Success! Once again we had overcome the impossible!
Trina chose my moment of self-congratulation to offer an important observation. "Diz, aren't we going the wrong way?"
She was right, of course. The irascible and fickle wind. Of course, a balloon cannot be steered, but is as helpless as a leaf in a stream. Almost.
"Not a problem," I said. "We'll just go higher." I had read once about balloons. The trick to going where you want to go in a balloon is finding the right wind. Different winds blow at different altitudes. Supposedly.
We climbed to fifteen thousand feet before I found a wind going the right way. Then we hung there, looking at the unknown world below. It was an odd amalgam of the familiar and the alien, both far more familiar than many alien planets, but not quite our Earth either. If we failed, though, our Earth would not last much longer.
The cold of high altitude sank into us. We shrugged into the fur and skin clothes which Chief Rotolo had thrown into the bargain - my set included a nice though gamy leopard cloak - and still we shivered. The tiny wobbling basket swung back and forth, the support ropes creaked and twisted and moaned, and the thin layer of crackling reeds beneath our feet - all that kept us from a three-mile freefall followed by a splat - shifted and bent and in general tried with great success to scare the Zot out of us.
The temperature dropped far below freezing; even in our full native regalia we were shivering. The basket seemed ever more fragile, and I was concerned about what effect the cold might have on the slim reeds. For fear of breaking them we tried to warm ourselves without moving - not an easy task. But no more difficult than what lay ahead. The true goal of our mission, for which we'd covered light years and time years.
Under Galactic law, there were several steps to the valid claiming of a planet. The claiming race had to actually set foot upon the planet in question, plant their flag, and perform the ritual salute of claiming. Also, they had to take up a small piece of its soil, in whatever claspers, tentacles, or pseudopods they used. A portion of this was flung through the air, which signified control; another portion was taken away in a sealed container, as symbolic evidence of the acquisition of the entire planet, and as proof of the actual visit. I didn't let on to Trina that we were now facing what was by far our most difficult task - I had never really expected us to get this far, and even if I had expected it, I had been much to busy trying to survive our various trials and tribulations in space, on Boff, and here. Our upcoming difficulty lay in our need to disrupt the ceremony, without the hi-tech gimmicks we'd left about the Blue Bean, and yet in a stealthy way. Otherwise, the Etzans would merely go elsewhere, the next day. And perform it validly.
And that, of course, would be bad.
I had a long argument with Ned about our navigation, during which he refused to respond. While Trina and I could guess and approximate, only Ned could give us the precision guidance we needed to find the Etzan's claiming site. After fruitlessly appealing to his honor as a Neural Emplant Device, his obligation to humanity, and even his vanity, I thanked him for finally giving me a valid reason for having his tiny bundle of wet chips yanked and recycled. Once we got back, no more Ned. Bye bye, brain buddy. Adios, head-mate. Ciao, cranial pal.
Ned finally relented, though only partially. He provided a big red arrow, and a range indicator, super-imposed on my field of view.
Good enough. I followed the arrow, adding more hot air to ascend, letting our sieve-like balloon leak to descend, as I chased wispy clouds going the right way. Eventually, we were at 20,000 feet. The jet stream hurled us along, dead on course. We swept ever closer.
Things, I pointed out to myself, were going remarkably well. I should have known better than to point such a thing out, even to myself; this was throwing down the gauntlet. Unknown to me, Fate picked it up and shook it at me.
"This m-m-might work," Trina said through chattering teeth.
I nodded. We were getting very close to the claiming site. Less than ten kilometers.
The basket began making a very troubling creaking noise. It was very troubling not only because of the sound, but because of the slow sag developing beneath our feet. Trina and I scampered to the sides and tried to place our feet on the strongest, firmest, least-saggy sections.
"I'm sure it will hold," Trina said.
"Of course it will," I agreed. “It simply has to.”
The basket weighed in by creaking louder. Trina and I moved quickly, instinctively. Searching for solid footing. Hunting along the edges.
"It couldn't p-p-possibly fail," Trina said.
"Not a ch-ch- chance," I agreed.
We slid our feet along, searching for strong spots, trying to avoid weak ones.
As it turns out we needn't have bothered. With a startling lack of warning the entire bottom of the basket cracked free in one big piece, as effectively as a hangman's trapdoor, though a bit more surprisingly. Anyone standing on a hangman's trapdoor at least has some idea about what's coming.
"Zot," I blurted as my feet plunged through the hole. I caught the vertical bottom edge of the frozen basket in a dangerous one-handed grip, supporting my weight with a slipping fistful of frozen reeds.
Then Trina plowed into me from above and knocked us both free.
"Oh, double Zot," I muttered.
We fluttered about like leaves in a wind, tumbling, then reached that oh-so-unfortunately named speed, terminal velocity. It felt like floating. We hung near each other; it reminded me, only a little bit, of our happy times in the Blue Bean.
"I thought we'd already survived falling to death on Boff," Trina shouted over the rocket-blast of the wind.
"Life's a cycle. You always get another chance," I supposed.
Trina gave me a dirty look then glanced downward. "You have about ninety seconds to think of something," she shouted.
"Don't worry. I will," I screamed back. I was pretty sure there was not a thing that I could do, but I wasn't going to admit that. And in ninety-one seconds I wouldn't have to.
The world swelled and flowed and rushed. Trina and I were somehow hanging stably, almost face to face. I thought madly. First I took an inventory of everything we had. That was quick - we had only our clothes and, in my hand, my maser. The clothes were utterly useless. So was the maser. I glanced downward. The earth didn't seem to be moving, but it was much larger. And though it felt like we were floating, of course we were actually stones, plunging downward.
Forty-five seconds to go, I figured. With the wind pounding past, buoying us on what seemed an upward blast, it felt almost serenely peaceful.
"Ned!" I shouted inside my head. "I could use a little help here!"
Ned made only a flickering subliminal appearance, an image of a small boy crawling beneath a bed to escape monsters. "I told you so!" the boy wailed. Then he was gone. Completely.
I glanced down. Rocks and stones and dry-looking trees, coming up soon.
I looked into Trina's gold and green eyes as she hung in space right in front of me. She seemed a little petulant.
"Well?" she shouted. “I'm waiting!"
All I could think of was a haiku:
Clear bright freezing air
Monkeys falling like big stones
I bet this will hurt.
So I smiled as bravely as I could, then tried to frame a reply about being almost ready to save us. This would hopefully distract us from the annoying reality of being squished to death.
But instead I got distracted when Trina's eyes suddenly grew wide. Her wind-pressed face re-layered itself to accommodate a mouth that suddenly gaped. Her gaze was over my shoulder, and far beyond me.
"Wow!" she said.
Before I could turn, I felt a hand on my leg.
Then I turned and looked into a face that was craggy and dirty and tired and, all in all, not quite as handsome as I'd thought.
It was my own face.
CHAPTER 21. QUID PRO CLOD
The new me was riding a grav sled, and looked even more tired a
nd beat than I felt. He slid beneath us, decelerated to let us float gently onto the sled, then twisted the lift lever to lower us down without a word. The new me turned away, about to take off again.
"Hey!" I said. If it really was me, there was no need to say more - I would know what I meant.
"Oh yeah," the other me said, stopping with a finger poised on the lever. "Do us a favor - don't forget to come back and save you. Otherwise, the time stream might get complicated. It might not, of course, but no one really knows. So just play it safe. By Zot, you're filthy. You should clean yourself up. Gotta run now." He flashed a wry tired grin, then touched the lever and rose upward until he vanished into the robins-egg sky.
I looked at Trina triumphantly. "I told you I'd think of something."
"That wasn't this you. That was some other you. Slightly cleaner, though not much."
"Same thing. We're related, you know."
Trina was trembling, ever so slightly. She ran her hands down her body, as if smoothing her skin clothes, though I suspected she couldn't believe she was still in one piece.
"The claiming site should be about three miles that way," she finally said, pointing to a low scarp of sandstone hills. She glanced at the sun. "Better hurry."
An hour later we hunched on a low rise that looked over the claiming site. It looked exactly like the vid I had seen - would see - in ten thousand years. A picturesque valley, lush with tall grasses and occasional huge conifers. A scorched circle at its center, surrounding the wedge-shaped landing pod. Small piles of equipment neatly stacked about, for the survey and the claiming ceremony itself.
"What's the plan?" Trina whispered.
"The plan? Simple. We use the projection matter transformer to alter the composition of the Sacred Clod which the Etzans must collect and return to the Galactic Court. If the Sacred Clod doesn't match Earth, the claim is invalid. Simple."
Trina narrowed both her gold and her green eyes. "I'm beginning to think you're a simple clod. The matter transformer is gone! It was on the Blue Bean! We don't have it anymore!"
I plucked a long stem of prehistoric grass and chewed thoughtfully. Full and sweet. "Yes, I know that."
"Then-"
I spat out the grass. "Then that was just my charming way of giving you the answer to your question. Using the matter transformer was - and is - the plan. We don't have another!"
Tragically ironic, but true. We had travelled across space and time, survived perils and travails, all with no way to complete the last and most important act of our mission. It was like a eunuch planning and carrying out every step of an elaborate seduction, except for the final act. Of course I'd known this all along, but all along there was nothing I could do about it.
Trina was shaking her head. "Pluto's frozen balls. We may as well stay here, then. I guess I could get used to wearing skins - kind of dashing, in an elemental sort of way." She tugged on my leg. Her mind made one of its characteristic lunges. "C'mere. I see a soft spot under that tree."
I slapped her hand away. "Brazen hussy! We've got to do something!"
She rubbed my chest. Her voice turned husky. "There's nothing to be done. You said as much, yourself. We don't have the tools for the job! So we'll stay here. Become prehistoric denizens. Live in caves. Hunt. Wear skins. Invent the wheel. Maybe," and now her hand roamed lower, "raise some prehistoric rug-rats."
"The Time Oscillator return pod is coming for us," I pointed out.
"True," Trina agreed. "But we don't have to get in. It's keyed to our chronic freqs, which are unique in this timespace, so it'll find us. But we needn't take the ride."
I was still watching the Etzan's site. Nothing had moved. Odd. Etzans were infamously busy, and also notorious collectors.
"Have you seen any Etzans?" I asked.
She turned her gaze to the camp and the valley. She squinted and frowned. "Actually, no, not a one."
"Well where the Zot are they?" If they weren't in camp, then they might be anywhere. They could be out surveying, exploring, or sample collecting. They could be a lot of places, the sneaky devils. They could even be-
"Uh oh," Ned said.
I tried to spin but couldn't. I tried to pull my maser but couldn't. A hissing blanket of buzzing, prickly static electricity was wrapped around me.
"Court!" Trina grunted. "Tangler field!"
"I know," I managed to hiss back. All our voluntary muscles were paralyzed by this decidedly un-prehistoric weapon, leaving our hearts to beat and our lungs to breath. Talking could barely be accomplished, with a huge effort, but major muscle groups such as those in our limbs were off limits. Shut down. Neuro-blocked.
"Ned!" I cried out internally, as I fought to move but lay like a statue. "Help!"
He appeared before my eyes, dressed in an all-white suit topped by a sporty white cap. Hands on hips, he smirked at me. "Well now, Court. A friend in need is a friend indeed, right-o?" He jauntily danced a cane on his shoulder. "Oh, you didn't want my input on that balloon shenanigan, but now you come crying to Ned. Ha."
"Can't - move - my - body! You - try! Permission granted! Quickly! They must - be close!" The tangler is a short-range weapon only. No one on Earth could have one. Which meant: Etzans.
Ned turned and began to walk away, stepping carefully to keep his spats clean. "Don't be silly. You're locked up. Paralyzed. The Etzans caught you fair and square, my boy. And by the way, I already tried. I can't move your muscles either. They've closed down all the neuronal pathways. Nicely done, too." His tone had a hint of professional appreciation. He stopped and bent to examine a stone up close, then moved on.
Behind us crunched booted feet. A plier field grabbed us and hoisted us onto a grav sled like the two prehistoric lumps we were.
"Now what have we here?" said a snide voice. "Grungy and pathetic locals." It wasn't speaking any human language, but for some reason I could understand it. I saw Trina's blank look and realized Ned was translating.
"Very grungy. Very pathetic," agreed a second voice. The grav sled began to move, and as we were trucked along I caught occasional glimpses of the two spindly-legged, pot-bellied, four-armed figures. Etzans. Though Etzans were one of the few other non-insectoid Squishy races, they weren't the sort of relatives one cared to have.
"What are they going to do with us?" Trina managed to whisper.
I shrugged, or tried to.
One of the Etzans looked at the other. The small antennae on his forehead, visible beneath the open visor of a silvered helmet, waggled inquisitively. "They actually seem to have a primitive form of communication, the wretched creatures."
"Perhaps," said the other. "More likely those are mere mouth sounds of terror. They are no more intelligent than garden furniture. Some sort of low-rent, retrograde primate. A disappointing capture."
The sled lurched to a halt in their camp; the Etzans left us on it like two inert bundles of prehistoric plasm. We were captured booty, trophies of the hunt, mere samples. We might be flash-frozen, atomized, or digitized, but probably not lyricized.
In a bit of a black mood at this final bitter twist, I took in the camp. Before me on the ground in a careful arrangement was a collapsed pole-flag, a hand-sized hovercam, a group of things that looked oddly like vid props, and two carefully-selected clods of dirt.
"The Incidents of Claiming," Ned explained, overlaying himself into the picture. He tweaked my visual cortex so that I saw him pick up the flag - which of course he couldn't really do.
The pole exploded in his hands, expanding out to its full size with a loud bang.
"Oops," Ned said. I gaped. How would the Etzans respond?
"Just kidding," Ned said, and the pole was normal again. He had again played a trick on my hostage brain. Reality was a variable and uncertain proposition, with Ned around.
"Arg," I moaned.
The Etzans were regarding us. Short and pot-bellied, with spindly legs and four arms, in silvered exposure suits. They looked exactly like the Etzans of my own time - their cultu
re and biology was entirely stagnant, and had not changed in countless millennia. They had, as they liked to say, arrived.
"Shall we keep them?" said the first and slightly shorter one.
"What for, fool? Mere primitives. Look at them. No more intelligent than houseplants."
"But we get extra bounty for bringing them in!"
"Not enough to be worth stinking up our ship!"
"We could put up with a little stench, Hurg. Can't be any worse than-"
"Watch it, Urg," glowered Hurg.
I recalled that Etzans were famously argumentative and disagreeable. Squabbling was their passion and their credo, and they lived by it and for it.
"But if they are proto-sentient, we might get a bonus for them."
"Urg, they are clearly moronic. Look at how they're draped in skins - not a tasteful synthetic fabric anywhere. Mud. Dirt. They are not even close to semi-proto-sentient. If anything, we would be fined for wasting the time of the Institute for Sentiency."
"I have noted your opinion, Hurg," Urg said testily. "But I am not convinced. I will half-detangle one, for additional observation."
"You are wasting our time. Again. I should be used to it."
"I have always hated you, Hurg. Spending my existence travelling to such putrid worlds, in your horrible company, is worse than being slowly devoured from within by intestinal parasites."
For the first time a look of fondness seemed to cross Hurg's face. "And you, Urg have always disgusted me more than a soufflé of droppings. More than a bouquet of genitalia. More than being served a platter of my own lightly-stewed entrails."
"You flatter me with your insults," Urg said, and crossed out of my view. "Half-detangling the bigger one for observation."
"If you must," sighed Hurg, moving to a piece of equipment. "I will switch on the translator."
The Blue Marble Gambit Page 22