“Has it been unhealthy for others who said such things?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Not for sure. But I wouldn’t air your views. Not if I were you.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s only fair. Good fortune in Hobbes.”
I smiled and climbed into the van, trying to keep a pleasant expression on my face as I drove off, leaving Doones and heading back to Passova.
From what Maruka had said, it was obvious that the outlanders believed that the skytubes were living creatures, or at least manifestations of living creatures. And … if they were … and if the Unity discovered that …
I was the one who wanted to shake my head. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t thought about the possibility, and it wasn’t as though others hadn’t either. But what was crystal clear was that the local Survey Service had taken the position to monitor the environmental rules and to enforce them in a way to assure that human activities did not change the existing ecological balance without revealing why such an emphasis was necessary—because, if the skytubes were intelligent, the Unity would have to remove the inhabitants—and removing four million inhabitants would be impossible, not to mention economically catastrophic. So, if I reported that, assuming I could even prove that, both the report and I would likely be buried. On the other hand, if my study, and continuing data, revealed nothing new, and the skytubes were merely considered a nonsentient part of the overall ecology, the only requirement was that they not be threatened. Reading between the lines of my assignment, that conclusion was what the Ministry of Environment clearly desired.
The next problem was that one way or another, evidence was required. While Maruka and the outlanders might believe the skytubes were sentient, belief in something did not make it so, one way or another.
And then there was the simple last problem. No one on the Planetary Council or in any of the multis had any desire to see the slightest shred of evidence of skytube sentience emerge anywhere … and Maruka had caught me off-guard … and then reminded me of my stupidity.
No wonder the Planetary Council wanted to know what I was doing.
45
The stars of summer shine unwatched, thought five,
Bright beacons knowing not where minds do strive.
In the late afternoon Ilsabet walked across the lawn to the top of the low ridge. There she stopped and looked to the south, her eyes on the distant skytubes.
Clyann followed, her eyes alternating between the open pressure door behind them and her charge. She finally took a position from where she could continue to observe both.
“From the south, go and turn,” Ilsabet chanted softly. “To the north, not to spurn.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Clyann.
“To the sky, those who fly.”
“There aren’t any chirpers around.”
“Not the little flights. Those who change the sights.”
“None of that nonsense, now, girl.” Clyann’s voice held a trace of amusement.
“Nonsense means words and lies, much like dreams of empty skies.”
Clyann sighed. “You haven’t been quite the same since your visitor. Did he upset you? You should have told me you wanted him to go sooner.”
“Not him. Not to go. He’s one who should know.”
“Know what? Do you want us to tell him something?”
Ilsabet shook her head, still gazing to the south. “To those who first live noon, all will change soon.”
“You’re not having a fit, now … are you, girl?”
“For me no fit. I liked his visit.”
“That’s good. We’re all happy when you like your visitors.”
Ilsabet turned, skipping eastward along the top of the low ridge.
46
By the time I got back to Passova and took care of everything, I pretty much just dropped into bed. My feet and legs ached from all the walking. Exhausted as I was, though, I didn’t sleep all that well, because I kept waking up thinking about what I’d blurted out in Doones. I could hope that Maruka didn’t pass it on to someone who might, in turn, let someone else know, someone more fearful, more political, or more worried about jobs and profit. Those thoughts raised other questions, such as why Maruka, and presumably other outlanders, simply accepted the skytubes for what they were. I could see why they wouldn’t talk to the “city folk,” but why had she effectively warned me, rather than having me “disappear,” or was that because my disappearance might give the Planetary Council or the Survey enforcement people an excuse to remove some or all of the “unofficial” outland communities?
Still aching and tired, I struggled up on fiveday, consoling myself that I didn’t really have to visit outie communities on the weekend, that I could take the time and rest … or at least just stay put and review and analyze the data I’d already gathered. The news reported that a fierce storm had swirled past Passova to the west during the night, but that it had not been close enough to cause any damage or to require emergency procedures. I hadn’t even heard the winds. Had I been that tired? Although I was slow with my exercises and had to hurry my morning tea, I didn’t see Ilsabet outside.
I headed straight from my quarters to the vehicle bay, where I loaded my case. I drove out through the vehicle door at the top of the ramp slightly after eight, heading due west. As was always the case, there were few vehicles on the road. To both the northwest and the southwest, I saw concentrations of skytubes, both larger or closer than I’d seen on either threeday or fourday, and the winds that swirled around the van seemed stronger and gustier than previously.
I kept an eye on the skytubes, but they didn’t seem to be moving in my direction. At the same time, I couldn’t help but marvel at the openness of the land … and wonder why the city dwellers preferred their tunnels and warrens, to the point that they didn’t even want to look outside. Somehow, the argument about danger from the skytubes and storms seemed overblown. Craik had observed that they occasionally lost crops, and there had only been one storm in hundreds of years strong enough to devastate a multi facility—that of Pentura—and I’d seen no record of recent damage to a town or city. Except, of course, to my own quarters, and I doubted that the damage had been solely the result of the storm. My own suspicions lay with the Planetary Council, but I didn’t have any proof of that … or even gossip.
Hobbes looked to be slightly larger than Thoreau and was laid out on a long east-facing slope whose grade was so gradual that I didn’t even realize it until I got out of the van. Then I looked into the distance, and realized that where I’d pulled up the van in front of the community center was perhaps fifty meters higher than the crop strips some two kays east of me.
A woman in the brown singlesuit that seemed the standard uniform for outland patrollers walked toward the Survey van. She offered a broad smile that showed a wide mouth and sparkling white teeth against skin the color of light amber honey. Her hair was almost the same color, and her eyes were hazel. “You must be the ecologist doctor that Poulina Maruka linked us about.”
I returned her smile with one as open as I could manage. “That’s right—Paulo Verano.”
“Ngaio Biendi. I’m the assistant patroller for Hobbes.”
“Just two of you? Must be a pretty orderly group here.”
“If you’re not orderly and thorough out here, you don’t last long.”
“And careful?”
“Being careful doesn’t count for much if you’re also not orderly and thorough.”
She had a point there, one that I hadn’t considered, not in that light, anyway. “You know why I’m here, I take it?”
“To take measurements, and generally snoop around to see if we’re handling the environment all right or making a mess of it.”
“That’s pretty much it,” I agreed cheerfully.
“How did the Planetary Council agree to a study?” Her question was open and blunt, as I suspected she was.
“They didn’t have a choice. I was sent
from Bachman.”
“You’d best be orderly and thorough then.”
“I’m trying,” I said with a grin.
“Like as not, the Council will also find you trying.”
“We’ll attempt to avoid that.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“The crops. That will probably take the most walking.”
“More than you’d like.” She glanced to the south, in the direction of the skytubes.
“Do we have to worry about them?”
“Not at the moment. They’re grazing.”
“Grazing?”
“That’s what we call it. Who knows if that’s what they’re really doing? They turn darker, meaner-looking, when they start to move. You see that, and you want to go to ground.”
That made sense, and I mentally filed the notation that darker skytubes meant trouble. Then I took out the carry bag and put in what I needed, and we started out.
It was well past noon when I finished getting a wide enough sample from the crops, discovering, among other things, that Hobbes also grew dwarf apples of a sort, on trees or bushes no higher than the native plains brush. Those crop rows were actually sunk almost half a meter into the ground. Once more, it appeared that water usage followed what Dannel Craik had said, and my instruments showed nothing out of the ordinary.
My legs were aching, and my feet hurt as we walked back in the direction of the community center.
“Have you ever eaten a true outland meal, Doctor?”
I laughed. “I’ve never even eaten a false one.”
“Then you’ll be taking us both to the Heatherage.”
“I could use a bite to eat.” And a place to sit down and rest my feet.
The Heatherage turned out to require walking another half kay uphill until we came to a stone path to the right. It, in turn, led down a stone ramp to a heavy single door, held open with a stone wedge. Again, there was no pressure door, just the metal storm bars.
“I brought you a new fellow, Narlon,” Ngaio called out as we stepped inside.
“You owe me more than one, you patrollers do.” The man who replied stood in a nook just inside the door, behind a narrow desk. The single-room bistro, or the outland equivalent of the same, held nine tables, four of which were small square ones set against the smooth, but not polished, gray stone walls.
Ngaio led the way to one of the tables set against the wall, if in the front corner. Sitting down felt good. I glanced around the bistro. There weren’t any screens on the wall, just large fixed images, like ancient photographs. All were pictures of Stittara, several of skytubes, but many just depicting the rolling hills and vistas. The tables were a light synthwood, as were the chairs, although the seats were padded.
“Are all the furnishings synthwood?” I asked.
“They are here. Wish we could use real wood, but the only places that have that are the upland ones. Even there, they can only harvest a score or so of trees every year.”
“What do you use for the synthwood feedstock?”
“Crop residue, mostly. It takes less energy that way.”
I didn’t see a menu, but my search must have been obvious because Ngaio pointed to a square mounted on the wall, with white letters on it. It took me a moment to realize that the square was slate, or the equivalent, with the menu written in chalk. I’d read or heard of that, in novels or dramas set in ancient times, but never seen it. “What’s best?”
“It’s all good. That’s why I brought you here.”
I looked over the handwritten slate. “What’s Chicken Parmento?”
“It’s real fowl, chicken, in a white sauce, with fried apples on the side.”
“You grow chickens here?”
“We raise them. They like some of the local grubs and bugs. The young ones herd the flocks through the crops.”
“The local proteins are compatible?”
“We did some gene-engineering centuries back. You have fowl at the upscale eateries in Passova, likely you’re eating our chickens.”
I supposed that made sense, even if I’d not considered it.
“Narlon … we’re ready.”
The proprietor—I assumed he was—walked over and looked at me. “What will you have?”
“The Chicken Parmento … do you have a good pale lager?”
“Absolutely.” He turned. “And you’re having the usual?”
“What else? Limoncello Chicken, with the lager,” she added almost in an aside to me.
Narlon headed to the rear archway, presumably to the kitchen.
I was still thinking over the fact that the outies raised chickens when three women hurried through the door and settled at the round table closest to us.
“Ngaio…” called one. “Who’s your friend?”
“Dr. Paulo Verano. He’s an ecologist who came here to see how we’re doing.”
The woman who had called out the patroller’s name looked at me, then smiled. “You look to be doing fine, Doctor. What about us?”
“You’re all doing fine,” I replied, “and you’ve all made the day better.”
They all laughed, then resumed their conversation.
For a moment there was something that I should have noticed, but … I couldn’t recall what it was. Abruptly it struck me. All three women were at least pleasantly attractive, and the one who had spoken was close to beautiful, and all were older, somewhere around my age, I’d have guessed … and not a single one of them had given me more than a friendly glance.
Ngaio nodded. “You noticed it, didn’t you?”
“Noticed what?”
“You’re an off-worlder, and a fairly good-looking man, and no one stared at you, like those predatory women in Passova or the other cities…”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“Aye, and you would, handsome fellow you are.” She shook her head.
“Why is that? What’s the difference between here and Passova?”
“Comes from spending too much time in tunnels and not out with the grass and the land. You can’t live a long and healthy life if you’re not balanced.”
“How long do people live here?”
“Who knows? We don’t count things like that.” She paused. “You live as long as you live. Longer than most places in the Arm, and without all those potions and creams the multis dream up based on the lichen/grass. And it’s healthier, definitely. You won’t see women here lusting after outworlders. You don’t see young fellows picking fights at the drop of an unkind word. Don’t hear many unkind words, either, and it’s not out of fear like in those rodent warrens they call cities.”
That is interesting. I just nodded. “Healthy living is best.”
“Don’t you feel better out here?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I was beginning to feel confined, too, as if the tunnels were pressing in on me.”
“I have to go to Passova every year or so for patroller training and refresher work. Just two weeks, but I can’t wait to leave.” She stopped as Narlon returned with two lagers.
I took a cautious sip of the brew, since it was more amber than I would have expected from a pale lager. Then I took another sip. There was no doubt it was the best lager I’d had on Stittara.
“Good. Isn’t it?”
“Very good.”
“The Zantos folks try to copy it, but they just can’t do it quite right.”
“And Zantos is better than the others.”
“You can drink it. The others I won’t try when I’m there.”
The Chicken Parmento was good, very good, and I said so.
“It’s not quite so good as mine,” replied Ngaio. “We still have to synthesize dairy, likely always will, but we grow the miniature limes and lemons. The natural always tastes better, at least to me.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
When we left the Heatherage, after I paid for both of us—and paylinks worked just fine—the three women were still enjoyin
g their meal, and not a one looked in my direction.
Once outside, we headed for the templating center. After that came the sanitary processing works, and then two different shopping arcades, and the resource reprocessing center. Not a single one emitted anything even close to violating the required standards.
All in all, I finished slightly after three, packed my equipment, and was about ready to climb into the van when Ngaio cleared her throat. I looked to her.
“Doctor … you be careful on the way back. Some of the skytubes headed east, and you don’t want to cross paths with them.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful … and orderly and thorough.”
Ngaio laughed.
I smiled in return, then climbed into the van and eased my way out of Hobbes.
Less than a half hour after leaving, taking Ngaio’s advice, I eased the van to a stop on the top of a rise, watching as a skytube swept out of the southwest, scouring the land. Yet for all the power, and the accompanying winds that rocked the Survey van, although I was a good five kays north of the skytube, I wasn’t certain that the skytube was gathering that much material from the lichen/grass or even disturbing it that much. Was that because I just couldn’t see the process closely? Or because the lichen/grass was so tough?
Once the skytube passed over the low rises to the southeast, and the winds subsided, I got out of the van and walked to the side of the road, where the lichen/grass grew right up to the edge of the road surface. None of the blades or shoots or roots quite touched the permacrete. The blades of the grass were more like flattened fat conifer needles, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise since all the flora was analogous to gymnosperms. The blades were tough, like needles, and the stalks to which they were attached were colored a brownish heather shade. The stalks were even stronger and tougher than the blades. When I tried to pull the branching stalks up from the ground, they barely moved. I did get a resinous sap on my hands. I also got a much more pungent heather-like odor … similar to the flavor I’d tasted in some food. Had that food or the herbs or spices that had seasoned it come from the outie communities rather from city tanks or synthesizers?
The One-Eyed Man Page 28