The quilon faced him. 'Circe says there is now a deep and treacherous chasm between us and the main island. The fault must have opened up there, and we can't cross it unless swim. But I can't swim holding the egg. I mean I might try it, but the cold water would kill the embryo. But Circe says the bay between us and the mainland is shallow, maybe only chest deep on me. The quake must have pushed up the bottom in a ridge parallel to the fault - well, no use trying to explain that to you. She can show us the best route across, so we can wade. And she says there are no big reptiles in the immediate area right now, and no sharks: they're all gathering around some battle several miles away, where there's a lot of blood. Something like that - I'm not sure. There's a sleeping duckbill by the main island, and he won't bother us anyway. But the tide's coming in; we have to do it right away if we're going to, otherwise it'll be hot by the time the water's low again, and the sea predators will be out in force.'
Orn ignored her chatter. It was dawn - the best time for hunting, because most of the reps were torpid, though not the sharks. He would have to forage for the mam as well as himself, since she had to warm the egg. He had observed that she did not consume fish, sticking instead to tubers and berries from the island. He could cross over now and sniff out some roots for her, then feed himself.
The toadstool flew out over the sea again. The quilon stood up, lifted the egg - and walked into the water!
Orn squawked and fluttered after her, appalled at her folly. The cool sea would deaden the life in the egg! But she only made vocal noises at him, refusing to be summoned back.
He was helpless. Any measure taken against the quilon would surely immerse the egg - the very thing he sought to protect. He could not carry it back himself; he had to wait for her to do so. He realized that she meant no harm - but she did not seem to comprehend the danger. How could he make her understand?
She stepped cautiously away from the rock, the water rising to her removable hip-plumage. She held the egg against her fleshy breast with one forelimb, balancing with the other. She was moving away from the main island, following a course suggested by the motions of the flying toadstool.
Orn started swimming, being too light to maintain his footing at this depth. The quilon, well over half immersed, continued toward the mainland. She wasn't even trying to get to the island!
He had no notion how to abate this bizarre exploration. Had he known the mam was prone to such action, he would never have left her with his egg. Now all he could do was parallel her course and hope she would turn back before the egg was lost. He would have to kill her if she sacrificed it through her stupidity - but he did not want to do that.
The sea beneath him was clear. Small fish circulated temptingly, and he was hungry, but he could not go after them now. He could not see through to the bottom, for it was quite deep, though where the quilon walked it was unusually shallow. Memory told him that earth faults under the sea were sometimes like that: one side high, the other low, or two ridges separated by a chasm. But how had she known?
She was in now almost to her head. The egg was precariously lodged on her shoulder, nestled in the yellow mane that descended from her scalp. Both her forelimbs were raised to shield it. This was not adequate coverage; the egg would soon grow cold there, even if the water that was already plastering her artificial fur to her bifurcated udder did not rise farther. He swam closer, though he could do nothing.
The quilon stopped. 'Too deep. I can't keep my footing. If I lower my arms, I'll float, and the egg will unbalance me -'
Sometimes such sounds seemed to signal a change of intent. Would she turn back now?
She worked her way back until the mam drew entirely out of the water. She held the egg close before her, warming it though her torso was wet. Then the toadstool came near, bouncing on the surface, and angled away in a slightly different direction. She followed it.
Again she went as deep as she could go, and again she uttered her frustrated sounds and retreated. The toadstool circled, seemingly unable to point the way again. Now would she give up this hazardous enterprise and return his egg to land and safety?
Safety? Even the mainland, with its rampaging reps, was safer than the hideously exposed bit of rock they were stranded on. Had it been possible to move the egg even to the main island - but the canyon in the sea prevented that.
Then Orn realized what the quilon and her obscure acquaintance were attempting to do. Shallow water leading toward the mainland, while the tide was low -
He went into action. He dived, spreading his wings against the water to provide the impetus that would send him under. He explored the bottom with his beak and eye.
Ahead of the quilon the ridge descended, then rose again to a level he thought she could navigate. If she could cross that deepest portion, she could travel a long way toward land - perhaps all the way. But she could not pass the hollow without immersing the egg. Perhaps only four lengths of her body, about four wingspans, separated her from the resumption of navigable shallows.
This was not the type of thinking Orn's mind was made for, but his long apprenticeship in solitary survival, coupled with the present pressing need, sharpened his abilities. There were problems memory could not solve, and this was one such: how to get the mam female across the gap without dunking the egg - and soon enough so that the rising tide would not make it entirely impossible.
Had there been floating wood, memory might have sufficed. His ancestors had utilized logs to cross from island to island upon occasion, or from side to side of deep rivers. But there was no log here. Orn himself was the only thing afloat - and only the relative stillness of the water enabled him to maintain his balance. Waves, or any other threat, could swamp him, for he was top-heavy and lacked webbed feet. He was actually better at swimming under water than on the surface, because there his abbreviated wings were effective.
But in this emergency, his abilities might be enough to save the egg. And the egg was paramount.
Orn paddled up and nudged the standing quilon. She was silent now, and water seemed to have splashed onto her face though the egg was dry. There was a certain unhappy handsomeness about her as she stood balked, and he wondered to what extent mams had genuine emotions.
But there was no time for such idle considerations. Orn nudged her again, trying to make her understand. The egg could be saved, if her dull mam brain could rise to the occasion.
For a moment she did not move. Then, slowly, she placed one forelimb across his back, bearing down on his body so that he sank in the water. She was astonishingly heavy, but he spread his wings somewhat and kicked his feet and maintained his position. He could not endure this for long; his instinct and memory cried out against such proximity to a foreign creature. But long enough -
She moved the egg until it rested partly against his back, just above the water. Then she pushed slowly forward. Her body went down, but the egg remained high, its weight borne by his feathers.
At the place the mam had balked before, her feet left the bottom and she floated. Orn paddled desperately to maintain his balance as she lost hers. It was difficult; he was tilting irrevocably over -
Then the quilon's stout legs began to kick in the water, driving them both slowly ahead and restoring joint balance. He steered and she held the egg on his back. A single bad wave, even a gust of wind, would topple them.
The toadstool circled rapidly, as though even its vegetable intellect were aware of the crisis. Orn glanced at it - and saw the suggestion of motion in the distance behind it. Something was coming!
Almost, in his instinctive eagerness to scramble for safety, he dislodged the egg. But he controlled himself after a single jerk and went on paddling. Perhaps it was only one of the sporting cory reps, who were unlikely to stray this far out from shore.
Progress was so slow! Only by poking his head under the surface and noting the locations of the bottom features was he able to determine that they were moving. If a predator rep came upon them now -
It
did. It was the Elas, the flippered paddler who had carried Ornette away before. Already it was hungry again, or merely mischievous, and their motion in the shallow water had summoned it from its hiding place. Here within its feeding ground they had no chance at all to escape.
The toadstool broke its circle and went to meet the Elas. Orn could not watch closely, for his balance remained precarious. He saw the fung rise high in the air as though it were a ptera and pass over the lifted head of the rep. Nothing happened - but the Elas emitted a tremendous honk of pain.
Then it was retreating, and the smell of its blood came to him. Had an old wound reopened as it strained to snap up the toadstool? Or had it merely been frightened by the oddity of the fung, the blood remaining from the wound Orn had inflicted on its neck before?
Orn was satisfied that they were safe again. Joy was no more a part of his nature than was grief, and the security of the egg was what mattered. Somehow the rep had been turned away.
The animal panting of the quilon became loud, and his own respiration was labored. He was, in the aftermath of the rep threat, quite tired. He had been subjected to a double strain - the weight of the quilon and egg on his back, and the fear of the Elas when he was impotent as a fighter. But they were over the shallow section again. He honked, trying to convey this to her, and finally she stopped kicking her heavy-boned feet and pushed her round extremities down until they struck the bottom sand.
The rest of the crossing was easy. Twice more he had to assist the quilon, the rising tide making the portages longer, but now they were both familiar with the routine. The flying fung guided them unfailingly, selecting the best route. Orn was coming almost to like such toadstools.
Secure at last on land, they lay on the pleasant beach, the egg wanned between them. The toadstool also rested nearby, a hump with a single peculiar eye. He could see it quite clearly
now, though it remained a most unusual phenomenon.
The quilon had been right; the drive for land had been best. The chick still lived in the egg for he could feel its living presence. With the Elas remaining so near, they would have been perpetually vulnerable on the fragment island. Now they had a chance, and the egg too. The mainland was by no means ideal for nesting, but the island had turned into a death trap.
Orn looked about. He knew the terrain because he had pursued Ornette here during their courtship. Not far back from the shore the snowy mountains rose, riddled with their caverns and gullys and heated waters. Somewhere near the snowline there might be a suitable nesting site. The cold would make it doubly difficult to warm the egg, but this was necessary to escape the predator reps, who ordinarily would not ascend that far.
He stood and led the way, and the quilon followed, sub-missive now that she had done her task. She held the egg closely against her damp body, enclosing it with her forelimbs so that as little as possible was exposed to the air. Actually, the heat of the day was upon them, so this was no longer critical. The fung vanished into the brush; he spied it only occasionally.
Between shore and mountain was a level plain, an extension of the larger one the Tricer herds ranged on. Here the palms were well trimmed, showing that the huge reps had foraged here recently. Though he did not fear them himself, he was not certain how they would react to the large mam. They might ignore her - but if they did not, the egg would be in peril again. He decided to change course so as to avoid the local herd.
Then he sniffed something else. It was another large mam of the quilon species - a male.
Orn did not know whether this was good or bad. The male had left the female, and perhaps this return meant a reconciliation. But it could also mean trouble. Orn would not ordinarily interfere with mam courtship and mating rites - but he needed the quilon female to transport the egg, and to warm it while he foraged. He could not hatch it alone.
Before he could make a decision, the male approached. It was not the original mate.
There was a babble as the two mams vociferated at each other. The toadstool had taken off at the first whiff of the visitor; Orn smelled it in the vicinity but could not spot it.
The haphazard dialogue continued. Orn picked up the sequence of reactions from the female: surprise, comprehension, anger, fear. She did not like the stranger, but was afraid of what might happen if she made an open break. She suspected the male of malicious intent. Her concern was not primarily for herself, though; it was -
For the egg!
Orn was already charging as the realization hit him. His wings flapped to boost his speed; his beak aimed forward. Headfirst, he launched himself at the strange male quilon.
The creature was not facing him, but from it a bolt of lightning emerged. A terrible heat struck Orn, searing the feathers of one wing and the flesh of that wing and the bony substructure, and lancing on through his body. The wound was mortal; he knew it as he completed his charge.
The female mam struck the intruder with her free limb, but he caught it with his own and was not hurt. This also Orn perceived as the signals of death spread through his running body. The male was swift and deadly and without compassion. He would kill them both and smash the egg. This certainty kept Orn going when he should have fallen. Only by somehow bringing the mam enemy down could he give the egg a chance - even the ugly chance Orn himself had hatched with. His own parents had died defending their nest and eggs from a marauding croc; Orn would die defending his egg from a predator mam. It was the way it had to be.
But he knew too that it was not to be. He had thought these mams to be slow and clumsy and not wholly intelligent. He had foolishly judged from the pair that came in peace to mate. The other mam was in his strength, and was devastating. This one would prevail.
Yet he continued, his legs somehow supporting the momentum of his body. He could at least strike at it, perhaps wound it...
Then a shadow came upon that scene.
The male quilon had one limb taken by its grasp on the female, the other lifted to ward off Orn. Its stout hindlimbs were anchored in the soil. Only its head was free, this moment, to move about. It turned.
The shadow passed.
There was a gash across the mam's head, where the eyes had been.The shadow returned. Orn recognized it now. It was the flying fung, moving with dizzying speed.
Fire lanced from the male again, scorching brush and trees but not the toadstool. A second gash appeared, almost circling the mam's throat. Blood pounded out.
As Orn finally collided with his target, only a few heartbeats from the time he had started the charge, he knew that both of them were dying. His weight jarred the male's grip loose from the female. Only she and the fung - and the egg! - had survived this brutal encounter.
'Circe!'
Orn collapsed in a heap with the mam, his blood mixing with that of his antagonist. He no longer had command of his body, but he could hear the female quilon's sounds. She never was silent!
'Circe! We've killed an agent! There may be others in the area, and they'll wipe us all out. They've come to take over Paleo, I'm sure of that. We'll have to cover the evidence. In a hurry.'
The toadstool slowed and came to rest. There was blood on its tail.
'The Tricers! Can you stampede them?'
The fung was gone.
Then she was standing over Orn, touching the feathers of his neck with those uselessly soft digits. She still supported the egg. 'Orn - you're alive!'
He had not known that death would be so slow. He was helpless, but now he felt no pain. There was only a gradual sinking to the sound of her dialogue, now gentle and no longer annoying.
'No - you can't survive that burn. I'm sorry, Orn. I - I didn't mean it to end like this. I'll save your egg. I'll keep it until -'
Her paw caressed his neck feathers. 'The Tricers are coming. I have to get out of here, Orn. With your egg. Those brutes will flatten everything, so no one will know, I hope. How he died, I mean. Keep Paleo sacrosanct...
'I - you were a gallant soul - are one - and I love you. Yo
u diverted the agent so Circe could - you gave your life for ours, and I'll always remember that. Always.'
'Goodbye, Orn.'
She was gone, and somehow he knew she would preserve the egg. That was all that mattered.
The ground rumbled and shook. Tricers - stampeding! Orn tried to move, but could not, before he remembered that the effort was pointless. Their sound was loud, their massive hooves striking the ground in a gargantuan raindrop pattern. They were coming here! The entire herd, charging along the narrowing plateau, converging on this spot, their growing cadence like the shaking of a volcano.
There would be nothing but a beaten trail, after their passage.
Orn was satisfied.
XXI - VEG
He stood on the deck and watched them bring Cal in. Hex stood beside him, in his shadow, impassive as only a manta could be.
Of Man and Manta Omnibus Page 44
