by Larry Niven
“Strawberries keep dying. I don’t have bananas. Can’t grow them here at all. They need tide. The Navy buys them off some tree dwellers east of here, when they get the chance. Clave, you haven’t established credit yet—”
“Credit?”
Zakry Bowles spoke slowly, enunciating. “You haven’t shown that you can pay. But you can pick out what you want now, then come back later, pay me and collect it.”
“What we want is stuff we can grow in a tree.”
They discussed that at length. Rather joined in; there were things he would not go home without. Debby eased over to Carlot. “What’s got you upset?”
“He won’t give me credit. We came in with a pod for our cabin and the Belmy log already in dock. Well, Dave Kon owes me money. I’ll go see him. Excuse me.”
Zakry was urging something else on them: a greenish-yellow fruit with an obscene shape. He showed Debby how to remove the peel. Clave laughed when Debby bit into it, but it was good. Carlot was talking to the Lockheeds, and they were nodding.
She came back. “I have to talk to Dave Kon. You’d be bored—”
“You’re leaving us?”
“Stet. Stay with the Lockheeds. I’ll meet you at Half Hand’s Steak House.”
Half Hand’s was across the Market.
They flew through rain. Droplets flew from the edges of their wings. Rather breathed through his nose; from time to time he snorted out water. Debby and Clave were doing the same. The locals had donned masks of gauzy fabric, except for Raym, who breathed in the rain as if he cared not at all.
Half Hand’s was a faceted dome adjoining a smaller, less symmetrical structure. You could see through some of the facets on the big dome: they were starstuff fabric. The rest was gray concrete. One six-sided facet had been cut away, and a wooden door hinged into the opening.
Grag Maglicco, the Navy man, suddenly asked, “Have we all got sticks?” He assessed the blank looks correctly. “Go on in. I’ll join you, couple of breaths.” He swerved aside, headed for an angular hut twenty meters along the wheel.
The inside was concrete too: concrete troweled over a structure of starstuff, outside and in. The concrete bore paintings of intriguing complexity and a variety of styles, but Rather caught only glimpses of these through a wall of citizens.
Half Hand’s was full. Men, women, and children made a hemispherical shell around the newcomers, their toes clinging to two-meter poles protruding from the concrete. There were no foothold poles in the windows, so those stayed clear.
From an open hexagon on the far side drifted smoke and cooking odors. Nurse Lockheed led them that way. She called through the opening. “Half Hand?”
A man came out of the crowd behind her. “Hi, Nurse. You got money?”
“No. Put it on the Serjents’ tab. I have a party of eight.”
There was nothing wrong with Half Hand’s hands. He was a jungle giant, mostly bald, and his arms and legs were corded with muscle. He said, “Serjents? I heard—” Full stop. “Sure, I’ll give the Serjents credit. What do you want?”
“Let’s see the kitchen.”
“Nobody sees the kitchen.” Half Hand was peering past Nurse Lockheed. “Shorts?”
“Tree dwellers. They’ve never seen anything like your kitchen.”
“Nobody sees the kitchen.”
“I did,” Nurse said.
Debby pushed her way forward. “Half Hand? I’m Debby Citizen—”
“Pleasure,” he said gravely.
“I wonder if you’d be interested in a description of a kitchen in a tuft.”
Half Hand studied her; nodded. “Just you. Nurse, the special’s moby.”
“How old?”
“Eight days ago, shipful of Dark divers took a moby. Special is moby till we run out. Sausage cost you three times as much. No turkey today.”
“We want vegetables, lots, all kinds. Couple of kigrams of moby too, not too rare.”
“Moby’s ready now. Vegetables soon. You, Debby, you cooked in that tree?”
“Some.”
Half Hand beckoned her in.
Rather could feel the eyes. With a conscious effort he looked. Of the forty or so diners, only a dozen or so were watching what was happening at the kitchen entrance. Even those concentrated more on eating; their right hands kept pale wooden sticks in constant motion. The eye-pressure still made him flinch.
Grag Maglicco rejoined them. He passed out pairs of sticks of pale wood, no bigger than the branchlets a tree dweller was used to.
A woman brought them a two-kigram slab of meat, black on one side, pink on the other. John Lockheed took it on his knife. He flapped toward the wall, pushing the meat ahead of him. Diners edged aside to give him room or to avoid getting grease on their clothing.
Nurse had to urge them. “Come on.”
There were too many people.
But Clave followed Nurse, and Rather followed him.
There was room. Nurse talked to some of the locals around them. John carved chunks from the meat and passed them, knife to sticks. Moby meat was good. Tenderer than swordbird, richer than turkey.
Grag’s own sticks—like every Clump citizen’s—were ornately carved. Some were wood, more were bone. Grag caught Rather looking. He showed Rather his own bone sticks. “You carve them yourself. Circle would mean I’m married. Spiral means I’m looking. A bird would say who I work for. Outline around the bird would mean I own the company. What I’ve got is the rocket, ’cause I’m Navy. You’d want a honey hornet, for Serjent Logging. Change life style, start new sticks.”
John Lockheed pointed out a clump of customers to Clave. Tall men and women, a dozen or so, and a few infants; isolated, clustered close as if for protection. Peculiar footgear, thick-heeled sandals with toes protruding. “They’re happyfeet. Half Hand should make them check those shoes at the door,” John said. “They’re for fighting, for kicking.”
“Lupoffs?”
“Yes. Why?”
“No reason,” Clave said.
Gourds of red liquid passed among the diners. One came within reach, and John took it. He drank, then passed it to Clave. “Fringe tea. Don’t take too much.”
It went from Clave to Rather. Its taste was bitter and sweet, not unpleasant. John stopped Rather from passing the gourd to Raym. “Too much in his blood already.” Raym grinned and nodded.
Debby and Half Hand joined them; they made room. Debby said, “He’s got four citizens doing the cooking, all women. There’s a major fire against the back wall, held in by sikenwire. The kitchen’s got maybe twenty windows in it, and Half Hand closes some of them to get the breeze he wants, keep the fire going and the smoke out. He’s roasting a slab of moby the size of two men. It’s black on one side and raw on the other, and he slices off the charred side.
“There’s also…” She waved a hand and a foot as if trying to describe without words. “I thought it was a ball of hard stuff like the Vivarium. Inside, a froth of water and live steam, and cut-up plants.”
“It’s a bag,” Half Hand said. “Keep it turning, the vegetables cook even. Draining the water is the tricky part.”
“I saw them do that. They open the bag and throw the whole glob of cookwater at the lee windows and catch the vegetables in a net.”
“Ho! Vegetables are ready then.” In fact three jungle-giant women were already flying around the dome’s curvature, passing out what they carried.
“We use an open pot,” Debby told Half Hand. “Tide keeps it in, whatever you’re cooking. We cook meat and vegetables together. If you don’t keep stirring it, it all bubbles out.”
“M’shell!” Half Hand waved one long-toed foot in a half circle, and the nearest of the kitchen women came toward them. She served red and yellow and green vegetables into small-mouthed bowls. Half Hand said, “We serve only earthlife plants. A man wants foliage, he gets it at home. Meat’s different. We take what we get. Nothing turns up, Sanchiss has a turkey farm Darkward.”
The vegetables: s
ome were good and some were not, and some you couldn’t decide right away. Clave was making notes as he ate. Food that wasn’t eaten went into a wooden barrel. From time to time one of the woman replaced the barrel.
Grag Maglicco was asking Debby, “Has Booce been wondering where his house is?”
“He hasn’t done anything about it yet.”
“Well, we saw Serjent House a few days ago. It was twenty degrees spinward of the Market and maybe fifteen klomters skyward. Doesn’t look like anyone’s disturbed it. Can you remember to tell him?”
“Stet. Tell me something else?”
“Sure.”
Debby waved around her. “I’m surrounded by teeth. How can so many of you keep most of your teeth?”
Grag fished in his tunic and produced a stick like a third eating stick, carved in the same way, with a tuft of bristly vegetable matter at the end. “Scrape your teeth after you eat,” he said, and grinned at the tree dwellers’ dubious looks.
Another gourd of fringe tea came past. Rather was thirsty; but nobody was taking more than a mouthful, and he didn’t either. He passed it to Grag, who drank deeply and sent it on.
“Why do they call you Half Hand?” Debby asked.
“My great-square grandfather was Half Hand. Stuff that moved the old carm sprang a leak, froze his hand. Grandfather was Half Hand too. Got bit while he was Dark hunting. Now me. Soon or late, I lose it.” The idea didn’t seem to bother him. “Raym, sell me some walnut-cushion?”
“Not this trip. Next time.”
“I need it. Goes good with potatoes. Green beans too.”
“Next time for sure,” Raym promised.
Nurse Lockheed laughed and said, “He can’t. He doesn’t have a ship.”
Carlot was shocked. “Raym? You lost your ship?”
Raym nodded without looking at her.
Half Hand quietly moved off toward the kitchen. Nurse reached out and lifted Raym’s chin. “Tell them the story, Raym!”
It was the last thing Raym Wilby wanted. Some of the locals were looking embarrassed. Clave was quick enough to catch it. “If it’s story time, I’ll tell you about the breakup of Dalton-Quinn Tree.”
Raym’s ship was forgotten as Clave talked.
Rather knew the tale too well. What he noticed was the rise in the noise level. Half Hand’s was turning boisterous. Clave’s words were just perceptibly slurred, as if he were sleepy; yet he was animated, frenetic, as he relived what had been the end of the world for him and for Rather’s parents. Rather himself was feeling strange.
Half Hand was back. “Look out the window or go outside,” he said. “See something.”
“Water,” Rather said clearly.
“What?”
“Water, not fringe tea. Does something to my head.”
“Oh. Get you water, stet. M’shell! I’ll fix it. Tree dwellers shouldn’t drink too much fringe. Get to a window, boy. Thank me later.”
The nearest window was crowded, but Rather managed to get his head into the grouping. He watched three kitchen women carry garbage barrels outside and fling their contents across the sky. Nothing happened for a time. Rather continued to watch. He felt as if he were dreaming. Fringe?
He dreamed that triunes abruptly converged from all directions, splitting into individuals as they came. Rather shouted: not a warning, just an incoherent yell.
The women heard. They looked at him in the window and laughed. Slender blue-and-orange torpedos dove among them. The wind of their passage sent them tumbling. In twenty breaths it was over. The triunes moved away, regathering their families. The garbage had vanished. The women kicked to stop their spinning—and not one had been touched by the predator birds.
All the strangers around Rather were laughing at him.
The only good thing about it (he decided as he returned to his pole) was that nobody else had gone to a window. Grag and Debby seemed mostly interested in each other, but the rest were held spellbound by Clave’s storytelling. He spoke of the foray into the Carther States jungle—
He was on the verge of describing the London Tree carm! “Clave?”
“Me, I didn’t notice most of this, what with my broken leg. Yeah?”
“Drink some water. This fringe is strong.”
John Lockheed said, “Yes, you’re not used to it,” and passed Clave the water gourd. Clave drank, and drank again. Rather was given a gourd, and he couldn’t understand how he had become so thirsty.
Then Carlot was there and it was all right, and Rather was free to go to sleep.
Kendy saw them streaming toward the log like a covey of brightly colored birds: young men and women stretched like taffy. Wings patterned in primary colors flapped behind, making them seem even longer. Each pattern was different. Birds must find each other in the sky.
The helmet microphone picked up giggling and snatches of talk. Some flew with skewed clumsiness, drunk on alcohol or other recreational chemicals. Kendy ran the record again, but the noise factor was too great; the words wouldn’t come clear.
They passed out of the helmet’s view and were gone.
Chapter Sixteen
HIGH FINANCE
from the Citizens’ Tree cassettes, year 926 State:
CHECKER
Officer responsible for the attitudes and emotional well-being of the citizenry, and for their benign relationship to the State.
Booce started tea when he saw them coming. He looked them over as they entered. Nurse Lockheed had the giggles. Her brother was furious.
Booce smiled at them. “Half Hand’s?”
“Right. Fringe tea.” Carlot wasn’t happy.
“It was strange,” Debby said. “We ate…well, we tried everything. Clave made a list—”
“I hope we can afford it all,” Clave said. “Where’ll we grow it? We’ll have to plant the out tuft and make the lift cables twice as long.”
The teapot went among the half-dozen Clumpers who had returned with Logbearer’s crew. In a dozen breaths it was empty.
“Jonveev was kind enough to lend me some stuff,” Booce said. “The teapot, some blackbrain, some cookware. Carlot…” He frowned. She should have brought supplies from the Vivarium and the Market shops.
She handed him a translucent blanket-leaf folded lengthwise. There was food within: vegetables, a slab of cold moby meat, and a baked sweet potato. “Half Hand gave us credit.”
“That’ll be breakfast. Jonveev fed me.”
John Lockheed sensed what was happening. “Many thanks, Booce, and we’d best be going.”
Raym showed his astonishment. “We just got here!”
“Raym, now. Come on, Nurse. Booce, we’re sorry about your trouble, but it didn’t ruin a good evening. It’s good to see you back safe. Carlot—” He stretched his toes to clasp hers. Then the whole covey of Clumpers moved out into the rain, shooing Raym and Nurse ahead of them.
“Now why did they do that?” Clave asked.
“They know we have to talk about money. You don’t do that in front of strangers,” Booce said. “All right, Carlot.”
“Zakry won’t give me credit. We’ll have to forage the trunk for food. I went to Dave Kon. He still owes for a klomter of wood from our last trip. He wouldn’t pay me. He offered full payment if we’d sell him a klomter off the new log at two times ten-square. I turned him down.”
“Right. That mutineer thinks we can’t afford to hire a judgment! See, Clave, the Admiralty won’t convene a civil court unless both sides can prove that they can pay court costs. Loser pays. But the Navy knows we have the Wart! One way or another, we’ll get money or credit. Carlot, I think I know what Hilar has in mind. Burl.”
Carlot thought it over. The tree dwellers watched with no sign of comprehension. She said, “Risky. Nobody knows how.”
“Hilar can afford to take the chance. He brought his tree in with the tuft still on. He asked for a loan and offered decent terms. Usually the tree dies, but sometimes—”
Debby suddenly said, “I reme
mber. The idea is to let a tree grow without tide. The wood’s supposed to twist into knots?”
“Right. But trees aren’t really built for that. I wonder if Hilar knows something? If he can get money to live on, he can grow his burl while we sell our wood. He’d like to get the money from us, if we had it.”
“We should be asking Jeffer about this.”
Booce grimaced. Then: “Sorry. Debby, you’re tree dwellers, you should know a lot about them, but you’ve never seen a tree growing outside of tide.”
“You wouldn’t grow burl yourself, stet? Belmy’s not a fool or he wouldn’t be richer than you, stet?” Booce bridled, but Debby went on. “He knows something you don’t, something about burl. Jeffer the Scientist knows a lot we don’t. Let’s ask.”
“Burl,” Jeffer said musingly, watching the faces in the bow window. Debby was hiding anxiety. Booce had asked his question with some belligerence. This had been her idea, not his. Are you any good at all? Prove yourself, Scientist!
Blue lines of print scrolled across the faces.
Integral trees grow well in a wide range of tides. Low atmospheric pressure kills them faster than low or high tide. In dense air and very low tide they might survive. In free fall they die. Otherwise we would find trees growing naturally in the Clump.
Booce was talking. “Hilar thinks he’s got me by the seeds. He offered me a loan if I withdraw my tree from sale, but he’s not serious. It’d break me. I’d be paying interest, and no way to get it back. Of course he doesn’t know about the Wart metal.”
“Do you really need to know if he can grow burl?” Jeffer said. “Booce, you’re satisfied that he’s trying it. You only need a short-term loan till you can sell your metal. The Belmys aren’t your enemies, are they?”
“No, they’re friends. Who would I talk to if I couldn’t talk to other loggers? But Hilar would love to have me carving the dumbo on my sticks, and all the loggers want to be richer than, say, the architects. Jonveev won’t loan me money unless she thinks I can pay it back. Or if I’ve got some kind of collateral…hell.”