Beyond the sterile tropics, life not long ago had been outrageously abundant, jungle choking the central zone, the arctic abloom with low-growing plants. Now annual drought was taking its toll in many sections, leaves withering, stems crumbling, fires running wild, bald black patches of desiccation and decay. But other districts, especially near the coasts, got enough rain yet. Immense herds of grazers were visible on open ground; wings filled the air; shoal waters were darkened by weeds and swimmers. Most islands remained similarly fecund.
The dominant color of vegetation was blue, in a thousand shades—the photosynthetic molecule was not chlorophyll, then, though likely to be a close chemical relative—but there were the expected browns, reds, yellows, the unexpected and stingingly Homelike splashes of green.
Descending, trailing a thunderclap, the ship crossed nightside. Flandry used photomultiplier and infrared step-up controls to go on with his watching. It confirmed the impressions he had gathered by day.
And the ship was back under the hidden sun, low, readying for setdown. Her latitude was about 40 degrees. In the north, the lesser members of the giant range gave way to foothills of their own. Flandry made out one volcano in that region, staining heaven with smoke. A river flowed thence, cataracting through canyons until it became broad and placid in the wooden plains further south. The diffuse light made it shine dully, like lead, on its track through yonder azure lands. Finally it ran out in a kilometers-wide bay.
The greenish-gray sea creamed white with surf along much of the coast. The tidal pull of Siekh in summer approximated that of Luna and Sol on Terra, and ocean currents flowed strongly. For some distance inland, dried, cracked, salt-streaked mud was relieved only by a few tough plant species adapted to it.
Uh-huh, Flandry reflected. In spring the icecaps melt. Sea level rises by many meters. Storms get really stiff; they, and increasing tides, drive the waves in, over and over, to meet the floods running down from the mountains…And Djana believes in a God Who gives a damn?
Or should I say, Who gives a blessing?
He rubbed his cheek, observing with what exquisite accuracy nerves recorded pressure, texture, warmth, location, motion. Well, he thought. I must admit, if Anyone’s been in charge of my existence, He’s furnished it with noble pleasures. Despite everything, fear knocked in his heart and dried his mouth. He’s not about to take them away, is He? Not now! Later, when I’m old, when I don’t really care, all right; but not now!
He remembered comrades in arms who didn’t make it as far through time as he’d done. That was no consolation, but rallied him. They hadn’t whined.
And maybe something would turn up.
The scene tilted. The engines growled on a deeper note. The ship was landing.
The Merseian base stood on a bluff overlooking the river, thirty or so kilometers north of its mouth, well into fertile territory. The spaceport was minute, the facilities in proportion, as Flandry had surmised; nothing fancier than a few destroyers and lesser craft could work out of here. But he noticed several buildings within the compound that didn’t seem naval.
Hm. Do the Merseians have more than one interest in Talwin?…I imagine they do at that. Otherwise they’d find a more hospitable planet for their base—or else a better-camouflaged one, say a sunless rogue…You know, their intelligence activities here begin to look almost like an afterthought.
The ship touched down. Air pressure had gradually been raised during descent to match sea-level value. When interior gravity was cut off, the planet’s reasserted itself and Flandry felt lighter. He gauged weight at nine-tenths or a hair less.
Tryntaf reappeared, issued an order, and redisappeared. Flandry was escorted to the lock. Djana waited by her own guard. She seemed incredibly tiny and frail against the Merseian, a porcelain doll. “Nicky,” she stammered, reaching toward him, “Nicky, please forgive me, please be good to me. I don’t even know what they’re saying.”
“Maybe I will later,” he snapped, “if they leave me in shape to do it.”
She covered her eyes and shrank back. He regretted his reaction. She’d been suckered—by her cupidity; nonetheless, suckered—and the feel of her hand in his would have eased his isolation. But pride would not let him soften.
The lock opened. The gangway extruded. The prisoners were gestured out.
Djana staggered. Flandry choked. Judas on a griddle, I was warned to change clothes and I forgot!
The heat enveloped him, entered him, became him and everything else which was. Temperature could not be less than 80 Celsius—might well be higher—20 degrees below the Terran-pressure boiling point of water. A furnace wind roared dully across the ferrocrete, which wavered in his seared gaze. He was instantly covered, permeated, not with honest sweat but with the sliminess that comes when humidity reaches an ultimate. Breathing was like drowning.
Noises came loud to his ears through that dense air: wind, voices, clatter of machines. Odors borne from the jungle were pungent and musky, with traces of sulfurous reek. He saw a building blocky against the clouds, and on its roof a gong to call for prayers to the God of a world two and a half light-centuries hence. The shadowless illumination made distances hard to gauge; was that air-conditioned interior as remote as he dreaded?
The crew were making for it. They weren’t in formation, but discipline lived in their close ranks and careful jog-trot. What Merseians had tasks to do outside wore muffling white coveralls with equipment on the back.
“Move along, Terran,” said Flandry’s guard. “Or do you enjoy our weather?”
The man started off. “I’ve known slightly more comfortable espresso cookers,” he answered; but since the guard had never heard of espresso, or coffee for that matter, his repartee fell flat again.
Chapter XII
In the Spartan tradition of Vach lords, the office of Ydwyr the Seeker lacked any furniture save desk and cabinets. Though he and Morioch Sun-in-eye were seated, it was on feet and tails, which looked to a human as if they were crouched to spring. That, and their size, great even for Wilwidh Merseians, and faint but sharp body odors, and rumbling bass tones, and the explosive gutturals of Eriau, gave Djana a sense of anger that might break loose in slaughter. She could see that Flandry was worried and caught his hand in the cold dampness of hers. He made no response; standing rigid, he listened.
“Perhaps the datholch has been misinformed about this affair,” Morioch said with strained courtesy. Flandry didn’t know what the title signified—and Merseian grades were subtle, variable things—but it was plainly a high one, since the aristocratic-deferential form of address was used.
“I shall hearken to whatever the qanryf wishes to say,” Ydwyr replied, in the same taut manner but with the merely polite verbal construction. Flandry would have understood “qanryf (the first letter representing, more or less, k followed by dh = voiced th) from the argent saltire on Morioch’s black uniform, had he not met the word often before. Morioch was the commandant of this base, or anyhow on its naval aspect; but the base was a minor one.
He—stockily built, hard of features, incongruous against the books and reelboxes whose shelves filled every available square centimeter of wall space—declared: “This is no capture of a scout who simply chanced by. The female alone should…unquestionably does tell the datholch that. But I didn’t want to intrude on your work by speaking to you of mine. Besides, since it’s confidential, the fewer who are told, the better. Correct?”