Direct Descent (6 page)

“Too much rubble to wade through for the occasional gem,” Ambroso said. “Your gems come to be more and more unexpected.”

Tchung concealed his anger and murmured: “It has been said that we deal in the unexpected. But there are times when the unexpected can be devastating.”

“As devastating as the weapons on our monitor?” Ambroso asked.

“Ours are not the ways of violence,” Tchung said.

“And times change,” Ambroso said. “New ways clear out the errors of the past. They make way for …”

“The errors of the future,” Tchung said.

Ambroso glowered at him. “You collect useless junk! Pack Rats!”

“They once were known as Trade Rats,” Tchung said. “The original animals, I mean. They stole from campers in the wilderness, and always left something behind from the nest. That Trade Rat nest might contain a ruby which would be traded for a small piece of plastic. Fortunate the camper when that happened.”

“What about the camper who lost a ruby and got a small bit of plastic?” Ambroso asked. He grinned at Tchung, whirled away and strode from the office.

When the fandoors closed, Tchung picked up the winged boot, rubbed it with his thumb. The Naos Researchers had been particularly grateful. Archives had saved them three centuries of work on the problem of random-desire adjustment in conflicting human groups. The Naos planets were known today for the dynamic spirit of their people, a fact recorded in the inscription beneath the golden boot:

“Information is the tool and the goad of intelligence.”

Tchung replaced the winged boot on the shelf. The thing had filled him with a momentary sense of the hoary antiquity over which he presided—a sense he had not experienced in quite that way since his youth. This was followed immediately by a nostalgia which tightened his throat.

Is it about to end?

Unconsciously, he turned in the direction of Free Island Dornbaker.
Your secret is out, but the stakes are higher than anyone anticipated. Act wisely, Sil-Chan … but not too wisely.

O O O

Sil-Chan had approached Free Island Dornbaker at mid-morning, his hands on the jetter’s controls slippery with perspiration. He found himself in the grip of an illogical desire to turn and run. The closer he came to the island, the greater this feeling became.

There had been nerve-straining delays at Magsayan while officials cleared his flight to the island. The officials had professed surprise that an island lay out there in the misty sea, although they had cleared flights around the area all of their professional lives. Sil-Chan had provided them with a special channel code, however, and a voice-only communication had ensued, someone out there identified as Free Island Control being very obstructive and then, unexplainably helpful.

Sil-Chan kept his equipment tuned to the Free Island channel while he winged over the sea. The island was growing more distinct by the minute, emerging from silvery mists. He saw steeply wooded hills, the flashing blue of streams, rare white dots of buildings half hidden in greenery. White surf frothed the coastline.

The place looked wild … un-Terran—not at all like the familiar rolling contours of the parklike mainland. He emerged from the last of the mists into sunlight and more details impressed themselves upon him. Sil-Chan gasped. What had appeared from a distance to be steep hills covered with mossy scrub was actually ranks of gigantic trees. They speared the sky. Monstrous trees!

His speaker burped, crackled and a feminine voice came on: “This is Free Island Control calling the jetter.”

Sil-Chan punched his transmit button: “This is the jetter.”

The feminine voice said: “We have you on longshot. You are approaching on isthmus and bay. At the head of the bay you will see a line of low white buildings. Turn inland directly over them. Come down close. You want to be no more than fifty meters above the ridge behind those buildings when you cross it.”

“Fifty meters, right.” Sil-Chan tuned his altimeter.

The feminine voice continued: “Just over that hill we’ve mowed an east-west landing strip for you. If you line up over the white buildings and stay low, you should …”

“Mowed?” Sil-Chan blurted the word with his finger pressed hard on transmit.

The feminine voice paused, then: “Yes, mowed. You should’ve taken a copter instead of that hot jobby. I was about to suggest it when the PN said he would like to see one of the new jetters.”

Sil-Chan tried to swallow past a thickness in his throat. “I see the white buildings. There are three of them. I am turning.”

“Fifty meters, no more.”

Sil-Chan checked his crash harness. “Right.”

“Do you see one taller tree on the hill?”

“Yes.”

“As low as possible over that tree. Dip into the valley beyond. Line up with the flagpole at the far end of the mowed field. Stay right down the middle and you’ll miss the tall grass. I sure hope the strip’s long enough.”

So do I,
Sil-Chan thought.

The tall tree loomed ahead. He lifted slightly, then dipped and gasped as he saw the tiny field. There was time only for a blurred glimpse of flagpole, trees beyond and a mist-colored cliff rising abruptly right behind the trees. No time to swerve or climb out. He kicked on full flaps, fired the rocket idiot-brakes in the nose and fought to hold control as the ship bucked down into dangerous low speed.

A path of darker green lay down the middle of the lighter green field. He aimed into the center, slammed on the wheel brakes when he felt the ground. The jetter bounced up onto its nose wheel, skidded in the slippery grass, crabbed sideways into tall grass. One wing dipped. The ship cartwheeled—once, twice.

It came to rest upside down.

Sil-Chan hung in his harness trying to breathe deeply while his mind replayed the whirling madcap landscape through which he had just dervished. He felt his heart pounding. His left shoulder ached.

That cost me half my longevity.

The adrenaline reaction began to set in. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He knew he would have to find a supply of anti-S soon. That dive had taken him through months of normal life.

The jetter creaked and settled slightly. A strange quiet intruded upon Sil-Chan’s awareness. The quiet bothered him. Faint swishing grew discernible. A masculine voice intruded on the quiet. “Hey in there! You all right?”

Sil-Chan could imagine the racing stream of robot emergency equipment which would have greeted such a landing on a regular field. He shuddered. All of the quiet, single-purposed reserve which had marked his life to this point dissolved like the mists around the island. It was as though he had passed through an invisible barrier to become an unexpected person on the other side.

“You funnel-mouthed, vacuum-headed idiots!” he bellowed.

The jetter trembled as someone forced open the door beside him. He turned his head, looked upside down into the face of a man who reminded him of a younger Director Tchung. It was the set of the eyes and the reserved look in a narrow face.

“You sound healthy enough,” the man said. “Did you break anything?”

“No thanks to you!” Sil-Chan raged.

“Here, let me help you out of the harness,” the man said. He knelt and gently helped Sil-Chan remove the crash harness. The man’s hands were rough and there was unexpected strength in his arms. He smelled of some odd spice.

Sil-Chan winced as the straps were eased over his left shoulder.

“Bit of a bruise there,” the man said. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. How about your legs and back?”

“They’re fine. Get me out of this stupid …”

“Easy there. Easy does it.”

The man gentled Sil-Chan out the door and onto the grassy ground, helped Sil-Chan to sit up. There was an acrid fuel smell mixed with the odors of crushed grass. The sky swayed a bit above his rescuer.

“Just sit there a bit until you feel better,” the man said. “You seem to be all in one piece.”

Sil-Chan studied this first Dornbaker he had seen. The man was a loosely hung figure in a brown fringed jacket, tight pants. The jacket was open almost to his navel and exposed a smooth, almost hairless chest. The same could not be said of his head—which was a tangle of black hair, some of which straggled over his forehead, He looked as primitive and wild as this island.

“David! David! Is he all right?”

It was the voice of the young woman at Free Island Control. She came panting around the end of the wrecked jetter, bare legs swishing in the long grass. At sight of Sil-Chan, she came to a stop and leaned against the jetter, gasping for breath. “Thank the Stone you weren’t killed,” she panted. “I ran all the way from Control.”

Sil-Chan stared up at her: skin as dark as Tchung’s but her hair was a golden cloud and her eyes were the blue of the misty sea, full of lurking merriment that even her obvious worry could not conceal. She, too, wore the oddly fringed clothing, but a curve of bright red blouse filled the wedge of her jacket. It came to Sil-Chan that she was the most delicately beautiful creature he had ever seen. He found himself unable to look away from that lovely face, the soft mouth, the tiny nose, the smooth rounding of chin and cheeks. All of the careful repression that had kept him grinning upward in the Archival hierarchy, everything of his past peeled away. It was an effort to wrench himself back to duty. He cleared his throat.

Before he could speak, she said: “I told them that runway was too short. But no! They had to get off right away on the hunt!”

“Easy, Hep,” the man said. His voice floated out in an effortless baritone.

Sil-Chan shook his head to clear it of that lovely female vision. “Would you direct me to the Paternomer, please?” he asked.

“He won’t be back for two days,” the man said. “I’m David. This is Hepzebah.” He spoke the names as though they should convey important information. “We’re to take care of you until the PN returns.”

Stiffly, painfully, Sil-Chan levered himself to his feet, waving away David’s proffered help. “I have to see the Paternomer as soon as possible. Can you take me to him?” He glanced at the wreck. “This hardly seems the way to get to him anymore.”

“We’re very sorry about that,” Hepzebah said. “Really, we had nothing to do with the arrangements.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the PN’s return,” David said. “No way to get to him when he’s on a hunt.”

“But it’s urgent and I …”

“You sure aren’t going back to the mainland in that.” Hepzebah indicated the wreck. “Best you stay. My brother here has tight quarters and he’s a good host when he wants to be.”

Brother!

Once more, Sil-Chan found himself staring at Hepzebah.
Lovely. Lovely. And such a charming name.
There was a painful constriction in his chest where the crash harness could not have touched him.
Brother.
Sil-Chan had feared they might be a mated pair. She still might have a mate somewhere.

She blushed under the steadiness of his stare.

I mustn’t stare. I must say something.

“It’s a very nice day,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Let’s go over to David’s.” She waved at a low structure in the trees at the side of the field. Sil-Chan had not noticed it until she pointed, as though she had created the structure by some wild magic—red-brown logs, rock chimney, small windows. It nestled among the trees as though it had grown there.

“You’re favoring your left arm,” David said. “We’d best go in and have a look at it.” He turned and led the way across the tall grass.

Sil-Chan kept pace behind with Hepzebah walking close beside, studying him. There was a penetrating quality to her stare which made Sil-Chan uncomfortable but he would not have had her look away for anything.
Lovely!
“I’m sorry I blew up back there,” he said.

“You had a perfect right,” she said. “I’d have never permitted it, but the PN makes all his own rules. He sent us in from Big North Cape to greet you and didn’t give us enough help. They wouldn’t make other arrangements—only what the PN ordered.”

“There was the hunt,” David said. He spoke without turning.

“The hunt!” she flared. “You’re here because you’re the Aitch Aye.” She turned to Sil-Chan. “David has to do all the official work that the PN doesn’t want to do. The PN made me come because I wouldn’t take the trothing. He thinks he’s punishing me.”

Sil-Chan shook his head. What were they talking about? He said: “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“He’s from far mainland,” David said. “You’re making no sense to him.” David slowed his pace and walked beside Hepzebah, speaking across her to explain. “Hep wouldn’t accept the mate the brothers picked for her. Made the PN angry. She really doesn’t have to accept, but the PN’s K-cousins are expected to obey. Things are different with H- and B-cousins.”

Sil-Chan stared back at David without comprehension.

“No sense yourself!” Hepzebah laughed.

“Is it some special language?” Sil-Chan asked.

David grinned. They were into the trees now, within only a few steps of a wide split-wood door into the house.

“It’s Dornbakerish, I guess,” David said. “I’ll try again. I was tolled off to greet you because the PN wouldn’t miss the hunt. He’s getting old and he figures he doesn’t have many more. They’re running fallow deer on Big Plain. That’s why I’m here. I’m the Aitch Aye. That means I’ll be PN when the present PN goes upStone. Hep’s of the same line, a K-cousin. She …”

“What is a K-cousin?” Sil-Chan asked.

They stopped just outside the wide door of the house.

David looked at Hepzebah. She looked at David. Presently, she looked at Sil-Chan. “Just K-cousin,” she said. “It’s close. I’m of the PN’s line. One of my boy-children will be picked to succeed David.”

“You … have children?” Sil-Chan asked.

“Oh, no. I don’t even have a mate. And the PN’s angry at me, punishing …”

“The PN isn’t that petty,” David said. He opened the door, exposed a dim interior into which he motioned Sil-Chan. “My honored guest, Sooma Sil-Chan. Enter my abode and call it your own.”

“You know my name?”

“David signed the clearance for the PN,” Hepzebah said. She followed Sil-Chan into the house.