"Stop pestering me. I'll come in a minute." Amy had turned around to look at the whole infernal scene. There was—thank God!—no sign yet of another eruption, but one could happen at any second.
"Max, you have to relax." She came close, shouting right into his ear. "Learn to have fun. All the time we've been here, you've sat like a lump of Sling underside. Let yourself go—get into the swing of things."
He took her hand and began to pull her toward the car. After a moment of resistance she allowed herself to be steered along. With her eyes still on the volcano's bright fury, she did not look where they were going.
And then, when they were no more than a few meters from the car, she broke loose and ran laughing across the flat, steaming surface of heat-baked rock. She was ten paces ahead of him before he could start after her. By then it was too late.
Summertide
minus ten.
Graves and Perry made it sound simple. Rebka argued it was impossible.
"Look at the arithmetic," he said as the Umbilical's capsule lowered them gently to the surface of Quake. "We have a planetary radius of fifty-one hundred kilometers, and a surface that's less than three percent covered by water. That gives over three hundred million square kilometers of land. Three hundred million! Think how long it can take to search one square kilometer. We could look for years and never find them."
"We don't have years," Perry said. "And I know it's a big area. But you seem to assume we'll do a random search, and of course we won't. I can rule out most areas before we start."
"And I know that the Carmel twins will avoid all open spaces," Graves added.
"How can you possibly know that?" Rebka was being the pessimist.
"Because Quake is usually cloud-free." Graves was unmoved by the other's skepticism. "Their homeworld of Shasta has a high-resolution spaceborne system that gives continuous surveillance of the surface."
"But Quake doesn't."
"Ah, but the twins don't know that. They'll assume that if they're out on the open surface, they'll be spotted and picked up. They'll have run for deep cover and stayed there."
"And I can tell you now," Perry said, "that cuts the problem way down. There are only three places that a sane human would take refuge on Quake. We'll start with these three areas—and we'll have to finish with them, too."
"But if we don't find them there," Graves began, "we can broaden—"
"No, we can't," Perry said, cutting him off. "Summertide, Councilor. It will hit maximum strength in less than eighty hours. We'd better not be here then, not you, not me, and not the twins."
Max Perry listed the three most likely areas: in the high forests of the Morgenstern Uplands; upon—or probably within—one of the Thousand Lakes; or in the deep vegetation pockets of the Pentacline Depression.
"Which reduces the area to be searched by a factor of thousands," he said.
"And still leaves ten of thousands of square kilometers to be examined," Rebka replied. "In detail. And don't forget, this isn't your standard search-and-rescue problem. Usually, the missing persons want to be found. They cooperate, as best they can. But the twins won't send distress signals until conditions are intolerable. If they signal then, it will probably be too late."
If his arguments impressed Julius Graves, no one would have known it from the other's grinning face. While Max Perry was busy checking the aircars, Graves dragged Rebka away in the direction of the smoke-edged line of volcanic hills.
"I need a quiet word with you, Captain," he said confidentially. "Just for a moment or two."
Warm ash drifted down like pale-gray snow, settling onto their heads and shoulders. The ground was already covered a centimeter deep. Of the low-growing plants and the peaceful herbivores of Rebka's first visit to Quake there was no sign. Even the lake itself had vanished, hidden beneath a scummy layer of volcanic ash. Instead of the predicted rumble and roar of seismic violence, the planet held a hot, brooding silence.
"You realize," Graves continued, "that we don't need to stay together? There are aircars here to spare."
"I know we could cover three times as much ground if we split up," Rebka replied. "But I'm not sure I want to do it. Perry has unique knowledge of Quake, while you have never been here before."
"Aha! Your thoughts parallel my own." Graves brushed a flake of ash from the end of his nose. "The logical course of action is quite clear: Perry has identified three areas of Quake where fugitives will naturally seek to hide. Those regions are widely separated; but there are enough aircars for each of us to tackle one of them. Therefore, we can all go separately, and examine one area each. That's what logic says. But I say, phooey, who wants logic? Not you, and not me. We want results."
He leaned closer to Rebka. "And frankly, I worry about the stability of Commander Perry. Say 'Quake' and 'Summertide' to him, and his eyes almost roll out of his head. We can't let him go off on his own. What do you think?"
I think that you and Perry both need keepers, is what I think, but I don't want to come right out and say it. Rebka knew what was on the way. He was going to be saddled with Perry—the same stupid assignment that had brought him to Dobelle—while Graves charged off uncontrolled into the Quake wilderness and probably killed himself.
"I agree, Councilor, Perry should not go alone. But I don't want to waste—"
"Then we agree that I must go with Perry," Graves went on, ignoring Rebka. "You see, if he gets into trouble, I can help him. No one else is able to do that. So he and I will tackle the Morgenstern Uplands, while you do the Thousand Lakes—Perry says that's the quickest and easiest. And if neither of us finds the twins, then whoever gets through first takes on the Pentacline Depression."
What does one do when a madman suggests an appealing course of action? One worries—but probably goes along with it. In any case, Graves was in no mood to listen to an argument. When Rebka pointed out again how low the chances were that they would find the twins at all, the councilor snapped his fingers.
"Piffle. I know we'll find them. Think positive, Captain Rebka. Be an optimist! It's the only way to live."
And a likely way to die, Rebka thought. But he gave up. Graves would not be dissuaded, and maybe he and Perry deserved each other.
It was also one of the first rules of life, something Rebka had learned as a six-year-old in the hot saline caverns of Teufel. When someone gives you what you want, leave—before he has time to think again and take it back.
"Very well, Councilor. As soon as a car is ready I'll be on my way."
Rebka had half an hour's start on the other two. The cargo space of the fastest aircars was not designed to carry large and heavy cases, and Julius Graves dithered over his luggage for a long time before he finally left behind everything except a little bag. The rest he put back in an Umbilical capsule. At last he pronounced himself ready to leave.
After takeoff Max Perry set the craft to cruise on autopilot and headed for the Morgenstern Uplands. When they were within scanning range, both men crouched over the displays.
"Primitive equipment," Graves said. He was grimacing and twitching with concentration as he pored over images. Checking the displays was a long and tedious process. "If this were an Alliance car, we wouldn't have to watch—we'd sit back and wait for the system to tell us when it found the twins. As it is it's the other way round. I have to sit and peer at this thing and tell it what it's seeing. Primitive!"
"It's the best we have on Opal or Quake."
"I believe you. But do you ever ask yourself why all the worlds of the spiral arm are not as wealthy as Earth and the other old regions of Crawlspace? Why isn't every planet using the latest technology? Why don't all worlds have more service robots than people, like Earth? Why aren't they all rich, everyone on every colony? We know how to make advanced equipment. Why doesn't every planet have it, instead of just a few?"
Perry had no answers, but he grunted to show that he was listening.
He was not. With Julius Graves busy looking at images, t
hat had to be Steven chattering on. And Perry was busy himself, with the radio receiving equipment. Graves did not believe that the Carmel twins would send a distress call. Perry disagreed. As Summertide came closer the twins ought to be more than ready to be arrested and rescued.
"It's a simple reason," Graves continued, "the cause of Dobelle's poverty. It is built into the basic nature of humanity. A rational species would make sure that one world was fully developed and perfect for humans before going on to another. But we don't know how to do that! We have the outward urge. Before a planet is half settled, off go the new ships, ready to explore the next one. And very few people say, wait a moment, let's get this one right before we go on."
He took a closer look at a couple of false alarms on the image, then shook his head in dismissal.
"We're just too nosy, Commander," he went on. "Most humans have their patience level set a little too low, and their curiosity a bit too high. The Cecropians are as bad as we are. So almost all the wealth of the spiral arm—and all the luxury—finds its way into the hands of the stay-at-homes. It's the old paradox, one that predates the Expansion: the groups that do nothing to create wealth manage to gain possession of most of it. Whereas the ones that do all the work finish up with very few possessions. Perhaps one day that will change. Maybe in another ten thousand years—"
"Radio beacon," Perry interrupted. "A weak one, but it's there."
Graves froze in position and did not look up. "Impossible." His voice was sharp. Julius Graves was back in charge. "They would not advertise their presence on Quake. Not after running so far and for so long."
"Take a look for yourself."
Graves slid across the seat. "How far away is it?"
"Long way." Perry studied the range and vector settings. "In fact, too far. That signal isn't coming from anywhere within the Morgenstern Uplands. The source is at least four thousand kilometers beyond the edge. We're getting ionospheric bounce, or we wouldn't hear them at all."
"How about the Thousand Lakes?"
"Could be. The vector isn't quite right, but there's a lot of noise in the signal. And the range is spot on."
"Then it's Rebka." Graves slapped his hand flat on the table. "It must be. He goes off to look, and no sooner do we get down to work than he's in trouble. Before we even—"
"Not Rebka."
"How do you know?"
"It's not his aircar." Perry was running comparisons with his signal templates. "Not any of ours. Wrong frequency, wrong signal format. Looks like a portable send unit, low power."
"Then it's the Carmel twins! And they must be in terrible trouble, if they're willing to ask for help. Can you take us there?"
"Easy. We just home on the beacon."
"How long from here?"
"Six or seven hours, top speed."
As he spoke Perry was looking at the car's chronometer.
"How long?" Graves had followed his look.
"A bit more than eight Quake days to Summertide; say, sixty-seven hours from now."
"Seven hours to Thousand Lakes, eight more back to the Umbilical. Then up and away. Plenty of time. We'll escape from Quake long before the worst."
Perry shook his head. "You don't understand. Quake is inhomogeneous, with a variable internal structure. The earthquakes can pop up anywhere, long before Summertide. We're not seeing much activity here in the Uplands, but the Thousand Lakes area could be a nightmare."
"Come on, man, you're as bad as Rebka. It can't be all that unpleasant, if the Carmel twins are still alive there."
"You said it right. If they're still alive there." Perry was at the controls, and already the car was turning. "There's one thing you're forgetting, Councilor. Radio beacons are made tough—a whole lot tougher than human beings."
CHAPTER 14
Summertide
minus nine.
The weapons sensors had been tracking the car for a long time. When it came within line-of-sight range, Louis Nenda placed the starship's concealed arsenal on Full Alert.
The approaching aircar slowed, as though aware of the destructive power poised a few kilometers in front of it. It moved sideways, then sank to a vertical landing on a seamed shelf of rock, well away from the ship.
Nenda kept the weapons primed for action, watching as the car's hatch eased open.
"Who's it gonna be, then?" he said softly in Communion patois, more to himself than to Kallik. "Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. Name them visitors."
A familiar pair of figures climbed out onto the steaming, rubble-strewn shelf. Both wore breathing masks, but they were easily recognizable. Louis Nenda grunted in satisfaction and flipped every weapon to standby mode.
"They'll do fine. Open the hatch, Kallik. Show the guests some hospitality."
Atvar H'sial and J'merlia were steadily approaching, picking their way carefully past rounded blue-gray boulders and across a scree of loose gravel. Louis Nenda had chosen his landing site carefully, on the most solid-seeming and permanent surface that he could find; still there were drifts of blown dust and signs of recent earth movement. A deep, jagged crack ran from the shelf where the aircar had just landed, halfway to the much bigger ship. Atvar H'sial was following the line of the fissure, occasionally peering over the edge to sniff the air and estimate the bottom depth. That trench was her only possible refuge. Nothing lived in this region of Quake, and there was no shred of cover within ten kilometers. The ship's weapons, thirty meters high in the dome of the vessel, enjoyed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree prospect.
Atvar H'sial entered the lower hatch, bowing low—not from any idea of respect for Louis Nenda, but because she was squeezing in through an entrance designed for something half her height. Inside, she pulled off her breathing mask. J'merlia followed, with an odd little whistle of greeting to Kallik, then scurried forward to crouch in front of his owner.
The Cecropian straightened and moved closer to Nenda. "You chose not to use your weapons on us," J'merlia translated. "A wise decision."
"From your point of view? I'm sure it was. But what's this talk of weapons?" Nenda's voice was mocking. "You'll find no weapons here."
"You may be right," Atvar H'sial said through J'merlia. "If the inspection facility on Opal could not find them, it may be that we could not." Atvar H'sial's broad white head turned up to look at the ceiling. "However, if you will permit me half an hour for inspection of your starship's upper deck . . ."
"Oh, I don't think so." Louis Nenda grinned. "It might be fun, but we really don't have half an hour to play around. Not with Summertide breathing down our necks. Suppose we stop fencing for a while? I'll not ask what tools and weapons you're carrying on you, if you'll stop worrying about what's on this ship. We've got more important things to talk about."
"Ah. A truce, you suggest." The words came from J'merlia, but it was Atvar H'sial who held out a long foreleg. "Agreed. But where do we begin? How do we discuss cooperation, without revealing too much of what we each know?"
"For a start, we send them"—Nenda pointed at J'merlia and Kallik—"outside."
Atvar H'sial's yellow trumpet-horns turned to scan the Hymenopt, then moved down to the Lo'tfian crouched beneath her carapace.
"Is it safe there?" J'merlia translated.
"Not specially." Nenda raised bushy eyebrows. "Hey, what do you want, carnival time on Primavera? It's not safe anywhere on Quake right now, and you know it. Is your bug extrasensitive to heat and light? I don't want to fry him."
"Not particularly sensitive," J'merlia translated, with no sign of emotion. "Given water, J'merlia can survive heat and bad air for a long period, even without a respirator. But the communication between you and me . . ."
"Trust me." Nenda pointed to J'merlia and Kallik and jerked a thumb toward the hatch. "Out. Both of you." He switched to Communion talk. "Kallik, take plenty of water with you for J'merlia. We'll tell you when to come back in."
He waited until the two aliens were outside and the hatch was closed, then moved forwar
d to sit in the shadow of Atvar H'sial's carapace. He took a deep breath and opened his shirt, revealing a chest completely covered with an array of gray molelike nodules and deep pockmarks. He closed his eyes and waited.
"Be patient." The coded pheromones diffused slowly into the air. "It is not easy . . . and I lack . . . recent practice."
"Ah." Atvar H'sial was nodding her blind head and pointing her receptors to the chest array. "A Zardalu augmentation, I assume? Heard of but never encountered by me. May I ask, at what physical price?"
"The usual." Louis Nenda's face showed a harsh ecstasy. "Pain—the going rate for every Zardalu augment. That's all right, I'm getting there. I'm going to talk in human style as we go, if you don't mind. It helps me frame my thoughts."
"But there is no need for this!" In addition to the literal meaning, Louis Nenda's pheromone receptors picked up Atvar H'sial's disdain and contemptuous amusement. "J'merlia is totally loyal to me, as I assume Kallik is to you. They would die before they would reveal any conversation of ours."
"They certainly would." Louis Nenda managed to chuckle. "I'd make sure of that. But I don't know how smart J'merlia is. Things can always come out by accident, specially if someone tricky asks the questions. Only way to be really safe is if they're not here to listen." The laugh changed to a grunt of discomfort. "All right, let's get down to business and finish this as quick as we can. It's hard on me."
"We need a protocol for the exchange of information."
"I know. Here's my suggestion. I'll make a statement. You can agree, disagree, or make a statement of your own, but no one is obliged to answer any question. Like this. Fact: You have no interest at all in environmentally stressed life-forms on Quake. That's all bull. You came here because you are a specialist on the Builders."
"To you, I will not deny it." Atvar H'sial reared up to full height. The red-and-white ruffles below the head expanded. "I am more than a specialist. I am the specialist on the Builders in the Cecropia Federation." The pheromones carried a message of pride more powerful than words ever could. "I was the first to fathom the mystery of Tantalus; the first—and only—Cecropian to survive a transit of Flambeau. I realized the significance of Summertide before Darya Lang was foolish enough to publish her findings. I—"
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