Rees, irritated, left the bar. It had been — how long? a score of shifts? — since their arrival at the Belt, and the miners had only just worked out how to unship the supply device. And he, Rees, with experience of tree flight and of Belt conditions, hadn’t even been told they were doing it…
He anchored his toes in the wall of the Quartermaster’s and stretched to his full height, peering at the formation of trees beyond the far side of the Belt. Now that he looked more carefully he could see there were many people clinging awkwardly to the branches. Men swarmed over the net containing the supply device, dwarfed by its ragged bulk; they tied ropes around it and threw out lengths that uncoiled toward the Belt.
At last a loose web of rope trailed from the machine, Tiny shouts crossed the air; Rees could see the pilots standing beside the trunks of the great trees, and now billows of smoke bloomed above the canopies. With massive grandeur the trees’ rotation slowed and they began to inch toward the Belt. The coordination was skillful; Rees could see how the supply machine barely rocked through the air.
The actual transfer to the Belt would surely be the most difficult part. Perhaps the formation would move to match the Belt’s rotation, so that the dangling ropes could be hauled in until the machine settled as a new component of the chain of buildings. Presumably that was how much of the Belt had been constructed — though generations ago…
One tree dropped a little too fast. The machine rocked. Workers cried out, clinging to the nets. Tree-pilots called and waved their arms. Slowly the smoke over the offending tree thickened and the formation’s motion slowed.
Damn it, thought Rees furiously, he should be up there! He was still strong and able despite the poor rations and back-crushing work—
With a distant, slow rip, the net parted.
Rees, wrapped in introspective anger, took a second to perceive the meaning of what he saw. Then all of his being seemed to lock on that small point in the sky.
The pilots worked desperately, but the net became a mist of shreds and tatters; the formation dissolved in slow lurches of wood and smoke. Men wriggled in the air, rapidly drifting apart. The supply machine, freed of its constraints, hovered as if uncertain what to do. One man, Rees saw, was still clinging to the side of the machine itself.
The machine began to fall; soon it was sailing toward the Belt in a slow curve.
Rees dropped to hands and knees and clung tightly to the Belt cables. Where was the damn thing headed? The gravity fields of both star kernel and Nebula Core were hauling at the machine; the Core field was by far the most powerful, but was the machine close enough to the star for the latter to predominate?
The machine could pass through the structure of the Belt like a fist through wet paper.
The immediate loss of life would be enormous, of course; and within minutes the Belt, its integrity gone, would be torn apart by its own spin. A ring-shaped cloud of cabins, trailing pipes, rope fragments and squirming people would disperse until at last each survivor would be alone in the air, facing the ultimate fall into the Core…
Or, Rees’s insistent imagination demanded, what if the machine missed the Belt but went on to impact the star kernel? He recalled the craters left even by raindrops at the base of a five-gee gravity well; what would the roaring tons of the supply machine do? He imagined a great splash of molten iron which would spray out over the Belt and its occupants. Perhaps the integrity of the star itself would be breached…
The tumbling supply machine loomed over him; he stared up, fascinated. He made out details of dispenser nozzles and input keyboards, and he was reminded incongruously of more orderly times, of queuing for supplies at the Rim of the Raft. Now he saw the man who still clung to the machine’s ragged wall. He was dark-haired and long-boned and he seemed quite calm. For a moment his eyes locked with Rees’s, and then the slow rotation of the machine took him from Rees’s view.
The machine grew until it seemed close enough to touch.
Then, with heart-stopping slowness, it slid sideways. The great bulk whooshed by a dozen yards from the closest point of the Belt. As it neared the star kernel its trajectory curved sharply, and then it was hurled away, still tumbling.
Its human occupant a mote on its flank, its path slowly arcing downwards toward the Core, the machine dwindled into infinity.
Above Rees the six scattered trees began to converge. With shouted calls ropes were thrown to workers still stranded in the air.
As fear of a spectacular death faded, Rees began to experience the loss of the machine as an almost physical pain. Yet another fragment of man’s tiny heritage lost through stupidity and blundering… And with every piece gone their chances of surviving the next few generations were surely shrinking even further.
Then he recalled what Pallis had told him of Decker’s calculations. The revolution’s subtle leader-to-be had hinted darkly that he had no fear of a loss of economic power over the Belt despite the planned gift of a supply machine. Was it possible that this act had been deliberate? Had lives been wasted, an irreplaceable device hurled away, all for some short-term political advantage?
Rees felt as if he were suspended over a void, as if he were one of the unfortunates lost in the catastrophe; but the depths were composed not of air but of the baseness of human nature.
At the start of the next shift Cipse was too weak to be moved; so Rees agreed with Grye and the rest that he should be left undisturbed in the Belt. When Rees reached the surface of the star kernel he told Roch the situation. He kept his words factual, his tone meek and apologetic. Roch glowered, thick eyebrows knotting, but he said nothing, and Rees made his way into the depths of the star.
At mid-shift he rode back to the surface for a break — and was met by the sight of Cipse. The Navigator was wrapped in a grimy blanket and was weakly reaching for the controls of a wheelchair.
Rees rattled painfully over the star’s tiny hills to Cipse. He reached out and laid a hand as gently as possible on the Scientist’s arm. “Cipse, what the hell’s going on? You’re ill, damn it; you were supposed to stay in the Belt.”
Cipse turned his eyes to Rees; he smiled, his face a bloodless white. “I didn’t get a lot of choice, I’m afraid, my young friend.”
“Roch…”
“Yes.” Cipse closed his eyes, still fumbling for the controls of his chair.
“You got something to say about it, Raftshit?”
Rees turned his chair. Roch faced him, his corrupted mouth spread into a grin.
Rees tried to compute a way through this — to search for a lever that might influence this gross man and save his companion — but his rationality dissolved in a tide of rage. “You bastard, Roch,” he hissed. “You’re murdering us. And yet you’re not as guilty as the folk up there who are letting you do it.”
Roch assumed an expression of mock surprise. “You’re not happy, Raftshit? Well, I’ll tell you what—” He hauled himself to his feet. Face purpling, massive fists bunched, he grinned at Rees. “Why don’t you do something about it? Come on. Get out of that chair and face me, right now. And if you can put me down — why, then, you can tuck your little friend up again.”
Rees closed his eyes. Oh, by the Bones—
“Don’t listen to him, Rees.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late, Cipse,” he whispered. He gripped the arms of his chair and tensed his back experimentally. “After what I was stupid enough to say he’s not going to let me off this star alive. At least this way you have a chance—”
He lifted his left foot from its supporting platform; it felt as if a cage of iron were strapped to his leg. Now the right…
And, without giving himself time to think about it, with a single, vein-bursting heave he pushed himself out of his chair.
Pain lapped in great sheets over the muscles of his thighs, calves and back. For a terrible instant he thought he was going to topple forward, to smash face-down into the iron. Then he was stable. His breathing was shallow and he could feel his heart
rattle in its cage of bones; it was as if he bore a huge, invisible weight strapped to his back.
He looked up and faced Roch, tried to force a grin onto his swollen face.
“Another attempt at self-sacrifice, Rees?” Cipse said softly. “Godspeed, my friend.”
Roch’s smile seemed easy, as if the five gees were no more than a heavy garment. Now he lifted one massive leg, forced it through the air and drove his foot into the rust. Another step, and another; at last he was less than a yard from Rees, close enough for Rees to smell the sourness of his breath. Then, grunting with the effort, he lifted one huge fist.
Rees tried to lift his arms over his head, but it was as if they were bound to his sides by massive ropes. He closed his eyes. For some reason a vision of the young, white stars at the fringe of the Nebula came to him; and his fear dissolved. A shadow crossed his face.
He opened his eyes. He saw red sky — and pain lanced through his skull.
But he was alive, and the loading of the star’s five gees had gone. There was a cool surface at his back and neck; he ran his hands over it and felt the gritty surface of an iron plate. The plate juddered beneath him; his stomach tightened and he gagged, dry. His mouth was sour, his tongue like a piece of wood, and he wondered how long he had lain unconscious.
Cautiously he propped himself on one elbow. The plate was about ten feet on a side; over it had been cast a rough net to which he was tethered by a rope around his waist. A pile of roughly cut iron was fixed near the center of the plate. The plate had one other occupant: the barman, Jame, who regarded Rees incuriously as he chewed on a piece of old-looking meat-sim. “You’re awake, then,” he said. “I thought Roch had bust your skull wide open; you’ve been out for hours.”
Rees stared at him; then the plate gave another shudder. Rees sat up, testing the gravity — it was tiny and wavering — and looked around.
The Belt hung in the air perhaps half a mile away, surrounding its star kernel like a crude bracelet around a child’s wrist.
So he was flying. On a metal plate? Vertigo swept through him and he wrapped his fingers in the net.
At length he made his way slowly to the edge of the plate, ducked his head to the underside. He saw four jet nozzles fixed at the corners of the plate, the small drive boxes obviously taken from Belt rooftops. Occasionally, in response to tugs by Jame on control strings, the nozzles would spout steam and the plate would kick through the air.
So the miners had invented flying machines while he had been gone. Why, he wondered, did they need them all of a sudden?
He straightened up and sat once more facing Jame. Now the barman was sucking water from a globe; at first he acted as if unaware of Rees, but at length, with a hint of pity on his broad, bearded features, he passed Rees the globe.
Rees allowed the water to pour over his tongue, slide down his parched throat. He passed the globe back. “Come on, Jame. Tell me what’s going on. What happened to Cipse?”
“Who?”
“The Nav — The Scientist. The ill one.”
Jame looked blank. “One of them died down there. Heart packed up, I heard. A fat old guy. Is that who you mean?”
Rees sighed. “Yes, Jame; that’s who I mean.”
Jame studied him; then he pulled a bottle from his waistband, unstopped it and took a deep draught.
“Jame, why aren’t I dead also?”
“You should be. Roch thought he had killed you; that’s why he didn’t hit you any more. He had you hauled up and brought to the damn Quartermaster’s — can you believe it? — and then you started to groan a bit, move around. Roch was all for finishing you off there and then, but I told him, ‘Not in my bar, you don’t’… Then Sheen showed up.”
Something like hope spread through Rees. “Sheen?”
“She knew I was due to leave on this ferry so I guess that gave her the idea to get you off the Belt.” Jame’s eyes slid past Rees. “Sheen is a decent woman. Maybe this was the only way she could think of to save you. But I’ll tell you, Roch was happy enough to send you out here. A slower, painful death for you; that’s what he thought he was settling for…”
“What? Where are you taking me?” Rees, confused, questioned Jame further; but the barman lapsed into silence, nursing his bottle.
Under Jame’s direction the little craft descended into the Nebula. The atmosphere became thicker, warmer, harder to breathe; it was like the air in a too-enclosed room. The Nebula grew dark; the enfeebled stars shone brightly against the gloom. Rees spent long hours at the lip of the plate, staring into the abyss below. In the darkness at the very heart of the Nebula Rees fancied he could see all the way to the Core, as if he were back in the Observatory.
There was no way of telling the time; Rees estimated several shifts had passed before Jame said abruptly, “You mustn’t judge us, you know.”
Rees looked up. “What?”
Jame was nursing a half-finished bottle; he lay awkwardly against the plate, eyes misty with drink. “We all have to survive. Right? And when the shipments of supplies from the Raft dried up, there was only one place to go for food…” He thumped his bottle against the plate and fixed Rees with a stare. “I opposed it, I can tell you. I said it was better that we should die than trade with such people. But it was a group decision. And I accept it.” He waggled a finger at Rees. “It was the choice of all of us, and I accept my share of the responsibility.”
Rees stared, baffled, and Jame seemed to sober a little. Then surprise, even wonder, spread across the barman’s face. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Jamie, I haven’t the faintest idea. Nobody told us exiles a damn thing—”
Jame half-laughed, scratching his head. Then he glanced around the sky, picking out a few of the brighter stars, clearly judging the plate’s position. “Well, you’ll find out soon enough. We’re nearly there. Take a look, Rees. Below us, to my right somewhere—”
Rees turned onto his belly and thrust his face below the plate. At first he could see nothing in the direction Jame had indicated — then, squinting, he made out a small, dark speck of matter.
The hours wore on. Jame carefully adjusted the thrust from the jets. The speck grew to a ball the color of dried blood. At length Rees made out human figures standing on or crawling over all sides of the ball, as if glued there; judging from their size the sphere must have been perhaps thirty yards wide.
Jame joined him. With absent-minded companionship he passed Rees his bottle. “Here. Now, look, boy; what you have to remember if you want to last here more than a half-shift is that these are human beings just like you and me…”
They were nearing the surface now. The sphere-world was quite crowded with people, adults and children: they went naked, or wore ragged tunics, and were uniformly short, squat and well-muscled. One man stood under their little craft, watching their approach.
The surface of the worldlet was composed of sheets of something like dried cloth. Hair sprouted from it here and there. In one place the sheets were ripped, exposing the interior structure of the worldlet.
Rees saw the white of bone.
He took a shuddering pull at Jaine’s bottle.
The man below raised his head; his eyes met Rees’s, and the Boney raised his arms as if in welcome.
9
Jame brought the plate to a smooth landing on the crackling surface of the worldlet. Silently he set to work unlashing the batches of iron from the net.
Rees clung to the net and stared wildly around. The cramped horizon was made up of sheets of hairy, brownish material, stirring sluggishly. Again Rees saw the white of bone protruding through breaks in the surface.
He felt his bladder loosen. He closed his eyes and clamped down. Come on, Rees; you’ve faced greater perils than this, more immediate dangers…
But the Boneys were a myth from his childhood, sleep-time monsters to frighten recalcitrant children. Surely, in a universe which contained the cairn, machined interior of the Bridge,
there was no room for such ugliness?
“Welcome,” a high, dry voice said. “So you’ve yet another guest for us, Jame?” The man Rees had seen from the air was standing over the plate now, accepting an armful of iron from Jame. A few conventional-looking food packages were stacked at the man’s feet. Briskly Jame bundled them onto the plate and fixed them to the net.
The Boney was squat and barrel-chested, his head a wrinkled, hairless globe. He was dressed in a crudely cut sheet of surface material. He grinned and Rees saw that his cavernous mouth was totally without teeth. “What’s the matter, boy? Aren’t you going to give old Quid a hand?”
Rees found his fingers tightening about the strands of the net. Jame stood over him with a package of iron. “Come on, lad. Take this stuff and get off the plate. You haven’t any choice, you know. And if you show you’re afraid it will go the worse for you.”
Rees felt a whimper rising in his throat; it was as if all the revolting speculation he had ever heard about the Boneys’ way of life had returned to unman him.
He clamped his lips together. Damn it, he was a Scientist Second Class. He summoned up the steady, tired gaze of Hollerbach. He would come through this. He had to.
He untwined his fingers from the netting and stood up, forcing the rational half of his mind to work. He felt heavy, sluggish; the gravity was perhaps one and a half gee. So the mass of the little planet must have been — what? Thirty tons?
He took the iron and, without hesitation, stepped off the plate and onto the surface. His feet sank a few inches into the stuff. It was soft, like a coarse cloth, and covered with hair strands which scratched his ankles; and, oh, god, it was warm, like the hide of some huge animal—
Or human.
Now, to his horror, his bladder released; dampness slid down his legs.
Quid opened his toothless mouth and roared with laughter.
Jame, from the security of the plate, said: “There’s no shame, lad. Remember that.”
The strange trade was over, and Jamie worked his controls. With a puff of hot steam the plate lifted, leaving four charred craters in the soft surface. Within a few seconds the plate had dwindled into a fist-sized toy in the air.
Raft xs-1 Page 13
