She put the child on her feet and gently pushed her toward two daughters who would undoubtedly rival their mother for size and beauty. They smiled winningly at the child, who was nearly catatonic with such unwarranted treatment.
“And how is the niña called, Juanito?” she asked Johnny.
It took him a long moment to answer, but with Loncie looking at him so hard, he had no escape.
“She says her name is Goat-dung!”
“Ay, de mio!” And Lonciana’s hands went heavenward. “Tsering did say that they name their young in such a way, to shame and humiliate them, but it is beyond my lips to form such a name in front of the innocent ears of my own children.”
“But, mamacita, we know that goats make dung,” Carmelita said, giggling.
“Goats do not make los niños wear such names. Pobrecita we will call you, little one. Take her, bathe her, and see what of your sisters clothing will clad her decently. I will come and see to her injuries while—Pablo, where is the wine? Ah, here, and biscuits. Oh, you are so clever, mi esposo!” And she beamed on the wiry little man who was entering the room, carrying yet another beautiful artifact to astound Luzon.
This was a silver tray, some of its fine etching cleaned to the copper below the plating, covered with a fine white lace cloth, with a glass decanter and some very plebeian shot glasses of the type to be seen in any Intergal bar.
Señor Pablo, whose last name Johnny didn’t catch—it probably wasn’t Ondelacy, since that was the name he had known Loncie by when she was a senior chief—was a perfect foil for his wife. He was as quiet as Loncie was verbose, and he showed to Matthew Luzon the deference and respect due to any sneaky and poisonous creature. Pablo gravely insisted that Don Matthew must take the heavy armchair, so incongruous among the rest of the utilitarian furnishings, and gave him first pick of the refreshments.
In his turn, Matthew seemed intrigued by Pablo, who sported a distinguished silvered goatee and sideburns. He was reminded of an extremely valuable painting that he had seen once in a museum on old Terra.
Though Matthew sipped suspiciously at the beverage served him, Johnny enjoyed the resinous flavor that was minor fire in his mouth and left a not-unpleasant aftertaste.
The biscuits were lighter than Johnny had expected, and sort of cheesy in flavor, which made sense, since there were goats in a pen in the back of the house.
He saw Luzon’s gaze roving around the room, taking in a number of uncommon objects, like the flute and the beribboned guitar hung over a fine white fur, both well above the reach of small hands. Another object, that Johnny at first assumed to be a goatskin drinking bag with various lengths of pipe stuck from it, was actually a musical instrument, too, as Pablo explained when he caught Johnny’s curious gaze: the Basque bagpipes.
However, none of them said much, since the noise of Goat-dung’s attendants made any conversation difficult, even if Señor Pablo had been so inclined. Braddock looked better after his first sip of the liquor and was casting a judicious eye on the furs that covered the walls and floor. Lonciana kept exclaiming over this and that, arguing over items of clothing and demanding others until Matthew began to wonder just how long it took to clean one scrawny child and dab ointment on a few scratches. He was totally unprepared for Lonciana’s dramatic reentrance with the clean and not only neatly but flatteringly clothed child.
Johnny Greene sat bolt upright in his chair as if he were seeing a ghost.
“This niña,” declared Lonciana, fists planted on her broad hips, “has been constantly beaten with rods. Her ribs have been cracked on several occasions and I distinctly feel the thickening of several bones in both arms and legs where she has had fractures. She has obviously been starved all her life—if she has had the misfortune to live in that Vale of Tears”—Loncie spat to one side—”that is not unlikely.”
Washed and attractively clothed, the child looked even more wan and undernourished.
“Now we eat,” Lonciana stated. At a clap of her hands, more children appeared from the unseen regions of this incredible house, each bearing elements of the meal and the utensils with which to eat it. Seating La Pobrecita beside her, Lonciana herself fed the child, who did not seem to know what to do with either spoon or fork.
Loncie’s maternal presence was too overwhelming not to be threatening to Luzon, who began coaxing the girl into describing her home and her companions.
“Don Matthew, perhaps it is not wise to remind the niña of such matters,” Pablo ventured deferentially, but Luzon swept aside his objections.
“Nonsense, my dear man. Do you know nothing of psychotherapy? Why, the very best thing for the child is to discuss her traumas and her feelings about them, to speak out fully of everything which disturbed her. Only then can she be purged of her fears. Confrontation is the very best medicine in cases like this.”
Lonciana and the daughters who had tended the child were stunned as she fairly blossomed under his interrogation. Black eyes snapped with concern as Luzon deftly elicited information from the girl. On his side of the table, among the Ondelacy boys, Johnny lost his appetite watching Luzon, who, despite all of his protests of horror and sympathy, obviously was being fed exactly the kind of dirt he had hoped to dredge up. The man’s ill-concealed relish of the child’s story turned Loncie’s savory meal into bile in his mouth.
Well, he’d done what he could and found the child safe harbor. Luzon could question all he wanted, but he wouldn’t be able to force the child away from Loncie and her family any more easily than he would be able to force her away from Johnny. Johnny was tempted to pick the kid up and take her back north with him anyway, but he figured he would do better to hightail himself back north and make his report to Dr. Fiske, collect Sean and Yana, and fully cover his own ass. But he did want them to see this kid. There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Anyway, if he was to do any real good, he would need reinforcements.
He stood, bowed elaborately to his former chief petty officer, her spouse and brood, gave the child a bit of a salute—which Luzon returned, the ass, with a sharp dismissive one—and returned to his copter. He didn’t enjoy flying it half as much on the way back as he expected. Quite aside from the lingering stench of Braddock’s puke, it felt contaminated.
Although this southern continent should have been deep into the autumnal season and its ground surfaces well frozen up for smooth snocling, the Big Freeze had not yet occurred, a matter which caused considerable concern among the Sierra Padreans. This bunch were of very mixed ethnic origins; some, like Loncie, were of Central and South American origin, mainly from the Andes, and over time they had mixed with the few volatile high-mountain Basques, the combination tempered by a great many of the imperturbable Sherpas. Pablo, despite his resemblance to one of the characters in a painting by Goya, was half Sherpa, half Basque. While Loncie, as a retired corps member, kept her birth name of Ondelacy, the family name was actually Ghompas.
All of this information Matthew Luzon and Braddock skillfully extracted from the family after the meal was over and Johnny Greene had departed, a very good thing since his presence definitely interfered with the rapport Matthew wished to establish with this family and, in particular, the girl they now called ‘Cita.
One thing that particularly excited Matthew was that the girl in no way resembled any of the Ghompas/Ondelacy family. Nor could he see her gray eyes and light hair as placing her among the African or Afghani residents of this sector. No, she belonged to a different ethnic group than he had seen down here thus far, and he was eager to learn if others at the Vale of Tears were as different—both in appearance and outlook—as she seemed to suggest.
He took polite leave of them that night, and spent all the next day, with only Braddock to help him, trying to find alternative air transport. Finally he settled for a snocle. He was warned that, since the thaws of autumn had lasted unusually late this year and winter was not yet fully upon the continent, they might require many detours.<
br />
“Planet should be colder in the high country though,” granted the man who rented them quite a battered machine. Luzon suspected that the man had no right to have access to one at all and, to add insult to injury, he charged them a large enough deposit to buy a small space station. Matthew smiled sourly but paid, knowing he could easily confiscate the machine if he so desired. But just now he desired to keep a low profile.
In his preparations, he had already gathered that Sierra Padre would be as fruitless as Bogota in his quest for those who didn’t speak of “the planet” or “Petaybee” as if it were a friend or neighbor or possibly a close relative. Such superstitious idiocy! He had high hopes for the girl’s Shepherd Howling, however, whose nonsense was no less superstitious but in a more useful vein for Matthew’s purposes.
Once provisions and other appropriate gear had been acquired and stowed in the machine, Matthew awaited the moment to acquire the final piece in this phase of his investigation.
The girl played right into his hands. While the other children in the huge woman’s huge family played at building a snow fort from the new snow of the night before, Goat-dung—he, at least, would give her the proper name bestowed upon her by her culture—sat alone beside a spindly birch next to the pen containing goats. Maybe there was more to her name than just a convenient identity.
Matthew strolled up to her casually, saying, “Goat-dung, I require your assistance.”
“Sir, I am told my name is now ‘Cita.”
“By those who mean it kindly but do not know the significance of your true name, yes. But you and I know that their kindness is nevertheless a falsehood, do we not? You were given your name for a reason.”
She dropped those pale calf-eyes of hers and said in a tiny voice, “Yes, sir.”
“I wish to speak to this Shepherd Howling.”
“I won’t go back there!” she said with more spirit than he thought she had left. “I won’t!”
“Of course not, of course not, my dear child. I understand your feelings. You are deeply ashamed to have left the community under a cloud, to have been unable to measure up to the simple things your shepherd required of you. But I’m sure he will forgive you and allow you to separate from the community once I explain to him that you are more valuable out here, to me.”
“To you, sir?” she asked, the hysteria fading from her voice and being replaced by awe.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I need a research assistant who is native to this planet, and who better than yourself? If you work out, I will adopt you as my daughter.”
“Your daughter, sir? This unworthy one?”
“Through hard work and appropriate behavior, you may yet become worthy. But first you must be very brave. Come along and I will show you what is required.”
She got to her feet and took his hand, with only one backward glance at the house of her erstwhile guardian. He knew very well what he was doing. By replacing the feared figure of the Shepherd Howling in her mind with himself, someone stronger, probably better spoken, and certainly more rational, he placed himself in the role of both master and protector. Oh yes, she would certainly obey him as unquestioningly as she had ever obeyed her—he smiled at the quaint crudity of the primitive notion—betrothed.
On the way back north, Johnny radioed in a coded report to Whittaker Fiske, along with an inquiry about the clouded big cat that had kept Geedee company. It wasn’t like any track-cat he’d ever seen. He received a terse acknowledgment. “Received and acknowledged. I designed no such cat. Ask Shongili. Happy buzzard-watching. W.F.”
When Johnny finally stretched his legs at Harrison’s Fjord, Sean, Yana, Bunny, Diego, and Nanook had already started on their journey down the cave that had swallowed up Bunny’s parents twelve years before. The presence of Liam Maloney’s lead dog sleeping by the fire in the Souniks’ house naturally resulted in Johnny being brought up to date on all that had happened at McGee’s Pass.
“Satok used Petraseal to block the planet off?” Something very cold descended Johnny’s backbone. “Frag it, Fingaard. Do you know how much of that stuff is stocked at SpaceBase? Have you any idea what could happen if anyone, Matthew Luzon in particular, found out what Petraseal can do to our caves?”
Ardis’s face was stricken. “The boy, Diego, has made a song of it.”
“Well, let’s just bloody hope he doesn’t sing it.”
“He already has. What he had finished of it, at least,” Fingaard said in a deep bass whisper.
“Frag!” was Johnny’s explosive response. He was pensive for a long moment and then, with one blink of his eyes, became the affable, carefree copter pilot they knew so well. “I’d better get back and report in. Gotta get refueled, and then I just gotta come back this weary way again. See ya!” He tipped his peaked cap at Ardis and strode back to the copter, hands in his pockets, whistling.
With Nanook padding along in front of them, occasionally taking a short tangent before coming back, the four of them made forty klicks down into the cave at Harrison’s Fjord. Within the first hour they had swung away from the path that led to the fjord’s planet place and started descending. The slope was fairly steep at first, but soon began to have an easier gradient. Once the luminescence lit their way, they had no need of the artificial hand beams and carefully stowed them away.
“This isn’t at all like the other caves I’ve been in,” Diego remarked when they reached the easier gradient.
“I doubt you’ll find two even vaguely similar,” Sean said with a smile.
“Have you been in all of them?”
“No, I haven’t. That’d take a lifetime, I think,” Sean replied with a grin. “My grandfather found the first one, more of a cleft in the rock than a real cave. He knew, of course, that there were cave systems just under the surface. That’s the way Terraform B works, but his finding the cleft was pure chance.”
“Did it lead into something like this?” Yana asked, glancing about her with the wonder and sense of welcome she always felt in a Petaybean cave.
“Not directly, according to granddad’s notes, but he didn’t have as much chance to explore as he’d liked, since he was busy doing what he could to make it easier on the animals Intergal decided would adapt well to this climate.” Sean gave a snort at Intergal’s needless arrogance. “Grandmother located the hot springs at Kilcoole and went looking for others, with my father strapped to her back to hear him tell it, and my oldest aunt—the one my sister, Aoifa, was named for—either on a sled or strapped to a curly-coat’s back. Grandmother really liked a decent hot bath every day and took one no matter how far she had to tramp to indulge herself.” Sean grinned nostalgically, as he had been a part of those forays. “I know she taught me how to swim . . .” He glanced quickly at Yana and winked. “My father and his two younger brothers found and mapped many of the caves we now know and use. I think I learned their whereabouts before I learned to spell.”
“What happened to all your relatives?” Diego asked, rather amazed that anyone could have so many.
Bunny tried to shush him, but Sean shook his head. “What else? My younger uncles joined Intergal, and my father continued his father’s work as I continue his.”
“And the other Aoifa?” Diego was persistent
Sean drew his brows together. “We never did find out. She went off on one of her solo trips—she did a lot of hunting with her track-cats. About a year later, someone found the fur and bones of one of the cats, but we couldn’t tell how it had come to die. That was all we ever found of her?”
When they made camp for the night, Diego went off into what Bunny was beginning to call his “creative trance.” His lips moved now and then and odd sounds blurted out, but he offered no performance. One respected a singer’s concentration.
They traveled two more days, steadily downward, past lakes bordered by strange shapes, some like trees dipped in silver or gold, leaves, flowers, and all. Occasionally a mist would rise to accompany them, flowing around their feet as they move
d and then, as abruptly as it had risen, disappearing. Twice they had to find their way to the narrowest parts of rushing rivers and, with Sean throwing the hook and line to some high point, swing over to the farther shore.
The fourth day down they came to a thick barrier of fallen stalagmites and stalactites, jumbled willy-nilly on top of each other like unstacked firewood. Sean recognized this from Fingaard’s description as the cave-in area. Beyond was a boom and a whooshing that suggested that the sea might have flooded in after the collapse. Sean and Diego tried to work their way over and around the various broken pieces, hacking occasionally at the molded limestone. Only Diego’s quick thinking kept Sean, in the lead, from tumbling headlong into the dark waters held back by the obstacles they had managed to pass. For a long moment, while Diego recovered his breath at Sean’s near escape from a dunking, Sean looked out across the waters, searching for some glimmer of a distant shore.
They vaguely heard the shrill voices of the women and Nanook’s odd snarl.
“We’re all right!” Sean yelled, cupping his hands, and his cry reverberated. Then he looked chagrined when they both heard the thunder of a rockslide. “Most likely an ice calf,” Sean said in a moderate tone. “Let’s get back. They’re not in trouble, but something’s upset them.”
They found the others near one of the rock piles at the outer edge of the cave. Yana stood, hands clasped behind her back, looking down, her face bleak.
“Nanook found it,” she said, nodding to where Bunny was kneeling over some object. Yana stepped aside so that Sean could see the sobbing girl, who suddenly prostrated herself in a paroxysm of grief to touch with shaking, tear-wet fingers the heel of a booted foot. The sole of another stuck out from under a boulder of ice. Scored across the ice in all directions were the ruts of the claws of Gonish the track-cat who had vainly tried to dig the man out of his tomb. Frozen blood, still red, stained many of the deeper grooves.
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