by Larry Niven
The pilot was looking nervous. His glance at the Grad was venomous. A witness to his discomfiture…He decided. "Citadel, right."
His hands moved.
The girl, forewarned, was clutching the back of a chair. The Grad wasn't. The lurch threw him off balance. He grabbed at something to stop his fall. A handleon the back wall: it twisted in his hand, and dirty water spilled from a nozzle. He turned it off quick and met the girl's look of disgust.
After perhaps twenty heartbeats the pilot lifted his fingers The familiar whistling roar-barely audible through the metal walls, but still fearfully strange-went quiet. The Grad immediately made his way to one of the chairs.
The carm was moving away from the tuft, east and out. Were they leaving London Tree? Why? He didn't ask. He was uncharacteristically leery of playing the fool. He watched the pilot's hands. Symbols and numbers glowed in the bow window and in the panel below it, but the pilot touched only the panel, and only the blue. He could feel the response in shifting sound and shifting tide. Blue moves the carm?
"Jeffer. How did you get those wounds?" The blond girl spoke as if she didn't care very much.
Wounds? Oh, his face. "The tree came apart," he said. "They do that if they fall too far out of the Smoke Ring. We had a close encounter with Gold some years ago."
That touched her curiosity nerve. "What happens to the people?"
"Quinn Tuft must be dead except for us. Five of us now." He'd accepted that Clave and Merril were gone too.
"You'll have to tell me about it sometime." She tapped what she was carrying. "What are these?"
"Cassettes and a reader. Records."
She thought it over, longer than seemed necessary. Then she reached to plug one of the Grad's cassettes into a slot in front of the pilot. The pilot said, "Hey—"
"Science. My preogative," she said. She tapped two buttons. (Buttons, permanent fixtures in a row of five: yellow, blue, green, white, red. The panel was otherwise blank, save for the transitory glowing lights within. A tap of the yellow button made all the yellow lights disappear; the white button raised new symbols in white.) "Prikazyvat Menu."
The familiar table of contents appeared within the glass: white print flowing upward. She'd chosen the cassette for cosmology. The Grad felt his hands curling to strangle her. Classifie4 classtfled! Mine!
"Prikazyvat Gold." The print shifted. The pilot was gripped by ternfled fascination, unable to look away. The Scientist's Apprentice asked the Grad, "Can you read?"
"Certainly."
"Goldblatt's World probably originated as a Neptune-like body, a gas giant world in the cometary halo that circles Levoy's Star and TeeThree, hundreds of billions of kilometers…klomters out. A supernova can spew its outer envelope asymmetrically due to its trapped magnetic field, leaving the remaining neutron star with an altered velocity. The planetary orbits go all to hell. In Levoy's s-scenario Goldblatt's World would have dropped very close to Levoy's Star, with its per perihelion actually inside the neutron star's Roche Limit. Strong Roche tides would quickly warp the orbit into a circle. The planet would have continued to leak atmosphere to the present day, replacing gasses lost from the Smoke Ring and the gas torus to interstellar space.
"Goldblatt estimates that Levoy's Star went supernova a billion years ago. The planet must have been losing atmosphere for all of that time. In its present state Goldblatt's World defies description: a worldsized core of rock and metals—"
"Enough. Very good, you can read. Can you understand what you read?"
"Not that. I can guess that Levoy's Star is Voy and Goldblatt's World is Gold. The rest of it—" The Grad shrugged. His eye caught the pilot's, and the pilot flinched. He seemed shrunken into himself.
Dominance games. The Scientist's Apprentice had assaulted the pilot's mind with the wonders and the cryptic language of science. Now she was saying, "We have that data on our own cassettes, word for word, as far as I can remember. I hope you brought us something new."
A shadow was congealing in the silver fog around them. They were drifting back toward London Tree.
The carm's free-falling path had curved back toward the tree's midpoint. East takes you out. Out takes you west-He had a great deal to learn about flying the carm. Because he must learn. He would learn to fly this thing, or end his days as a copsik.
There were structures here. Huge wooden beams formed a square.
Inward, four huts in a column, not of woven foliage, but of cut wood.
Cables and tubes ran down the trunk in both directions, further than the Grad could follow. A pond had touched the trunk: a silvery globule clung to the bark, and that seemed strange. A single pond in this region of mist? Men in red moved around it, feeding it water carried in seed pods. It too must be artificial.
With all these artificial structures, London Tree made Quinn Tuft look barbaric! But was it wise to. "Scientist's Apprentice, do you cut the wood for these structures from the tree itself?"
She answered without looking at him. "No. We bring it from other integral trees."
Now she turned, startled and annoyed. He wasn't expected to judge London Tree. The Grad was developing a dislike for the Scientist's Apprentice…which he would try to keep in check. If she was behaving as a typical citizen toward a copsik, it augured badly for Quinn Tribe.
The trunk was coming at them, too fast. The Grad was relieved when he heard the motors start and felt the carm slowing. Those wooden beams would just about fit against the carm's windowed end…and that was what the pilot was doing, tapping at blue lights, fitting the window into that wooden frame. Watch his hands!
Chapter Fourteen
Treemouth and Citadel
IN THE LARGE HUT THE WOMEN WERE STRIPPED NAKED AND examined by two women taller than humans, like Ilsa of Carther Tribe.
Their long hair was white and thin enough to expose scalp. The skin seemed to have withered on their bones. Forty to fifty years old, Minya thought, though that was hard to judge; they looked so strange. They wore ponchos in tuftberry-juice scarlet, closed between the legs. Their walk was easy, practiced. Minya judged that they had spent many years in the tide of London Tree.
"It looks like people live a long time here," she whispered to Jayan, and Jayan nodded.
The supervisors would not answer questions, though they asked many.
They found dirt and wounds in plenty, but no disease. They treated Minya's bruises, and brusquely advised her to avoid offending citizens in future. Minya smiled. Offended? She was sure she had broken a man's arm before they clubbed her unconscious.
Ilsa was clearly pregnant. Jayan was also declared pregnant, to her obvious surprise, and sent off with Usa. Minya gripped Jinny's arm, afraid that she would attempt a futile battle for her twin.
One of the supervisors noticed Jinny's distress. "They'll be all right," she said. "They carry guests. One of the Scientist's apprentices will have to look them over. Also, the men won't be allowed near them."
The what would what? But she would say no more, and Minya had to wait.
The Grad watched through the small windows; the big bow window now gave on to rugged bark four ce'meters distant. Things were happening outside.
A man in a white tunic was talking to men in blue or red ponchos that fit like oversized sacks. Presently the others all launched themselves along the bark toward the lowest of the column of huts.
"Who's that?" the Grad asked.
The Scientist's Apprentice disdained to answer. The pilot said, "That's Kiance the Scientist. Your new owner. No surprise there, he thinks he owns the whole tree."
Klance the Scientist was arguing with himself as he approached the carm. His white smock reached just below his hips; the ends of a citizen's loose poncho showed below. He was tall for a tree dweller, and lean but for a developing pot belly. Not a fighter, the Grad thought — forty-odd, with slack muscles. His hair was thick and white, his nose narrow and convexly curved. In a moment the Grad heard his voice speaking out of the air.
"Lawri." Sharp, with a peremptory snap in it.
The pilot tapped the yellow button and spread two fingertips apart over the resulting pattern of yellow lines (remember), beating Lawri to it. The carm's two doors swung out and in.
The Scientist was already in conversation as he entered. "They want to know when I can move the tree. Damn fools. They only just finished topping off the reservoir. If I moved it now the water would just float away. First we have to—" He stopped. His eyes flicked to the pilot's back (the pilot hadn't bothered to turn around), then to the Grad, then to Lawri. "Well?"
"He's the Scientist of a ruined tribe. He carried these." Lawri held up plastic boxes.
"Old science." His eyes turned greedy. "Tell me later," he said. "Pilot."
The Navy man's head turned.
"Was the carm damaged in any way? Was anything lost?"
"Certainly not. If you need a detailed report—"
"No, that will do. The rest of the Navy party is waiting for the elevator. I think you can still catch it."
The pilot nodded stiffly. He rose and launched himself toward the twin doors. He nearly brushed the Scientist, who held his ground, pulled himself through the doors and was gone.
The Scientist tapped at yellow lights. The window sprouted a display.
"Fuel tanks are damn near dry. We'll be filling them for weeks. Otherwise…looks all right. Lawri, from you I do want a detailed report, but tell me now if anything happened."
"He seemed to know what he was doing. I don't love the treefeeder, but he didn't bump any rocks. The foray team brought back these, and him."
The Scientist took the plastic objects Lawri handed him. "A reader!" he breathed. "You bring me treasure. What's your name?"
The Grad hesitated, then, "Jeffer."
"Jeffer, I'll wait for your story. We'll get you cleaned up first. All these years I've been waiting for the Navy to lose my carm, reader and all. I can't tell you what it means to have a spare."
The tide was lighter. Otherwise Minya couldn't tell London Tree from her own tuft. Here was the same green gloom, the same vegetable smells. Branching tunnels ran through foliage stripped bare by passersby. The tall women led them in silence. Jinny and Minya followed.
They passed nobody.
They were still naked. Jinny walked hunched over, as if that would cover her. She hadn't spoken since Jayan was taken away.
They had traveled some distance before Minya felt the wind. Minutes later the tunnel swelled out into a great cavity, lit by harsh daylight at the far end.
"Jinny. Was the Commons this big in Quinn Tuft?"
Jinny looked about her, dutifully, and showed no reaction. "No."
"Neither was ours." The cavity ran round the trunk and all the way to the treemouth itself. She could see the empty sky beyond. The shadows were strange, with the blue tinge of Voylight glaring from below. In Dalton-Quinn Tuft Voy had been always overhead.
All that foliage had had to be torn out. Weren't the copsik runners afraid of killing the tree? Or would they only move to another?
Thirty or forty women had formed a line for food. Many were attended by children: three years old and younger. They ignored Minya and Jinny as they were marched past, toward the treemouth.
"Tell me what bothers you most," Minya said.
Jinny didn't answer for several breaths. Then, "Clave."
"He wasn't on the box. He must be still in the jungle. Jinny, his leg has to heal before he can do anything."
"I'll lose him," Jinny said. "He'll come, but I'll lose him. Jayan's got his child. I won't be his anymore."
"Clave loves you both," Minya said, though she hadn't the remotest idea how Clave actually thought.
Jinny shook her head. "We belong to the copsik runners, the men. Look, they're already here."
Minya frowned and looked about her. Was Jinny imagining…?
Her eye picked up something in the green curve that roofed the Commons, a dark shape hidden in shadow and foliage. She found two more…four, five…men. She said nothing.
They were led to the edge of the treemouth, almost beneath the great reservoir mounted where branch merged into trunk. Minya looked downslope. Offal, garbage…two bodies on platforms, completely covered in cloth. When she turned away, their escorts had stepped out of their ponchos.
They took their charges by the arms and led them beneath the huge basin. One of the supervisors heaved on a cord, and water poured forth like a flood in miniature. Minya shuddered with the shock. The women produced lumps of something, and one began rubbing it over Minya's body, then handed it to her.
Minya had never experienced soap before. It wasn't frightening, but it was strange. The supervisors soaped themselves too, then let the flood pour forth again. Afterward they dried themselves with their garments, then donned them. They handed scarlet ponchos to Jinny and Minya.
The suds left her skin feeling strange, tingly. Minya had little trouble stepping into the poncho despite its being sealed between the legs; but it did seem uncomfortably loose. Was it made for the elongated jungle people? It bothered her more that she wore tuftberry-red. Copsik-red here, citizen-red at home. She had worn purple too long.
Their escorts abandoned them at the serving table. Four cooks — more of the elongated women — ladeled a stew of earthlife vegetables and turkey meat into bowls whose rims curved inward. Minya and Jinny settled themselves into a resilient arm of foliage and ate. The fare was blander than what she was used to in Dalton-Quinn Tuft.
Another copsik settled beside them: two and a half meters tall, middle-aged, walking easily in London Tree's tide. Sile spoke to Jinny.
"You look like you know how to walk. You from a tree?" Jinny didn't answer. Minya said. "A tree that came apart. I'm Minya Dalton-Quinn. This is Jinny Quinn."
The stranger said, "Heln. No last name, now."
"How long have you been here?"
"Ten years, or something like. I used to be Carther. I keep expecting well."
"Rescue?"
Heln shrugged. "I keep thinking they'll try something. Of course they couldn't, then. Anyway, I've got kids now."
"Married?"
Heln looked at her. "They didn't tell you. Okay, they didn't tell me either. The citizens own us. Any man who wants you owns you."
"I…thought it was something like that." She moved her eyes only, toward the shadows at the outskirts. And they'd watched her naked—"What are they doing, making their selections?"
"That's right." Hem looked up. "Eat faster if you want to finish." Two shadowy men were coming toward them, drifting at leisure along the interlocked branchlets that formed the ground.
Minya watched them while she continued eating. They paused several meters away, waiting. Their ponchos fit more closely than hers and were a riot of colors. They watched the women and talked. Minya heard " — one with the bruises broke Karal's—"
Hein ignored them. Minya tried to do the same. When her bowl was empty, she asked, "What do we do with these?"
"Leave them," HeIn said. "If no man takes you, take it back to the cooks. But I think you'll have company. You look like citizens, the men like that." She grimaced. "They call us 'jungle giants.'"
Too many changes. Three sleeptiines ago, no man in her local universe would have dared to touch her. What would they do to her if she resisted? What would Gavving think of her? Even if they could escape later… If she strolled toward the treemouth now, Minya thought, would anyone stop her? She'd be "feeding the tree." A short sprint past the treemouth would put her into the sky before anyone could react. She'd been lost in the sky and survived…
But how could she alert Gavving to jump too? He might not have the chance. He might think it was a mad idea.
It was mad. Minya dropped it. And the men strolled over to join them.
The Grad's first meal at the Citadel was simple but strange. He was given a gourd with a fair-sized slot cut in it, and a squeezegourd for liquids, and a two-pronged wooden fork. Thick stew, shipped from the ou
t tuft, had cooled by the time it reached the Citadel. He could recognize two or three of the ingredients. He wanted to ask what he was eating, but it was Klance who asked the questions.
One of the first was, "Were you taught medicine?"
"Certainly." The word was out of his mouth before his mind quite caught up.
Lawri looked dubious. Kiance the Scientist laughed. "You're too young to be so sure. Have you worked with children? Injured hunters? Sick women? Women carrying guests?"
"Not with children. Women with guests, yes. Injured hunters, yes.
I've treated malnutrition sicknesses. Always with the Scientist supervising." His racing mind told him what to tell Klance. In fact he had worked with children; he had inspected a pregnant woman, once; he had set the bone in Clave's leg. The old copsik runner won't let me practice on citizens, will he? He'll try me out on copsik first! My own people…
Klance was saying, "We don't get malnutrition here, thank the Checker. How did you come to be found in a jungle?"
"Inadvertently." Eating strange food with strange implements in free-fall took concentration. Not letting it make him sick took a distraction; the Grad was glad for the chance to talk. He ate what he was given and told the tale of Quinn Tribe's destruction.
The Scientist interrupted with questions about Quinn Tuft, treemouth tending, musrums, flashers, the duinbo, the moby, the insects at the tree median. Lawri seemed fascinated. She burst in only once, demanding to know how one fought swordbirds and triunes. The Grad referred her to Minya and Gavving. Maybe she'd let them know where he was.
The meal ended with a bitter black brew which the Grad refused, and he continued to talk. He was hoarse when he finished.
Klance the Scientist puffed at his pipe-shorter than the one the Quinn Chairman had used-and clouds of smoke drifted sluggishly about the room and out. The room was more a cage of timber than a hut, there were narrow windows everywhere, and boards would swing to cover them. Klance said, "This giant mushroom bad hallucinogenic properties, did it?"
"I don't know the word, Klance."