Howling Stones (7 page)

Having unintentionally struck a topic of mutual non-professional interest, they engaged in an animated discussion of music imaging, both human and thranx. It made the rest of the evening pass very smoothly.

When he awoke the following morning and stumbled tiredly into the dining area, there was someone waiting for him, and it wasn’t Fawn Seaforth. Reddish orange in color, responsive localized chromophores flashed wavy light blue lines down its side. Dark red pupils centered in tiny, bright pink eyes stared sharply at him. The long proboscis resembled a collapsed balloon.

When he interrupted it, it was skittering across the dining table on comically short legs covered with fine brown fur, using the strange mouth part to suck up loose crumbs and food fragments from the night before. Turning to face him, it inflated its proboscis to half its body size and emitted a very human-sounding raspberry of impressive dimensions. This noise proved so unexpectedly farcical that Pulickel’s initial apprehensions instantly evaporated.

“That’s a floob,” Fawn declared from behind him.

This morning she wore full tropic field gear. Loose-fitting and casual, it managed the difficult task of diminishing her figure. He found himself grateful for the visual respite. In addition to the knee-length shorts and regulation multipocketed shirt, she wore appropriate headgear. The face screen was flipped up and back, its visor powered down but ready for instant use.

She gestured at the table. “It shows up every morning,
after I’ve turned off the defensive screen. Comes in through a window and cleans the place up.”

He blinked. “Cleans it up?”

“In addition to table scraps, it gets all the local arthropods that I and the station cleanser miss.” She whistled at it and the fuzzy floob squeaked a response. Approaching the table, she wiggled several fingers in its direction.

Inflating to several times its body size, the floob used its proboscis like a jet exhaust to rocket backward off the table, across the room, and through the open rim window through which it had entered. It was able to see where it was going because, to Pulickel’s astonishment, its eyes had crawled up its spine and onto its back. It soared over the clearing and into the trees beyond, leaving him to eye the dining table distastefully.

“You’ve made sure, of course, that this charming regular visitor doesn’t carry any kind of parasites or communicable diseases?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.” She proceeded to make a show of scratching her sides and arms.

“Very funny,” he commented dryly, less than amused.

She lowered her hands. “You don’t really approve of me, do you?”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “It isn’t you so much, Fawn,” he replied, neither confirming nor denying her accusation. “We just have a different outlook on certain procedural matters.”

“I hope you have a better opinion of my work. You haven’t seen any of that yet, except for my picking you up, bringing you here, and saving your life along the way.” She sighed resignedly. “If it really means that much to you, I’ll make an effort to clean the place up, even though we’re really out of sight, out of mind here.”

“I would greatly appreciate it, and I will do more than my share to help.”

“Agreed. You hungry?”

He eyed the table uncomfortably. “No thank you. I rarely eat in the morning. What I would like is to get started.”

“Just arrived and already you’re anxious to leave.”

He nodded. “Just because I’ve done a lot of fieldwork doesn’t mean I particularly enjoy it.”

“I’ll bet you don’t like having to rely on others, either.” She disappeared into a back storeroom and returned moments later with a thin belt. Hanging from the belt was a qwik holster holding a compact needler. Extra power cells occupied the other side of the belt, balancing out the modest weight of the weapon.

“I think this one’ll fit you.” She tried to hand him the belt and gun.

He demurred. “Why give me this? Except for what’s in the already outdated study file, I wouldn’t know what to pet and what to shoot.”

“I’ll take care of the flora and fauna. This is in case we run into any AAnn. Their base is only thirty minutes away by fast skimmer. I haven’t had any serious run-ins with them, but other outposts have. When they think they can get away with it, they’re not above taking potshots at the competition, especially when it’s isolated and alone out in the local woods.”

“Meaning us?” Reluctantly he accepted the belt and began strapping it on.

“Meaning you, anyway. I’ve been so quiet here for so long I’m not sure they regard me as much in the way of competition. That suits me just fine. I’ve had a couple of chats with their local chief of operations, an oily type named Essasu. Everything very formal and polite. But if I didn’t keep rigorous, recoverable recordings of my movements, I’m sure he’d cheerfully have one of his underlings slap an explosive shell into my spine the first
time I wasn’t looking. Traveling armed lets him know that I’m neither naive nor helpless. I’m a firm believer in discouraging temptation right from the start.”

The needler was virtually unnoticeable on his hip. “Competition for the hearts and minds of the natives is supposed to be on a friendly basis.”

She made a rude noise. “Sure it is. And the AAnn are happy-go-lucky comedians who’ll gather ’round at every opportunity just to tell you the latest jokes from Blassusar.” She patted the weapon that rode high and wide on her left hip. “That’s why I’m always careful to carry my critic with me.

“Plus, there’s always the chance that a
gribiwith
or a
cochco
vine will take a leap at you when I’m not in a position to help. Think of your needler as a prophylaxis.” She nodded in the direction of their living quarters. “Any other gear you want to bring? I have my recorder with me.”

He shook his head. “Not on the first visit. I need to acclimate myself first.”

She nodded and turned in the direction of the central elevator shaft. Once he had joined her, she thumbed the single switch and the cylindrical conveyor started down. It squealed and whined outrageously, suggesting that it, too, had been the subject of less than assiduous maintenance.

“Why didn’t they site the skimmer shed closer to the station and connect it with a sealed walkway?” he wondered aloud.

She shrugged. “Probably cheaper this way. I don’t mind. I like being outside. Later I’ll show you my favorite swimming hole. It’s a deep pool fed by a five-meter-high waterfall. Smooth rocks on the bottom, clean sand around the edges. I’d call it Eden, if I were inclined to name things. When I’m bored or just hot I’ll walk in to
it on the little trail I’ve cut, take everything off, and just float or lie on the fronting beach.”

Pulickel manfully turned his thoughts from the image thus conjured up. “The natives leave you alone at all times?”

She nodded. “They have plenty to do and as you know from your prep, the nearest village is a ways from here. I very rarely see them unless I go looking for them. They never bother the station.”

The lift bottomed out with a grinding sound. When after a suitable pause the door refused to open, Fawn kicked it into compliance. She smiled apologetically.

“Damn thing’s supposed to be permanently lubricated, but you know what a tropical climate can do to even the best machinery.”

“Which is why,” he observed as they stepped out of the shaft into the oppressive heat and humidity, “even supposedly permanently lubricated doors and glides need to be checked as part of a weekly routine.”

“I agree,” she confessed readily. “And now that you’re here and I’m not expected to do everything myself, you can make that your responsibility, Pulickel. I’m sure you’re
much
better at it than I would be.”

They made their way toward the skimmer shed, the magnificent bay glistening in the morning sun as if it had been coated with powdered diamond.

“I think I’ll be able to communicate without any trouble.” At her mild urging he avoided a plant with thorny leaves that was growing over the edge of the path. “For alien vocalizations, the languages of Senisran are fairly simple, and the Parramati dialect seems to present no unique difficulties.”

“Glad all those recordings I made proved useful. Of course, I could’ve been carrying out routine station maintenance instead.” Entering the shed, she ran a quick check
of skimmer integrity and functions, paying particular attention to the fore intakes, before climbing aboard. Apparently there were some things she was willing to spend the time to maintain.

Following her on board, he settled himself for the second time into the seat next to the pilot’s chair. This morning’s journey would be less eventful than yesterday’s, he hoped.

“Where are we headed?”

She spoke without looking up as she efficiently checked readouts and instrumentation. “Northwest coast. The skimmer’s only practical for overwater travel. Rest of the island is too rugged. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to walk the trail to the main village, but this’ll get us there in a couple of minutes.” On a rising whine, the sturdy craft rose a meter into the air and backed out of the shed.

“The locals like to see me arrive by skimmer. They already know how to walk.”

“How do they react?” he asked. “Are they awed, curious, indifferent, what?”

“Straightforwardly accepting, mostly. It didn’t take them long to get used to it. They call it the boat that flies on air, which is pretty direct. I think the absence of outriggers surprises them more than anything else.”

He settled himself back into the seat. “I’m looking forward to meeting the local chief, this being the dominant island in the archipelago.” He smiled. “I’m sure the AAnn weren’t happy about the Commonwealth setting up a station here first.”

She shrugged. “They seem to be perfectly happy on Mallatyah. That’s the second-largest inhabited island in the group. They’re doing a good job of extending their influence from there.”

Pulickel was mildly alarmed. “I’ve been wondering what
kind of progress they’ve been making. How are you doing with the Torrelauans?”

“As well, or as bad. It’s hard to tell. As you know from your preparations, the Parramati aren’t like any other society on Senisran.” The skimmer crossed the beach and entered the bay. “They’re special. Special unique or special frustrating, take your pick.”

Wind began to ruffle his hair. “I’m sure as soon as I get to know the chief, we’ll make some serious headway.”

She adjusted several controls, preferring manual to vorec operation. The engine whined responsively and the skimmer accelerated. He frowned at her.

“What’re you laughing at?”

She stopped chuckling. “If you wanted to speak to the chief on any other island group, there wouldn’t be a problem. But you can’t do that on Parramat.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Parramati are different. As you’ll find out. It’s why I’ve stayed here, by myself. See, there
are
things that interest me besides lounging around, cultivating native flowers, and sampling the local foodstuffs.”

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” he muttered.

“Of course. Nobody ever
means
to.” She boosted the skimmer another meter above the water.

Well out on the bay, the wind was now howling around them. He really would have preferred an enclosed, climate-controlled cockpit, but decided to hold off making the suggestion. Instead, he studied his surroundings intently. How the wind blew her burnished gold hair out behind her, how the sculpted profile of her face stood out pale against the green walls of the fjord—not forgetting to make mental notes on the surrounding terrain as well, of course.

“What’s so special about the Parramati, besides their reluctance to formalize relationships with outsiders?”

Reaching the end of the bay, she turned west, following the coast. Beneath the skimmer’s thrusters, the smooth waters of the encircling lagoon flashed by. Silicaceous pseudocorals shoved bumps and blades and nodules toward the surface.

“Everything. Their society is unique on Senisran. They’re friendly, polite, but defiant.”

“What are they defying? Everything is subject to negotiation. It’s not like we’re trying to impose our will on them.”

“But we are. However benignly, we’re imposing contemporary culture on them, be it in the form of a formal treaty of mutual cooperation, trade goods, weapons, politics, even comments and suggestions about art. The AAnn are doing the same. The Parramati reject nearly all of it. It’s not part of their kusum, you see.”

Pulickel blinked as the skimmer rocked slightly. “Their what?”

“The term is a phonetic coincidence, though it means much more than just custom. It signifies a way of life that goes beyond the superficial. It’s a way of looking at the entire cosmos. They’re afraid that if they ally themselves formally with either us or the AAnn, it will go against kusum and they’ll lose their way.”

“For a supposedly primitive people, that’s a relatively enlightened outlook.” He smiled thinly. “Of course, it never works. You can’t reject and ignore advanced technology once it’s been offered to you. If not the elders, then the youth of primitive species who are less steeped in tradition are always willing to try exciting new things. Historical xenology proves it over and over. Any group that attempts to exclude high tech soon finds that its less diffident neighbors have leapfrogged beyond them in terms of wealth, education, and the ability to wage war.”

“I know that.” She leaned back and let the autopilot
guide the skimmer. “I’ve tried explaining it to them. They just humor me and insist that as long as they stick to their kusum, they’ll be all right.”

“Very admirable. Noble, even. But misguided. Stubbornness never works. Sooner or later on every inhabited world, those who advance assume control over or come to dominate those who do not. The natives of Ophhlia have already advanced a full classification by accepting and embracing the Commonwealth presence there.”

“The Parramati wouldn’t be impressed. You could offer them untold wealth. They’d consider it politely, discuss it at length, and if the determination was that it went against kusum, reject it outright no matter how many lives it would better. That’s why I’ve had such a hard time getting them to accept gifts.” The skimmer automatically eased around a small, sandy islet from which a flock of bright red gliders exploded into the sky like the outpouring of a burst crimson piñata.