Power Lines

by Anne McCaffrey

  She breathed a sigh of relief to see black blobs on the horizon raise small white triangles of sails as they made their way up the fjord. Then she turned again to head in the direction of the approaching copter. She had her foot on the first step when Nanook casually barred her way.

  “C’mon now, I need a word with Johnny, Nanook!”

  From the big black-and-white cat issued a noise that was half snarl, half voice command. Bunny had said Nanook could speak to those he chose to have listen to him. This comment didn’t need words. Nanook’s warning was too clear.

  “Something’s wrong with the copter, Nanook?” Yana asked.

  Nanook sneezed and sat down, barring her way up the steps.

  She peered more intently and saw two men in the front of the copter. And only one of them was someone she wanted to see.

  “Ooops!” She turned and hurried back into the house. Nanook followed. That did surprise her. “I won’t go out if you don’t want me to,” she told him.

  He sneezed again and settled himself by the hearth.

  “Ardis, is there any way you can hint to Johnny Greene that I’m here, and Sean’s out with the curraghs? They’re on their way in.”

  “Sure, if that’s what’s needed,” Ardis said, grinning as she hauled off her apron. “Johnny might just have a letter for me from my sister up New Barrow way. She’s expecting—again.”

  The last cat in McGee’s Pass was named Shush, because in her youth she had been a noisy kitten. Those days were long past. Shush was not the last cat left in the pass because she lacked discretion. She was silent as smoke, quick as a spark, and very, very discreet. She had learned discretion shortly after Satok came to live among the people. The skull on his staff had once graced her father’s shoulders. It was she who had sent word to the Kilcoole cats that the people of McGee’s Pass would vote to mine, as Satok had been urging them to do. Frankly, she didn’t know if they would or not, but saying so could have brought someone to challenge Satok. Stupid cats of Kilcoole to send only two half-grown kittens! And now Satok had taken one of them. Perhaps soon her skull would be an ornament for him, as well.

  Shush’s family had been murdered. More critically from her viewpoint, all the toms had been murdered. She had gone through heat after heat alone, risking death in the woods to keep her cries from reaching the ears of Satok. Krisuk Connelly commiserated with her occasionally, but everyone else had been told the cats were spies; which, of course, they were, since it was only natural to lurk and spy and satisfy one’s curiosity.

  Until she had heard from the Kilcoole cats, in fact, she had imagined herself the last cat on Petaybee.

  Well, the last proper cat anyway. There were lynxes, of course, and bobcats, and she had once or twice heard the hunting cry of a track-cat, but her mother had told her that those sorts of creatures, if you caught them on a bad day or when they had nothing in particular to socialize about, would eat you as soon as look at you.

  So Shush stayed solitary for years, living off her wits, spying on the village and making herself invisible whenever Satok was around. It had taken a great deal for her to lead the Kilcoole cats’ people to the cave, but she had in mind that somehow, being from elsewhere, these ones might not succumb to Satok.

  When the girl was taken there was no one to cry to. The dog lay stricken, as Shush’s own family had been stricken, by Satok’s cruel staff. Krisuk and the Kilcoole boy were in the dead place. Not even to save a litter of her own would Shush brave that place.

  Instead she bounded off in the opposite direction, down the road and out of town, backtracking the hoofprints of the big horses, already nearly lost in the snow. When she was tired, she rested, licked the snow from her feet, and thought. The Kilcoole cats had contacted her, but she didn’t know how they had done it. She had been trying to flush out a rabbit at the time, pawing at the half-thawed ground, when a voice spoke to her in her own tongue, within her mind. She asked the voice who it was, thinking it was perhaps the ghost of one of her relatives, asking if it was safe to spend another life there, but the voice replied that although it was, like herself, a cat, it was from the village of Kilcoole.

  The voice belonged to a tom. She was sure of that. The question was not highly detailed. It wanted to know if the people of McGee’s Pass would mine for the company or not. She said they would if they were told to, which had been her experience of them. They weren’t bad people, but Satok had taken away their partnership with the planet and creatures like herself and turned it to his own purposes and against them.

  The tom had said nothing about people coming, but Shush sensed that there would be visitors. They had come! And now Satok was dividing them and destroying them as he had so much in the village.

  So Shush left, having nothing more to wait for. She leaped from one horse track to another. She sniffed when the track disappeared; she felt the howling wind roughing her fur the wrong way.

  Late that night she found where the horse and dog tracks met with other tracks, including those that made her lift her lips in recognition. A track-cat, quite likely a Kilcoole cat, since the people had come from Kilcoole. A large one. And more horse tracks, like those of the people. She clawed at the cat tracks, rubbed her head against them, marked them with her scent. From the other scents mingled with the big cat’s, he had been among others of her kind and probably was unlikely to eat her.

  Thinking that these new folk might be camped just ahead, she followed the tracks. But, she was small and the trail was long, and Satok had won again. She yowled for the Kilcoole cats to answer her, but none did.

  Finally, at daybreak, she slept for a few hours, then began moving again, though the tracks were older and much harder to follow. What other choice did she have?

  Matthew Luzon felt aggrieved and aggravated by the pilot’s attitude. He had felt from the first that this Captain Greene did not take him and his mission with sufficient gravity. He did not exude a positive attitude. He also appeared to be an uncommonly bad driver, hitting every pocket of turbulence no matter which altitude he attained, flying far too close to mountaintops at times and into cloud banks at others.

  And that was after they were finally on their way. The man had dawdled an unconscionably long time loading various items into the cargo net behind the seats. In fact, the copter would have been quite large enough for all of Matthew’s assistants, had it not been for this cargo.

  “Here, can’t you leave that behind?” he’d demanded at one point when his patience was strained, but the pilot just smiled and said, “No can do, sir. The villagers at the fjord need this stuff. Be with you in a jiff.”

  Then had come the dreadful flight and Braddock regurgitating all over the floor, so they’d had to smell it during the entire first leg of the trip.

  When they landed at Harrison’s Fjord, a pretty little place, he disembarked from the aircraft to allow Braddock to clean up his mess and found himself a boulder to occupy upwind, where he could continue his annotations. The pilot opened all the windows and doors to flush out the rest of the stench.

  “Gotta unload, Dr. Luzon,” the man said, although Matthew had assumed an attitude that few would have bothered to interrupt. “And refuel. Might as well take on some grub now.” Then he lowered his voice so that his words would not carry to Braddock, lying on a mossy stretch of ground, legs drawn up to his aching belly. “They do good fish fries.” Matthew waved his hand dismissively at the mention of such greasy fare. “And,” the pilot went on, indicating Braddock, “get him an airsickness pill. He ought to have mentioned the problem before we took off.”

  Matthew nodded, wondering why the pilot had not had the courtesy to inquire before they took off from SpaceBase. Then the village folk arrived to help unload, and the pilot turned to greet the one woman in the group. She was a slightly different rustic type from those Matthew had seen in Kilcoole. She chatted affably with the pilot as he and some of the men unloaded the helicopter. Matthew wrote down the iniquities of the flight he had just endured to
be sure they were entered onto the pilot’s record. He noticed that someone had given Braddock a blanket to keep off the chill of wind stirred by the idly rotating propeller blades.

  Scanning the village, Matthew assumed that the chief industry was fishing. No doubt this would present a fruitful subculture to study, since coastal peoples occupying somewhat more temperate areas undoubtedly had customs, mores, and folkways that differed from those in the interior. He made a note, since Braddock was in no position to take dictation, to return for a proper investigation later.

  When he made one more sweeping scan of the village before reboarding the newly lightened copter, he was surprised to notice, sunning itself in the doorway, a very large cat. About the size of a panther, he supposed, except that it did not have the conformation of one of those sleek, predatory, and now almost extinct beasts. Though large, it was more like an immense domestic feline, with rather common black and white markings. Possibly one of the track-cats he had heard so much about: one of the miraculous beasts said to have aided in the rescue of the Fiskes and to have been instrumental in the healing of Frank Metaxos.

  He stood up, closing his notepad and wondering if it was wise to approach the beast. It did not seem to be under anyone’s control. If it happened to be a stray, perhaps he could acquire it for the laboratory and extensive examination. He was about to order the pilot to have the beast caged until he could return for it when the pilot beckoned urgently to him and unceremoniously boosted him back aboard. Braddock was already belted in, thankfully looking more sleepy than nauseated. Before Matthew could mention the cat or protest their precipitous departure, the rotors were whirling and the aircraft was up over the deep waters of the fjord, well above the masts of some primitive sailing craft.

  Oddly, the flight to the southern continent was markedly absent of the turbulence they had encountered over land. Matthew attempted to shout over the noise in the cabin, a query about the village they had just left. He finally resorted to touching Greene’s shoulder to get his attention. The man merely smiled affably, tapping his earphones, and shrugged. Matthew subsided in his seat and tightened his seat belt—then had to loosen it slightly or risk cutting off the circulation in his torso. He did not like being isolated by the exigencies of travel and wondered why there was only one headset. So he made a tremendous effort to contain himself during what was likely to be a very dull and long journey. Fortunately the cold air and the smells of machine oil covered the faint residue of Braddock’s indiscretion.

  Every time Matthew flew in one of these vehicles, he resolved to take flying lessons, for the procedures seemed ridiculously simple, but he never seemed to find the time for the formal course. Once, a long-gone member of his bevy of assistants, a perhaps too easily influenced young man, had showed an aptitude for flying. Unfortunately, as soon as he had learned to fly, his personality changed, and he no longer demonstrated the qualities of unswerving loyalty and unquestioning obedience Matthew insisted upon in an assistant.

  He suspected that the man flying the copter was not of the caliber required in an aide either. Matthew’s opinion was confirmed when he retrieved a report from his case and noticed, stowed under his seat, the headphones that should immediately have been offered to him by Greene. At once, he plugged these into the socket on the armrest and placed them over his ears. A burst of static poured through them that made him wrench them off.

  Tapping the pilot authoritatively on the shoulder, he pointed at the headset. Grinning, the pilot shook his head, moved his mouthpiece aside, and leaned over to say, “Don’t work!”

  Matthew’s reactions included amazement, anger, frustration, and total disgust with the inefficiency and indifference shown by the inhabitants of this world. People were scattered all over the universe, some of them living in highly sophisticated, totally engineered environments, all scrupulously maintained by Intergal. He ended up on an incredibly primitive world with a headset, similar to hundreds he had used before, that failed to work due to what was surely an easily remedied technical difficulty.

  Of course, this sort of aircraft was only slightly improved over its ancient counterpart. The old ones had had neither speed nor range and had been limited in the altitudes they could achieve. This particular one, with its incidental malfunctions, was by no means state-of-the-art: it hadn’t the power to lift out of the planet’s atmosphere, and was excruciatingly noisy.

  However, it required very little space to land, could hover, and could set down safely, if necessary, at night unaided by light from the ground. That ability, he reflected, as he studied the map printout on his wrist unit, was a necessary requirement.

  He wanted to ask the pilot if flights to the southern continent were frequent. Surely they must be. This planet, north and south, had long been used for troop recruitment, an occupation the so-called sentient world did not seem to obstruct. Ah, and he qualified that as he remembered his notes. It was the young who answered recruitment drafts: those who had not yet been mutated by whatever toxins in their soil produced the glandular deformity and the deposit of “brown fat” that supposedly allowed older members of the population to survive the extreme temperatures.

  The nearest city to Harrison’s Fjord on the southern continent was Bogota, at the mouth of the Lacrimas River. The sizable peninsula on which the city was situated extruded like a big, clumsy thumb into the sea. He had, of course, scrutinized the maps of this region, now entering its winter season. Most of the population centers—one could hardly call them cities—were situated on the coastal plains near the major rivers: Bogota on the Lacrimas, Kabul on the eastern fort of the New Ganges, and Lhasa on the Sierra Sangre. Another village called Sierra Padre was located farther up the Sierra Sangre at the foot of the Sierra Padre Mountains. A settlement known as Kathmandu was isolated within yet another mountain range, optimistically dubbed the Shambalas.

  Kathmandu seemed a likely place to look for culture uncontaminated by the crackpot pseudomystical theories of the natives of the north. Bogota, being the largest and most accessible population center, was the most likely to have been influenced.

  For hours after they left the warm harbor of Harrison’s Fjord, flanked by the ice-packed coast of the rest of the northern continent, they skimmed the cold gray of the ocean, which didn’t particularly depress Matthew, as cold gray was one of his favorite colors. Huge chunks of ice floated in these waters, as large as islands or small continents themselves. Initial reports had suggested that the southern edge of the northern continent had many glaciers, which constantly calved into the unobstructed oceans that girdled the planet.

  The sun struck sapphires from the clefts in the ice, and the gray of the clear salt waters was sequined with darting fish. Schools of dolphins followed the copter’s shadow across the breast of the sea. Matthew was oblivious to them, as he was to the blowing and sounding of the Petaybean tube whales: so called because their ancestors had been bits of cells frozen and later incubated in test tubes. Brought to maturity in controlled environments, the large, strong mammals had then been released into the planet’s newly formed ocean. The whales, like the dolphins, seemed attracted by the novelty of the copter.

  At last, toward evening, they were within sight of the southern coast, a sight so spectacular that even Matthew was forced to admire its grandeur.

  Though the harbor, like its counterpart at Harrison’s Fjord, contained water warmed by the geothermal springs and rivers the planet seemed to have in abundance, the rest of the coastline was glacial. Huge cliffs of ice glittered white and crystal: deepest indigo in the recesses, and a rich bright cobalt where the setting sun struck the crevasses. Glaciers calved, huge chunks splintering off, plummeting into the sea with a roaring crack, surfacing through a rush of displaced waters, displaying new surfaces. On other floating chunks, seals and otters and big tusked walruses basked and swam in the frigid sea.

  As the copter drew nearer the southern continent, the sun began setting, burning across the water to recast the scene in shades o
f mauve and tangerine.

  Nearer yet, they saw herds of caribou race across the coastal plains, huge white bears lumbering across the ice or swimming in the lakes that studded the plains like chips of coral.

  From those spectacular vistas, the sight of Bogota was a massive letdown.

  It contained a double row of barracks-type buildings, no more than a kilometer in length, a landing pad with a pile of fuel cans perilously near, and a number of small hide boats not dissimilar to the ones Matthew had seen at Harrison’s Fjord. As they overflew the town, they were close enough to observe those inhabitants who were lounging about. The native costume seemed to consist of cast-off uniform pieces from the company corps. The copter’s arrival caused no particular excitement: few heads even turned up to observe its passage.

  With great delicacy, the pilot set the copter down right beside the fuel cans, shut off the engines, and without a word, climbed out and began to refuel. Oddly enough, no one came to check, though Matthew could see people less than a hundred meters away watching the process. While Greene fueled up, Matthew disembarked, demanding a few answers now that the man could not pretend he didn’t hear him.

  “Shouldn’t someone be logging you in or something, Greene?”

  “Why? They knew the copter, and they know it’s the one I fly. If I had something to deliver here, I’d have flashed my lights and someone would have come to make a pickup.”

  Matthew digested that explanation—yet another example of the nonchalance and indifference that were so rife on this planet and that would be rectified.

  “Is this all there is to this town?” He gestured about the landing area and toward the two rows of dwellings.

  “Bogota? Yes, sir. Nobody much lives in Bogota.”

  “Why not?”