New Writings in SF 23 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  Mathis said, ‘The word goes that that complex is no longer navigable. That isn’t true; and I’m going to prove it. A tenth of what we spent last year on GEM terminals would restore it to full working use. And a hundredth of the labour. I want to see that happen; and I also want the matter of the Kalti culture raised at the next sitting of the Extraterrestrial Council. With your permission, I’m applying for a personal hearing. I want the Boatmen protected, and the entire Northern Continent declared a Planetary Reserve.’

  The Controller raised his brows slightly. He said, ‘Well, that’s your privilege. Ramsden, what do you feel about all this?’

  The biologist rubbed his chin. ‘There’s another factor of course,’ he said in his quiet, precise voice. ‘Preservation equals stagnation; stagnation equals deterioration. This sort of thing has been tried enough before. In my experience, it’s never worked.’

  Figgins grunted. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you’re starting from unsound premises anyway. These people, the Kalti; I haven’t seen many of ‘em clamouring for help. Could be they don’t want the old way any more than we do. You preservationists are all alike, John. None of you can take the broad view.’

  Mathis shook his head, still vaguely amused. How explain ? If Figgins didn’t understand, it was because he didn’t want to. Study a Kalti pictograph, the swirls that were tenses, the shadings that were words, and the answer was plain enough. Through every design, like a great hyphen, slashed the Bar-Ko, the mark of the One who made water and earth, the green leaves and the sky. At the start of time, He decreed all things to be. If a man was to die, or a culture fail, then these facts were preordained; true a million years ago, and true for ever. This was all you needed; know it, and you knew the Boatmen.

  But the Controller was speaking again. This time to the engineer.

  ‘Mr. Sito, do you have anything to add?’

  Sito shrugged. ‘I’d say the whole thing was a pipedream. That cut hasn’t been used in thirty years; even the Boatmen don’t seem to know much about it any more. I shouldn’t think you’d get through to Summit Level; and if you did, do you know the length of that tunnel ?’

  Mathis said, ‘Not precisely, no.’

  The other made a face. ‘That’s my point. Those blighters dug like beavers. There’s a tunnel up in the Northern Marshes, Kel Santo, that measures out at ten kilometres. We’ve had to put scaffolding through nearly a kilometre to hold the roof; and Kel Santo’s never been out of maintenance. Take a boat into Hy Antiel and jam, and you’d not walk back out. It isn’t a chance I’d take.’

  The Controller nodded. ‘Yes, Mr. Ramsden ?’

  The biologist said carefully, ‘I have to point out it’s not too healthy an area. Most of our cases of Xerxian fever have been brought in from the Antiel range. It’s spread by a free-swimming amoeboid, gets into the smallest abrasion. Leave that untreated, and you’re in trouble. I’ve seen some native cases; the medics call it the Shambles.’

  The Controller said briskly, ‘Right, I think that gives us all we need.’ The stylus tapped the table-top again, with finality. ‘I’m not unsympathetic,’ he said to Mathis. ‘Far from it. As far as appeals go, I’ll forward your case with pleasure; we all know every frontiersman has that right. But for the rest; I have to think, first and foremost, of the safety of Base personnel. Both your own and the party we’d have to send out if you went missing. So ... request refused. I’m sorry.’ He shuffled the papers together, handed them across the desk and rose.

  * * * *

  Ramsden caught up with Mathis in the outer office. By mutual consent, they took the elevator to the ground floor bar. Earth interests on Xerxes were expanding steadily; they were brewing something on the planet now that tasted remarkably like whisky. The biologist called for doubles, drank, put the glass down and puffed a pipe alight. He said, ‘Hm, sorry about that. Hardly expected anything else though. Disappointed?’

  Mathis smiled. He said slowly, ‘Not particularly.’

  The other glanced up sharply; and it occurred to Mathis that alone of the committee, Nathan Ramsden had understood his real purpose. Better, perhaps, than he understood it himself. He’d known the biologist a long time. Once, a thousand years back on another planet, he’d been in trouble. He rang Ramsden; and Ramsden had listened till the bursting words were done. Then he said quietly, ‘I see. Now, what’s the first thing I can do to help ?’

  The older man took another sip of the pseudo-Scotch. He said, ‘As you know, it’s not my custom to offer unwanted advice. But I’m offering some now. Go home.’

  Mathis stayed silent. He was seeing the canals; the endless shadings of green and gold, puttering of the long black hulls, interlacing of leaf and branch shadows in the brown-green mirror of the water. By pictograph, an answer might be made. The white and blue swirls formed themselves unasked, inside his head.

  Ramsden set the glass down. He said, ‘This’ll be my last tour anyway. I’m looking forward to putting my feet up on an Honorary Chair somewhere. You’re still young, John; you’ve got a year or two left yet.’

  Mathis said vaguely, ‘I suppose we’re as young as we feel.’

  The biologist said, ‘Hmm...’ He waited a moment longer; then rose. He said, ‘Drink up. I’ve got an hour before my duty tour; I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.’

  * * * *

  The steersman called behind him; a high, sharp sound, like a yap. The Kalti waved and grinned, pointing to the bank; and Mathis smiled, nodding in return. Ahead rose a line of hills, outliers of the Hy Antiel massif. An arm of forest swept down to the canal; it enclosed a grassy clearing, quiet and golden with sunlight. The Boatman swung the painted shaft of the stem oar, nosing the big craft in towards the bank.

  * * * *

  In the Lagoon, close under the old white city walls, the long vessels lay tied each to each; the sun winked from brass-strapped chimneys and round portglasses, gleamed on the painted coamings of cabins. On each stempost, knotted ropework was pipeclayed to whiteness; above each roof were the big running lamps with their filigree-work of brass; on each side, somewhere, was the mark of the God, the Bar-Ko with its sprays of leaves, gold and white and blue. Ramsden strolled beside the bright herd of boats, wiping his face and neck with a bandanna. He paused finally beside a craft tied up some distance from the rest, and called. ‘Can’t get my tongue round these Kalti names,’ he said. ‘I just call him Jack.’

  The Boatman who bobbed from the diminutive bow cabin was slimmer than most of his people. His bland face with the dark, slightly tilted eyes looked very young; to Mathis, he seemed little more than a boy. He grinned, ducking his head, showing a half-moon of brilliant teeth. Ramsden said, ‘Hoki, Jack. Hoki, a-aie?’ The Kalti grinned again and nodded, waving a slender hand. The biologist stepped across to the raised prow, dropped, grunting, to the fore-deck. Mathis followed him.

  Hoki, the coffee-like beverage brewed by the Boatmen, had not at first been to Mathis’ taste; but he had grown accustomed to its sharp, slightly bitter flavour. He squatted in the cramped cabin, the thin-shelled, brightly painted cup in his fingers, waited while Ramsden mopped his face again. ‘He speaks a bit of Terran,’ he said. ‘Not much, but I think you’ll get by. His parents are dead. He’s twenty-five; usually their marriage contracts are settled before they’re out of their teens but Jack’s still working single-handed. Bit of an oddball, in many respects.’

  The Boatman grinned again. He said, ‘Too right,’ in a clipped, slightly sing-song voice. He took Mathis’ cup, poured more of the brownish fluid. The pot in which it was brewed, like all Kalti artifacts, was gaily decorated; the little discs of copper hanging round its circumference tinkled as he set it down.

  Mathis looked round the cabin. It wasn’t usual for Terrans to be invited aboard a Kalti boat. Nests of drawers and cupboards lined the walls. No inch of the tiny living space seemed wasted; there were earthenware bowls, copper measures and a dipper, a barrel for water storage, a minute stove. He wondered vaguely how
Ramsden had come to know the Boatman. He seemed well enough at home.

  The biologist lit his pipe again, staring through the open doors at the sparkling expanse of the lagoon. ‘This man will take you to Hy Antiel,’ he said quietly. ‘By the old route, through the Antiel Range. He’s a bit of a patriot in his own way too, is young Jack.’

  Mathis narrowed his eyes. He said, ‘Why’re you doing this, Nathan?’

  The older man shrugged and raised his brows. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if you intend to go, and I feel you do, I’d rather you have a good man with you. That way you stand a chance of coming back.’ He prodded at the pipe bowl with a spent match. ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘If they drag you out by the back hair, as they probably will, I shan’t know a thing about it. I’ve got troubles of my own already...’

  He had one final memory; of sitting on the cabin roof of the great boat later that day, watching a vessel come in from planetary west. Through the glasses she seemed to make no progression, hanging shadowlike against the glowing shield of water. The figures that crowded her rocked, as she rocked, slowly from side to side. From them drifted a thread of sound; a single note, harsh and unnatural, taken up and sustained by voice after voice.

  Mathis touched the young Kalti on the shoulder, pointed. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘what’s that?’

  ‘Kaput,’ said the Boatman unexpectedly. ‘All finish.’

  Mathis said musingly, ‘All the decks were dense with stately forms ...’ He glanced down sharply. He said, ‘You mean it’s a funeral?’

  ‘All finish,’ said Jack. ‘Yes. Bloody bad luck.’

  * * * *

  The canal shallowed towards the edges, banked with fine silt. He heard the slither and bump as the fiat-bottomed craft grounded, and shrugged. A few minutes’ work with the poles would shift her, at first light. For safety’s sake he still carried a line ashore. The ground, unexpectedly soft, wouldn’t hold a mooring spike. He tethered the boat instead to a sapling at the water’s edge. He sat a while watching the shadows lengthen, the gold fade from the little space of grass. From the cabin at his back came shufflings, once a tinkle as the Kalti worked, preparing the mess of beans on which the Boatmen habitually lived. With the dusk a little breeze rose, blowing from the hills, heavy with the scent of some night flower.

  The Kalti bobbed from the cabin slide. ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Too quick.’

  Mathis turned, stared up at the high line of hills losing themselves in the night. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘are we going to make it?’

  The Boatman nodded vigorously. ‘One time,’ he said. ‘No sweat. Too bloody quick.’

  He had conned De Witt at Base into knocking him up a generator and headlamp to supplement the lighting of the Kalti boat. It rested now on the forward cabin top, an untidy arrangement of batteries and wires. He ran a hand across the motor casings as he smoked his final cigarette. The canal was restless; cheepings sounded and close plops, once a heavier crashing of branches followed by the swack-swack-swack of a bird taking off from water. The banks, and the shaggy bushes lining them, were mounded velvet; between them the water gleamed, depthless and pale. It seemed the canal itself gave off a scent; chill and pervasive. The moon of Xerxes was rising as he sought his sleeping bag.

  * * * *

  The morning was difficult. The channel, much overgrown here, had silted badly; time and again the boat grounded, sliding to a halt. The pole tip sank in the softness, raising blackish swirls that stained the clear green. The Kalti, patient and expressionless, worked engine and steering oar, using the boat’s power now to drive her forward, now to draw back from an impassable shoal. The sun woke shimmers from the thread of water remaining, while Mathis sweated and heaved. By midday, he guessed they had covered little more than a mile. They rested a while, drawn beneath a tangle of bushes; and he heard the echoing whistle of a flyer, somewhere to the north. He waited, frowning. For a time the machine seemed to circle, the sound of its motors eddying on the wind. Then the noise faded. It did not return.

  By mid-afternoon the condition of the waterway had improved. The boat resumed its steady pace, gliding still between high mounded bushes. Some of the branches bore viciously sharp thorns; Mathis, standing in the bow, swung a machete, lopping a path clear for the steersman. That night he was glad of his rest.

  Next morning they reached the foot of a long lock flight that climbed steadily into the hills. The chambers were well spaced, the pounds between them a mile or more in length. Over each pair of gates the Bar-Ko rusted in its bright iron frame, a valediction from the long-dead Prince. Viridian creepers had wound themselves into and through the scrollwork of the supports; their long tendrils brushed Mathis’ face as the boat glided beneath. On the following day they entered the first of the cuttings.

  For some time the ground to either side had been trending steadily upward; now the canal sides, still heightening, closed together, becoming near-vertical cliffs of dark purple rock. The strata of which they were composed were seamed and cracked; between the layers massive trees somehow found lodgement. The root bosses, gnarled and lichened, glistened with water that oozed its way steadily through the stone. Above, the higher trunks were festooned with the brilliant creeper. Some inclined at precarious angles, meshing their branches with those of their fellows on the opposite bank. From them the tendrils swayed, dropping masses of foliage to the water fifty or sixty feet beneath. Later the cutting, still immensely deep, opened out; here lianas, as thick as or thicker than Mathis’ arms, stretched pale and taut from the leaf canopy to the shelving rock. They did not, he saw, descend vertically but inclined on both sides at a slight angle to the water; so that driving between them was like passing through the forest-ribs of an enormous keel.

  The cutting had one advantage; the height and density of the trees had thinned out secondary growth. The water still ran clear and green; the rock, though friable, seemed not to discolour it. Mathis sat in the damp warmth, hearing the magnified beat of the engine echo back from the high cliff to either side. In time he grew tired of staring up; then it seemed his sense of scale was altered. The bank beside which the boat slid, the foot or so of rock at the water’s edge, became in itself a precipice, sheer and beetling. The sheet of lichen, the tiny mosslike plants clinging to the stone, were meadows and trees, above which the menacing shapes drifted like clouds. The tips of the great falls of creeper, touching the boat, discharged showers of drops that fell like storms of icy rain.

  He thought vaguely of Ramsden, back at Base; the delight the biologist would take in the strange plant forms surrounding him. With the thought came another, less surely formed; a sense of loss, an aching regret at the necessity for actions. He knew himself better now; and understood more fully the nature of his journey. The notion, once admitted, remained with him, his mind returning to it with the insistence with which the tongue-tip probes the wound of an extraction. This seemed to be the truth; that because nothing, no homecoming, waited beyond the hill range he was drawn forward, because of desolation and emptiness he had to go on. The trees stretched their ranks over the edge of rock above him; beyond he knew lay others and still more, mile on endless mile of forest haunted by rodents and owls. There were empty hamlets, empty villages, empty towns maybe, lapped by the rising green, wetted by rains, warmed by summer suns. He experienced a curious desire, transient yet powerful, to know that land; but know it in detail, hollow by hollow, as he knew the lines of his palms. He wondered at the state of mind, not wholly new to him; and wondered too at a curious notion Ramsden had once expressed that the Loop, in scrambling a man, never reassembled the same being twice. The oddity was allied to another, better known; that over seven years or so the elements of the body, the pints of water and pennorths of salt, are wholly changed so that physically and intimately one becomes a different being. Yet the thinking part, whichever that might be, goes on for ever. Hurting, and giving pain.

  A mile into the cutting the engine stalled, with a thud.

  He was amused, momentari
ly, at the flash of panic aroused in him. The mind, it seems, insists on clinging to patterns once known; maybe to the point of death. The long hull was swinging and losing way, pushed by the faint current from ahead; he fended with the pole, felt the bottom bump gently against mud. He climbed to the catwalk above the cargo space, walked steadily astern.

  Round the rear of the vessel, immediately above the propeller, ran a narrow ledge. The Kalti was squatting on it, gripping one-handed, groping with the other arm beneath the water. For the journey, he had affected Terran garb; a sleeveless woollen jerkin, printed with Fair Isle patterns and plentifully daubed with oil, and a pair of frayed and faded jeans. His harsh, longish hair hung forward; between jeans and pullover showed a half-moon of olive skin. He straightened when Mathis spoke, grinning his inevitable grin; Mathis wondered suddenly if it was no more than a reflex of the nerves. ‘All stuck up,’ he said. ‘Jolly bad luck.’

  Mathis climbed down beside him. The tip of a nobbled branch protruded from the water; below, its cloudy shape was visible for a foot or more before vanishing in the greenness. He tugged at it. It felt immovable. His reach was longer than the Kalti’s; he felt carefully for the propeller boss, traced his finger back along the battered edge of the blade. The log was jammed firmly between propeller and hull.