Marduk sat on the scientist’s lap, kneading and purring and gazing raptly through narrowed eyes up into his face. Another cat sat on the scientist’s shoulders, its rust-striped cheek and white whiskers snuggled against the man’s right ear, front paws pedaling his shoulders while the ringed tail curled possessively around Metaxos’s neck from the other side. Two more cats flanked Metaxos on either arm of the chair, licking his fingers and hands and grooming him, while another pair alternately wove about his feet and settled across them like house slippers.
You’d have thought the man was made of catnip the way the silly animals were carrying on, Bunny reflected. Whether it was coincidence or communication, at the moment the thought formed she drew an indignant dig from the cat in her lap.
“Can I have a bowl of stew for Dad, please, Clodagh?” Diego asked. “But maybe it’d be better—” He broke off and looked at Clodagh’s back imploringly.
She turned and gave him an impassive half smile. “Yes?”
“If you’d feed him? Bunny says you’re good at taking care of people and things and, to tell the truth, he never eats very well for me.”
Bunny, who had watched Diego feed his father a couple of times, suspected that half the problem was that Diego found spoon-feeding his once-brilliant and vigorous father a disgusting process. She knew it made him sad and angry: that would be the way she would feel, she knew. Unnerving, too, to have to shove food into the mouth of a grown man as if he were an infant.
Clodagh regarded Diego with understanding and sympathy. She looked at the bowl she had filled and then handed it to him with a kind smile.
“No, it’s better if you do it, son. Someplace inside your da he still knows you and loves you. If he’ll eat for anybody, it’ll be you.”
“I guess so,” Diego said dispiritedly, and pulled a chair opposite his father. Bunny noticed he was careful not to disturb any cats, though Marduk raised a paw as if to snag the spoon carrying food to Metaxos’s mouth.
Grimacing, she looked away as the spoon neared the man’s lips: that was the disgusting part, when stuff fell off the spoon and down the chin and had to be wiped off before it messed up the shirt. At least Diego didn’t have to actually pry open his father’s lips to get the food in. But, as she was turning her head, Diego suddenly said, “Hey, Dad. All right! That was great. Try another bite.”
When Bunny looked back at them, Diego had a grin of satisfaction on his face: his father, eyes still dull, face otherwise slack, was chewing the soft diced bits in the stew. Encouraged, Diego replenished the spoon with more bits; the cat on his father’s shoulders sniffed as the spoon passed his nose, but didn’t try to snag it. Dr. Metaxos’s eyes even looked a little more focused when he chewed, Bunny thought. Food was the best thing he could concentrate on right now; maybe he was even tasting it. She hoped so: it was a shame to waste a good Clodagh stew on someone who couldn’t appreciate the fine taste of it.
Just then the door burst open and Aisling swirled in like a one-woman typhoon, followed closely by Steve Margolies. Through the door behind Steve, Bunny saw Sinead talking into the ear of one of the curly-coat horses that stood around about the house.
“Clodagh,” Aisling called cheerfully, “Sinead and the curlies did some right fine towing work at the river, getting snocles out of trouble. Everyone’s out now and on their way back here. We left all the snocles at Adak’s, but he’s so busy, I thought I’d see if you had something cooked up for him to eat. He’s going to be there all night. And it’s not just the river breaking up early, either. You know all that smoke we’ve been seein’ and the ground shaking? Well, that’s from a volcano eruption over by where Odark found Lavelle and Siggy with your lad here and his da.” She grinned at the expressions of disbelief and amazement. “And the miners and engineers and company men that went out that way to start work, they got caught right under that volcano.” She grinned so broadly at the effect of that news that she had to lick her lips.
Of them all, Clodagh didn’t seem surprised.
“And, there’s a shuttle down, almost right on top of the volcano, to hear Adak tell it, and the survivors yelling like stuck pigs for help. Well, that smooth redheaded captain who was sniffin’ after Yana took her and Giancarlo and some other soldier to go see if anyone got out of the shuttle. They made it to the miners and then”—Aisling’s expression changed to indignation—“that captain wanted to leave behind the injured miners and all, right where they were being bombarded with ash and hot mud, so’s he could search for the shuttle. Can you believe the man’s sand that he’d abandon wounded, his own people, mind you? And crazy enough to want to make a copter fly into all that heat and ash and smoke? But as luck would have it, and such good luck I can scarcely believe myself, the pilot was Rick, you remember Orla O’Shay’s oldest boy that went into the service fifteen years ago? He and Yana Maddock made the captain and the colonel and the other bloke with them get out and load the wounded. He radioed back for a pickup for them and the other survivors, and Adak was just talking to him as we came in. Sinead says she has it from her sources that Sean’s gone missin’, too, and she’s that worried about himself and Yana. The O’Shay boy says Yana disarmed the colonel and his lad neat as you please and not a moment too soon. Dr. Steve here wants to rustle up some transport. He feels he’s got to get out there to eyeball that volcano while it’s growing.”
She paused to take a deep breath and then, with a grin, added, “Seems like Petaybee’s not supposed to have volcanoes in that spot.”
“Bunka, take a bowl of stew over to Adak and see if there’s any more news, will you?” Clodagh said in a tone that was not a request.
“Sure, Clodagh,” Bunny said.
“You’re the one I’m to ask about transport?” Steve Margolies asked, looking perplexedly at the big woman.
“Eat first,” Clodagh said hospitably, and handed him a bowl before filling a bigger one for Bunny to take to Adak. “You need good food after that stuff at the river, and for anything else you want to do.”
Steve dragged a tired hand across his face as if he had only just remembered an essential like eating. He accepted the bowl and found a spot to sit, then took a good look around the room.
“Frag!” Steve Margolies exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Look at Frank. He’s petting that cat.”
“Sure, it’s fine exercise for his fingers,” Clodagh was saying matter-of-factly. “Everyone knows animals are good for distressed folk.”
Bunny was grinning, too, as she carried the stew bowl out the door on her way to Adak.
Despite the lid to keep the heat in, she had to walk carefully to keep from spilling the stew. It would keep hot long enough, however, for her to make a few short stops on her way to Adak’s. She slipped in at her own place, where she traded her soaked and stiffened hide boots for her breakup muckers and put on a kettle of food for her dogs. She looked in at Moira’s window. The cousins and the dogs must have come and gone again, for Seamus was sitting large as life by the stove, shoveling Moira’s soup and bread into his face. Moira was busy cooking. Now that Bunny knew that Seamus had made it back okay, she could continue with an easy heart.
Passing Maloney’s again, she was greeted by Dinah’s unhappy howl. She would pet and reassure the dog on the way back. Right now, not only was Adak’s stew cooling but also a clever dog like Dinah might try to have first grabs at it. So she simply clucked reassuringly at the dog and kept going.
Six or seven snocles sat parked outside Adak’s shed, but they had not been cleaned, serviced, or fueled, and were still covered with melting slush, water, and mud. Inside, Adak, headphones over his ears and microphone at his lips, was hunched over the radio. Bunny slid into a chair beside him and shoved the stew in his direction. He looked a little startled to see it appear in front of him, but accepted it without question. Lines were etched deeply into his face and his eyes looked hollow, but his whole body was taut with nervous energy. Early breakup and a new volcano a-borning might be consi
dered catastrophes, but the end result was that today had produced the most excitement Kilcoole had seen since the first expeditionary team had been lost in a tsunami down on the southern edge of the ice pack.
“Well, I’m sorry about that, SpaceBase,” Adak was saying with a certain amount of agitation, “but until the next hard freeze, the snocles aren’t reliable as transportation for a trip clear out there. Over.” He managed to spoon some stew into his mouth. “Oh, sure and they’ll run on the snow, that’s not the problem. The problem is the rivers, you see, and if you don’t believe me, you can ask yer lads as got fished out of them today. Over.
“Is that so? Well, I’m sorry to hear that, too. It’s a shame about Dr. Fiske’s shuttle crashin’ and to be sure we do understand the urgency and all. Over.” He hurriedly ate some more.
“No, of course flyin’ over it is impossible if the ash and smoke are as thick as you say. My suggestion would be to get yourself some of them crane-copters and have them hoist the snocles to the edge of the affected area and then see if the snocles’ll drive at all in the ash. You’re still going to be havin’ the same problem with slushy going as we have here though. Over.
“The rivers of course, man! Petaybee has more rivers and lakes than you can shake a stick at, and who knows which ones are thawin’ this early? Normally the high country would stay frozen longer, but a volcano, now, that’s a chancy thing. I’m not a scientific man like yerself, but it seems to me such a thing would warm the country considerable. Over.
“Like I said, air-hoist a snocle to where O’Shay picked up the wounded. I’ll wager Yana Maddock can drive it even if your two officer lads don’t know how. Over.
“They what? When? How’d you find out? Uh—very well, over.
“Yes, then, I do see the urgency. Look here, I’ll try to get some of the local folk on it in the meantime. The point is, machinery just doesn’t do awfully well in some of the conditions we have hereabouts right now. That’s why we use animals. I’ll get back to you. Right. Over.”
“What,” Bunny asked impatiently, “was that about Yana?”
“Well, seems O’Shay radioed for help as soon as he was airborne and the other copter passed him at the halfway point. He was almost to SpaceBase when they radioed back that they were bringing in the rest of the survivors, but that Fiske, Giancarlo, and Corporal Levindoski overpowered Major Maddock and forced her to go with them into the flow area to look for Dr. Fiske. The higher-ups are that frantic to be after them, but the ash would clog any machines they got and it’s not that good for the beasts either.”
“I’ll bet the curlies can do it, if anything can,” Bunny said staunchly. “They were bred for sand and snow back on Earth, and they can close off their nostrils if they need to, and their eyes have a protective lid.”
“Maybe so,” Adak said, taking a slurp of stew. “Hard to figure why anybody’d want to risk a good curly to go after some company bigwig, though.”
15
Gun in hand, Yana held off Giancarlo, Torkel, and Ornery until the wounded were loaded. Torkel had relented enough to help, while Ornery and Giancarlo stood by, glaring malevolently at Yana. The last thing O’Shay did before he slammed the door shut, was to fling out a red-and-white-striped rectangle. Picking it up, Yana identified it as an emergency rations pack and blessed the pilot’s thoughtfulness. The four remaining survivors of the expedition were suffering from shock, and the high-energy rations would do much to revive them.
“If he thinks that’s going to save him from a court-martial, he’s got another thing coming.” Giancarlo snorted as the copter lifted off. To Ornery-eyes he barked, “Don’t just stand there, Levindoski. Commandeer that pack. We’ll need those supplies on our search and rescue of Dr. Fiske and his party.”
“Uh-uh,” Yana said. “Not so fast, Colonel. You’re not commandeering shit just yet. These folks need to chow down first.” She pointed to the nearest survivor, a gaunt-faced man whose pocket nametag was half burned off. “Connelly?” she said, reading what was left. “Why don’t you distribute? You’ll want the yellow ones—they’ll replace electrolytes and boost your energy levels.”
Keeping one eye on her and the gun she held, Connelly retrieved the sack. With a pang of pity Yana saw that he was sufficiently fatigued so that it took him three yanks to break the tabs, and half the bars and drink packets spewed over the ground. She stepped back and motioned for the others to help.
“Wait!” Torkel cried with a tinge of desperation. Yana turned to him. His eyes, watching the survivors scoop up the supplies, reflected a struggle with his emotions for the sort of control and charm that had always been a hallmark of his command personality. “Yana, please be reasonable. You know we’re going to need those . . .”
“Torkel, if I was you I’d shut the frag up,” Yana said, waving the gun at him. “You didn’t exactly cover yourself with glory trying to take the copter away from the wounded and you’re not improving things by trying to prevent the distribution of emergency rations to these survivors. As for me, I ate a while back.”
Connelly, who had been handing the packets out to the others, contemptuously threw four at Torkel’s feet. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t know you’d missed your bloody lunch.”
“It’s not that,” Torkel said, wisely leaving the packets alone for the moment. “She’s distorting this incident to make us look bad in your eyes, hoping you’ll aid her.”
“Which you are now doing by eating those rations,” Giancarlo said sternly. “If you value your careers, you’ll listen to Captain Fiske here and cooperate with our mission.”
“Careers!” said another man, whose ashy parka bore the name “O’Neill.” “Sure now, Colonel darlin’,” he went on, his face angry, his words soft, and the Irish in his accent dangerously broad, the way the Petaybean accent became when mocking the stupidity of higher-ups. “We’re that worried about our careers havin’ just outrun yer volcano there. Seems to me that if it’s our lives we’re after valuin’, the dama’s the one to be listenin’ to.” He deliberately and defiantly chewed and swallowed a large hunk of his ration bar.
“Colonel Giancarlo, please,” Torkel said. “I know you mean well but you’re playing into her hands.”
Watching his face, in which the desperation she had seen before was now suppressed, she saw him begin to calculate the effect of each word and attitude on the survivors. He was smart enough to know that he had alienated them initially, and smart enough to know that if he wanted to regain control of the situation he was going to have to have them on his side. “Folks, you’ll have to forgive Colonel Giancarlo. He doesn’t mean to sound callous but he’s absolutely right. Our mission is one of the utmost priority and this woman has sided with the Petaybean insurgents creating this catastrophe!”
His arm swept across the devastation behind the survivors, the pulsing mud in the valley at their heels, the glow of the volcano visible even through the ashy miasma cloaking the area.
“Right,” Connelly said, “one skinny little woman, with or without help, caused a volcano? I’m a mining engineer, Captain. Pull the other one.”
The third man coughed both to clear his lungs and to get attention. “They might have set strategic charges that triggered the volcano.”
“Th-that’s right,” the last survivor, a woman, stammered. Until she had eaten her ration bar, she had been trembling so violently that she had looked on the verge of convulsions; now her fearful glance centered on the presence of the authorities as represented by Torkel, Giancarlo, and Ornery. “Teams have disappeared here before. It can’t all be natural.”
“Damned right it’s not,” Torkel said, following up his advantage. “We were interrogating Maddock here, trying to get information from her to head off this disaster, when it blew up in our faces. Meanwhile, my own father, Dr. Whittaker Fiske, was coming to join a team in your vicinity to suss out the situation.”
“In case you don’t know who Dr. Fiske is,” Giancarlo put in, “he’s assistant chairman of the b
oard, direct descendant of the man who developed the terraforming process that transformed this rock into a viable planet, and is the company’s top expert on the environmental development and stability of all of Intergal’s terraformed holdings.”
“He’s the one man who can save this project and everybody involved with it, which is why you must help me find him,” Torkel said, adding with a catch in his voice that could have even been genuine, “and he’s my father. That’s why we tried to supersede your need to move your wounded and effect your own rescue. Another copter would have been here for you immediately, of course, but this woman”—he jerked his thumb at Yana—“took advantage of the pilot’s humanitarian instincts to turn the situation against us. But if one of you will guide me to where the shuttle came down, she won’t be able to stop me from going in after my dad and saving this rock.”
“Okay, who’s it going to be?” Giancarlo demanded. “We need to move here and move fast. You heard Captain Fiske. We need volunteers to take us to the crash site.”
“Say what?” O’Neill asked, not believing what he heard. “We come out of that”—he waved to the steaming valley—“by the skin of our teeth and you’re after us to risk our necks again? You’re bloody nuts!”
The third man just shook his head tiredly. His shoulders were stooped under the weight of a variety of cameras and other instrument packages, as well as under the weight of the terror and pain he had just lived through. The straps kept Yana from seeing all of his name but “Sven” was part of it.
Torkel shook his head firmly, staring O’Neill down. “No. I’m not nuts. I’d never ask you to risk yourselves except that this is absolutely vital. It is imperative to the well-being of this planet and the personnel on it that we find my father with all possible dispatch.”
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