by Larry Niven
In his mind he traced Cavorite's path.
He was noticed, of course. On all of Destiny there couldn't be two objects like Carder's Boat.
One morning a few Otterfolk had him in view.
The next morning there were more. He couldn't tell how many because they spent most of their time underwater, but he could see five or six at a time. At noon they drifted away, or drifted deep to fish. He came to believe that Otterfolk didn't like direct sunlight.
On another morning he came on deck into a flurry of Earthlife flatfish. He ducked two and another smacked him on the cheek. There must have been a whole school flopping on deck. He stood at the edge of the deck and raised his arms and shouted, "Stop!"
They stopped. He brushed flopping fish overboard, picking those who might live to swim away. He kept a dozen. Qtterfolk watched for half a day while he filleted and cooked the catch. He didn't have to fish for a while.
Another day, his line pulled a sub clam up to the surface. There were beaked faces all over the water, watching.
The thing was heavier than he was, too heavy to lift into the boat.
Did Otterfolk play practical jokes, or were they testing an alien intelligence? How was he to free his hook?
He pulled the sub clam onto the remaining patch of weed. It rested on its shell, its siphon/tentacle writhing as it fumbled at the slick fishing line, trying to tear it.
If he climbed down there, the weed would drown him.
Could he balance on the board while he worked? Weed surrounded the surfboard, but he could pull the clam into reach of it. But if he did find some way to get the sub clam up to the boat...
Otterfolk knew that humans ate sub clam meat. They might not know that it wouldn't keep him alive.
He used his four-meter weed cutter to chop at the meat around the hook until some of it came free. He pulled up twenty pounds of sub clam.
Then he compromised. He sliced two pounds of it free and threw the rest back into the weed alongside the shell, where scavengers swarmed around it.
The Otterfolk got the idea, or else they didn't like waste. He was never offered another sub clam.
He could remember the sub clam shell in view beneath a blazing Quicksilver, long before dawn. An Earthlife duck was flapping in the shell with both its wings broken.
It took all of his will to cook it before he ate it.
Afterward he wondered if there was a way to teach mercy to Otterfolk using gestures alone. .
The Neck was where the peaks disappeared below the mist layer. Beyond they rose again, marching into the mainland toward a distant storm.
Storms formed and went away, didn't they? This one didn't. He was still drifting toward it after. . . he couldn't remember how many days.
The clouds towered higher than the peaks of the Crest. At night he could see lightning playing within.
How old was that storm? He fantasized that it was a permanent feature of Destiny. Jupiter's Red Spot had lasted centuries. Destiny storms didn't normally do that, but if one had. . . then Cavorite would have gone to see.
He was passing the Neck, then, the morning he found that the pickedclean shell of a sub clam held a neatly placed tuna still flopping.
They couldn't have thrown such a mass, could they? They must have guided and chased it across the weed and precisely onto the shell.
Neat!
He was working out how to hook it when he saw sails.
He'd thought the mist would hide him. Maybe it only hid him from the Neck, while a fisher at sea could still see his mast. Maybe they hadn't told the merchant guards on the Neck. But Carder's Boat was conspicuous.
The fisher sails showed clearly now. They'd get here hours before sunset.
He raised the ladder.
From above, weed half-enclosed the surfboard. From a boat they'd never see it.
He'd left his mark in chopped-away weed, but a fisher might think it just grew this way.
He gaffed the tuna, pulled it up, took it into the cabin's shadow, and cleaned it. He threw the offal onto the weed to draw scavengers.
Lying on deck with only his eyes above the rim, he watched four sails come closer. He didn't know the men in the boats. None of them wore merchant's clothing.
Jemmy took his four meters of weed cutter to the cabin, and waited.
He could hear them moving about. He heard their voices, querulous and awed. Otterfolk watched from afar.
The fishers were gone at sunset. They hadn't been able to find a way up.
More boats came the next day. Carder's Boat had drifted by then, but they'd come straight as arrows. They threw something over the side: a rope ladder with hooks on it. When one of them started to climb up, Jemmy cut the ropes and heard him splash.
They sailed off. The next day nobody came.
The land came near: an unfamiliar coast half-seen through mist. The storm came nearer too.
He'd eaten tuna until it went bad and he had to throw it overboard.
Now he'd grown hungry enough to want it back. The Otterfolk had gone away. He'd caught nothing using tuna for bait. Earthlife fish must be scarce around here. But the current would carry him back toward the Neck, where Tail Town fishers didn't seem to go hungry.
But he'd be giving the fishers and the merchants another shot at him. He could hardly hear himself think for the howling of the wind and, often, the pounding of the rain. He had to shelter in the cabin most of the time. But he thought about drifting back along the Neck, conspicuous as any fifteen-meter craft from another world, and he thought of Ca vo rite flying into a storm that wouldn't go away.
He couldn't remember making a decision. It was just there.
He took all the clothes he'd found aboard, though it was only shortsleeved windbreakers and trunks and a pair of work gloves. It all went into his pack along with fishing line and hooks. He showered: no telling when he'd do that again. He drank all the water his belly would hold.
He knelt on the board in a pelting rain.
The devilhair hadn't actually eaten into the wood. He peeled it away in big patches, wearing the gloves he'd found aboard. Then gloves and shoes went into his pack and he began paddling with great overhand sweeps of his arms.
He had imagined the path of Cavorite, but it felt very real to him. Had he imagined the days aboard Carder's Boat? Events in his head were isolated; he had trouble connecting them. He'd been on this board forever.
Rain lashed at him and withdrew and fell again. It could not be much past noon, could it? But it was dark as night save for the slashing of the lightning. Thunder and rain filled his hearing.
Now there was another sound, growing.
He couldn't see sign of a beach ahead, but he could hear, above the thunder and the rain, waves rising and smashing down, throwing spume.
Storm waves. If this storm had been here long enough to draw Cavorite-But he had no reason to think that was true, did he? The storm might be only weeks old. But if he'd guessed right, then there had to be a beach.
Waves like this, pounding rock cliffs for centuries or millennia, would have smashed rock to sand.
The waves were lifting him and dropping him. He got to his knees.
This oncoming mountain of water looked like it, and he paddled hard, then stood up and walked the board forward, sliding down, down. The nothing ahead was taking shape.
Alien-looking black cliffs.
He veered the board. The wave was trying to break.
Twerdahl Town surfers had given him a name for what he was doing now, but he couldn't remember. He rode the board parallel to shore with a wave breaking behind him and curling over him. He was losing ground, always closer to black rock, but that was sand, it had to be sand at the foot of those black cliffs. He veered straight toward land and ran ahead of the wall of water, as far as he could, before the wave broke over him.
He crawled onto a narrow band of black sand. He lay for a time, just breathing.
Choking on seawater, he'd still had the wit to hurl his pac
k at the rocks. It was beyond the waves. But the waves were playing with a shattered board, rolling it in and back out, shredding it. His four-meter weed cutter must be under the sea.
The border of sand had narrowed. When the moons lined up you could get tides a meter high. If this beach disappeared, he could drown yet.
The black cliffs loomed alien and dangerous, a type of rock he'd never seen on Destiny.
He donned his pack. It was incredibly heavy, the clothes within soaked with seawater. Presently he found something like a way up.
18
The Windfarm
Something in the ocean is absorbing or precipitating potassium. What it is doesn't matter: we couldn't possibly counteract it in time. We'll have to 100k elsewhere.
-Cordelia Gerot, Xenobiology
Ferocious winds and stinging rain held him crouched and crawling and nearly blind. Lightning sputtered continually, like settler magic gone bad. It was all black and gray rocks tilted at all angles, and it had gone on forever.
He slid on slippery smooth surfaces. In places he found a surface like foamy rock. Traction was good, but it lacerated his knees and would have torn bare hands and feet to ribbons. His shoes and gloves were worth his life here.
It was another world, as alien as pictures of Volstaag and Hogun taken by crawler probes.
Yet there was life all around him. The rocks were cracked everywhere; and wherever there were cracks, wherever mud could accumulate, dwarf forest clung to the cracks and the flats.
Jemmy found he could cling to the spiky plants and follow the cracks.
Shadows blew past him on the wind, like kites with broken strings.
He couldn't spare attention for what must be fragments torn from Destiny plants. But he had to keep ducking to protect his eyes, so he never got a good look. Now flurries of shadows dipped and darted about him as if a malevolent whirlwind sought his death.
He ducked a shadow and it slashed his pack.
He'd barely glimpsed its shape. It was not an Earthlife bird.
He could huddle close to the black-and-bronze plants. Birds had to veer from the plants, and Jemmy got a better look at them. What seemed to be feathers certainly weren't. They looked more like a chicken than an eagle: more compact, less likely to fly. He ducked slashing claws, and peered after the bird as it wheeled and came for him again. How many legs did that thing have?
Furtive creatures were looking him over from within the brush.
Maybe his scent would keep them clear. . . but it wasn't stopping the birds.
A lovely, brilliant creature posed on a rock to watch him crawl toward
it.
In the sputtering blue-white light it stood out like a bonfire, scarlet and yellow with bands of electric orange. When he came close it stood upright and spread short wings, and now there were threads of blue in the pattern. It looked too big to fly. It was patterned like a butterfly, iridescent in this light. It turned its head sideways to look at him, and snapped a beak like needle-nosed pliers.
He stopped a few meters away, wondering what defense could give it such confidence. It never gave ground. Destiny birds veered clear of it, and so did Jemmy.
He was crawling blind along a curve like a huge snake. He forced his eyes open and found he'd run up against a smoothly curved surface, a tube of rock.
He crawled into it, out of the rain.
It ran for meters before it became too narrow. As soon as he stopped moving, he was asleep.
Thunder shaped nightmares. He'd wake with a scream he couldn't hear, and remember where he was, and sleep again.
Later, slept out and hungry in a black coffin of rock, he wondered what built tubes. Human engineers built pipes, aquaducts. . . but here?
He pictured huge worms that ate rock.
He crawled out into a world much like the one he'd left, and kept moving. Water had drained from his pack. It was lighter, briefly.
Starvation and battered senses left him light-headed. It was only a day since he had eaten, but many days since he'd eaten anything but fish.
Fruit and vegetables were a fading memory. There were potholes in the rock everywhere he went, and he drank rainwater to fill his belly.
He had no idea what he was crawling toward.
An orange glow.. . gone now, as he crawled along the edge of a patch of forest. . . there again, orange to his left and a touch of heat on his cheek. He crawled toward that.
The warm rain wasn't warm enough. It was draining the heat out of him, easing him into death. He was shuddering with fatigue and hunger.
Lightning sputtered continually: the world was dark and blue-white, and it wasn't much better than being blind. He couldn't recognize a single plant or tree in the Destiny forest. The air stank. BuJ orange flashed and drew him.
Until warmth bathed him, and he turned himself like a roasting boar carcass to soak it in. The wind went up, carrying the rain away from him.
For a while, then, he could stop.
Curiosity brought him closer to the heat. Crawling over naked slippery rock, he looked down into a sea of red-orange light. It made him back up. He'd found what was only found in teaching programs. Lava-molten rock-volcano.
Destiny's crust had ripped here. That happened often on Earth, but nowhere else on Destiny.
An alien place indeed, where no food grew for Earthlife such as himself. He should go while he still had strength.
Wind howled in his ears beneath the crackle of lightning. It wasn't easy to walk; but he just couldn't crawl any more. His whole body screamed if he tried.
He walked directly into the wind, peeking between his fingers. He didn't remember why. He'd figured something out. . . he couldn't exactly remember, but this was right. Keep the wind in his face.
Plants drew him, color against the dark.
They covered the shallow slopes ahead of him. They stood out like settler-magic paint: green, orange, black. Black stalks split and split again to become orange thorns whose tips divided down to tiny green needles. Bristly plants hugged the ground, knee high and twice as wide as they were tall. Nothing grew around or between them.
There were paths between the rows. The slope was gentle, and the rain had eased. Suddenly everything was easier.
Jemmy was too far gone even to be thankful.
The plants tore at his legs when he wobbled off the path. He bore it twice or thrice, then bellowed in rage and tried to pull one up. The plant's roots clung like a demon. He tried another, and a third, then quit.
And now he'd found a wider path, rock not too slippery to walk on.
The broad band of smooth rock continued level, maintaining a constant width alongside the hip-high forest. Even blinded by rain, he couldn't lose his way.
Plants all in one variety, like something tended. If there were Otterfolk on the sea, could there be sapient natives on land? Farmers? A world
older than Earth might have had time to father more than one sapient species.
He walked, his mind dreaming, disconnected.
He'd done this before.
It didn't dawn on him; it seeped up into his mind. From magma spilled from a ripped planet, he had wandered onto rock melted by fusion flame and refrozen. He was on the Road again.
Above the wind and thunder he heard his own wild laughter.
A pulsing yellow-white light began to intrude on the lightning, growing bright as he followed the Road. He couldn't even feel surprise when he found the door.
Someone fed him broth.
Later, a bowl of rice with vegetables in it.
In between he must have slept.
The stone walls felt thick as mountains. They blocked the thunder down to a suggestion, a background. It was one big room. Bunks ran away from him in an infinite rectangular array. The occupants slept, or talked quietly; he heard nothing of that. One moaned and protested in her sleep, just audible above the whisper of thunder, and Jemmy knew that he could hear again.
He kept falling in and out of sleep.
> He half-woke when the lights brightened. He was too tired to move, but he watched as men and women rolled out of their beds. They all wore shorts, scarlet and yellow with a narrow orange stripe, and nothing above the waist. Most of them pulled voluminous slick-skinned blouseand-hood garments over their heads, all in the same scarlet-yelloworange pattern, with strings dangling everywhere.
They went out in little clumps. Storm sounds rose, then fell as the door shut, rose again and fell.
Two doors. Airlock.
"Who are you?"
He blinked up at a half-bearded, half-naked man. Had he slept? The man shook him. "Who are you?"
"Jemmy Bloocher."
"From now on you're Andrew Dowd. Remember that."
"Andrew Dowd."
"No, no, Andrew Dowd. Have you been getting enough speckles?"
"Andrew Dowd." He tried to imitate the man's pronunciation. It wasn't quite Tail Town speech, but closer to that than anything else.
Dowd was not quite Dawd, not quite Dode. Andrew, not Ander.
The man was hairy everywhere, a pelt of tightly curled black hair over chest and arms and face and head. His beard was half a finger joint long, too short to be a real beard. His hair was the same length. His ribs and muscles stood out like an anatomy diagram: wiry strength and no fat at all.
He listened carefully to Jemmy's pronunciation, then said,
"Better."
"Why? Why am I Andrew Dowd? Why do you want to know I was Jemmy Bloocher?"
"Tell you later. When you were out there, did you see anything like pools of water glowing blue?"
"Nothing like that."
"Good!"
"Why?"
"There are pools where the water acts as neutron traps for uranium.
We call 'em 0kb pools. They're radioactive as hell. We'd have to put you outside if-Willametta?" Half-beard stood up. He too wore shorts in screaming colors, and a stick shoved through a loop at the small of his back.
Willametta wore shorts just like Half-beard's, and the same brush haircut in blond, as he saw when he managed to pull his gaze away from her fits. She'd be Senka ibn-Rushd's age: late thirties. But Senka ruled a merchant wagon. Willametta was master of nothing, as lean as Halfbeard, and worn out. He could see a sharp-faced patrician loveliness beneath the fatigue.