Trying to maintain his dignity, he stumbled as he spun out of her grip. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"
"Saving your ignorant life, Tomochelor." She flung the steering guide hard over and he nearly fell down. Her gaze was focused on the instrument panel as well as the water ahead. "When passing over something dangerous, you don't lean over for a closer look at it."
He steadied himself as the skimmer twisted beneath him. He was more upset at the ease with which she'd pulled him away from the side than the manner in which she'd addressed him.
"An explanation night help. I didn't see anything dangerous." Without approaching the edge, he glanced cautiously over the side. As far as he could see, the water was undisturbed by anything out of the ordinary. "For that matter, I still don't see anything dangerous."
"If you're a predator, that's the idea." She glanced back over a shoulder. "We're clear of them now. I counted more than a dozen of the squishy monstrosities when they were on the screen."
Leaning against the front console, he crossed his arms and eyed her tensely. "I'm still waiting for an explanation. And I don't recognize `squishy monstrosities' as an applicable taxonomic classification."
"They were apapanus. "
He frowned. "I don't recall that name from any of the lists of local fauna."
"They're not in the catalog yet. Remember, Bioscan is accepting a dozen new species a week here. An apapanu is a big, fat, ugly pseudocephalopod. It likes to sit just under the surface in shallow water. In ambush."
"Ambush
"It ejects a stream of water under pressure. Many of the local oceanic life‑forms propel themselves by squirting‑water through tubes on the sides of their bodies or at the tips of fins‑from just about anywhere you can imagine. A few use similar high‑pressure jets for predation."
He rubbed at his forehead. "What's the intent? To drown intended victims?"
"Are you familiar with the Terran archer fish?" Pulickel shook his head. "It lies in wait just beneath the surface of ponds and rivers and shoots a thin stream of water at insects poised on overhanging branches and leaves. Knocks them off into the water and eats them. The apapanu does something similar, utilizing a much higher volume. What distinguishes it is that it doesn't shoot just water." She put her feet up on the instrument panel.
"When it's not feeding, it nibbles on particularly tough quasi‑corals. Instead of digesting, it passes this groundup detritus into a special sac located behind its cranial ejection spigot. The solid material consists primarily of indigestible silicates. What it's firing at its prey is a stream of water under extremely high pressure that contains a high proportion of sharp‑edged silicaceous aggregate. Think of it as a water cannon packed with ground glass.
"When you were leaning over the side, you were in danger of catching more than a faceful of seawater. An apapanu the size of the ones we passed over could have I sheared your head off." One sandaled foot nimbly ad‑
justed a minor instrument.
"Once when I was out fishing for eleuu, a flock of uluritei flashed right past the front of the skimmer. They're low‑level gliders that fish the surface waters."
"Like fleratii," he commented.
She nodded approvingly. "Yes, like fleratii, only much smaller. Wing‑span of less than three meters. Anyway, one of them had just snapped something out of the water when an apapanu brought it down. Blew a hole clean through it. Apapanus have excellent diffraction compensatory vision and can see anything above the surface while lurking beneath it." She eyed him meaningfully. "Could've cut your visit here real short. So to speak."
"It won't happen again," he assured her stiffly. "I suppose I should thank you."
"Why not? I adore novelties." There was silence for a long moment. "Well?"
"Well what?" His attention was on the large, high island directly ahead. Absently he added, "Thank you for saving my face."
"As opposed to saving face?" Her smile, never, absent for very long, returned. "Don't take it to heart. You just got here. I didn't expect to run into any trouble between the landing cay and Torrelau myself."
"How do the locals avoid such creatures?"
"As best they can. When they don't someone usually dies." Her tone was fiat. "The design of their outriggers is unique and they can turn quickly. The Parramati are skilled at avoiding the dangers of the sea, but they're not omnipotent. Sometimes the predators are faster."
He nodded slowly. "How do they cope?"
"High birthrate. And magic."
His eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"
She lowered her voice, trying to make herself sound as mysterious as possible. "Magic."
He smiled thinly, doing his best to go along with what was obviously a joke. "Do they employ any particular divinations? Or perhaps special powders and incantations?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Absolutely. Superficially, it sounds a lot like the magicks of Aluwela, Tesiratupa, Curusisim, and a hundred other island groups. The only difference is, here it works."
"Not all the time, according to what you've just told me."
"Parramati magic isn't absolute. It just seems to improve the odds."
He shrugged. "Chants and incantations are inherently superficial, but native herbs and powders can have powerful physiological effects. Something they might sprinkle on the water to numb the nervous systems of dangerous predators, for example. I could give you a hundred possible explanations for what you think you've seen, many from personal experience."
She leaned forward slightly, peering through the windscreen. "Pretty soon you'll have the chance to judge for yourself. We're almost there. That's Torrelau dead ahead."
Chapter Three
Seaforth swung the skimmer around a wave‑swept point of rocks and into an exquisite natural harbor. Walls of green closed in on both sides. The fjordlike inlet would easily have accommodated a large cargo boat, but it was deserted save for their comparatively tiny craft. The cries of alien fauna rose from the surrounding forest.
"I understand," he said absently as he studied the dense foliage, "that the Parramati show little interest in contemporary technology. Whereas elsewhere on Senisran, the natives have taken to trading for simple Commonwealth manufactures with enthusiasm."
She nodded. "Not here they haven't. They say it goes against their kusum. Also, they think magic is better. Of course, they don't really use magic. Everything they do, everything that happens in Parramat has a logical and rational exegesis. I just haven't had time enough to study it. I've been too busy trying to get them to make treaty with the Commonwealth." She smiled up at him. "I'm expecting you to explain it all to me."
"I'll do my best," he replied without a hint of guile. "But as you say, a treaty is paramount. The section in my study guide on Parramati customs was slim. I expect you to warn me where not to step, what not to say, and how not to act."
"Don't worry, Pulickel. I'll take good care of you."
He tensed, but she didn't reach over to pat him on the head. Intellectual condescension he could handle, but not the physical kind. Especially not frown an attractive woman. If that was irrational, so be it.
The skimmer slowed as they approached a narrow stretch of yellow‑white beach at the head of the inlet. Beyond the sand he could see where jungle had been cleared away, leaving a wide path through the forest. Something in shades of blue equipped with multiple legs scurried piglike across the clearing and into the trees.
She drove the skimmer off the water and up onto the beach, rising to clear a large berm that was anchored in place by a peculiar, corkscrewing green‑red vine. Purple fruiting bodies burst from conelike structures that emerged at random from each shiny coil. Without being obvious, he paid careful attention to everything she did. Unbeknownst to her, one of his ancillary tasks in accepting the Parramat assignment was to render and report a formal job evaluation on one Fawn Seaforth.
It was early, but so far his opinion was equivocal.
Not that he was grading out at the top of his form since his arrival, either. How could he have known about the apapanus? Senisran was rich in unknown and undescribed inimical species. He was confident only in what he knew. He decided that her lapses in protocol could be overlooked in view of the fact that she'd saved his life‑and might well do so again.
Of one thing he was already certain. This assignment could go one of many ways‑‑but "by the book" wasn't going to be one of them.
Well, he'd improvised before. Adaptability was the hallmark of the truly successful.
A hundred meters from the water's edge, the skimmer hangar came into view. It was a large, unlovely, wholly functional structure: a roof, three walls, and a sliding barrier. Fawn pulled inside, cut the engine, and monitored instrumentation as their vehicle settled onto its mounting pad.
"The station's just up ahead." She jumped over the side. "Pass down your case and we'll walk the rest of the way."
Using .the integrated hoist to control the heavy baggage, they walked the remaining meters along a narrower path that ran in a straight line through the trees. Pulickel was enveloped by the rich, musky aroma of growing things. Alien odors assaulted his nostrils. The majority, though not all, of them were pleasant.
Ideally, a contact station should blend harmoniously with its alien environment without challenging the position or preeminence of native structures or religious icons. This was not a problem on Torrelau since the nearest Parramati village was located several kilometers distant, over an intervening ridge.
It was important that the installation reflect the technological superiority of its builders without being overawing. The idea was to impress without terrifying. Nor could it be too elaborate or expensive; not with a world like Senisran requiring dozens of such installations. It should also be relatively quick and easy to assemble.
Therefore it wasn't surprising that Seaforth's habitation was of a design Pulickel recognized. It looked like a fat wheel mounted on an axle that had been shoved into the ground, with the body of the wheel parallel to the earth. Ascent to the main body of the station, whose rim was ringed with windows and observation ports, was via a lift located in the supporting axle. In the event of power failure, a spiral stairway encircled the elevator shaft.
With the wheel‑shaped body of the station ten meters above the ground, it offered occupants safety as well as a pleasant view of the encroaching forest. The main work areas faced the exquisite, narrow bay, muting instead of encouraging hard work. A circular defensive perimeter consisting of charged posts that would deal unpleasantly with any living thing that attempted to pass between them ensured a safe outside working zone beneath the overhang of the station itself.
With its prominent reds and blues, the surrounding jungle was more colorful than its relentlessly green Terran counterparts. Pulickel recognized variations of the star‑crowned trees beneath which Fawn had awaited the arrival of the transport. Among the other botanical standouts was a medium‑size bush armed with scythelike spines. It looked like a refugee from some desert clime but was obviously happy to be growing deep within the forest. Flowers flared in abundance and in odd places.
Beneath the shady wheel of the station and within the defense perimeter was a junkyard of empty packing crates, storage containers, and unidentifiable debris. It stained the ground just as grease and soil marred Seaforth's overshirt. Its presence was strictly against general regulations and guidelines for the maintenance and operation of such an outpost. All nonrecyclable trash was supposed to be properly disposed of or neatly packaged for removal at some future date.
As they drew near, half a dozen small scavengers of unknown type burst from the mess and scattered into the trees. He could hear them banging through the underbrush. Several had neither feathers nor scales and appeared to be little more than fleshy blobs on legs.
He found himself gesturing. "It would appear that the station's defense system is not turned on."
She nodded slowly. "So it would appear."
"That is a violation of regulations." He gestured at the flagrant pile. "What do you call that disgusting mess?"
"Convenient. The Parramati get a kick out of poking through it. They use some of the smaller discarded packaging to store water or carry pickings. Impermeable plas tic leftovers are highly regarded here."
"Letting natives scavenge a station's trash is counter to proper procedure." He eyed her disapprovingly.
She paid no attention. "I don't think letting them have a few scraps is going to disrupt their cultural equilibrium. The Parramati are a pretty stable society. Besides, I've found that trash can make you a lot of friends." She waved casually at their surroundings. "Welcome to Torrelau. It means `the land' in Parramati."
"I know." The local dialect was one thing he had mastered during his studies. An accomplished linguist and a natural mimic, he believed firmly that you couldn't really convince an alien of anything unless you could speak to it in its own language. Whether they required chatting, whistling, clicking, harsh glottal stops, or signs, he'd been able to master them all. In fact, it was much easier for him to converse with aliens than with his own kind. Take the speech of frigid Tran‑ky‑ky, where he'd been stationed for a while. Rigid in inflection and boasting a highly formal grammar, it had been easy for him to master. Neither fluid, conversational seni or the local Parramati dialect had posed a problem for him.
Something induced him to look sharply to his left. "I get the feeling we're being watched."
"We are. They'll introduce themselves in due time. The Parramati aren't fearful, but they're cautious. You're new to them. Not that you're the second human they've ever seen. There was the crew that erected the station, though they never had any contact with the locals. Among other features, they're fascinated by our individual size variations. Mature seni are all pretty much the same height."
How tactful of you to mention the subject, he thought, then realized she probably meant nothing by it. He was far too sensitive on the subject.
Something that looked like a purple boa constrictor with feathery external gills running half the length of its body emerged from the trash pile and slithered out of their path as they approached the support cylinder. An irrational feeling, perhaps, but Pulickel felt more secure once they stood beneath the circular shadow of the station's bulk.
Fawn had to yell at the door several times before it would open. Whether the delay was due to an internal fault or poor maintenance he couldn't tell. She grinned apologetically back at him. It would not be so amusing, he thought, if something was chasing them. He wondered what else needed fixing.
"Been meaning to work on that," she told him as the door finally slid aside. At least, he mused, it did not make a grinding noise as it did so.
"Station upkeep is the responsibility of those working on site," he reminded her, "irrespective of specialty."
"Hey, I do what I can. The climate here is rough on electronics. My priority is the treaty, not janitorial work."
Not wishing to start another argument, he withheld the continent that was teetering on his lips and followed her into the lift. It was just big enough to accommodate the two of them and Pulickel's self‑hoisting travel case. The door closed smoothly behind them.
The interior of the station was a revelation, but not the kind that inspires. Clothes were scattered about both the living and work areas. A few hung from the ceiling. Empty food containers clung to furniture like giant, brightly colored fungal spores. The tiny carcasses of dead arthropods spotted the softfloor. Fashioned of native fibers, a hammock hung suspended in the portal that separated the main living area from kitchen and sleeping quarters. Several water bottles in various stages of consumption occupied unlikely‑and in at least one instance, unsanitary locations within the room.
Lining the sweeping windows that ran around the station's circumference was a small jungle of native plants. Each chosen for its beauty or uniqueness, they flourished i
n improvised pots that were as much a product of Fawn Seaforth's imagination as they were of her resourcefulness. Empty food containers, cut‑down powercell packs, cleaning and maintenance tubes: all had been ingeniously pressed into service. Alien perfume and color filled the room.
Pulickel found himself drawn to what looked like a longitudinally sliced water carrier potted with miniature black roses. It was beautiful to look at, but the streamers and leaves and tendrils blocked windows and dirtied the floor. A thick mass of aerial roots threatened to overwhelm an atmospheric monitoring panel. Fawn noted the direction of his gaze.
"Have to trim that back." She bent to smell of something blue and gold. "What do you think of my collection? I cleaned the place up especially for you."
"Just for me? You shouldn't have."
"Yeah, I know, but I did anyway."
"Seaforth ..." he began sternly.
"Come on: it's Fawn. We're going to be working together too long for last names. Especially last names as long as yours."
“All right, Fawn.” With a sweeping gesture he encompassed the room and what he could see of rooms beyond. "How can you live and work in this squalor?"
"Squalor?" She made a face. "There's no squalor here, Pulickel. Just comfort. Don't you like flowers?"
"I love flowers, and houseplants, but I don't relish the idea of sharing my living quarters with alien species. Especially new ones whose properties and characteristics haven't been thoroughly cataloged."
"Relax." She moved to another plant. "I put each one through a rigorous quarantine and check before I bring it into the station. Make sure that they're all free of parasites and hangers‑on. I even check pollen and spores for possible serious contamination. Sure there's dangerous flora on Senisran, but these here are all harmless to both human and thranx."
Carefully avoiding the debris that made passage difficult, he worked his way across to the outer wall and its bank of indigenous foliage. "I can understand a small collection, but these are taking over. They could get into equipment, clog filters, no telling what."
The Howling Stones Page 4
