“Why?”
“Dort Lancin made a swing up the valley in his ’copter. He spotted two clans on the march, and they weren’t just shifting camp. They were moving with a purpose—so fast they had left a stray mare—”
Storm stopped pacing, eying his stepfather with startled interest. For a Norbie to abandon a horse under any circumstances, except to save life, was so unheard of as to join in magnitude Widders’ desire to enter the Blue.
“Heading northeast?” He was not the least surprised to be answered by a nod.
“I can’t understand it. That’s worse than Nitra country—that’s where they eat THE MEAT.” He made the Arzoran sign for the cannibal tribes. “No Shosonna or Warpt or Fanga would head in that direction. He’d be ritually unclean for years—”
“Just so. But that’s where they’re going—not raiding parties but the clans, with their women and children. So I agree this much with Kelson—we ought to know what is going on back there. But how any of us could get in—that is a different matter.”
Storm went to the map. “ ’Copter would crack up if those wind currents are all they’re reported to be.”
“They are, all right,” Quade returned with grim emphasis. “You might—with a crack pilot—do some exploring along the fringe under the right conditions and weather. But you couldn’t make any long survey flight into that region. Any exploring party would have to go on horses or afoot.”
“The Norbies do have wells—”
“Which are clan secrets and not shared with us.”
Storm was still tracing the lines of the mountains on the mural map. “Did Logan ever learn any well calls?”
Though the human voice box could not duplicate Norbie speech, nor a Norbie produce anything like a Galactic basic word, there was a rarer form of communication that some of the Arzor-born settlers—those initiated deeply enough into native ways—could understand, even if they could not imitate it themselves. Long, lilting calls, which were almost like songs, were a known code. These were used by native scouts as warnings or reports, and it was common knowledge among the riders that some were used only to signal the appearance or disappearance of water.
“He might have.”
“You’re sure he is riding with Krotag?”
“He wouldn’t be allowed to join any other clan.”
The meercats awoke, squeaked. Again Surra growled, alert to the tension behind that quiet answer. Then the big cat padded soft-footed to the door.
“Someone’s coming—” Storm stated the obvious. Surra was familiar with every living thing at the holding, human, animal, Norbie. She was waiting now for a stranger.
The dune cat’s phenomenal hearing and her better than human nose had heralded the newcomers long before they reached the door, where Quade now stood in the cool gloom of very early morning to welcome them. A path of light from the window picked out the green tunic of a Peace Officer, and a moment later the visitor’s hail came in Kelson’s voice.
“Hallo—the holding!”
“The fire is waiting!” Brad Quade called back the customary answer.
Storm was not in the least surprised to see that Kelson’s companion was Widders, who, in his finicky civ dress, looked even more out of place in the comfortable but rather rough-hewn main chamber. Its chief decorations were trophies of Norbie weapons on the walls, its heavy furnishings were made out of native wood by settler hands, and a few off-world mementos of Brad Quade’s roving past as an officer of Survey were scattered around.
Widders crossed the threshold with an authoritative stride and then halted quickly as he fronted Surra. The big cat regarded him with a long, wide-eyed stare. Storm knew that she had not only imprinted the civ’s appearance on her memory for all time but had also made up her mind concerning him, and that her opinion was not in any way flattering to the off-world Gentle Homo. Majestically, she moved to the far side of the room and leaped to the low couch, which was her own particular seat. But she did not curl up at ease; instead she sat upright, the nervous tip of her fluffy fox tail just brushing her foretoes, her vulpine ears at attention.
Storm busied himself at the heating unit to produce the inevitable cups of swankee. His early tension was increased now. Kelson had brought Widders here. That meant that neither the off-worlder nor the officer had given up the wild scheme about the Blue, but Quade’s word would carry weight. Hosteen did not believe that the others were going to be satisfied with the outcome of the interview.
“Glad you came,” Quade said to Kelson. “We’ve a problem here—”
“I have a problem, Gentle Homo,” Widders cut in. “I understand you have a son who knows the outback regions very well, has hunted over them. I’d like to see him—as soon as possible—”
Quade’s face showed no signs of a frown, but just as Hosteen knew Surra’s emotions, he was aware of the flick of temper that brash beginning aroused in Brad Quade.
“I have two sons,” the settler replied deliberately, “both of whom can claim a rather extensive knowledge of the Peaks. Hosteen has already told me of your wish to enter the Blue.”
“And he has refused to try it.” Widders was smoldering under his shell. He was not a man used to, or able to accept, opposition.
“If he had agreed, he would need remedial attention from a conditioner,” Quade returned dryly. “Kelson, you know the utter folly of such a plan.”
The Peace Officer was staring into the container of swankee he held. “Yes, I know all the risks, Brad. But we have to get in there—it’s imperative! And chiefs such as Krotag will accept a mission like this as an excuse—they can understand a father in search of his son.”
So that was it—a big piece of puzzle slipped neatly into place. Hosteen began to realize that Kelson was making sense after all. There was a reason for exploring the Blue, an imperative reason. And Widders’ quest would be understandable to the Norbies, among whom family and clan ties were close. A father in search of his missing son—yes, that could be a talking point, which normally would gain Widders native guides, mounts, maybe even the use of some of the hidden water sources. But the important word in that was “normally.” This was not a normal Big Dry, and the clans were acting very abnormally.
“Logan has blood drink-brothers or a brother with Krotag’s clan, hasn’t he?” Kelson pushed on. “And you”—he looked to Hosteen—“are a hunt and war companion of Gorgol.”
“Gorgol’s gone.”
“And so has Logan,” Quade added. “He rode off five days ago to join Krotag’s drift—”
“Into the Blue!” Kelson exclaimed.
“I don’t know.”
“The Zamle clan were in the First Finger.” Kelson put down his drink and went to the wall map. “They were in camp here last time I checked.” He stabbed a forefinger on one of the long, narrow canyons striking up into the Peaks, almost a roadway into the Blue.
Storm moved uneasily, picked up a wandering meercat kit, and held it cupped against his chest, where it patted him with small forepaws and chittered drowsily. Logan had gone with the clan. The reasons for doing it might matter, but the fact that he had gone mattered more. The boy might be condemned by his own recklessness, facing more than just the perils of the Big Dry.
Continuing to stare at the map without really seeing its configurations, Hosteen began to plan. Rain—no, he could not ride Rain. The stallion was an off-world import without even one year’s seasoning here. He’d need native-bred mounts—two at least, though four would be better. A man had to keep changing horses in the Big Dry. He’d need two pack animals per man for water transport. Other supplies would necessarily be concentrates that did not satisfy a body used to normal food but which provided the necessary energy to keep men going for days.