Etsane eyed the buildings, wondering if she could pick out different dynastic styles from this far away. Imagine flying like a bird over a city already ancient before Rome was founded!
Father, I wish you could see this, she thought wistfully. You would have loved this, too ...
Beloran sat in the ground skimmer driven by Mitchell, the Sky Infidel who had caused him so many problems already and would, no doubt, cause him more in the future. Just ahead, the CLS transport was setting down at the spaceport field outside Spirit.
Just what we need, the Liaison thought sourly. More Infidels. Like the other aliens, these Infidels would also feel free to profane Mother Sky with their flying machines. Like Mitchell, they too would dig into Father Earth without reverence, without respect.
Beloran's tail kinked with resentment. This is OUR world, not theirs!
Schooling his ears and tail to calmness, he reminded himself that what his people needed, what he had bought them, was time. Time to industrialize Halish meg a-tum. Time to purchase or develop the technology that would make them the equals of these visitors from beyond Mother Sky. Time to grow strong, to arm themselves, so that the People would forever control their own destiny.
Beloran glanced sideways at the Infidel Mitchell, noting with distaste his flat features, his unmobile ears and lack of a tail. These humans had no feelings, no sensitivity, no
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reverence for history and tradition. They knew not the value of salt. They did not appreciate the value of water. They acted as if they had no fear of the future, and behaved casually with technology that seemed, to the Na-Dina, miraculous, even magical.
Infidel Mitchell glanced over at him. "This Mahree Burroughs who will be taking Bill's place knew him well," he said, expertly piloting the s kimm er along the dusty road. "She was his mentor. He worked for her for a year before coming to Ancestor's World."
Beloran tensed at the mention of the young Sky Infidel who had met such an unpleasant fate. Finding the entire subject distasteful, he hastened to change it. "Did this female Infidel also attend the StarBridge school that drifts between the suns?"
Mitchell emitted a short, sharp sound that Beloran had learned betokened amusement. "No, Mahree Burroughs never attended StarBridge Academy.
She was the inspiration for it. She helped set it up, and is widely known as the First Interrelator."
Beloran's ears fluttered with distress. If this female Infidel was famous, then the CLS no doubt valued her, as they had not, from all indications, valued Waterston. What effect might that have on the Na-Dina relations with the Sky Infidels? He must consider the implications carefully....
"Here is the turnoff," the Liaison said, pointing with one talon.
"Yes, I see it." Mitchell turned the skimmer off the country road and headed for a gray metal building. The Infidels called it "the Skyport" and they had raised it in a single day, rather than the way a building should be raised, year by year, decade by decade. The Skyport was built of some hard alien substance, not of Father's gift, the native stone, as the Na-Dina built.
The new Infidels would be waiting in there until cleared by the Ministry of Commerce. Beloran noticed one of the Nordlund jumpjets also on the landing field. Being a Merchant, Beloran felt far more comfortable with the Nordlund
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Infidels. Nordlund was here to make a profit, and profit was something Beloran understood.
And Nordlund was giving Ancestor's World something tangible. Nordlund knew how to build giant dams. They traded off-world wonders for Na-Dina goods. Their presence had given new status to the trade of Merchant.
The contracts Nordlund had signed with the Na-Dina promised enough hydroelectric power to double their world's energy production. That would make possible more factories, more mills. Soon the Na-Dina would be able to build all the wonders the Infidels used so casually, and then the People would have no more need for the off-worlders.
As the skimmer halted before the Skyport, Beloran sighed to himself. Time to school his manner, to pretend politeness to those who would rush into his world, overawe the rural people, and perhaps even challenge the power of the Royal House.
"We're here, though a bit late," said Mitchell. "If we hadn't had to stop for midday devotionals ..."
Beloran thought back to that time by the side of the road, as he had prayed and meditated, with Mitchell's awkward accompaniment. The Liaison had enjoyed prolonging the rite, even as the archaeologist squirmed....
Too bad Mitchell's entire archaeological camp could not disappear, like one of the remote Na-Dina villages found empty of inhabitants. The
Disappearances had begun decades ago. Not everyone believed in them, but Beloran had seen one village for himself--echoing, deserted, desolate ...
as though the villagers had just... left.
As he moved to get out of the vehicle and follow Mitchell into the Skyport, Beloran repressed another sigh and steeled himself to meet this new wave of Infidel intruders.
Mahree Burroughs stood in the visitor hall of the Skyport, surrounded by milling archaeologists, piles of equipment and baggage. She sighed. There wasn't anyone, Na-Dina or human, here to meet them. Where the devil was Mitchell?
How the heck were they to find transport to Mitchell's
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Base Camp? Surely the man had more sense than to expect them to land Emerald Scales downcountry, in a dangerous approach to a beaconless canyon?
Mahree realized uneasily that all of the archaeologists were regarding her expectantly. That was only fair, she thought grumpily--after all, she was the high-ranking CLS official. Trouble was, she didn't have the faintest idea of what to do.
She wiped sweat from her forehead, wishing she were wearing shorts and a sleeveless top rather than the black StarBridge jumpsuit with Interrelator insignia she'd put on that morning. Searching in her pockets, she ran fingers through her mane of waist-length hair, scooping it up into a ponytail so it was off her neck.
Just then, the double doors slammed open and in walked two people: a middle-aged human male, and a Na-Dina alien. Relieved, Mahree headed purposefully for them.
She was amused to note that Mitchell was dressed exactly like an archaeologist in one of Rob's antique films-- rough khaki pants, leather boots, and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His muscular forearms were traced with scars and abrasions, old and new.
"Ambassador Burroughs?" the human called in a pleasant tenor, waving to her as he approached. "I'm Gordon Mitchell." He was tall and ruggedly good-looking, with a deep tan and brown hair streaked blond by the sun. His teeth flashed when he smiled.
"Mahree Burroughs," she said, striding up to meet him. She was too hot and sweaty to smile, but she nodded cordially as she held out her hand. Mitchell grasped hers in a rough-palmed grip. He smelled of new sweat and old dust.
"And for the duration of this visit, Doctor Mitchell, my title is 'Interrelator.' "
Mahree slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew her CLS credentials, then handed them to the blue-scaled Na- Dina. While the alien glanced at them, she took another look at the archaeologist, and her eyes widened. Mitchell wore a gun belted to his waist. A pulse-gun!
Biting her lip, she forced herself to look away from the
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weapon. She didn't want to create a scene in front of a Na- Dina official.
Later, though, she'd have a LOT to say about that gun. Didn't the man have a grain of sense?
"Ambassador?" The Na-Dina was bowing to her, beady black eyes inspecting her one-piece StarBridge uniform; then the alien broke eye contact. "We apologize for our lateness. We were delayed in our arrival due to the midday obeisance." Mahree heard the alien's words in stereo--the translation to Mizari whispered by the voder earcuff she wore, and from her own knowledge of the Na-Dina hiss- click language. Alien languages were her speciality, and she'd gained a passable fluency on the trip out.
Mahree returned the Na-Dina's bow. "Esteemed Representative of the Royal Ho
use," she hiss-clicked, "I come bearing--"
"I'm not of the Royal House," the alien interrupted curtly. Nictitating membranes swept sideways over wet black eyes, and fan-shaped ears canted toward her. "I am Beloran, of the clan Flooding Waters, of the trade Merchant, Father of four eggs, and Liaison between the Sky Infidels and the Council of Elders." The alien looked behind her, then focused on her head, as if the bobbing tail of hair fascinated him.
"Forgive me if I misspoke," Mahree said hastily. "Your ways are new to me. I hope to learn them as quickly as I may, so that we may communicate effectively."
Beloran gave her another short, jerky bow, acknowledging her apology.
"How shall we transport to Base Camp?" Mahree asked the liaison. "We have large amounts of equipment, as you can see."
"Yes, I see." Beloran didn't seem particularly pleased. "Your people are to stay here, load their belongings into the Nordlund jumpjet, and, as soon as the pilot is ready, you must all leave."
Mahree's eyes widened in surprise. "But I thought the Ministry of Justice was located in Spirit."
"It is," Beloran said. "However, the Council prefers that you Infidels refrain from entering our cities. The populace
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is still... unused to your strange forms. They might be distressed at seeing you."
Mitchell frowned, then turned on the alien. "But, Beloran! Ambassador Burroughs has an appointment at the Ministry of Justice to discuss Bill's murder with Investigator Krillen."
"That is not possible," Beloran said stiffly. "I cannot permit it."
Mitchell opened his mouth to protest further, but was silenced by Mahree's quick "Let me handle this" glance. She shook her head gently. "Liaison Beloran, much as I wish it were not the case, I must insist that I be allowed to keep my appointment at the Ministry of Justice. It has been nearly two months since Interrelator Waterston's murder, and I must report to his mother.
In other words, I am under Temple Obligation."
Beloran's fan-ears flattened, and his long tail lashed back and forward on the slick floor like an angry cat's. It took him a moment to control his anger, but finally, he bowed an apology. Then he reached under the leather strap that he wore like a sash over his scaled chest, dug out a ceramic token, and handed it to her. "Very well. If you must. And I insist that you ride with top closed and the windows of your vehicle darkened so as not to upset the populace. This seal will give you passage into the Temple of Administration, wherein the Ministry of Justice may be found." Mahree nodded. "Thank you, Liaison. Will you please tell the Nordlund pilot that I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and ask him or her to wait for our return?" She gave Mitchell a quick glance. "I'm assuming you want to come along," she added.
The archaeologist nodded.
"I will instruct the pilot," Beloran said. "And the pilot is, undoubtedly, a male.
On Ancestor's World, it is traditionally forbidden for the Na-Dina to fly through Mother Sky. But our church has issued a dispensation to the Infidels, providing only males pilot the Infidel ships."
Mahree nodded. "Thank you for your instruction, Liaison. I will not forget."
Quickly, she turned to her party and
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gave instructions for them to wait aboard the air- conditioned comfort of the Nordlund jumpjet. "I'll meet you back here in an hour or so," she said. "I have official business in Spirit."
Greyshine and Etsane nodded, promising to oversee the group so that things went smoothly. Mahree handed over her bags to the Ethiopian girl with a word of thanks.
Liaison Beloran, she noted, was already heading for the landing field, his long tail dragging behind him.
Mahree sighed. "Nice guy," she said to Mitchell. "Does he dislike all humans, or is it just me?"
"He's not crazy about any outworlders," Mitchell said. "Beloran is a cranky old cuss, but he's very conscientious. We've all gotten used to him being a stickler for the rules.'' He grinned wryly. "Bureaucrats ... they're the same on all worlds, eh, Ambassador?"
"I'm a bureaucrat," Mahree reminded him, as they reached the double doors and stepped out into heat that felt like a blast furnace. The air seemed to suck every bit of moisture from her skin, mouth, and throat in a bare second.
"And, speaking of following rules, Doctor Mitchell, aren't you aware that weapons are restricted on alien worlds by CLS regs?"
Mitchell opened the door of the small ground skimmer and waved her past him. His eyes narrowed, but his smile did not waver. "I suppose I should have taken it off before I came into town," he said, with a complete lack of regret. "But I'm so used to wearing it that I forget I have it on."
"Pulse-guns are dangerous weapons," Mahree said. "I must insist that you remove it, Doctor." She sat there, scowling and fuming, as the archaeologist walked around the skimmer and slid into the driver's seat.
"Pulse-guns are dangerous?" Mitchell started the skimmer and gave her a sardonic look. "Well, y'know what, Ambassador Burroughs? They aren't nearly as dangerous as the two blasters I keep in my footlocker at camp."
"Blasters?" Mahree was genuinely horrified. "What if one of the Na-Dina got hold of one? They could do terrible damage completely by accident!"
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Mitchell slammed on the brake and turned to regard Mahree. All traces of laid-back good humor were gone, and the backwoods accent had
completely vanished. "You listen to me, Ambassador. I have permits for these weapons. The CLS recognizes that the canyon country of Ancestor's World is full of dangerous predators--and there has been one murder already. This gun stays right here on my hip, and nothing you can say is going to change that. I keep my guns locked up when I'm not there. I've had guns since I was a boy in Tennessee, and I know how to handle them responsibly. Do we understand each other?"
Without waiting for her to answer, he turned away and the skimmer moved forward again.
Mahree was quiet for several minutes, thinking hard. She was going to have to work with this man for weeks, possibly a couple of months. Making him angry was counterproductive. She knew that possession of blasters was illegal even if he had permit for the pulse-guns. Still, if he kept them locked up ... You 're supposed to be a diplomat, she reminded herself, but you've been acting like a priggish bureaucrat. She wiped futilely at the sweat trickling down her face and into the neck of her jumpsuit.
"It's early summer," Mitchell said, with no trace of rancor in his voice. "Now you know why the Na-Dina evolved without sweat glands. And why they worship pools of cool water."
Okay, Mahree. Be diplomatic.
Mahree took a deep breath, then forced a smile. "How about we start over?"
Holding out her hand, she added, "Hi. I'm Mahree Burroughs, who is usually nicer than this. Dying of heat exhaustion has made me grumpy, I'm afraid. I hope you've got something cool to drink."
The archaeologist nodded amiably, smiled, then reached over and shook her hand. "I'm Gordon Mitchell. Call me Gordon, please. And yes, I've got some iced tea stashed under that dashboard. Help yourself."
Mahree rescued the container from under the dash, swallowed some wonderfully cold tea, then watched as they headed for a distant stone-paved street. She could see
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clearly through the one-way polarization in the skimmer windows.
The streets of Spirit were crowded with Na-Dina steam buggies, animal-drawn-carts, and hundreds of Na-Dina on foot, their blue-scaled bodies a splash of bright color against the brown and green landscape. She pointed at the milling crowd. "Too bad the others can't see this. I feel like I've traveled back in time to ancient Cairo, or Baghdad."
"I know what you mean." Gordon waved ahead, gesturing at the dozen stone temples rising from the center of Spirit and the low blocks of residential neighborhoods that filled the irrigated valley. Ahead of them, in the center of the city, flat-topped stone pyramids rose for twenty stories about the rest of the city. "You know, Ms. Burroughs, Beloran doesn't express himself very politely, but he's right. Most of these people are
still experiencing culture shock from learning they're not alone in the universe."
Mahree nodded. "Please. Call me Mahree. I know what you mean. It's too bad Sorrow Sector--and then Nordlund--got here first. A trained CLS team could have cushioned that shock for the Na-Dina."
She thought back to the briefing she'd given at Star- Bridge, based on information supplied by Mitchell, cribbed from Bill's notes on the Na-Dina.
The notes had included a long list of interdicted technology, made up by the Traditionalists on the Council of Elders. Anti-grav, for example, was strictly forbidden. As were orbiting satellites. And the off-worlders were restricted to the site of Nordlund's dam and mountain mining sites, and Mitchell's archaeology digs.
"Do you understand why the Na-Dina are so resistant to off-world encounters?" Mahree asked. She knew, but wondered if Mitchell had read Bill's notes, or just collected them and sent them on. The man was obviously very busy with his dig, and being an alien contact specialist was her job, not his.
"Sort of," Gordon said. "They believe that they're holding Ancestor's World in trust for the Spirits of their dead
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Ancestors. That those ancestors will hold them accountable for any profanation of the ancient traditions and rules."
"Right," Mahree said approvingly. "It's hard for humans to imagine, a culture that stretches back for six thousand years that's remained almost the same from that time until the present."
"Except for their damned language," Mitchell said. "I sure hope Ms. Mwarka can decipher it. / haven't made a dent in it."
"Etsane struck me as very competent," Mahree said. "Professor Greyshine certainly thinks very highly of her." She took a deep breath. "How well did you know Bill, Gordon?"
"I didn't know him long, but we spent a lot of time together. He loved coming out to help on the dig. I liked him, he worked hard...." His tanned features twisted in a sudden spasm, and he banged a fist against the dash.
"Dammit... it just wasn't fair] I saw the body ..." He swallowed hard, and Mahree realized he was shaking at the memory. "It was pretty bad," he finished softly.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I worked with him for a year or so, and I felt just terrible when I found out." She searched for a way to change what was obviously a very painful subject. "I see a light-pole over there. Streetlamps? I didn't realize the Na-Dina technology was that advanced."
Ancestor's World Page 6
