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Clean: at least she was that. The creature had come in so persistently she had acquired a name and a grudging place in the dome. Now everyone fed the thing, and from a scant meter long, she had gotten fatter, passed a meter easily, and gone through one skin change in recent weeks.
A scrabbling climb put Ruffles onto a stack of boxes. Conn drank his tea and stared back at her golden slit eyes. Her head turned to angle one at him directly. She flared her collar and preened a bit.
"Help you, sir?" That was Bilas, making a bench creak as he sat down close by, arms on the table. Non-com and special op colonel— they had no distinctions left. Protocols were down, everywhere.
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"Just easing the aches in my bones. Any progress on that drainage?"
"We got the pipe in, but we have a silting problem. Meteorology says they're not surprised by this one. So we hear."
"No. It's no surprise. We got off lightly with the last front."
Another staffer arrived, carrying her cup— Regan Chiles dropped onto a bench opposite, scavenger-wise spotting a body in authority and descending with every indication of problems. "Got a little difficulty," she said. "Tape machines are down. It's this salt air and the humidity. We pulled the most delicate parts and put them into seal; but we're going to have to take the machines apart and clean them; and we're really not set up for that."
"You'll do the best you can." He really did not want to hear this. He looked about him desperately, found fewer people in the dome than he had expected, which distracted him with wondering why. Chiles went on talking, handing him her problems, and he nodded and tried to take them in, the overload Education was putting on Computer Maintenance, because inexpert personnel had exposed some of the portable units to the conditions outside. Because Education had programs behind schedule…
and shifted blame.
"Look," he said finally, "your chain of command runs through Maj. Gallin.
All this ought to go to him."
A pursed lip, a nod, an inwardness of the eyes. Something was amiss.
"What answer did Gallin give you?"
"Gallin just told us to fix it and to cooperate."
"Well, you don't go over Gallin's head, lieutenant. You hear me."
"Sir," Chiles muttered, clenched her square jaw and took another breath.
"But begging the colonel's pardon, sir— my people are going shift and shift and others are idle."
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"That's because your department has something wrong, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll talk to the other departments." He was conscious of Bilas at his elbow, witness to it all. "I stand by Gallin, you hear. I won't have this bypassing channels. —Drink the tea, lieutenant; both of you. If we have any problems like that, then you keep to chain of command."
"Yes, sir."
"Sir," Bilas murmured.
He stayed there, sipping the tea, himself and Chiles and Bilas; and soon others came up the table to intimate their troubles to him, so that his stomach knotted up again in all the discomfort he had left his quarters to avoid.
And finally after he had drunk several cups of tea and had to go out to avail himself of the latrine in back of the dome, he headed back to his own quarters with his collar turned up and an ache in his bones that felt like dull needles. An ariel slithered through a puddle in his path, miniature mariner, swimming for a moment, more intent on direction than convenience, which was the habit of ariels.
A siren disturbed the air. He looked about him in the pale gray haze, tried to get location on it, and thought it was coming from somewhere near the fields.
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They brought Ada Beaumont back in a sheet with the blood and the rain soaking it, and Bob Davies following along after the litter with his clothes soaked and stained with mud and blood, and that look in his eyes that was nowhere, and nowhen, as if he had backed away from life.
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Conn came out into the rain and looked down at the smallish bundle on the stretcher— stared confusedly, because it was always ridiculous how something as large across life as Ada, a special op who had survived Fargone and the war and the Rising, who had been wiry and cagy and full of every trick the enemy never expected— could come down to an object so small and diminished. Men and women stood with their eyes hazed with tears, in the fog and the mist, but Bob Davies just stared in shock, his face gone ghastly pale; and Conn put his hands in his pockets and felt a panic and a hollowness in his gut.
"It was a caliban burrow," Pete Gallin said, wiped the water out of his eyes with a bloody, abraded hand. "Andresson— saw it happen."
"Andresson." Conn looked at the man, a thin and wispy fellow with distracted eyes.
"We were fixing that washout up there and she was talking to me on the rig when the ground behind her feet just— went. This big crawler behind her, parked, nobody on it— just started tipping for no cause. She went under it; and we had to get the winch, sir— we got another crawler turned and got the winch on it, but it was one of those lizard burrows, like— like three, four meters down: and in that soft ground, the crawler on it— the whole thing just dissolved…."
"Take precautions," Conn said; and then thought that they were all expecting him to grieve over Beaumont, and they would hate him because he was like this. "We can't have another." There was a dire silence, and the bearers of the litter just stood there in the rain shifting the poles in their hands because of the weight. Their cropped heads shed beads of water, and red seeped through the thin sheeting and ran down into the puddles.
"We bury in the earth," he said, his mind darting irrevocably to practical matters, for stationers, who were not used to that. "Over by the sea, I think, where there's no building planned."
He walked away— like that, in silence. He did not realize either the silence or his desertion until he was too far away to make it good. He walked to his own quarters and shut the door behind him, shed his wet jacket and flung it down on the bench.
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Then he cried, standing there in the center of the room, and shivered in the cold and knew that there was nothing in Pete Gallin or in any of the others which would help him. Old as he was getting and sick as he was getting, the desertion was all on Ada's side.
He was remarkably lucid in his shock. He knew, for instance, that the burrowing beyond the perimeters was worse news than Ada's death. It threw into doubt all their blueprints for coexistence with the calibans. It spelled conflict. It altered the future of the world— because they had to cope with it with only the machines and the resources in their hands.
When the weather cleared they would have to sit down and draw new plans, and somehow he had to pull things into a coherency that would survive. That would save forty thousand human lives.
Promotions had to be done. Gallin had to be brought up to co-governor: Gallin— a good supervisor and a decent man and no help at all. Maybe a civ like Gutierrez— Gutierrez was the brightest of the division chiefs, in more than bio; but there was no way to jump Gutierrez over others with more seniority. Or Sedgewick— a legal mind with rank but no decisiveness.
He wiped his eyes, found his hand trembling uncontrollably.
Someone splashed up to the door, opened it without a by your leave, a sudden noise of rain and gust of cold. He looked about. It was Dean, of the medical staff.
"You all right, sir?"
He straightened his shoulders. "Quite. How's Bob?"
"Under sedation. Are you sure, sir?"
"I'll be changing my clothes. I'll be over in the main dome in a minute.
Just let me be."
"Yes, sir." A lingering look. Dean left. Conn turned to the strung clothesline which was his closet and his laundry, and picked the warmest 84
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cl
othes he had, still slightly damp. He wanted a drink. He wanted it very badly.
But he went and set things right in the dome instead— met with the staff, laid out plans, unable finally to go out to the burial because of the chill, because he began to shiver and the chief surgeon laid down the law—which was only what he wanted.
Tired people came back, wet, and shivering and sallow-faced. Davies was prostrate in sickbay, under heavier sedation after the burial— had broken down entirely, hysterical and loud, which Ada had never been. Ever.
Gallin sat with shadowed eyes and held a steaming cup in front of him at table. "You're going to have to survey the area," Conn said to him, with others at the table, because there was no privacy, "and you're going to have to keep surveying, to find out if there's more undermining."
"Yes, sir."
Ruffles, on her stack of boxes, flicked her tongue. Conn regarded her balefully past Gallin's slumped shoulder and bowed head. "It was an accident," he said. "That's all there is to say about it. We just don't intend to have another one."
"Sir," Gallin said, "that caliban mound on this side of the river… I'd like to break that up."
Conn looked at Gutierrez, who had his mouth clamped tight. "Gutierrez?"
"I'd like to know first," Gutierrez said, "if that's the source of the tunnelling in the camp or not. If we don't know for sure, if we're just guessing— we're not solving the problem at all."
"You're proposing more study."
"I'd like to do that, sir."
"Do it, then. But we're going to have to probe those tunnels and know where they go."
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"I'll be on that— tonight, if you like."
"You map it out on paper tonight. And we get a team out at daybreak to probe the ground. We don't know for certain it is the Calibans at all, do we?"
"No," said Gutierrez. "That's the point. We don't know."
Conn gathered up the bottle on the table in front of him, that they had used to lace the tea, and poured himself the long postponed drink. His hand shook violently in the pouring so that he spilled a little. He sipped at it and the liquor went into him, settling his battered nerves.
Ruffles scrambled from her perch and hit the floor, put on her best display.
One of the techs slipped from the table and got her a morsel of food, which vanished with a neat dart of the head and a choking motion.
Conn finished his drink, excused himself, put his jacket on and walked back to his own quarters around the bending of the walk. The rain had stopped, in the evening. The electric lights in the compound and scattered throughout the azi camp were haloed in the mist. He stopped there on the puddled gravel walk, cold inside, looked out over all the camp, seeing what they had come to do slipping further and further away.
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"They put her in the ground," Pia said, very soft, in the comfort of their pallet; and Jin held to her for comfort in the dark. "They buried her in the ground, and they all stood around and cried."
This was a revelation— the death of a born-man. They were accustomed to azi mortality. Azi died, and they carried the body to the white building on the farm, and that was the end of the matter. If one was a good type, then there was the confidence that others of one's type would go on being born. There was pride involved in that. And that meant something.
But they saved nothing of Ada Beaumont. There were no labs to save it.
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"I wish we could have tapes," Jin said. "I miss them."
Pia hugged him the tighter, buried her face against his shoulder. "I wish the same thing. There was a mistake about the machine falling on the captain. I don't know what. I think we could have been at fault. I wish we knew."
"They say they can't use the machines in the bad weather."
"When there are labs again," Pia said, "when we have good tape again, it's going to be better."
"Yes," he said.
But that was a very long time away.
He and Pia made love in the dark; and that replaced the tapes. It came to him that they were happier than the born-man who had died, having no one of her own type surviving, at least here on this world. But there were other 9998s and 687s. And they made love because it was the warmest and the pleasantest thing they could do, and because they were permitted.
This made born-men; and an obscure sense of duty dawned on Jin, that if one had died, then one had to be born. This was why they had been chosen, and what they had to do.
The rain stopped, and the sun came back in the morning, with only a ragged bit of cloud. The world was different under this sun. The crawlers stood off in the cleared fields, muddy with yesterday's accident, and a great pit remained around which born-men began to probe. And the world was different because there was a dead born-man lying alone by the sea, with a marker that let the grave be seen across the camp.
Jin walked to his supervisor's table, set up in the roadway under this new sun, and applied for the day's work; but instead of doing more survey, he was given a metal rod and told to push it into the earth. He was to call the supervisor if it seemed that the dirt was looser than it ought to be. He went out among others and probed until his shoulders ached, and the born-man Gutierrez and his crew took down all that they found.
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The domes rose, with the sun hot and the sea beating blue and white at the shore; and Conn sat in his chair in front of the main dome, under the canopy, because the heat was never that great, and the breeze pleased him.
An ariel waddled across the dust near the walk and squatted there just off the gravel path, in the shadow of Conn's own adjacent dome. It built—instinctive behavior, Gutierrez maintained. It had brought a pebble and added it to the stack it was making— not a pebble from the walk, thank you, but a larger one, painstakingly found elsewhere, presumably just the right pebble, for reasons only another ariel might grasp. It made circles of stacks. It built domes too, Conn thought distantly; but its domes failed, collapsing into nests. The last few stones always knocked the efforts down, lacking the trick of a keystone. So it seemed. But that was a fancy: too much of domes, too much of a preoccupation with them lately. The ariel built lines and patterns out from its collapsed stacks of stones, loops and whorls and serpentines. Rudimentary behavior like the moundbuilding calibans, Gutierrez had said. Probably it originated as a nesting behavior and elaborated into display behaviors. Both sexes built. That had disappointed Gutierrez.
No more calibans this side of the river, at least. The mounds remained, across the river, but azi with spades had taken the mound this side apart. It was stalemate, the calibans forbidden their mounds this side, the crawlers and earthmovers standing still, mothballed, now that all the major building and clearing was done.
The ship would come, bringing them the supplies and lab facilities they needed; and then the machines would grind and dig their way further across the landscape around that ell bend between the river and the forest, making foundations for the lab and the real city they planned.
But the nearer focus was still tents. Still tents. More than twenty thousand tents, dull brown under the sun. They tried, having hunted the last determined caliban off this shore; but the crawlers had reached the point of diminishing returns in maintenance, needing the supplies the ship would 88
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bring. Up the rivercourse the azi blasted at limestone and hauled it back in handpulled wagons, laboriously, as humans had hauled stone in the dawn of human building, because they dared not risk the crawlers, the last of them that worked on parts cannibalized from the others. The azi labored with blasting materials and picks and bare hands, and there was a camp of two dozen tents strung out there too, at the limestone cliffs where they quarried stone.
Perhaps it might have been wiser to have moved the whole
site there, to stony ground— knowing now that calibans burrowed. But they had spent all their resources of material and fuel. The domes stood, so at least the staff had secure housing. The fields were planted, and the power systems and the equipment were safe so long as they kept the calibans away.
Conn studied his charts, traced again and again the changes they had had to make in plans. The cold this spring had hurt his hands; and the joints twisted and pained him, even in the summer sun. He thought of another winter and dreaded it.
But they survived. He knew the time of the landing that would come, down to the day, year after next; and mentally he marked off every day, one to the next, with all the complexities of local/universal time.
The ship, he was determined, would take him home. He would go back to Cyteen. He thought that he might live through the jumps. Might. Or at least he would not have to see more of this world.
Newport, he had called it. But Gehenna had stuck instead. It was where they were; it described their situation. Like Styx for the Forties River, that began as a joke and stayed. When a wheel broke on one of the carts or when it rained— Gehenna's own luck, they said; and: What do you expect, in Hell?
They came to the Old Man and complained: Conn solved what he could, shrugged his shoulders at the rest. Like Gallin. Finally— like Gallin.
"That's your problem," was Gallin's line, which had gotten to be a proverb so notorious Gallin had had to find different ways of saying it. A sad fellow, Gallin, a bewildered fellow, who never knew why he deserved 89
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everyone's spite. Conn sat placidly, waited for problems to trickle past the obstacle of Gallin, soothed tempers— kept the peace. That was the important thing.