I rocked back on my heels and looked at the radio. I couldn’t really see it, of course. The night was too dark. “A mining colony? Eighteen light-years from home? Do they have any idea of the transportation costs?”
“They are thinking of a manufacturing center. A colony to build ships.”
“No one is ever going to build a ship at the bottom of a gravity well, unless you are talking about the kind of ship that goes through water, and I don’t think you are.”
“Final assembly would be done in space.”
“Huh,” I said.
“There are problems,” Eddie said. “Everyone admits there are a lot of problems, but they won’t stop talking. They are absolutely fascinated by the idea of all that metal.”
Hardly surprising. Our ancestors had done a job on Earth. Most of the metal and coal and oil that was easy to reach was gone, along with other resources. Much of the water. Much of the soil. Hundreds—no, thousands—of species of plants and animals.
Eddie went on. “I’ve been thinking about Cortez and what happened when he found gold in Mexico.”
“You worry too much.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll bet that’s what Montezuma said to his councilors.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried to think. I was exhausted. “Eddie, I have to sleep.”
“Is it night down there? I guess it is. Sweet dreams, Lixia.”
I went back to camp and lay down. Above me the stars shone. Somewhere up there was a relay satellite and a long way to the south—over the middle of the ocean—was the I.S.S. Number One. I imagined it, turning in the light of this system’s primary, gleaming just a little: an enormous hunk of lithium hydride, shaped like a cigar. The surface was pitted and discolored. More than half the mass was gone. The lithium hydride had been our fuel as well as our main protection against radiation.
At one end of the cigar was a series of metal and ceramic coils. These were the magnets that contained and controlled the fusion reaction that drove the ship. The other end was bare. When we left Earth there had been an umbrella made of cermet, additional protection against the tiny amount of matter between the stars. We had dropped the umbrella at turnaround. From that point on, the engine acted as protection, burning whatever bits of space debris might lie ahead of us into ionic vapors, which the magnets guided away.
That was it: a dirty white cigar and a series of rings, black and tan and gray. The living quarters were invisible, hidden in the middle of the cigar: a cylinder made of ceramic, encased in salt.
That was the part of the ship I knew: the rooms and corridors lined with tile. They gave the ship one of its many nicknames—my favorite, the China Clipper.
It had no sails, of course. That idea had been abandoned early on. And there wasn’t a lot of porcelain onboard. The wall material reminded me of earthenware. It was dull and a bit rough, light orange in color. In places it was glazed, usually white or blue.
It was a lovely materiaclass="underline" light and hard and durable, immune to corrosion, resistant to heat, excellent insulation. Eddie was nuts. We hadn’t gone to the stars in a tin can. We had gone in something made of clay and salt. There was plenty of both where we came from. We didn’t need the metal on this planet.
For the next three days Nia and I continued west. The land rose. We entered a canyon. At the bottom was a narrow shallow stream. In the spring it must have been an impressive river, for it ran through the middle of a wide bed. Even now the water moved quickly. Here and there it was streaked with foam.
Cliffs rose on either side of us. They were dark gray and flecked with something that glittered in the sunlight. Mica?
I saw a new kind of animal. It was tiny and dark gray, the color of the cliffs. Its skin—or shell—glittered as if it were flecked with mica. In most parts of the canyon the animal seemed to be uncommon. But one section had hundreds of the little things. Motionless, they were invisible. I saw them when they moved, flashing out from under my feet, running up a rock away from me. It seemed as if pieces of stone were coming alive, changing into—what? Lizards? Not exactly. For one thing, they had six legs. On Earth that would have made them insects. But they didn’t look like bugs, and the bugs on this planet seemed to have at least eight legs.
“I don’t know what they are,” said Nia. “And I don’t know why there are so many of them. This isn’t my country. Ask me questions when we come out onto the plain.”
I made the gesture of acknowledgment.
Late on the third day she said, “A person is following us.”
“What?” I looked back.
The canyon was shadowy, and I couldn’t see far, but as far as I could see, the trail was empty.
Nia grabbed my arm and tugged. “Keep going. Don’t let him know that we know.”
We trudged on.
“I saw him twice today, this morning and a short time ago. If he means to do harm, he’ll do it tonight.”
“Harm?” I said.
“There are men who go crazy. They become violent. They attack other people.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But some men—when they go through the change—become like animals. They cannot control themselves. And there are other men who are fine till they get old. They grow weak. They cannot get women. This makes them angry. I have met one like that. They do not attack large groups of women, but if a person travels alone or in a small group, a twosome or a threesome—that is asking for trouble!” She glanced at me. “We have to find a place to camp.”
We kept going until we came to a place where the canyon floor was wider than usual. The stream spread out. On the far side the canyon wall was broken. There were fissures and huge black boulders. A waterfall tumbled down between the rocks and there was vegetation, bushes, and a few small trees.
“We’ll camp on the other side of the river,” Nia said, took off her sandals and picked them up.
I followed her to the edge of the stream. Casually she glanced back. “He’s close now. He thinks the dark will hide him. But I have good eyes.”
She waded in. I followed. As promised by the people in supply, my boots were waterproof.
Halfway across the water deepened. Nia went up to her knees. I stopped and considered what to do. I couldn’t take off my boots where I was, and I didn’t like the idea of going back the way I had come. The sun was gone. It was twilight in the canyon. Somewhere in the shadows was the man. I had no wish to meet him, especially alone. I waded on. My boots filled with water.
By this time Nia was on the far bank. She bent and brushed the fur on her legs, then stamped her feet. I climbed up beside her and took off my boots, turning them over. Water poured out.
Nia jumped. “Not on me, you idiot! I just dried my fur!”
“I’m sorry.” I took off my socks and squeezed them. “What now?”
“We’ll make camp there.” She waved at the tumbled boulders. “The man will have to come close in order to see us. I intend to be waiting.”
There was a hollow—an empty space—among the rocks. We set our baggage down. In the last light of day we gathered wood.
“Now,” said Nia softly. “You build the fire. But do not light it until I speak.”
As I worked I heard her moving close to me, invisible in the shadows among the rocks. The noise she made stopped. I listened. A bird whistled, and I could hear the stream. Nothing else.
In back of me a voice spoke: “Light the fire.”
I got out my lighter. The dry leaves caught at once. Yellow flames licked up around the branches. I was able to see. On the other side of the hollow was Nia’s bag and something that looked like a person lying full length on the ground, wrapped in a cloak or a blanket. But Nia had spoken from in back of me. I was sure of that. Whatever was under the cloak, it was not my companion.