The Fugitive Worlds (13 page)

As had happened before, during the short walk to the edge
of the village Toller felt oddly self-conscious, as though
hidden observers were watching every step he took. He knew
how absurd the notion was, but yet he was unable to forget
what easy targets he and his men would be if defenders with
muskets were to appear at the blank upper windows of the nearest houses. His uneasiness, he decided, sprang from a feeling that he had no right to be doing what he was doing, that the last resting places of so many people should be left
undisturbed. . . .

An outburst of swearing from one of the crewmen a dozen paces to his left caused him to look in that direction. The man was gingerly skirting something which Toller could not see because of the long grass.

"What is it, Renko?" he said, knowing in his heart what the answer would be.

"A couple of skeletons, sir." Renko's saffron airman's shirt was already darkened with sweat in several places and he was showily limping. "I nearly fell over them, sir. Nearly broke my ankle."

"If it doesn't mend soon I'll have the incident noted in your service record," Toller said drily. "Clashed with two skeletons—came off second best." His comment brought a round of laughter from the other men and Renko's limp rapidly disappeared.

On reaching the village the group fanned out in what had become a routine procedure, with the crewmen entering houses and reporting on their condition to Lieutenant Correvalte, who was making copious notes in a dispatch book. Toller took the opportunity to find some comparative solitude, wandering separately through narrow passageways and the remains of gardens. The derelict condition of the buildings convinced him that Styvee had not been occupied by the New Men, that half a century had passed since human families had enlivened the crumbling stonework with their presence.

There were no skeletons visible out of doors, but that was not unusual in Toller's experience. In the final and most virulent phase of the ptertha plague victims had survived for only two hours after infection, but some instinct seemed to have prompted them to seek out places of seclusion in which to die. It was as if some lingering sense of propriety had been outraged at the thought of defiling their communities with decaying corpses. A few had made their way to favorite beauty spots or vantage points, but in general the citizens of old Kolcorron had chosen to die in the privacy of their homes, very often in bed.

Toller had lost count of the number of times he had
seen pathetic family tableaux consisting of male and female
skeletons still locked in a last embrace, sometimes with smaller bony frames lying between them. The sight of so
many reminders of the ultimate futility of existence in such
a short span had contaminated his spirit with a deep melancholia which at times overcame his natural ebullience, and
now—unashamedly—he avoided entering the silent dwelling
places whenever he could.

His meandering course through the village eventually
brought him to a large windowless building which had been
built on the bank of the river. Part of it extended down
into the slow-moving water. Identifying the structure as the
pumping station which was the chief item of interest in the
area, he walked around it until he came to a large door
in the north wall. The door had been constructed from
close-grained wood well reinforced with brakka straps and
appeared to have been quite unaffected by fifty years of
neglect. It was locked and, as he expected, barely quivered
when he threw his considerable weight against it.

Muttering with annoyance. Toller turned away, shaded his
eyes from the sun and scanned the village. More than a
minute went by before he spotted the burly figure of Gab
bleronn, the sergeant-artificer, who was responsible for main
tenance of the airship. Gabbleronn had just emerged from
what had once been a store of some kind, and was cramming a small object into his pouch. He looked startled when Toller
called him, and responded to the summons with an evident
lack of enthusiasm.

"I wasn't looting, sir," he protested as he drew near. "I
just picked up a little candle holder fashioned from that black
wood. It's of no value, sir
...
a souvenir to take home to
Prad for my wife . . . I'll put it back if you—"

"Never mind that," Toller interrupted. "1 want this door opened. Fetch whatever tools you need from the ship. Blow
it off its hinges if that's what it takes."

"Yes,
sir!"
Looking relieved, Gabbleronn studied the door
for a moment, then saluted and hurried away.

Toller sat down on the stone doorsteps and made himself
as comfortable as he could while he waited for the sergeant
to return. The heat was increasing as the sun climbed higher,
and the sky was so bright that only a few of the normal
daytime stars were visible. Directly above him, the great disk
of Overland occupied the center of the heavens, looking
fresh and unsullied in his eyes, and he felt a sudden pang of
homesickness for its dew-fresh open spaces. The entire planet
of Land was one vast charnel house—exhausted, ghost-
ridden, dusty and sad—and even the presence of Vantara
somewhere over the horizon scarcely compensated for the
gloominess which had begun to impose itself on his mind. It
would be different if he could actually be in her company,
but this business of being near to her and yet completely cut
off from her was much worse than. . . .

What am I doing to myself?
he thought suddenly.
What
kind of man am I becoming? Would that other Toller Mara
quine have mooned around in such a manner
—
lovesick and
homesick
—
like a sallow-faced adolescent?

The questions propelled Toller to his feet and he was
pacing in impatient circles, a hand on the hilt of his sword,
when he saw Correvalte approaching with the rest of the
crew in his wake. The lieutenant was checking his notes
as he walked, looking businesslike, competent and very
much at ease with himself and his surroundings. Toller felt
a twinge of envy coupled with a momentary suspicion that
Correvalte had the potential to be the better officer of the
two.

"The report is almost complete, sir—except for an inspec
tion of the pumping station," Correvalte said. "Have you
been inside the building?"

"How could I enter the building when the accursed door is barred?" Toller snapped. "Do I look like a wraith which
can insinuate itself through cracks in the woodwork?"

The lieutenant's eyes widened and then became opaquely impersonal. "I'm sorry, sir—I didn't realize. . . ."

"I have sent Gabbleronn for some tools," Toller cut in, already ashamed of his display of peevishness. "See if he needs any help in carrying them—I have no wish to linger in this cemetery any longer than necessary."

He turned away as Correvalte was performing one of his ultra-correct salutes and walked along the bank of the river until he came to a narrow wooden bridge. From a distance the bridge had appeared quite sound, but on close examination he saw that its structure had a grey-white spongy texture which signaled that it had been ravaged by wood-boring insects. He drew his sword and struck at one of the handrail stanchions. It severed with very little resistance to the blade and toppled into the river, taking a section of the rail with it. Half a dozen further blows were sufficient to cut through the two main beams of the bridge, sending the whole rotten edifice plunging down into the water amid puffs of powdered wood and a buzzing of minute winged creatures which had been disturbed in their appointed task.

"You have had a good meal," Toller said, whimsically addressing the multitudes of insects and their grubs which must have been still inside the fallen timbers, "now you can enjoy a drink."

The little flurry of physical activity, frivolous though it had been, helped ease the tensions in his mind and he was in a better mood as he retraced his steps to the village. He reached the pumping station just as Gabbleronn and two of his helpers had succeeded in prising the door open with the aid of large crowbars.

"Good work," Toller said. "Now let us see what marvels of engineering lie within."

Before arriving on Land he had known from his history tuition that the planet had no metals, and that brakka wood had always been employed for applications where, on Overland, the designer would have chosen iron, steel or some other suitable metal. Nevertheless, machinery whose gearwheels and other highly stressed components were carved from the black wood seemed cumbersome and quaint to his eye, relics of a primitive era.

He led the way along a short passage to a large, vaulted chamber which contained massive pumping machinery. The windows in the roof were heavily encrusted with grime, but there was enough light filtering down from them to show that the machinery, although coated with dust, was complete and in a good state of repair. Those parts not made of brakka— beams and struts—were of the same close-grained wood as the station's door, a material which evidently resisted wood-boring insects or was not to their taste. Toller tested one of the beams with his thumbnail and was impressed by its hardness, even after fifty years without maintenance.

"I believe it's called rafter wood, sir," Steenameert said, coming to his side. "You can see why it was favored by builders."

"How do you know what it's called?"

Steenameert blushed. "I have read descriptions of it many times in the—"

"Oh, no!" The voice was that of Lieutenant Correvalte, who had been walking around the perimeter of the chamber, opening the doors into side rooms as he came to them. He was backing off from a doorway, shaking his head, and Toller knew at once that he had witnessed a great obscenity.
This,
Toller told himself,
is what I have been expecting since we entered the village. I knew something bad was in store for us, and I have no wish to set eyes on it.

He knew, also, that he could not avoid personally inspecting the find lest the word get about among the crewmen that he had become soft. The most he could do was to delay the grim moment. He stooped over a control lever and ratchet and brushed the dust away from them, pretending to take a special interest in the precise carving, and while doing so watched his men. Their curiosity aroused by Correvalte's reaction, they were taking turns at venturing into
the
room. None stayed longer than a few seconds, and—professionally callous though they were—each looked subdued and thoughtful as he returned to the main chamber.

I
have an appointment in that room,
Toller thought,
and it would be unseemly to delay any longer.

He straightened up, hand unconsciously falling to the hilt of his sword, and walked to the waiting doorway. The room beyond resembled a prison cell. It was devoid of furniture, and was cheerlessly illuminated by a broken skylight in the sloping roof far above. Ranged around the walls, in the seated position, were perhaps twenty skeletons. The wispy remnants of dresses and skirts, plus the presence of necklaces and ceramic bangles, informed Toller that the skeletons were the remains of women.

It isn't all that bad,
he thought.
It
was a fact of life, a fact of death, that the plague was impartial. It struck down women just as readily as men, and since arriving on this unhappy world I have seen many, many. . . .