She mopped her brow with a dirtied white sleeve. The therm-suit was not cooling her as it should. Loosening collar and cuffs let in some air, but the wind was too hot to bring much relief. She stared up at the rock spindle looming beside her, estimating its height at close to thirty meters. It was deep red-orange, a sort of earthy vermilion, a perfect match for the sunball hovering oblate at the horizon. It narrowed in stages as it ascended, as if turned on a mammoth lathe, a giant’s table leg. Stavros translated its Sawl name as the “old king,” but he offered it without conviction, since the Sawls did not seem to have kings, or anything like a king. Besides, the spindle’s smoothly domed summit was more reminiscent of a balding head than a crown. Susannah fancied it a more minor chesspiece, a pawn perhaps, set out on this precipitous rock to await its part in some unknown gambit.
She circled it, measuring the circumference of its base at a surprisingly slim twenty-six meters. Her booted feet slipped in the melt water sluicing across the terraced rock from crevasses still packed with ice. She scrambled clumsily until she found a cranny deep enough to offer secure footing, then leaned against the rock shaft with a euphoric sigh. Still panting, she found breath enough to laugh aloud for the sheer joy of gazing down on this new planet from such Olympian heights. She loved these fresh worlds, uncrowded and unpolluted-at least they were for the term of her normal field assignment. Susannah placed her faith in a universe big enough to provide an endless supply of them.
Liphar arrived beside her, assured himself of her well-being, then settled down to wait, restlessly intertwining his bare toes. As his dark eyes scanned the horizon, Susannah imagined a sailor searching for a distant sail. Between thumb and forefinger, he worried the azure bead worn on a braided thong about his wrist. Clausen had proclaimed the stone as malachite. It was carved in the shape of a trefoiled blossom, which Susannah took as a sign of encouragement for the botanical sector of her survey. Though the stone was lovely, its intention was not primarily decorative. Its oiled patina hinted at a long history of pressure from nervous fingers.
Susannah smiled down at the young man fondly. Unlike some primitive societies, there was nothing gaudy about the Sawls. With his nut-brown skin, his thick brown curls, his layers of plain clothing in shades of brown and ocher and rust, Liphar was the very color of the landscape that was emerging so rapidly from under its blanket of snow, the same colors smeared so artlessly across Susannah’s therm-suit from her reckless upward climb. After so many weeks of watching the Sawls huddle in dark caves, smothered by the blank snow, she thought it was a relief to see such colors, and Liphar’s harmony with them.
Time to break out the camera, she thought as she studied her muddied palms for serious cuts and scrapes. Her companion left off his sky watch long enough to extract a cloth bundle from under his tunic. He unwrapped a round loaf of bread, divided it neatly, returned one half to his pocket and split the other between them.
Susannah munched the coarse bread gratefully. It was well after 1900 by the ship’s clock, and she had missed supper. She had not thought to bring food for the climb, having been drawn further by the pleasures of sun and air than she had intended. Studying the Sawls was causing a redefinition of her concept of self-sufficiency. The only life-support system on Fiix was the generosity of a fellow Saw!. She touched the miniterminal on her wrist and called up the ship’s computer.
“Susannah here, CRI. I made it all the way up to the White Pawn, except now it’s red, with the snow gone. I’m about three hundred meters above plains level. My legs feel like it’s three thousand.”
The computer was prim. “As Medical Officer, Dr. James, it would be prudent for you to observe your own prescribed regimen of daily exercise.”
“Yes, well, as Computer, you can be grateful that you will never have to know how dull calisthenics are. How much time have I got till sunset?”
“Approximately ten hours. Was it necessary to go so far alone?”
“Not alone, CRI. Liphar’s with me. He insisted. Wouldn’t let me go alone. Besides, we should have a few hours of light after sundown as well, the days moving as slowly as they do around here.” Susannah removed the clasp from her long hair and shook it free. “It’s no use scolding me, CRI. This view is worth every agonized muscle I’m going to suffer tomorrow. The sky is like a sheet of polished jade and the air is all red and gold and smells like, well, freedom! Oh, and best of all, I spotted something like a lizard on the way up, at least a tail disappearing under a rock. Definitely a living creature. Liphar was not happy when I tried to hunt it down, so I let it pass. Not much else moving about up on the cliffs, though, which is disappointing-there’s a limit, after all, to the accuracy of a survey based on a kitchen collection of dried herbs. By the way, my suit thermostat’s acting up. I’m sweating like a pig.”
“There has been intermittent static on that signal, Dr. James,” the computer conceded. “If the problem cannot be solved here in the Orbiter, I suggest you unzip.”
Susannah laughed. “Very practical, CRI.” As the hot wind billowed into her suit, she giggled like a small child. “Like being inside a dryer! Well, to continue my report, the mountains to the south are still in deep winter. Very forbidding-looking, I must say. The plain is hillier than it looked under snow, all broken up with canyons and arroyos mostly still choked with ice. It’s mud-and-sand-colored, yellowish, but this red light and the steam rising off the ice make it look like the whole plain’s on fire. Fairly spectacular. The northeastern mountains are just a blur through the steam, but I can see the Lander clearly off to the left, down in the shadow of the cliffs where the snow hasn’t melted yet. Liphar’s folk are very busy along the cliff top.”
“What are they doing?”
“You’re a little faint, CRI. Up your volume a bit—wind’s drowning you out. It’s getting real gusty up here. I’ll try for a look over the edge, if I don’t get blown off.” Susannah knelt on the wet rock and crawled forward as far as she could will herself. Below the ragged edge of the Red Pawn’s precipice, ledges of wind-tom stone descended toward the rugged plateau at the top of the cliffs. At the western end of the scarp, scores of dark figures bustled about among the snow and rocks. “Mostly they’re moving big stone slabs around with cranes and levers. Liphar couldn’t quite make it clear to me when I asked him before Something about water running into the Caves, or water not running into the Caves, I don’t know which. Put Meg and Stavros on it. Between them, they should be able to figure it out.” She paused with a sigh. “That is, if you can get them to agree on an interpretation.”
“Dr. Levy is recording from one of the cave mouths. A religious ritual, I believe. The priests have become very active all of a sudden.”
Good. Glad to see Meg’s got herself in motion. Susannah waited. Finally, she asked, “What about Stavros?” The answering delay suggested that CRI was pondering a dilemma not easily dealt with in mathematical terms. Susannah retreated from the edge and sat back on her heels. “What’s the problem, CRI?”
“There seems to be some difficulty in locating the Commander. Mr. Ibiá is conducting a search. He seems more than usually disturbed, may I say.”
“Locating—? Weng’s turned off her com unit?” Susannah frowned. Perhaps the Old Lady had been on the ground too long.
“Occasionally the Commander desires to be alone,” CRI replied quickly. “After serving with her for thirty-nine ship’s years, I have learned that she will be found when she wishes to be found. I am not concerned.”
Ah, but you are aware, thought Susannah, loyal servant that you are, that wandering off unannounced could be misinterpreted. You and I both know the old bird’s as sharp as a tack, but she is beyond retirement age, and there are plenty of young-bloods back home jockeying for a command. “She’s probably working out some new composition equation,” she offered.
“Let me know when she turns up, eh? What are the others up to?”
“Dr. Danforth and Mr. Clausen appear to be trying to dig out around the Lander. The
force field has been turned off.”
“The shield is down? Is that wise, with all this unstable melt?”
“Dr. Danforth issued the order, in the Commander’s absence.”
“How convenient. That one doesn’t waste any time taking over, does he?” Momentarily, Susannah considered suspicion, then chided herself. This sudden freedom was luring them all into hasty decisions. I just hope Taylor knows what he’s doing.
“Is Liphar still with you?” asked CRI.
Susannah chuckled. “Much against his better judgment. He didn’t want to come up this far, kept trying to get me to turn back. He keeps staring at the sky and shaking his head.” Gazing at the young man as he leaned restlessly against the base of the Red Pawn, Susannah felt a sudden guilty start. As a priest-in-training, should Liphar be down at the cave mouth with his brethren? Had her mad dash into the mountains taken him away from his proper duties? She realized that she had not yet learned what his proper duties were. Very soon after their arrival, Liphar had attached himself to the Terran party, hanging around Meg and Stavros when they visited the Caves, venturing almost daily down to the Lander. What she had originally assumed to be childish curiosity now appeared as a dogged determination to make the alien visitors his personal research project. Susannah now suspected he had learned a great deal more about them than they had about him.
But curiosity about Terrans was not Liphar’s present concern. His eyes were fixed on the northeastern horizon and the dark crenellation of mountains wavering far across the rugged plain. The tension gripping him would have been expressed in pacing if there had been room enough on the precipice to move about. Instead, his fingers twitched his malachite bead in rapid circles around his thin wrist. He broke into muttered song now and then, and several times he tossed his head and sighed, a short explosive release.
“I’m sure it’s much windier up here than when we arrived,” Susannah noted into her wrist terminal. “And cooler. It’s really barren, too. The rock is worn and brittle, like an old man’s teeth. Not much that looks like vegetation, though I did find some dead bushes on the way up, very thick-stemmed and squat. Too desiccated now for me to tell much right off, but a desert type, I’d guess. I’ll get samples on the way down.” She cupped her hands around the tiny terminal. “Can you hear me all right? I can barely hear myself over this wind!”
“I am having some trouble. Can you find some shelter?”
“Not up here, I’m afraid. Hold on a moment. Liphar…?”
The young Sawl had suddenly mobilized. He grabbed Susannah’s sleeve and jabbed a finger in the direction of the distant mountain range. Susannah gasped and blinked. A moment before, there had been nothing out there but jade-green sky and the sunlit amber peaks shimmering through the rising steam. Now the translucent green was being smothered by the black domes of a massive cloud wall. The far mountains were disgorging a storm.
Susannah squinted at it unbelieving. “Say, CRI… do you have storm readings to the northeast?” Beside her, Liphar laced tight the heavy oiled-leather poncho he had packed up the long hot climb.
“I have no readings to the northeast,” CRI admitted. “I had loss of signal from both those stations six minutes ago. Still trying to determine the cause. Mr. Ibiá did tell me of a native storm prediction just recently.”
“Well, I don’t need instruments to tell you there’s a humdinger on its way. I’ve never seen a storm move so fast! Better patch me through to Megan, quick! I’ll bet this is Liphar’s ‘big water’ after all!”
She no longer doubted that the temperature was dropping. Sweat that had never had a chance to dry ran chill rivulets down her back. She zipped up and tucked her hair under her collar. She circled the Red Pawn in search of a leeward side, but the rising gusts chased after her. The storm streaked toward the lowering sun. She shook a resentful fist at it, and Liphar groaned in disapproval.
“Ph’nar khem!” he scolded, making desperate little runs back and forth to the head of the downward trail.
“O rek, Liphar?” Susannah called over the howling wind. She pointed at the storm. “O rek?”
His head jerked as if the words alone were cause for terror. He bounded to the trail head, then turned back to find Susannah still gaping at the onrushing clouds. His yelp was audible over the wind.
The terminal on Susannah’s wrist spat static. She put it close to her mouth and yelled, “Meg? Meg, you won’t believe what’s going on up here all of a sudden! Remember that nice quiet winter we all bitched about?”
Megan’s voice came through scratchy and incredulous. “What, nice? You call that nice? By the way, you’d better get in. It’s chaos down here!”
“Nice quiet snow,” Susannah continued, unheeding. “A winter wonderland compared to what’s on its way now. I’d get a camera to the highest cave mouth to record it, if you can. I’m heading in.”
As Liphar took hold to drag her bodily toward the trail, she took a last backward look out over the plain. “You know,” she shouted into the terminal, “this is a dumb thing to say about weather, but there’s something weird about this storm. Remember time-lapse photography? That’s what it looks like. Unnatural, you know? HEY!” She stopped dead and shook Liphar off. “I just saw a Sled take off from the Lander, I swear I did! Meg, can you hear me? CRI?”
The reply came mixed with static. “Having trouble… ing… reports… ind… of… erference.”
“SOME FOOL’S TAKEN A SLED OUT!” Susannah’s voice cracked. “You’ve got to stop them? There’s a storm coming!”
CRI cut in suddenly, barely intelligible through the increasing noise. “Conditions approaching abnormal… and… visable… turn to… ander.”
The little terminal went dead.
Susannah felt cold. Is this my suit still malfunctioning or a touch of panic? From the moment she had boarded CONPLEX’s new FTL ship Hawking, she had never been out of contact with her assigned Orbiter’s computer. She tapped the terminal with a muddy fingernail as if it were a balky windup clock. “Meg? CRI? MEG? If you can still hear me, I’m coming in!”
Liphar waited in jitters at the trail head. His eyes darted back and forth between Susannah and the approaching storm. She sensed him weighing the potential of anger as a goad to haste, and because she had never seen him angry she was tempted to find further excuse for delay. But the academic value of such observation faded in the face of the young man’s fear. Susannah was left no doubt, as the storm swept closer and closer, that Liphar was in mortal terror of it. His loud urgings were collapsing into inarticulate whines. Soon he would lose resolve for anything but flight, as panic overcame even his dedication to her safety.
Should I be in terror of it, too? She relented and hurried to join him.
The advancing cloud line billowed across the sky like pirate sails ripped loose from their stays, fat and black, red-bellied with dying sunlight. The storm’s speed was unnatural, the wind inspired with dangerous intent. In this aura of the bizarre, Susannah would not have been surprised to see the orange sun take its own sudden refuge behind the pale western mountains. The plain glowed like a firepit. Its steam-smoke pressed low into the canyons like coiled entrails, then whipped up into reddish shreds as the wind caught and devoured it. The Red Pawn turned the color of dried blood as the clouds swept overhead. When the first heavy raindrops hit, the rock precipice ran red like an opened wound.
Susannah curled an arm around Liphar’s narrow shoulders. “It may be weird, but it’s only weather,” she comforted, perhaps more for her own sake than his. He was beyond comforting.
“O rek! Gisti! Gisti!” he whimpered, and pulled away. His shudder was theatrical in scale. Susannah trotted after him down the darkening trail, repeating his last word to herself. Stavros was convinced that “gisti” encompassed both weather and concepts of deity, but had so far been unable to define the precise relationship, or settle on a Terran word that seemed to suit its apparent complexities. The gods’ weather? Or godlike weather? Susannah tended to side w
ith Occam even in matters of linguistic theory, thus “weather gods” seemed the most logical. Megan agreed, from an anthropological standpoint, but Stavros insisted that language was devious in ways that the physical world could never be. It was Stavros who had first stated that the Sawls were a subtle people.
The cloud billows screamed past, reaching for the sun. Liphar leaped down the trail, screeching like one possessed, gesturing wildly to hurry Susannah along. The Red Pawn disappeared behind a rim of wet rock. The young Sawl glued his eyes to the treacherous terrain, avoiding even a moment’s fearful glance at the roiling sky and its blood-hued clouds. The light turned bilious and ruddy, and too faint to show the path clearly in the shadow of the rocks. Susannah slowed as the scattered raindrops exploded into a vicious downpour. Liphar was barely visible through the sheeting rain. Feeling again the chill of panic, she picked up her pace. A march of ragged boulders rose out of the dimness as suddenly as specters. The trail swerved sharply around them, then sliced downward, nearly vertical and awash with muddy water.
The storm swallowed the sun at last. A gray-umber darkness overtook them. Rain lashed at Susannah’s eyes. She reached too quickly to fasten her suit hood. Pebbles rolled beneath her feet. She fell skidding down the gravel-washed path, across thin razor edges of rock, past the fleeing Liphar. He grabbed at her reflexively. His bare feet found hold on the brittle stone but his weight was too slight to break her fall. He let go just as momentum would have dragged him after her. She slid hard into a ledge of granite that rose, as if by a miracle, to one side of the trail just where it switchbacked to avoid a deep cleft in the mountainside. Susannah huddled against the ledge in shock until Liphar scrambled down to pull her to her feet. He hurriedly checked her for injury and patted her sympathetically, but pushed on downward without further pause.
The Wave and the Flame Page 6
