by David Weber
Chief Ranger Shelton gave a tired smile. “Asking for volunteers would be a sensible course of action to take in most cases, but this isn’t one.”
He held up his fingers and started ticking off points.
So that’s where Karl picked up that mannerism, Stephanie thought, swallowing a wholly inappropriate giggle—a giggle she knew was born of the tension coiling and uncoiling in her gut.
“First of all, it’s fire season,” Chief Ranger Shelton said. “With the drought conditions, the risk is higher than usual. As Stephanie and Karl can tell you, most fires—on other worlds, at least—are started by human action. Here on Sphinx we don’t have enough people yet for that to be the case, but the more people you have wandering around, the more likely you’re going to have somebody careless doing the wandering. As much as we want to find Dr. Whittaker and the others, we don’t want to be responsible for scattering potential fire sources all over the landscape.
“Second, although those of us at SFS have welcomed these off-planet scientists and their insights, our feelings are not universal. There are many here on Sphinx who view them as intruders. Worse, Dr. Hobbard tells me that not all of the intellectual community even here in the Star Kingdom was delighted about the decision to bring in out-of-system specialists, no matter how carefully they were chosen.
“Third—and rather selfishly, as I’ll be the first to admit—if the news becomes general that these people slipped SFS supervision so easily, we’re going to come in for a lot of criticism. Already SFS is not the most popular body on the planet. We spend too much time telling people not to do things they want to do. We protect resources many colonists prefer to see as limitless. These people would just love an excuse to criticize us further.
“Fourth,” Chief Ranger Shelton’s expression turned very serious, “there’s the question of why Dr. Whittaker and his crew apparently never arrived at their first scheduled destination. Did their accident happen before they could arrive or did they have some other agenda? We’re operating on the assumption that either the accident occurred first or that, for some reason that doubtless will make perfect sense when we hear it, they changed the order in which they were going to view the sites and neglected to tell us. They may not have thought it necessary. After all, they were cleared to visit all of those areas. In any case, for some reason they went to another site first—and the accident occurred then.”
Karl nodded, “Which is why they haven’t been found yet. The area is too spread out.”
“Exactly,” Chief Ranger Shelton replied. He turned to Jessica. “Does that clarify why we’re not calling in a larger group?”
She nodded, very somber. “I promise I won’t say anything, not even to my parents. I’ve told my mom that I’m going to tag along with Stephanie and Karl on their SFS probationary ranger rounds. That’s true enough, right?”
“Right.” Chief Ranger Shelton indicated a segment of a holomap that dominated one portion of the table. “This is where we’re sending you in. Cover as much ground as you can as carefully as you can from the air, landing only if you think there’s a good reason. Dr. Whittaker’s vehicle was a boxy air van, capable of carrying a lot of people and gear. At least we’re not looking for shreds of a lighter-than-air craft. Report if you find anything worth landing to inspect. Good luck.”
“We’ll do our best,” Stephanie promised, then they hurried out.
They were taking Karl’s car, so he slid into the pilot’s seat. Stephanie took the front passenger seat, while Jessica got in the back, behind Karl.
“So I can cover that side while you pilot. I wish they could have given us some sort of fancy scanner array.”
Stephanie replied, “They’ve already done what they can with satellite downlook and such. No hot-spots or the like to indicate a crash. In a way, we’re lucky it’s fire season, so the SFS already has extra satellite time allocated.”
Lionheart perched in Stephanie’s lap, placing his “hands” on the side of the door and looking down. For once, he didn’t “bleek” to have the window opened.
I guess, Stephanie thought, he’s figured out this isn’t a time for the wind in his fur. I wonder if he’s just looking out because that’s what he always does or because he knows we’re looking for Anders and his dad and the others. Whatever, I’m glad to have him here.
She was no less glad when the search was called at twilight and despair as black as the gathering night filled her. Climbs Quickly stood on his hind legs and stroked her cheek with his true-hand, then leapt into the backseat to wrap his tail around Jessica and nuzzle her downturned face. Since Karl was piloting, the treecat settled for patting him lightly on one shoulder before getting back into Stephanie’s lap.
Jessica’s voice came disembodied from the back of the air car. “You don’t think they’re all dead, do you? I can’t believe there could have been an accident that huge without some sign.”
Unless they crashed in the river, Stephanie thought. Unless they were somehow sabotaged. Chief Ranger Shelton mentioned that not everyone was happy Dr. Whittaker was here, but would they go to such lengths?
Once she wouldn’t have had such thoughts, but that was before Dr. Ubel had sabotaged Arvin Erhardt’s air car just to get rid of an inconvenient witness. Or before she herself had held a gun on Tennessee Bolgeo, knowing she would shoot him if he didn’t stop what he was doing. Before she had seen what Bolgeo was willing to do to creatures he, at least, didn’t seem to doubt were sentient.
Karl spoke reassuringly. “Tomorrow they plan to expand the range of the search. We already have our assignment—that ravine we saw today, but couldn’t go down into without spending more time than we should.”
But by the next morning, everything had changed.
Chapter Ten
As the second day of their exile drew to a close, Anders was aware of a growing sense of expectation among the crew. He thought it was unduly optimistic—they wouldn’t even be missed until that night—but he knew that both Virgil and Kesia hoped their spouses would alert the authorities.
Anders realized, too, that his own activities had certainly added to this sense that rescue was certain to come quickly. After helping Dr. Emberly with checking the fish traps and more foraging, he’d asked to be excused.
“It’s not that I’m not interested, Dr. Emberly,” he said, looking at the four rather strange-looking “fish” they’d taken from the traps. It was a good thing the SFS guidebook assured them this species was edible, because based on appearance alone, Anders would have had serious doubts. “But I have some ideas how we might make it easier for us to be found.”
“Why don’t you just call me Calida,” she suggested. “It seems ridiculous to use titles while we’re all stranded here.”
“Because my dad wouldn’t like it,” Anders replied promptly. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll call you Doctor Calida.”
“Done,” she said. “Now, what is it you have in mind?”
After listening to Anders outline his plans, Dr. Calida had agreed. “But be careful up in the trees.”
Figuring that talking to Dr. Calida counted as asking permission, Anders avoided talking to his father. Dr. Whittaker—Dad had glowered when any of his underlings had addressed him by anything except this title—was behaving really strangely. Not only was he insisting on maintaining the academic hierarchy, but he was carrying on with his fieldwork as if nothing else was important.
When Anders had questioned him about this, privately, so as not to cause any embarrassment, Dad had smiled fondly and all but patted him on the head.
“You go ahead and play at camping adventure if you’d like,” he said, his tone so warm and affectionate that Anders wondered if he somehow imagined they were on holiday at their mountain cabin. “I’m here to work and so are the others. We’re learning a great deal. Dr. Emberly has already recorded some fascinating evidence that the treecats may be in transition from a purely hunter-gatherer lifestyle to one with elements of agriculture. She wou
ldn’t have had the opportunity to learn this without our current situation. Even if we’d waited only a few weeks for permission to come here, much of the evidence—such as those patches of near-lettuce—would have grown beyond the point where we could record the treecats’ use of them.”
Anders could tell he wasn’t going to get through, so he went on with his plans, embarrassingly aware that there was a certain adventure story quality to them. Experimentation had shown that for someone of his weight, walking on the surface of the bog was relatively safe—as long as he didn’t stick his foot on one of those areas where only a thin screen of vegetation covered the sucking mud beneath. Dr. Calida had explained that in more normal situations traversing the bog would not have been as safe.
“I’m guessing,” she said, “that in addition to the wetlands providing the treecats with drinking water, an interesting variety of useful plants, and fresh fish, the bog also provided a natural moat. A creature as heavy as a hexapuma would think twice or even three times before crossing that area. The risk of getting trapped would be too great.”
After consulting his SFS guide book to make certain he would not be exposing himself to any toxic saps, Anders cut a quantity of undergrowth from the edges of the bog in which the air-van had sunk. This he dragged out onto the bog itself and arranged it on a slight rise in a large X pattern. He was very careful where he stepped, but even so, his shoes—the only pair he had brought with him—got thoroughly muddy, and he had reason to be glad that he’d packed extra socks.
He was also reassured to know that Dacey Emberly was keeping watch on him from her perch in the treetops. The elderly painter might be less than active, but she was earning the gratitude of the expedition. Not only was she tending to the unconscious Langston Nez, but she minded the pots simmering on the cookstove—fresh food could not be prepared as quickly as the camping staples Anders had been familiar with before this. She also had assigned herself the role of watch—not only for aerial traffic, of which there was depressingly little, but also for ground-level hazards.
“I don’t know much about Sphinx,” Dacey said, “but I haven’t associated with a xenobiologist all these years without learning that water always draws the wild things. Though that area’s dry for a bog, it’s still plenty wet to provide drinking water.”
When Anders expressed concern that despite his efforts to place it safely, his brushwood X would simply doom another vehicle to land and sink, Dacey had chuckled.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve been spotting wood rats—and even a smaller critter or two Calida tells me might not yet be in the official zoological record. I got pictures, even!” She turned serious. “Honestly, I’m not going to miss something the size of an air car. If one comes here, I’m going to holler so loud that, first, they don’t fail to know we’re here, and, second, they set down somewhere else.”
Making the X, especially under the demands of fifteen percent added gravity, wore Anders out thoroughly enough that he didn’t get on to the next part of his plan until the third day. That day, after once again helping Dr. Calida with the foraging, then helping Dacey with cleaning and turning the still unconscious Langston Nez, Anders set off on a slow climb to the top of one of the highest of the picketwood trees.
He’d had to argue with his father about this part of his plan—not because Dr. Whittaker was worried about Anders falling, but because he was concerned about contamination of the treecat habitat. In the end, Anders won, but only when he promised that the blazing he planned to do would not be permanent. That meant he’d need to carry even the post for the flag he planned to erect with him—adding to both his weight and to the awkwardness of his climb. At least the “flag” itself would not be too heavy.
Most of what Langston Nez had tossed out of the sinking van had been gear brought along for the expedition, rather than the personal property of the crew. Dr. Whittaker had not stopped grumbling that his goodie bag had gone to the bottom, but at least the bag containing his and Anders’ clothing had made it out. Poor Virgil didn’t have even a change of clothes until Anders gave him some. Neither of the Emberlys’ clothes had made it out, but Langston had made a point of making sure that the small satchel in which Dacey kept her medications—along with her painting supplies and camera—had been among the first he retrieved.
That meant all three women were at least partially dressed out of Kesia Guyen’s rather flashy wardrobe. Happily, Kesia was very full-figured, so although her clothing hung loosely on the two Emberly women, it did fit. Now Kesia’s bag supplied what Anders needed for his treetop expedition.
“Good thing I like scarves,” she said, pulling out half a dozen, “and that they roll up so small I always keep a supply tucked in my travel bag.”
She’d grinned at him. “Nothing like a scarf to change your appearance when you’re short on other clothes. I bet your mama knows that.”
Now some of those scarves were stuffed into the front of Anders’ shirt as he began his laborious climb toward the top of the picketwood, the flagpole he’d shaped from a sapling lace willow strapped to his back and hanging down behind like a tail.
Here and there, as he climbed, Anders saw evidence of the treecats’ past use of the tree. He might have been defeated in one place where sometime in the distant past a branch had broken off, leaving no hand- or footholds, but he used a vibro-blade to cut himself toeholds.
More than once during that climb, Anders wished he could switch on his counter-grav unit. It would have carried him to his destination much more quickly—and if he had lost his grip, his fall would have been of much lesser consequence. However, he didn’t do so. Already he was regretting the extra power he’d used when picking near-pine pods with Dr. Calida. Dacey kept watch over the stack of power packets, but even with setting the counter-grav units at minimum, that stack was diminishing rapidly.
Soon, Anders thought, someone is going to have to go without. It can’t be Langston or Dacey. Why do I think Dad’s going to have excuses why it can’t be him? I’m guessing Virgil will volunteer. He’s still feeling stupidly guilty over the problem with the uni-links—even though Dad’s as much to blame. Or maybe Dad will suggest that since I’m not a “real” part of the expedition, I can do without. Maybe he’d even be right.
When he reached the top of the picketwood tree, Anders braced himself and began tying the scarves into long, brilliantly colored streamers at the narrow end of his pole. Then, holding short lengths of rope in his mouth, he lashed the flagpole into place. He’d practiced this part when he was lower down, but he hadn’t counted on the steady press of the wind that tried to wrestle the length of lace willow from his hands.
The streamers snapped in the occasional cross-draft, one stinging him across his face like a whip. Eventually, however, he got the flagpole into place. When he did, the scarves—most of which were at least a meter wide—billowed out and flew, defiant slashes of unnatural color against the Sphinxian sky.
He stayed up at the top of the picketwood for a while, watching, hoping, he knew against hope, to see some air car that he could wave down. But the sky remained empty, and once again Anders found himself regretting an SFS policy that restricted use not only of some wild lands, but of the airspace above them.
At last Anders made his slow, careful way down. That evening over a dinner that included some interesting results of Dr. Calida’s foraging combined with the last of their supplies, speculation was rife as to when they would be located.
“Tomorrow, certainly,” Dr. Whittaker said. “Last night we didn’t report in as planned. Certainly, some searching was done today. Indeed, I’m surprised we haven’t been located already.”
His tone was disapproving, as if with an entire planet to search, the SFS should have homed in on them at once. No one reminded Dr. Whittaker that the SFS had no idea where to look, but from the expressions on various faces, Anders was certain he was not the only one who remembered.
* * *
Despite Dr. Whittaker’s co
nfident assertions, the fourth day of their castaway existence passed without their being found. On the fifth day, morale was distinctly low.
On the third day, Kesia Guyen had done her part to solve the question of who had access to the increasingly diminished supply of power packs for the counter-grav units by refusing to have anything more to do with surveying the remnants of the treecat community.
“I do have training in fieldwork,” she said, “but my primary skills are linguistic. I’ve had it with climbing trees, knowing I’ll bust my butt—or something a lot less well-padded—if I fall. I’m going to go sit with Dacey and turn my belt unit off unless I absolutely need to move.”
Anders watched in trepidation as Dr. Whittaker—he just couldn’t think of him as “Dad” when he got this way—ballooned up like a ship’s captain facing incipient mutiny.
Then Langston Nez coughed. The injured man had been doing more of this. The stuff coming up his throat didn’t look good: thick, viscous, and the color of mud. Anders tried to believe that it was good that some of this stuff was coming out, but it was hard to convince himself. Langston only had a low-grade fever, the sort even a minor system irritation like an allergy could cause. Nonetheless, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes—which occasionally fluttered open, but never seemed to see them—were sunken.
“Perhaps,” Dr. Whittaker said, “that is a good choice, Kesia. Dacey has been doing triple duty. Maybe if the two of you work together, you’d be able to get a bit more liquid into Langston. Water is more important than food for survival.”
Dr. Calida continued her researches, but since these supplied the bulk of their food, no one suggested she stop. Anders had assigned himself as her assistant, but to do his part to preserve power for the counter-grav units, he always slept (or tried to) with his unit turned off. There was no more soaring aloft lighter than his surroundings to pick nuts or seed pods.
