by David Weber
Doctor Calida Emberly (xenobiology and xenobotany) had brought her elderly mother, a painter, who was on partial retainer to the expedition as a scientific illustrator. Both Kesia Guyen (linguistics) and Virgil Iwamoto (lithics and field methods) had brought their spouses. In Iwamoto’s case, his was a very recent marriage, brought about in part by the impending departure of the expedition. Only Dr. Langston Nez, a newly minted Ph.D. in cultural anthropology who had been Dr. Whittaker’s senior assistant for many years, had traveled alone.
Anders had overhead Peony Rose Iwamoto gossiping to Dacey Emberly, saying that Dr. Nez’s long-standing relationship had broken up in large part because Nez preferred to continue working with Dr. Whittaker rather than seeking some prestigious position of his own. Apparently, Nez’s partner had said some really nasty things about Dr. Whittaker being grasping, ambitious, and self-absorbed.
Anders only wished he disagreed. He loved his dad, but if it hadn’t been for their shared fascination with treecats, these days he wasn’t sure they’d have much in common.
Sphinx! Anders savored the thought as the passengers shuffled from the shuttle into the spaceport. I’m really here! I wonder how long until I get to see a treecat in person? I wonder if it will be a “wild” or one of one of those who have adopted a human?
Unarticulated, even to himself, was the question, “Will I get to meet Stephanie Harrington and Lionheart?”
Anders’ fascination with Stephanie was almost as acute as his interest in treecats. It wasn’t because she was a girl nearly his own age—he was about eight T-months older—although his mother had teased him about that when she saw he had a special file for articles on Stephanie. It was because Stephanie Harrington had been the first person to make contact with treecats. Until Stephanie had figured out a way to trap an image, no one had even known treecats existed.
Then she’d nearly been killed saving a treecat from a hexapuma—or the treecat had been nearly killed saving her—that part of the story was always a bit unclear. Basically, as Anders had told his mother, Stephanie Harrington could have been a century-old double-butted near-baboon and if she’d done what she’d done, he’d still have been interested in meeting her.
And Lionheart.
Therefore, Anders was shocked and horrified when, after welcoming them to Sphinx, Dr. Hobbard told them that Stephanie had nearly been killed that day while going into the heart of a raging forest fire to rescue a pair a stranded treecats.
Chapter Three
Stephanie and Karl would have probably come in for a lot more grief over the risks they’d taken rescuing the two treecats if it hadn’t been for three things.
First, the imagery Karl had so thoughtfully taken had demonstrated how very careful they had been. Stephanie had been in full gear, not rushing in with no thought other than for saving the ’cats.
Second, again the images provided a neutral witness that without their intervention, Left-Striped and Right-Striped would have died in the blaze. Although doubtless many treecats died in fires set in the course of nature, once it had been confirmed that this fire had been caused by human negligence, it was very hard to persuasively argue that humans shouldn’t do something to save those endangered by it.
Third, the arrival of the team of out-of-system anthropologists on the very day of the fire had provided both Stephanie’s parents and the SFS with a way of reminding Stephanie that with great knowledge not only came great responsibility, but a liberal dose of boredom as well.
“Dr. Hobbard,” Marjorie Harrington said that evening over dinner, “commed me earlier to say that the off-world anthropology team was arriving today. She wondered if we could arrange for you to come and speak to them. I told her you were out on SFS business, but that we’d com her back to arrange a time.”
Stephanie had been about to protest that she couldn’t spare the time, that it would be days before Right-Striped could go without care, but a certain narrowing about both her mother and father’s eyes, as well as the slight grin twitching the corners of Karl’s usually serious mouth, told her that this was one battle lost before it was joined.
“Do they need time to settle in,” she asked, “or would tomorrow be good?”
Richard Harrington’s expression shifted to approving. Marjorie nodded.
“I asked. Apparently, Dr. Whittaker was disappointed that there weren’t treecats waiting to greet him and his team at the spaceport in Yawata.” She laughed at Stephanie’s involuntary bleat of protest. “I don’t mean that literally, Stephanie. It’s just that Dr. Whittaker is very enthusiastic. Dr. Hobbard says the anthropologists can meet with you any time—the sooner the better. However, she did her best to give you time to prepare by telling them you’d been out doing fire rescue today.”
“That’s nice of her,” Stephanie said.
Quickly, she weighed her options. If she said the fire had worn her out, she might buy some time to get to know Right-Striped and Left-Striped before they took off for wherever they lived. However, next time she wanted to help at a fire, that “tiredness” would certainly be remembered.
Anyhow, she wasn’t tired. She’d rather spend time with the treecats, but she was pretty excited about the anthropologists, too. These were real xenoanthropologists, not fakes like that horrible null, Tennessee Bolgeo.
“Tomorrow, then,” she answered, the words coming so swiftly on the heels of the others that only someone who knew her well—like her parents and Karl—would think them anything but impulsive. “As early as you want.”
Richard nodded. “Good. We’ll com Dr. Hobbard after dinner. Marjorie, did she say where this meeting was to be held?”
“Dr. Hobbard suggested the SFS ranger station near Twin Forks,” came the reply. “There’s just one problem. I have an appointment to be at the Tharch freehold to demonstrate some of the cooler-weather vegetable hybrids we’ve been developing. Sad as it is to admit, this glorious long summer is almost over, but since autumn also runs fifteen months, with the right cultivars we can take advantage of it…”
She paused and grinned. “Sorry. My enthusiasm running away with me. Short form. I’m booked all day tomorrow.”
Richard Harrington looked concerned. “I am, too. I have a small gap early, but I was going to use it to work with my newest patients. I suppose they’ll be all right, but if…”
Karl didn’t quite interrupt, but a shift in his body language stopped Richard in mid-phrase.
“I could fly Stephanie in,” Karl offered. “I could even get her back here. It’s no trouble. I’ve been considering anthropology rather than forestry—or maybe in addition to forestry—when I start college, so I’d really like to meet these people.”
Richard Harrington visibly relaxed. “That would be great, Karl, if it’s okay with your folks. You’ve been away all day already, out in a forest fire, and now staying away overnight. If you were my kid, I’d want to see you with my own eyes.”
That sadness Stephanie had noted was such a real part of Karl fleetingly passed over his face.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Richard,” he said, using the nickname he’d developed as a compromise between naturally good manners and the difficulty of having two Dr. Harringtons in the same household. “I’ll com. They’ll be glad enough to have a chance to chat. I’ll go home tomorrow.”
Have a chance to chat, Stephanie thought, wishing that, like Lionheart, she could reach out and offer comfort that was more than just words. Unlike with all those people who died in the Plague. People who are gone forever and that those who are left will never have a chance to talk to again.
* * *
Anders was relieved when Dr. Hobbard told them that Stephanie Harrington was unharmed. More excitingly, she had agreed to meet with them the next morning.
“I must warn you,” Dr. Hobbard said that evening when she met them for dinner, “to handle Stephanie Harrington with no less care and courtesy than you would any adult. She may be a girl of fourteen, but where treecats are concerned, she’s old as t
he hills.”
Anders could tell his father didn’t believe that anyone—especially a girl of fourteen—could hold back any information he was determined to get. It wasn’t until later, when he and his dad were back in their suite, that Anders realized to what extent Dr. Whittaker was prepared to go to get what he wanted.
“Anders,” Dr. Whittaker said, “the time has come for you to show yourself a part of our field team.”
He rubbed his hands together, and Anders was reminded of a coach he had once had, a man who had liked to proclaim himself his players’ “buddy” and “pal”—that is, right up until he was screaming at you for “letting down the side.”
The similarity went beyond attitude. Like that coach, Dr. Whittaker was a big man, both tall and broad. In earlier years, fieldwork had kept him trim, but lately most of his work had been in libraries and laboratories. This might be mentally arduous, but did not put the same demands on his body, making him fleshy if not quite fat. Over the last few years, Dr. Whittaker’s brown hair had been retreating from his forehead at an alarming rate, Whittaker family genetics defying a wide array of “cures,” both scientific and otherwise. The fact that genetic engineering had all but eliminated male pattern baldness only added to Dad’s frustration since, in his case, tinkering with the associated genes created a solution that was far worse than mere hair loss.
Anders distinctly hoped he’d been spared this particular gene. He had even checked with his doctor during a routine physical a few years ago and had been disproportionately relieved to learn that his scans showed no evidence of the baldness gene. More likely, he’d wind up with a thick head of hair like his maternal grandfather.
Surreptitiously comparing himself with his father, Anders thought that overall he hadn’t done too badly. He was showing promise of his father’s height and solid build, but his deep blue eyes and sandy-blond hair came from his mother. His features were also shaping into a masculine version of hers, a throwback to Scandinavian ancestors who had favored clean lines, rather than the blunter, more polyethnic mix that dominated in his father.
“Part of the field team?” Anders echoed.
“That’s right, my boy. You’ve shown yourself interested in the treecats, but have you considered that anthropology is more than studying interesting cultures? Sometimes you must also work with those who dominate the area.”
Anders had a sneaking suspicion where this was heading, but he’d long ago learned that it was politic to hear the other person out before jumping to conclusions. He also had a creepy feeling that he now knew why Dr. Whittaker had been so enthusiastic about taking him to Sphinx.
“Oh?”
“That’s right. In this case, of course, the ones who dominate the area are not the treecats themselves, although they are the indigenous intelligent species and therefore should have some rights themselves to decide who does and does not have access to them.”
Anders noted with some admiration how Dr. Whittaker could use this complex conclusion—one that, as far as he knew, was not shared by the majority of the residents of Sphinx—to his own advantage. It made Dr. Whittaker sound like the true treecat advocate, not the Forestry Service, who had set themselves up as the treecats’ protectors.
I guess I’m not the only one who has learned something from living with a politician all these years. Now if Dad could only learn to be as nice—as genuinely caring—as Mom, he’d be ahead of the game.
Anders nodded. “Like the treecat who made friends with Stephanie Harrington—Lionheart. He chose to make contact with the humans.”
“Actually, that’s not precisely correct,” Dr. Whittaker said. “‘Lionheart,’ as Ms. Harrington has so quaintly named this treecat, actually was making contact with the greenhouse. All his actions show that he intended to stay away from humans. He showed remarkable ingenuity in avoiding the alarms. Only Ms. Harrington’s admittedly brilliant deduction regarding the wavelengths in which treecats perceived light enabled her to catch a recorded image.”
“But,” Anders protested, “they’ve stayed friends since.”
“Again, Anders, I fear you are jumping to the same romantic conclusions that so many have reached. Lionheart—I do wish we knew what manner of naming conventions treecats use for themselves—actually fled from that initial contact. It was not until Ms. Harrington pursued him, using tracking methods about which she has been very vague, and was injured, that Lionheart came to the rescue. Her actions were irresponsible, putting both herself and the treecat in considerable danger.”
“She saved his life!” Anders said angrily.
“Only after endangering it in the first place. Really, Anders, I thought you were more capable of scientific detachment. Perhaps your mother is correct and you have developed a—romantic attachment, shall we call it?—to the idea of the heroic Stephanie Harrington.”
Anders glowered and bit back a couple dozen things he would have liked to say. Instead, dreading more discussion on this subject, he steered the conversation back to his father’s original statement.
“So, Dad, you said there was something I could do to help out the team?”
Dr. Whittaker brightened. “That’s right. As I was saying, often well-meaning non-indigenous cultures assume a paternalistic attitude regarding what they consider vulnerable primitive cultures.”
“That is,” Anders couldn’t resist saying, “the high-tech newcomers decide to protect those who might suffer otherwise.”
“You are romanticizing again,” Dr. Whittaker replied, waggling one finger at Anders. “Paternalism is not simply protectiveness. As the word—which has its roots in an old word for ‘father’—implies, those who become paternalistic set themselves up in the role of parents, assuming they know better for no other reason than they have more technology and that technology enables them to dominate.”
“So the Sphinx Forestry Service is paternalistic,” Anders summarized.
“Yes,” Dr. Whittaker agreed enthusiastically, “and not merely toward the treecats, but also toward Ms. Harrington herself. You heard Dr. Hobbard’s warning.”
“That didn’t sound protective,” Anders said. “I mean, except maybe of us. Dr. Hobbard was warning us that Ms. Harrington might button up if we pushed her too hard.”
“I can see you are determined not to see things my way,” Dr. Whittaker said. Since this was pretty much the truth, Anders said nothing, but waited for him to continue. “I do not plan to ‘push’ Ms. Harrington. Clearly, this would be a bad tactic. However, it has occurred to me that you are about her own age. She might loosen up around you. Moreover, you are a handsome young man and she is a young lady—a clever young lady, no doubt, but no less a female for all that.”
“You want me to sweet-talk her so she’ll tell us more about the treecats?” Anders didn’t know whether to be indignant or to laugh.
“Befriend her,” Dr. Whittaker says. “Flirt, if that is what you wish. Make her comfortable with us. Let her see us as humans who care as much about the treecats and their well-being as she herself does. Remember. Her initial contact with anthropologists was that fake Tennessee Bolgeo. She may retain some reflex aversion to our profession.”
“So you want me to flirt with her,” Anders said, amazed.
“Befriend her,” Dr. Whittaker pressed. “Or, if you are unwilling, then I believe there is a young man who is also an SFS ‘probationary ranger’—a post created, apparently, to enable the SFS to better control Ms. Harrington. Don’t look at me so disapprovingly. I’m not asking you to seduce the girl. I’m not asking you to do anything more dishonest than what your mother does when she kisses strange babies and hugs little old ladies she’s never met. All I’m asking you to do is be nice.”
Anders didn’t know what to say to that. Anyhow, refusing to talk to Stephanie or this other fellow—Karl something-beginning-with-“Z”—would be really stupid, since, in addition to seeing a treecat himself, there wasn’t anything Anders wanted more. And if he could make his dad happy, earn poin
ts as a “team player,” then what was he doing wrong?
“Okay, Dad,”Anders said, putting on his most winning smile, uncomfortably aware of how much it resembled the one on thousands of his mom’s campaign posters, “I see your point. I’ll do what I can to befriend Stephanie Harrington.”
* * *
Climbs Quickly managed to convince Left-Striped and Right-Striped that they would be perfectly safe in the gazebo, but it took some doing. Not only was the gazebo far closer to the ground than a more usual sleeping platform, but it was uncomfortably close to the two-legs’ own dwelling.
In the end, Climbs Quickly thought that Right-Striped’s injuries had as much to do with convincing them to stay as any reassurance he offered. When Right-Striped had been forced to climb the green-needle, the pads of his hand-feet and true-feet had not only been burned, but also had been badly abraded. What skin remained had been blistered and swollen, leaking blood and slime, and in great danger of becoming infected.
Healer’s treatments had minimized the pain and all but eliminated the swelling. However, the false skin he had misted over the injuries would not hold up under the demands of travel.
Then, too, the food Death Fang’s Bane brought them was a selection based on Climbs Quickly’s own favorites. The grand finale of the meal was a fresh piece of cluster-stalk for each of them. This fine and exotic treat brought rhapsodies of delight from the two guests, even bringing Right-Striped out of the silence that had shadowed him long after much of his pain had been alleviated.
Over cluster-stalk, Left-Striped told how they had happened to be so near an area inhabited by two-legs.
