Voyage to the City of the Dead Page 3

  Forcing down the gorge rising in his throat he flung it as _far away as he could, heard the faint plop when it hit the murky green water. He felt the back of his neck and his hand came away bloody. First stop inside the station would be for antibiotic spray.

  The metal stilts on which Steamer Station rested carried a mild electric charge to discourage infestation by such local pests though they rarely troubled the thranx because of their tough exoskeletons. Etienne dealt in smooth, hard surfaces and clean stone and didn't care much for biology, particu­larly when it chose to get personal.

  High thin clouds blocked out some of the ultraviolet, but Etienne was still grateful for his naturally dark coloring, a legacy of ancient Amerindians. A lighter‑skinned human would quickly fry under Tslamaina's relentless sun. Though he'd been outside less than ten minutes, the sweat was pour­ing off him. The cooling meshwork shirt and shorts were all that kept him halfway comfortable.

  Even the climate might be bearable if only they'd receive permission from the native authorities. The frustration of waiting was worse than any heat, he mused as he made his careful way up the ladder.

  Behind him tall fat pseudopalms thrust enormous green fronds over the lazy water. Table tree roots exploded side­ways from their trunks before dipping down into the mud. Nappers, tiny crustaceans with multihued shells, filled the air with their doglike barking.

  Little relief beyond the shade it offered was available inside the station since the internal temperature was set to accommodate thranx and not humans. A hundred was cer­tainly cooler than one‑twenty, but the humidity was un­changed. Only when he entered the rooms reserved for less tolerant visitors did the humidity begin to drop. By the time he reached their quarters, station machinery had lowered the temperature forty‑five degrees and sucked out more than half the humidity.

  Lyra Redowl barely glanced up at him. She sprawled in a chair studying her clipboard viewer.

  "Anything interesting?"

  "Glass leech bit me."

  "Bad?"

  "I doubt it." He moved to a cabinet and removed a tiny spray can, dosed the back of his neck. "The Skar flows into the Groalamasan, the Groalamasan goes round and round and it comes out here." He gestured toward the lavatory.

  She put her viewer aside, spoke coolly. "I don't blame you for being upset, Etienne. I'm as pissed off as you are. But there's nothing we can do except wait. Make an effort not to take it out on me, okay?"

  "I'm not taking anything out on you," he said exasper­atedly. "Why do you take everything I say so personally? Can I help it if this damn delay's got me running around like a monkey chewing his tail?"

  "You have to work on your self‑control. You'll end up with an ulcer."

  "I keep control of myself!" He struggled to match his tone to his assertion. "I haven't got time to argue with you, Lyra. "

  "I agree." Her eyes moved back to the viewer.

  He sighed, counted quietly to eight, then plopped down in one of the thin chairs. "What are you buried in now?"

  "Varofski on multiple societal interactions."

  "Haven't you read that already?"

  "Twice. This is my third time around. What do you sug­gest I do? Squat here and watch thranx shadowplays on the tridee?"

  "It would be a change, but I don't want to argue about it."

  "You never do. That's why I'm always amazed how reg­ularly you end up doing so." Suddenly she looked up at him and smiled. It was a little forced, but welcome nonetheless.

  "Listen to us, fighting like a couple of idiot children. Etienne, I'm just as frustrated as you are. What the hell is keeping those Moyts from giving us travel clearance?"

  "Who knows." Rising from the chair, Etienne crossed to the kitchen area and thumbed the switch on the left side of the refrigeration unit. It dispensed fruit juice, heavily salted and sugared. The cooking facilities were nearby but rarely utilized. The Redowls preferred to take most of their meals cold; Tslamaina didn't encourage consumption of piping hot food.

  Glass in hand he walked over to stand behind his wife's chair, rested a hand on her shoulder as he sipped at the icy liquid.

  "Truce, Lyra?"

  She reached up to pat his hand. "Truce. Can't we do something, Etienne?"

  "Not a damn thing. You know the law. We're wholly dependent on the whims of the locals." She nodded, returned to her reading.

  He never tired of looking at her. After twenty years he still found her physically alluring. Lately she looked even better than usual, having lost weight since their arrival. Tsla­maina would sweat you down to skeleton size if you weren't careful.

  "I don't understand the delay," she said. "I've talked to the local fisherfolk and traders and they just give me the local variations of a bemused shrug. From everything I've been able to learn both these city‑states are hotbeds of new ideas and rapid development. You'd think one or the other would be eager to grant us permission to travel Upriver."

  "I'm sure they would," Etienne agreed, "if we could promise them something solid in return. Unfortunately, the regulations protecting Class Four‑B worlds prohibit any commerce with natives. No introduction of advanced tech­nology allowed from external sources, and that's what they want to buy from us. The usual nasty cycle. The Moyts would like to grant us clearance for Upriver travel but they want payment in return. We can't pay them what they want because regulations forbid it. So here we sit, and sweat."

  "Too true. How's your neck?"

  He felt at the shallow bite. "Filthy little monsters. I don't mind dealing with something big and toothy, but I hate par­asites."

  "Let me give you another shot of antibio." She put down her viewer and reached for the spray. A cool dampness caressed his neck a second time.

  "There," she said with satisfaction. "This is no place to pick up an infection, no matter how interesting. We've been lucky so far. Not that we've spent all that much time outside." She hesitated. "Etienne, I'm ready to start chewing the furniture again. We've got to get out of here‑Tell you what. Why don't we check out the boat?"

  He made a face. "We're going to wear it out before we get started, checking the systems so often."

  "No, I mean really check it out." There was suppressed excitement in her voice. "Let's take it out for a run on the open sea. It's always cooler on the Groalamasan."

  "Porlezmozmith will be miffed. She'll call us down for undue exposure of advanced technology to a presteam so­ciety."

  "Crap. The local fisherfolk have seen us testing it lots of times."

  Etienne grinned down at her. "Woman, you have a dev­ilish sense of humor."

  "It helps, when you spend your life trying to make sense of other people's cultures. Come on. It'll be fun. And a change."

  Etienne was feeling better by the time they left their quarters. They threw together a cold lunch of native edibles. The consistency of the flat, crackerlike bread was unusual but the taste was delightful.

  From their quarters it was a short walk down to Level Three, the lowest of the station, where the hydrofoil hung silent in its bay, a sleek delta‑shape built of ultralight metals. A compact electric jet protruded from beneath the stern, looking like the mouthparts of a dragonfly nymph. The hy­drofoil was an exquisite bit of engineering and despite its fragile appearance, could take a considerable pounding. In­side, the craft was spacious and efficient.

  Ignoring the occasional stare of passing thranx mainte­nance workers, Etienne operated the bay controls. With a soft whirr the double doors parted, revealing the turgid mix of fresh and salt water that lay twenty meters below.

  Bow and stern couplers lowered the hydrofoil toward the water. Lyra was already on board, stowing their lunch and running the autoprogram through diagnostic functions. Dis­daining the ladders, Etienne wrapped arms and legs around one of the coupler cables and slid down to the boat. A touch on one switch sent the couplers upward, leaving the boat floating free on the water of the delta.

  A plexalloy dome enclosed the cockpit where Lyra w
aited in the pilot's chair. The engine came to loud life as the pho­tovoltaic coating of the boat worked to ensure that the fuel cells which supplied power were fully charged. The air con­ditioning greeted him with a blast of deliciously cold air.

  Lyra nudged the accelerator and turned the wheel. They slid from the shade of the station and headed south. Soon they were clear of the last platform trees and high marsh grasses and out on the open ocean.

  Chapter Three

  The steady trade breeze caught them, and the humidity on deck dropped quickly to a tolerable eighty percent while the temperature plunged to one‑oh‑five. Etienne took ad­vantage of the much cooler weather to move out on deck. Occasionally he turned to smile and wave to Lyra, who remained inside the transparent dome handling the instru­ments.

  Intakes mounted on the front of each foil sucked in water and fed it to the electric jet astern. The jet forced the water through twin high‑pressure nozzles, sending the boat skim­ming over the surface at high speed. The hydrofoil had been designed to function as a river runner but could handle open ocean reasonably well as long as the waves didn't crest dangerously high.

  Behind them the Skatandah Delta was a long line of green marking the horizon. Lyra sent them flying southwestward, toward the great city‑state of Losithi. They were careful to stand well out to sea, clear of the heavy commerce that crowded the waters beyond the harbor.

  A thousand kilometers and more to north and south, the eight‑thousand‑meter‑high cliffs of the Guntali Plateau probed the sky. From the Losithi‑Po Rabi area, distance and planetary curvature made them invisible, though there were places where the cliffs dropped sheer to the sea, a sight unequaled on any other inhabited world. Only where rivers like the Skar had cut their way to the ocean were cultivation and urbanization possible.

  Lyra's voice sounded through the intercom membrane built into the cockpit dome. "I've got something on the scan­ner, a few degrees to starboard. Want to run over and check it out?"

  "Sure, I want to check it out. What Porlezmozmith doesn't know won't hurt her." He clung to the railing and watched the foils slit the surface of the sea.

  Lyra smiled back at him as she angled the boat slightly to starboard. The moving dot on the scanner was soon within sight‑a triple‑decked trimaran, a big merchant cruiser and a fine example of Mai shipbuilding. Her three hulls rode low in the water, bursting with trade goods gathered from her journey around the circular sea. If she wasn't based in Lo­sithi she would have just arrived from distant Ko Phisi and before that, Suphum. From here she would move on to Po Rabi on the other side of the Skatandah, thence around to Chienba and points east.

  She was making good speed with the wind at her back. The trade winds moved eternally clockwise around the circumference of the Groalamasan. Only in the vicinity of the warm southern pole could a native captain test confused winds and sometimes shorten the homeward journey around the great ocean.

  Gesturing and chattering, sailors were already lining the upper decks and scrambling into the rigging for a look at the strange alien vessel. More exciting to a Mai seaman than the hydrofoil's silhouette was the fact that it moved at impossible speed and against the wind, not to mention without sails. As Lyra raced the hydrofoil around the massive merchant­man for a thorough look, Mai sailors and passengers rushed from deck to deck to keep them in view.

  After recording the merchantman for their journal, the Redowls passed among a fleet of shallow‑hull fishing boats reaping the rich harvest of life that thrived where salt water mixed with fresh.

  As they slowed to thread more easily between the first islets and clusters of pseudopalms, one large craft suddenly moved toward them. Its occupants brandished eager expres­sions together with long gaffs, axes,, and pikes. The Mai would gladly have slit the throats of the two humans in order to gain possession of the invaluable hydrofoil. Etienne ex­perienced unscientific thoughts as Lyra nudged the accel­erator and left the would‑be pirates in their wake.

  "Nasty little bastards," he muttered as he stared astern.

  "That's not being very understanding of a primitive cul­ture, Etienne," Lyra said disapprovingly.

  "All right, so they're primitive nasty little bastards."

  "Avaricious, not vicious," she insisted. "You must try to view them in light of their society's laws. A typically primitive plutocratic culture where personal wealth signifies an individual's social standing. You can't let your own view point affect your observations."

  "Like hell I can't. Porlezmozmith feels the same way about the Mai."

  "She's an administrator, a bureaucrat, a byte‑pusher who knows nothing of xenology and cares less."

  "All I said was that some of their ingrained habits could stand some modification."

  "Environment dictates their actions, not personal choice."

  "What environment?" He made a sweeping gesture to­ward the nearing line of high trees. "This is a warm, lush land. How do you go from that to a highly combative so­ciety?"

  "They sublimate most of a natural aggressive drive in competition for commerce and trade. Isn't that better than organized war between the city‑states?"

  "It's healthier, sure, but from the standpoint of what's civilized there's something to be said for slugging it out with your neighbor toe to toe instead of trying to steal him blind."

  "Their attempts at thievery are governed by a strict code of rules, Etienne, which is more than you can say for war."

  "Leave me to the structure of the planetary crust, not Mai society. It's cleaner."

  "You mean simpler, don't you? There are so few variables in geology. It makes it easy for you, but I don't envy you. There's no personality, no joy in studying the daily activities of a rock."

  "Oh no? Let me tell you ..."

  It went on in that vein for another few minutes before Lyra finally ended it, as she always did. So many of their discussions lately seemed to end that way.

  "Well if you're going to act like that then I'm just not going to talk about it anymore." And she turned her gaze resolutely away from him, directing her attention to the scan­ner.

  He fumed silently all the way back to the station.

  A services officer was waiting for them in the boat bay. Etienne shinnied up a cable, prepared to send down the couplers. The officer moved to stand next to him.

  "Excuse me." Her symbospeech was rough and unpol­ished, a good sign that Horseye might be her first off‑world post. She clung with tru and foothands to a nearby pillar and her four legs were spread wide. Her whole body shied away from the open bay.

  That was understandable. Thranx were good floaters but poor swimmers and their breathing spicules were located on the B‑thorax below the neck. A standing thranx could drown in shallow water while still being able to see and hear clearly. That was the only reason why Tslarnaina was not a popular duty station among the thranx. The climate was perfect but much of the terrain threatening.

  So Etienne didn't ask why the officer was clinging to the pillar for dear life, understood why nothing more was said until the hydrofoil had been drawn up into the bay and the double doors closed beneath it.

  "What is it?" he finally inquired as Lyra moved to join them. She adjusted her halter top, did not look at him. Her expression was frosty.

  "An ambassador from Po Rabi is due to arrive shortly," the officer announced. "Word has come ahead via courier boat. You have been granted permission to travel Upriver through the Delta along those branches of the Skar controlled by the Moyt of Po Rabi."

  Etienne let out a whoop and did a back flip, much to the interest of the thranx working in the bay area. Such a gymnastic feat was beyond them. Lyra stood and smiled at the officer. The argument that had accompanied them back to the station was completely forgotten.

  "It's about time," she murmured. "Did the courier say anything about the long delay we've suffered, why or for what reason?"

  "Nothing additional was mentioned," the officer said, adding a brief gesture of negativity c
oupled with third‑degree empathy.

  "I'll bet I know what finally happened," Etienne declared. "Steamer Station's actually situated a little closer to Losithi than it is to Po Rabi. They must have decided that it was time to forget about hard bargaining and grant clearance before we struck some sort of deal with the Losithians."

  "I am sorry to dump dirt on your theory," the thranx said apologetically, "but it would appear they still insist on some kind of token payment."

  "But we've been through that a hundred times," Lyra pointed out. "They want advanced technology and we're not allowed to give it to them. Don't tell me they've decided to accept our nontech trade goods?"

  "No. Commander Porlezmozmith has devised a method of satisfying them without contravening any of the regula­tions governing commerce with Class Four‑B natives.

  "Many areas of high ground do not benefit from seasonal floods of the Skar and so do not receive deposits of fresh silt or yield the crops they otherwise might. The commander has reviewed this with representatives of Po Rabi and they understand the implications quite well.

  "Salvenkovdew, who is in charge of the station's chem­istry section, has agreed to rig equipment to produce high­quality natural fertilizers for such highland fields. Under cur­rent regulations this type of fertilizer does not qualify as a high‑tech commodity, so it can be traded to the natives, and the Po Rabians have agreed to accept it as payment."

  "Good old Porlez!" Etienne exclaimed. "She's been work­ing on our problem all along and never breathed a word of it."

  "Probably didn't want to get our hopes up," Lyra said. "I hope the form of payment isn't to be taken as a comment on the value of our expedition."

  "Who cares? We're on our way at last! Thanks," he told the officer. Twin antennae dipped and bobbed by way of gracious reply. "When's this ambassador supposed to get here?"