Rees suppressed a sigh. Hesitation, delays, obfuscations, more delays . . . Obviously the Scientists could not metamorphose into men of action in mere hours - and he sympathized with the dilemmas they were trying to resolve - but he wished they could learn to establish and stick to priorities.
Now they came to a group of Scientists probing cautiously at a food machine. The huge device loomed over them, its outlets like stilled mouths. Rees knew that the machine was too large to carry into the Bridge’s interior, and so it - and a second companion machine - would, rather absurdly, have to be lodged close to the port in the Bridge’s outer corridor.
Grye and Hollerbach both made to speak, but Rees held up his hands. ‘No,’ he said acidly. ‘Let me go into the reasons why we can’t possibly rush this particular process. We’ve calculated that if strict rationing is imposed during the flight two machines should satisfy our needs. This one even has an air filtration and oxygenation unit built into it, we’ve discovered . . .’
‘Yes,’ Grye said eagerly, ‘but that calculation depends on a key assumption: that the machines will work at full efficiency inside the Bridge. And we don’t know enough about their power supply to be sure. We know this machine’s power source is built into it somehow - unlike the Bridge instruments, which shared a single unit by way of cables - and we even suspect, from the old manuals, that it’s based on a microscopic black hole - but we’re not sure. What if it requires starlight as a source of replenishment? What if it produces volumes of some noxious gas which, in the confines of the Bridge, will suffocate us all?’
Rees said, ‘We have to test and be sure, I accept that. If the efficiency of the machine goes down by just ten per cent - then that’s fifty more people we have to leave behind.’
Grye nodded. ‘Then you see—’
‘I see that these decisions take time. But time is what we just don’t have, damn it . . .’ Pressure built inside him: a pressure which, he knew, would not be relieved until, for better or worse, the Bridge was launched.
Walking on, they met Gord. The mine engineer and Nead, who was working as his assistant, were carrying a steam jet unit to the Bridge. Gord nodded briskly. ‘Gentlemen.’
Rees studied the little mine engineer, his worries momentarily lifting. Gord had returned to his old efficient, bustling, slightly prickly self; he was barely recognizable as the shadow Rees had found on the Boneys’ worldlet. ‘You’re doing well, Gord.’
Gord scratched his bald pate. ‘We’re progressing,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll say no more than that; but, yes, we’re progressing.’
Hollerbach leaned forward, hands folded behind his back. ‘What about this control system problem?’
Gord nodded cautiously. ‘Rees, are you up to date on this one? To direct the Bridge’s fall - to change its orbit - we need some way to control the steam jets we’ll have fixed to the hull; but we don’t want to make any breaches in the hull through which to pass our control lines. We don’t even know if we can make breaches, come to that.
‘Now it looks as if we can use components from the cannibalized Moles. Some of their motor units operate on an action-at-a-distance principle. I’m just a simple engineer; maybe you Scientists understand the ins and outs of it. But what it boils down to is that we may be able to operate the jets from inside the Bridge with a series of switches which won’t need any physical connection to the jets at all. We’re about to run tests on the extent to which the hull material blocks the signals.’
Hollerbach smiled. ‘I’m impressed. Was this your idea?’
‘Ah . . .’ Gord scratched his cheek. ‘We did get a little guidance from a Mole brain. Once you ask the right questions - and get past its complaints about “massive sensor dysfunction” - it’s surprising how . . .’ His voice tailed away and his eyes widened.
‘Rees.’ The vast voice came from behind Rees; the Scientist stiffened. ‘I thought I’d find you hanging around here.’
Rees turned and lifted his face up to Roch’s. The huge miner’s eyes were, as ever, red-rimmed with inchoate anger; his fists opened and closed like pistons. Grye whimpered softly and edged behind Hollerbach. ‘I have work to do, Roch,’ Rees said calmly. ‘So must you; I suggest you return to it.’
‘Work?’ Roch’s filth-rimmed nostrils flared and he waved a fist at the Bridge. ‘Like hell will I work so you and your pox-ridden friends can fly off in this fancy thing.’
Hollerbach said sternly, ‘Sir, the lists of passengers have not yet been published; and until they are it is up to all of us—’
‘They don’t need to be published. We all know who’ll be on that trip . . . and it won’t be the likes of me. Rees, I should have sucked your brains out of your skull while I had the chance down on the kernel.’ Roch held up a rope-like finger. ‘I’ll be back: he growled. ‘And when I find I’m not on that list I’m going to make damn sure you’re not either.’ He stabbed the finger at Grye. ‘And the same goes for you!’
Grye turned ash white and trembled convulsively.
Roch stalked off. Gord hefted his jet and said wryly, ‘Good to know that in this time of upheaval some things have stayed exactly the same. Come on, Nead; let’s get this thing mounted.’
Rees faced Hollerbach and Grye. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards the departed Roch. ‘That’s why we are running out of time,’ he said. ‘The political situation on this Raft - no, damn it, the human situation - is deteriorating fast. The whole thing is unstable. Everyone knows that a “list” is being drawn up . . . and most people have a good idea who’ll be on it. How long can we expect people to work towards a goal most of them cannot share? A second uprising would be catastrophic. We would descend into anarchy—’
Hollerbach emitted a sigh; suddenly he seemed to stagger. Grye took his arm. ‘Chief Scientist - are you all right?’
Hollerbach fixed rheumy eyes on Rees. ‘I’m tired, you see . . . terribly tired. You’re right, of course, Rees, but what can any of us do, other than give our best efforts to this goal?’ Rees realized suddenly that he had been unloading his own doubts onto the weakening shoulders of Hollerbach, as if he were still a child and the old man some kind of impregnable adult. ‘I’m sorry, he said. ‘I shouldn’t burden you—’
Hollerbach waved a shaky hand. ‘No, no; you’re quite right. In a way it helps clarify my own thinking. His eyes twinkled with a faint amusement. ‘Even your friend Roch helps, in a way. Look at the comparison between us. Roch is young, powerful; I’m too old to stand up - let alone to pass on my frailties to a new generation. Which of us should go on the mission?’
Rees was appalled. ‘Hollerbach, we need your understanding. You’re not suggesting . . .’
‘Rees, I suspect a grave flaw in the way we live our lives here has been our refusal to accept our place in the universe. We inhabit a world which places a premium on physical strength and endurance - as your friend Roch so ably demonstrates - and on agility, reflex and adaptability - for example, the Boneys - rather than “understanding”. We are little more than clumsy animals lost in this bottomless sky. But our inheritance of ageing gadgetry from the Ship, the supply machines and the rest, has let us maintain the illusion that we are masters of this universe, as perhaps we were masters of the world man came from.
‘Now, this enforced migration is going to force us to abandon most of our cherished toys - and with them our illusions.’ He looked vaguely into the distance. ‘Perhaps, looking far into man’s future, our big brains will atrophy, useless; perhaps we will become one with the whales and sky wolves, surviving as best we can among the flying trees—’
Rees snorted. ‘Hollerbach, you’re turning into a maundering bugger in your old age.’
Hollerbach raised his eyebrows. ‘Boy, I was cultivating old age while you were still chewing iron ore on the kernel of a star.’
‘Well, I don’t know about the far future, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. All I can do is solve the problems of the present. And frankly, Hollerbach, I don�
�t believe we’ve a hope of surviving this trip without your guidance.
‘Gentlemen, we’ve a lot to do. I suggest we get on with it.’
The plate hung over the Raft. Pallis crept to its edge and peered out over the battered deckscape.
Smoke was spreading across the deck like a mask over a familiar face.
Suddenly the plate jerked through the air, bowling Pallis onto his back. With a growl he reached out and grabbed handfuls of the netting that swathed the fragile craft. ‘By the Bones, innkeeper, can’t you control this bloody thing?’
Jame snorted. ‘This is a real ship. You’re not dangling from one of your wooden toys now, tree-pilot.’
‘Don’t push your luck, mine rat.’ Pallis thumped a fist into the rough iron of the plate. ‘It’s just that this way of flying is - unnatural.’
‘Unnatural?’ Jame laughed. ‘Maybe you’re right. And maybe you people spent too much time lying around in your leafy bowers, while the miners came along to piss all over you.’
‘The war is over, Jame,’ Pallis said easily. He let his shoulders hang loose, rolled his hands into half fists. ‘But perhaps there are one or two loose ends to be tied up.’
The barman’s broad face twisted into a grin of anticipation. ‘I’d like nothing better, tree swinger. Name the time and place, and choice of weapons.’
‘Oh, no weapons.’
‘That will suit me fine—’
‘By the Bones, will you two shut up?’ Nead, the plate’s third occupant, glared over the charts and instruments spread over his lap. ‘We have work to do, if you recall.’
Jame and Pallis exchanged one last stare, then Jame returned his attention to the controls of the craft. Pallis shifted across the little deck until he sat beside Nead. ‘Sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘How’s it going?’
Nead held a battered sextant to his eye, then tried to compare the reading to entries in a hand-written table. ‘Damn it,’ he said, clearly frustrated. ‘I can’t tell. I just don’t have the expertise, Pallis. Cipse would know. If only—’
‘If only he weren’t long dead, then everything would be fine,’ Pallis said. ‘I know. Just do your best, lad. What do you think?’
Again Nead ran his fingers over the tables. ‘I think it’s taking too long. I’m trying to measure the sideways speed of the Raft against the background stars, and I don’t think it’s moving fast enough.’
Pallis frowned. He lay on his belly and once more surveyed the Raft. The mighty old craft lay spread out below him like a tray of fantastic toys. Suspended over the deck and marked by the occasional plume of steam he could see other plate craft, more observers of this huge dislocation. A wall of smoke climbed up from one side of the Rim - the port side, as he looked down - and, additionally, each of the trees in the central tethered forest had its own smoke cloak. The smoke was having the desired effect - he could see how the trees’ cables leaned consistently to his right as the flying plants sought to escape the shadow of the smoke - and he imagined he could hear the strain of the cables as the Raft was hauled aside. Cable shadows were beginning to lengthen over the deck; the Raft was indeed moving out from under the star which hung poised over it. It was an inspiring sight, one which Pallis in his long life had seen only twice previously; and for such cooperation to be achieved after the turmoil of revolution and war - and at a time when so many of the Raft’s best were occupied with the Bridge project - was, he decided, something to be admired.
In fact, perhaps the need to move the Raft had provided the glue which had held society together this far. Here was a project which would clearly benefit all.
Yes, it was all admirable - but if it was too slow it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. The falling star was still miles overhead, and there was no immediate danger of impact, but if pressure was maintained on the trees for too long the great plants would tire. Not only would they prove unable to drag the Raft anywhere - it was even conceivable that some might fail altogether, threatening the Raft’s security in the air.
Damn it. He hung his head over the lip of the plate, trying to judge where the problem lay. The Rim wall of smoke looked solid enough; the distant stars cast a long shadow over the masked workers who laboured at the base of the cliff of smoke.
Then the problem must be with the tethered trees themselves. There was a pilot, plus assistants, in each tree, and each of them was trying to maintain his own fence of smoke. Those small barriers were probably the most significant factor in influencing the movement of the individual trees. And, even from up here, Pallis could see how ragged and insubstantial some of those barriers were.
He thumped his fist into the deck of the craft. Damn it; the purges of the revolution, and the fevers and starvation that had followed, had left his corps of pilots as depleted of skilled people as most other sectors of Raft society. He remembered Raft translations of the past: the endless calculations, the shift-long briefings, the motion of the trees like components of a fine machine . . .
There had been time for none of that. Some of the newer pilots barely had the skill to keep from falling out of their trees. And building a lateral wall was one of the most difficult of a pilot’s arts; it was like sculpting with smoke . . .
He spotted a group of trees whose barriers were particularly ragged. He pointed them out to Jame.
The barman grinned and yanked at his control cables.
Pallis tried to ignore the gale in his face, the stink of steam; he put aside his nostalgia for the stately grandeur of the trees. Beside him he heard Nead curse as his papers were blown like leaves. The plate swooped among the trees like some huge, unlikely skitter; Pallis couldn’t help but flinch as branches shot past, mere feet from his face. At last the craft came to rest. From here those smoke barriers looked even more tenuous; Pallis watched, despairing, as raw pilots waved blankets at wisps of smoke.
He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘You!’
Small faces turned up to him. One pilot tumbled backwards.
‘Build up your bowls!’ Pallis called angrily. ‘Get a decent amount of smoke. All you’re doing with those damn blankets is blowing around two fifths of five per cent of bugger all . . .’
The pilots inched their way to their bowls and began feeding fresh kindling to the tiny flames.
Nead tugged at Pallis’s sleeve. ‘Pilot. Should that be happening?’
Pallis looked. Two trees, wrapped in distorted blankets of smoke, were inclining blindly towards one another, their amateur pilots evidently absorbed in the minutiae of blankets and bowls.
‘No, it bloody shouldn’t be happening,’ Pallis spat. ‘Barman! Get us down there, and fast—’
The trees’ first touch was almost tender: a rustle of foliage, a gentle kiss of snapping twigs. Then the first snag occurred, and the two platforms locked and shuddered. The crews of the trees gaped with sudden horror at each other.
The trees kept turning; now sections of rim were torn away and wooden shards rained through the air. A branch caught and with a scream was torn away by the root. Now the trees began to roll into each other, in a vast, slow, noisy collision. The smooth platforms of foliage shattered. Fist-sized splinters sailed past the plate craft; Nead howled and covered his head.
Pallis glared down at the crews of the dying trees. ‘Get off there! The damn trees are finished. Get down your cables and save yourselves.’
They stared up at him, frightened and confused. Pallis shouted on until at last he saw them slide down rippling cables to the deck.
The trees were now locked in a doomed embrace, their angular momenta mingling, their trunks orbiting in a whirl of foliage and branch stumps. Wall-sized sections of wood splintered away and the air was filled with the creak of rending timber; Pallis saw fire bowls go sailing through the air, and he prayed that the crews had had the foresight to douse their flames.
Soon little was left but the trunks, locked together by a tangle of twisted branches; now the trees’ anchoring cables were torn loose like shoulders from sockets, and th
e freed trunks pirouetted with a strange grace, half tumbling.
At last the trunks crashed to the deck, exploding in a storm of fragments. Pallis saw men running for their lives from the rain of wood. For some minutes splinters fell, like a hail of ragged daggers; then, slowly, men began to creep back to the crash site, stepping over tree cables which lay like the limbs of a corpse among the ruins.
Silently Pallis motioned to Jame. ‘There’s nothing we can do here; let’s get on.’ The plate craft lifted and returned to its patrols.
For several more hours Pallis’s plate skimmed about the flying forest. At the end of it Jame was muttering angrily, his face blackened by the rising smoke, and Pallis’s throat was raw with shouting. At last Nead placed his sextant in his lap and sat back with a smile. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I think, anyway . . .’
‘What’s what?’ Jame growled. ‘Is the Raft out from under the bloody star now?’
‘No, not yet. But it’s got enough momentum without further impulse from the trees. In a few hours it will drift to a halt far enough from the path of the star to be safe.’
Pallis lay back in the netting of the plate and took a draught from a drink globe. ‘So we’ve made it.’
Nead said dreamily, ‘It’s not quite over for the Raft yet. When the star passes through the plane in which the Raft lies there will be a few interesting tidal effects.’
Pallis shrugged. ‘Nothing the Raft hasn’t endured before.’
‘It must be a fantastic sight, Pallis.’
‘Yes, it is,’ the pilot mused. He remembered watching cable shadows lengthen across the deck; at last the circumference of the star disc would touch the horizon, sending light flaring across the deck. And when the main disc had dropped below the Rim there would be an afterglow, what the Scientists called a corona . . .
Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring Page 22