by Larry Niven
“Too treefeeding slow.”
“We just have to stay in the shade for a while. Fluff needs sunlight.”
“Yeah.”
From eastward, his first mother’s voice called above the wind-roar. “Rather!”
Rather bounded toward Minya across the floor of braided, live-spine branches. Carlot gave him a good head start, then bounded after him. Her asymmetric legs gave her an odd run, a pleasure to watch: boundBOUND, boundBOUND, low-flying flight. Soon she’d be faster than Jill. She reached Minya a good six meters ahead of Rather, turned and flashed a grin at him. She lost it immediately.
“—Crawled too far toward the treemouth, and now he can’t—” Minya stopped and began again. “Rather! It’s the children. Harry and Qwen and Gorey went crawling around in the old west rooms. Gorey went too far, and Harry and Qwen can’t reach him, and he can’t get out.”
“You can’t get to him?”
“I didn’t try. Rather, we don’t know how long it was before Harry came to get us.”
“Oh.” Harry would have tried to rescue Gorey himself, then spent more time working up the nerve to tell his mother. And Gorey was only five! “I’ll need some kind of knife,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m no narrower than you are, First Mother. I’m just shorter. I may have to cut through some spine branches.”
The wind didn’t reach Mark’s long hair and beard. They held the sweat like two sponges. The slab of hard branchwood strapped to his back massed as much as he did. He scrambled up the slope of the treadmill, panting, trying to stay higher than Karilly and seven children. With a weight on his back, Mark was the equal of any two adults.
The treadmill was six meters across and four wide, a fragile wheel of branchwood sticks. Water running down the trunk helped to spin it, but runners were still needed.
It was getting easier; the treadmill was spinning faster. The cages must be almost passing each other. “Out!” Mark panted. “Runners, out!” Seven laughing children jumped from both sides of the treadmill, until only Mark and Karilly were left.
Above was a sudden glare as the sun passed into view.
Karilly’s dark skin shone with sweat; she breathed deeply as she bounded uphill alongside him. He knew she could understand him. “Karilly. When the up cage is at the top it…doesn’t weight anything. It takes all of us…to lift the down cage. Right now…the cages are next to each other. I can run by myself. In a little while…the down cage will be falling. I’ll have to get out. Use the brake. Slow it down.” She watched him as if she were listening. “So you jump out now.”
Then he saw that she was afraid.
“Okay.” He let the cage carry him around. Inverted, he scrambled down the other side. “I’m slowing it. Can you get out now?”
Karilly scrambled out.
Twenty klomters over his head, Lawri and her student flyers must be wondering what had gone wrong. Mark started the cage spinning again, letting his body do its accustomed work while his mind drifted.
Long ago and far away, there had been civilization.
London Tree had had stationary bicycles to run the elevators to the tree midpoint, and copsiks to run the bicycles. Citizens’ Tree was primitive. They had London Tree’s carm, of course: a thing of science dating from the day men came from the stars. Otherwise they must build everything.
Mark had shown the refugees how to build a lift. Mark had wanted to make bicycles, but the Scientists had built the treadmill instead. They kept the silver suit next to the treadmill with its helmet open. Citizens at the carm could call for the lift through the radio in the suit.
Below him he could see the hollow space of the commons, and two children bounding east. The tall, dark girl was far ahead of the smaller boy, who moved in slower, shorter steps, as if tide were heavier for him.
His son. His size proved it. Mark would not have wished that on him; yet Rather would be the next Silver Man. Mark wondered if the citizens would appreciate their fortune. In the short lifetime of Citizens’ Tree there had been no need for an invulnerable fighter, and the silver suit had become a mere communications device.
Had it not been for one stupid, stubborn act, Mark would still be a citizen of London Tree. But he would never have seen the stars, and he would never have seen his son.
The treadmill was spinning by itself. Mark jumped out. He set the branchwood slab down. He looked up along the trunk, but he couldn’t see the down cage yet. “We’ll let it run for a bit.”
If Karilly could talk, would she still smile at him like this? He took her hand. “Lawri wanted you with them. You were afraid to go up, weren’t you?” He had known a London Tree citizen who was afraid of falling. It was instinct gone wrong. If such a woman were born in a place like Carther States, would she be afraid all the time? Until the added terror of a fire pushed her over the edge.
“Lawri wanted me up there too. I wonder what it’s like. Flying.”
But the silver suit caught his eye. No.
His business in London Tree had been war. Were there copsik runners in the Clump? Karilly would know. “I wish you could talk. The Scientists can’t marry us till you can say the words. The key word is yes. Will you try? Yes.”
“Mark!”
He jumped. “Debby?”
She called from below. “Yeah. Shall we relieve you?”
Mark swallowed his irritation. “The empty’s coming down. You want to brake when the sun’s at about eleven.”
“We’ll do it.” Debby and Jeffer climbed up to join them. “Hello, Karilly.”
Jeffer said, “You didn’t go flying? You should try it.”
“Not me. I’m the Silver Man. I fly with the silver suit. Come on, Karilly.” Maybe somebody would need muscle at the cookpot platform.
The tunnels ran through the tuft like wormholes in an apple. Unused tunnels tended to close up; but passersby ate from the foliage as they passed, so the tunnels in normal use stayed open. One such tunnel ran past Rather’s home.
At its west end Rather could have circled the hut with his legs. This was the oldest section. As the spine branches migrated west along the branch, eventually to be swallowed by the treemouth, enclosures tended to shrink. The newest sections were the largest.
This disappearing section had been small when new. It had housed only Gavving and Minya and the baby Rather. Other children had come, and Gavving wove new rooms eastward, faster than the treemouth could swallow them. By now there were seven children, and a new wife for Gavving, and a far bigger common room; for the Citizens’ Tree populace was growing too. The original rooms had disappeared into the treemouth. These that he was passing now, wicker cages alongside the tunnel, were still less than Rather’s height. The children tended to claim these for their own.
Rather found a deformed door. As he crawled inside he heard Minya saying, “Keep going, Carlot. Go to the common room and get my old matchet off the wall and bring it back. Hurry.”
Harry, eight years old and Rather’s height, was crying into Mishael’s chest. Rather nodded to Mishael. “Second Mother. Which way did he go? Straight west?”
Mishael, seven years older than Carlot, had Carlot’s dark, exotic beauty in fully developed form, and legs that caused even Rather to stare: long and slender and perfectly matched. She’d cut her trousers into loose shorts, odd-looking in Citizens’ Tree. The low roof cost her some dignity. She had to crouch. She looked uncomfortable and annoyed. “Straight on in. And he’s stopped talking. I think he’s mad at us.”
Rather said, “You know this is no big deal, don’t you? It happens all the time.”
“I don’t know. Rather, I still get the shivers in your crawling huts! Your parents just don’t understand that. And poor Gorey, he is frightened.”
“Sure. Carlot’s coming with Mother’s matchet. Send her after me. I need it to cut my way through.” It didn’t feel odd to be speaking thus peremptorily to his second mother. Mishael wasn’t that much older than Rather; she was new to all
this, and it showed.
Rather crawled west.
Memories tried to surface around him. His parents’ bedroom: he’d lived in a basket, in a corner too small for a baby now. The private dining area, and ghosts of wonderful smells: were they in his nose, or in his mind? The common room, and too many strangers: he’d cried and had to be taken away. The spaces were distorted and tiny, a green-black womb. The spine branches were still growing. He tore them away with his fists; tore through an old partition.
He didn’t like this. His past was too small to hold him. “Gorey!”
From west by north, Gorey yelled piercingly. He sounded more angry than frightened. How had he gotten there? What had been a kitchen wall had crumpled and grown half a meter thick! He must have found some way around—
“Rather?”
Carlot, behind him. He reached far back and took what was pushed into his hand. “Thanks.” He pulled it to the level of his face, turned it with some difficulty and pushed the blade farther.
“Can you get to him?”
“One way or another.”
For years the matchet had been no more than a part of the wall. He’d never really looked at it. The handle was long and a bit too wide for his short fingers. The blade was sixty ce’meters of black metal, tinged red by time. Time and use had serrated the edge. It had once belonged to a Navy man of London Tree.
In this restricted space he must use it as a saw. He didn’t try to cut the wall. He cut branchlets west of him. He turned starboard, still sawing through miscellaneous branchlets. “Gorey?”
Cautiously, doubtfully: “Rath?”
“Here. Give me your hand. Can you reach me?”
“I can’t move!”
Rather saw a thrashing foot. He pulled on it experimentally. Gorey was pinned between a spine branch and a smooth dark wall: the main branch itself. He must have tried to crawl between them. Rather wriggled forward. He sawed the spine branch half through, reached farther and broke it with his hands. Gorey wriggled out and wrapped himself around his brother and clung. Presently he asked, “Are they mad?”
“Sure they’re mad. How did you get here? Hide-and-seek?”
“Yeah. Harry said he was gonna catch me and feed me to the triunes, so I kept going. Then I was afraid the treemouth would get me and I got really scared.”
“Harry wouldn’t get that close to a triune family. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I was mad.”
“You’d starve to death before you reached the treemouth. Here, grab my foot and follow me.”
The boy’s fingers were long enough to overlap Rather’s ankle. He was already taller than Rather. They crawled out, with easier going at every meter.
In the common room Rather’s mothers greeted him as a hero, while Gorey was scolded and petted. Rather took it with what grace he could. He wondered if Carlot was laughing at him; but in fact she seemed to think he had done something actively dangerous.
It made him uncomfortable. He was vastly relieved when Gavving poked his head through the door. “Treadmill runners!” he called. “Rather?” And Rather was rescued.
Harry and Carlot came with them. As they neared the treemouth Gavving said, “Harry, Carlot, why don’t you see if they need help with the laundry pot?”
They split off. Harry grumbling.
Rather followed his father up through the tunnels toward the treadmill. His nerves were prickling. Something odd was going on. “Father? Do they really need treadmill runners?”
“No,” Gavving said without looking down.
The treadmill was at rest. Debby and Jeffer lay in the foliage nearby, eating and talking. They sat up when Gavving appeared. “Got him,” Gavving said.
This must have something to do with the Serjent family; and the conference before the last sleep, from which children were barred; and the arguments that divided half the families in the tree. Do my mothers know about this? Would they approve? Rather asked instead, “Should we have brought Carlot?”
“No need. Rather, we have to find out something.” Gavving pointed at a short, faceless fat man made of silvery metal. “Try that on.”
“The silver suit?”
“Yeah. See if you can get into it.”
Rather looked it over. This thing had a fearsome, quasi-scientific reputation. It was a flying fighting machine, stronger than crossbow bolts, stronger than the airlessness beyond all that was known. Rather had never before seen it with its head closed.
Jeffer instructed him. “Lift this latch. Take the head and turn it. Pull up. Turn it the other way.”
The head came up on a hinge.
“This latch too. Now pull this down…now pull it apart…good.”
The suit was open down the front, and empty.
“Can you get in?”
“Where’s Mark?”
“Debby?”
“No problem. We relieved him and he took Karilly to the kitchen.”
“Father…wait. Listen. I’m the only boy in the tree with two mothers and two fathers.” Rather plunged on despite the sudden hurt in Gavving’s face. “We’ve never talked about this, but I always knew…sooner or later I’d…does Mark know what you’re doing with the silver suit?”
“No.”
“What’s it all about?” Four big adults could make him do whatever they wanted; and it didn’t matter. They needed his cooperation, and he didn’t know enough to give it.
Jeffer the Scientist said, “It’s about seeing what’s outside Citizens’ Tree. It’s learning about the Smoke Ring, what we can use, what we need to be afraid of. Or else it’s about staying savages until someone comes out of the sky to teach us the hard way.”
“We’re going to the Clump,” Gavving said. “We’ll be safer if we can take the Silver Man.”
“Uh-huh. Mark doesn’t want to go?”
“Right.”
They watched as Rather tried to get into the suit. He had to get his legs in first, then duck under the neck ring. He closed the sliding catches, the headpiece, the latches. The suit was loose around his belly, snug everywhere else. “It fits.”
Jeffer closed the helmet on him. He rotated it left until it dropped two mi’meters, then right.
Rather was locked in a box his own size and shape. The suit smelled faintly of former occupants, of exertion and fear. He moved his arms, then his legs, against faint resistance. He turned and reached and plucked a handful of foliage…good. He could move. He could move like a normal man.
The air was getting stale…but Jeffer was already turning the helmet, lifting it. The adults were smiling at each other. Gavving said, “Okay. Get out of it.”
Getting out of the silver suit was as difficult as getting in. Rather said, “Now tell me.”
“Some of us are going to visit the Clump. Do you want to come with us?”
“Who’s going? How long will it take?”
“Me,” said Jeffer. “Gavving. Booce and Ryllin. Anthon and Debby. The Clump is all jungle giants. We need people that size.”
“How does the Chairman—”
“He’ll try to stop us.”
“Father, I don’t really like the thought of not ever coming home.”
Gavving shook his head. “They’ll want the carm back. They’ll want us back too. Citizens’ Tree isn’t so crowded that they can afford to lose anyone who breathes. They’ll want to know what we learned. They’ll want what we bring back. Half the citizens are on our side anyway; they just don’t want to buck the Chairman.”
“You’re taking the carm?”
“We are.” Gavving clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it. We’ve got two sleeps to get ready. Whatever you decide, don’t mention this to anyone, particularly your mothers.”
“Father, you’d better tell it all.” Rather didn’t consider whether he had the right to ask. Clave wouldn’t like this; Minya wouldn’t like it; and if he agreed to this—it was only just coming to him—if Rather agreed, then he was the Silver Man.
Jeffer
said, “It isn’t just the wealth of the Clump Admiralty. It’s—”
“Tell me what you’re going to do.”
They told him.
Chapter Six
THE APPEARANCE OF MUTINY
from Discipline’s log, year 1893 State = 370 SM:
Medical readouts showed that the inhabitants of CARM #6 lied to me. They reacted strongly to accusation of mutiny. I lost my chance to question them in detail. They may have mutinied against legitimate holders of the CARM. Heredity will tell.
It’s a bad habit. I will break them of it.
—Sharls Davis Kendy, Checker
Clave pulled himself out of the elevator first. Wings were tethered next to the cage, and he pulled one free and tied it in place along his left shin. “This was a good idea, Gavving. Wings aren’t much use in the tuft.”
“Oh, we’ll keep some there too. Hunters used to carry jet pods. Wings are better. But there’s no point porting them up and down every time someone wants to fly. What are you doing?”
“Fixing this.” He chopped with his matchet at his other wing. When ten ce’meters were gone, he tied the wing to his right shin. He felt distinctly lopsided.
Jeffer and Gavving were also winged now. The three flapped out toward the carm, spurning the convenient handholds the bark afforded. Clave’s flight wavered, then steadied. He’d been right. This was easier on the warped muscles in his thigh.
Jeffer was first through the airlock. “Prikazyvat Voice.”
The carm’s deep voice said, “Ready, Jeffer the Scientist—”
A woman’s voice broke in. “Jeffer, it’s Lawri. I think I want to join you.”
“Come on up. Bring something to eat. We’ll be running the main motor for maybe two days.”
“Will do. Lawri out.”
“What was that about?” Clave asked.
“Lawri doesn’t trust me with the carm.” Jeffer laughed. “Now we refuel the beast.”