdde was a tough
and laconic fifty-year-old, much favored by the Queen
because of the relish with which he tackled difficult assign
ments. The fact that he had lost a ship, although no blame
could be laid at his door, was going to make him edgy and
difficult to deal with for the rest of the flight.

"Maraquine!" he shouted at Toller. "What do you think
you're doing there? Get back to your ship and see what extra
stores you can take on board. You shouldn't be concerning
yourself with that miserable flea-bag."

"How dare you call me a flea-bag!" Jerene murmured in
Sholdde's direction, feigning indignation. "Flea-bag, your
self!"

"Look, I've already warned you about. . . ." Toller, who
had been about to admonish the lieutenant on her disrespect
for senior officers, met the humorous glint in her brown eyes
and his resolve foundered. He liked people who could make
jokes at times of stress, and he had to admit that he would have had trouble summoning up the nerve to go as close to the frightened bluehorn's head as Jerene had done.

"You may rejoin your ship now," he said stiffly. "The farmers can collect their bluehorn when they're ready."

"Yes, sir." Jerene pushed herself clear of the quiescent animal and reached for the controls of her propulsion unit.

Toller now felt that he had been unfair. "By the way, lieutenant. ..."

"Sir?"

"You did well with the bluehorn."

"Why thank you, sir," Jerene said, smiling demurely in a way which left Toller almost certain that he was being mocked. He watched her jet away from him, trailing a cone of rolling white condensation, and his thoughts turned immediately to Vantara. She had narrowly escaped injury from the bluehorn's hoof and had done the right thing in retiring to her ship at once. It was unfortunate, though, that her doing so had deprived him of the opportunity to establish a better relationship between them.

But I've got time in hand,
he thought, deciding to be philosophical.
There'll be all the time in the world when we get to Land.

Divivvidiv was awakened from mid-brain-sleep by a telepathic whisper from the Xa.

Look about you, Beloved Creator,
the Xa said, using the mind-color green to show that it considered the matter to be of some urgency.

What is happening?
Divivvidiv responded, still not fully restored to every level of consciousness. He had been dreaming of simpler and happier times, in particular about his early childhood on Dussarra, and his high-brain had just begun devising the scenario for a fulfilling day, one which would have been fed in every detail into slumbering mid-brain and which he would have lived in full while asleep. He would, of course, be able to recreate it during his next inert period, but inevitably there would be some minor differences, and he could not help but experience a slight sense of loss. The vanished dream-day had promised to be well-nigh perfect. Nostalgia compounded. . . .

The Primitives ascending from the surface of their planet have passed through the datum plane,
the Xa went on.
They have inverted their vessels and
—

Which shows they are on their way to the sister planet,
Divivvidiv interrupted.
Why did you disturb me?

I have been able to perceive them with greater clarity, Beloved Creator, and I must inform you that their organs of sight are much superior to yours. Also, they have developed instruments which efficiently magnify optical images.

Telescopes!
The idea of a primitive species having been able to devise ways of manipulating a medium as intractable as light startled Divivvidiv into full wakefulness. He sat up on the smooth, spongy block which was his bed and switched off its artificial gravity field, without which he would have been unable to enter any but the most superficial level of sleep.

Tell me,
he said to the Xa,
will the Primitives be able to
see us?
He had to ask the question, to rely for the moment on the Xa's senses, because his own radius of direct perception was severely curtailed by the metal walls of the habitat.

Yes, Beloved Creator. Two of them are already scanning
the general area of the visual sphere in which we are located
—
one of them with the aid of a double telescope
—
and there
is a strong possibility of our being detected. The heaters of the
protein synthesizing station are the most likely to draw atten
tion
—
they leak radiation which is well within that part of the spectrum spanned by the Primitives' eyes. 'Purple' is the word
they use for it.

I will shut down the heaters immediately.
Divivvidiv floated
himself out of the habitat's living quarters and into the principal operations hall. His trajectory carried him through the air to the control matrix which governed nutrient production, and he used a pencil-slim grey finger to divert the flow of power away from the row of exterior heaters.

I
have done it,
he said to the Xa.
Have the Primitives seen
anything?

There was a brief pause before the Xa replied.
Yes
—
one
of them has commented on seeing 'a line of purple lights', but there is no associated emotional reaction. The event has been
dismissed as insignificant, and is already being forgotten.

I am glad of that,
Divivvidiv said, using the mind-color appropriate to relief.

Why do you experience relief, Beloved Creator? Surely a species at such an early stage of its development can pose no
threat to you.

I was not concerned about my own safety,
Divivvidiv said.
If the Primitives had been curious about us, and had decided
to investigate, I would have been forced to destroy them.

There was another pause before the Xa spoke.
You are
reluctant to kill any of the Primitives.

Naturally.

Because it is immoral to deprive any being of its life?

Yes.

In that case, Beloved Creator,
the Xa said,
why have you
decided to kill me?

I have told you many times that nobody has decided to kill
you
—
it is simply a matter of. . .
The talk of killing reminded
Divivvidiv of why he was there, of the awesome crime against
nature being perpetrated by his own kind, and a pang of
anguish and guilt stilled his thoughts.

The ancient city of Ro-Atabri was
immense.

Toller had been standing at the rail of his gondola for more than an hour, staring down at the slowly expanding patch of intricate line and color patterns which differentiated the city from the surrounding terrain. He had been conditioned to regard Prad, Overland's capital, as an imposing metropolis, and had visualized Ro-Atabri as much larger but essentially the same. The reality of the historic seat of Kolcorronian power, however, was something for which he could not have prepared himself.

He sensed that such a huge difference in size somehow led to a difference in kind, but there was more to it than that. All the cities, towns and villages on Overland had been planned, and therefore their chief characteristics sprang from the will of their architects and builders, but from high in the air Ro-Atabri resembled a natural growth, a living organism.

It was all there, just as in the sketches his maternal grandmother—Gesalla Maraquine—used to make for him when he was a child. There was the Borann River winding into Arle Bay, which in turn opened out upon the Gulf of Tronom, and to the east was the snow-capped Mount Opelmer. Cupped in and shaped by those natural features, the city and its suburbs sprawled across the land, a vast lichen of masonry, concrete, brakka wood and clay which represented centuries of Endeavour by multitudes of human beings. The great fires which had raged on the day the Migration had begun had left a still-visible discoloration in some areas, but the durable stonework had survived intact and would serve humanity again in some future era. Flecks of orange-red and orange-
brown showed where the ill-fated New Men had begun
capping the shells of buildings with new tiled roofs.

"What do you think of it, young Maraquine?" Com
missioner Kettoran said, appearing at Toller's side. Now that
gravity was back to normal he was feeling much better
and was taking a lively interest in all aspects of the ship's
affairs.

"It's big," Toller said simply. "I can't take it in. It makes
history . . . real."

Kettoran laughed. "Did you think we'd made it up?"

"You could have done, as far as most of the present generation are concerned, but this
...
It hurts my brain, if
you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean—think how I feel." Kettoran leaned further across the rail and his long face became
animated. "Do you see that square patch of green just to the west of the city? That's the old Skyship Quarter—the exact
spot we took off from fifty years ago! Will we be able to land
there?"