"My heart's in no danger," Jonny protested. "It'll probably live two years longer than I do."
"Sure it will." Shepherd hooked a thumb in the Menssana's direction. "Go on,
Governor. Call it an order."
For a moment Jonny was tempted to unilaterally take himself out of the chain of command. He found it refreshing to be out in the open air-especially where there was no danger of anything sticking teeth, claws, mandibles, or stings into him-and very much wanted to enjoy the last hours he'd have here. But there was that promise to Chrys.... "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "But under protest."
Together, he and Chrys trotted down the knoll. "The Council sure named this one right," Chrys remarked as they reached level ground and slowed to a more sedate walk.
"Named what right? Kubha?"
"Uh-huh. You know-the five stars of the Southern Cross constellation of Asgard-"
"I know how the planets were code-named, yes," Jonny interrupted her.
"Well, it happens that Kubha's the hottest of those stars; and this Kubha's the hottest of these planets, at least so far. Must be an omen."
Jonny snorted. "Let's not give either the Council or the universe that much credit."
Chrys smiled. "Hey, cheer up," she said, taking his arm, "Everything's really going pretty well. The Jonny Moreau luck seems to hold up even when you're only along for the ride."
"Um. Aside from little things like snakele venom in the nucleic acid analyzer-"
"Fixed," she said. "We got it working again about ten minutes ago. Which was why
I'd been released from my desk and could come out to drag you kicking and screaming back inside."
He shook his head in mock exasperation. "I swear, Chrys, you do a poorer imitation of a loafing passenger than I do."
"And you're delighted. Go on, admit it."
"Why? You're going to send me to my room anyway, aren't you?" he said, putting a well-remembered five-year-old's whine into his voice. "You always want me to play outside on nice days."
She poked him in the ribs. "Stop that-I had my fill of tantrums years ago."
He captured her attacking hand and wrapped the arm around his waist, and for a moment they walked like that in silence. "It would be an ideal planet for colonization, wouldn't it," she said quietly. "And that's going to make it all the harder to say no."
"No to the Trofts?"
She nodded. "The Council's going to want this world, and probably the others as well. And to get them they'll take on the Qasamans... whether that's the smart thing to do or not."
Jonny grimaced. The same thought had been lurking in the back of his own mind for at least two planets now. "We'll just have to hope the Dewdrop's report is solid enough that it relegates ours to footnote status as far as that decision is concerned."
"With Lizabet Telek in charge of writing it?" Chrys snorted. "She wants these worlds so badly she can taste it. She'll make sure the Qasamans sound like crippled porongs as far as fighting ability is concerned."
"I don't know if she's that underhanded," Jonny demurred cautiously. "And with
Almo, Justin, and Joshua aboard she'd have a hard time slanting things too far."
Still, he thought as they passed the Cobra guard at the Menssana's airlock and stepped through to the cool shock of the ship's climate control, it might not hurt to tone down our report a shade or two. Emphasize Chata's flatfoot herds, perhaps, and Fuson's spitting snakeles. Every world's got its drawbacks-all we have to do is find them and make them visible.
And hope the Council doesn't take them too seriously. Already the ship's cooler air was affecting his arthritic joints, reminding him with each twinge that he'd been a bit lax with his medication schedule. He would hate to see a world like
Kubha slip through mankind's fingers for no real reason.
Whether it was worth a war... well, that decision didn't yet need to be made.
Chapter 12
The complete tour of Sollas and its environs took six days; and for Cerenkov the most amazing part was how the Qasamans could keep them so busy while showing them so little.
So little of real importance, anyway. They spent a great many hours touring art galleries, cultural museums, and parks, while evenings were usually filled with dance and musical performances at their guest house and long discussions with
Mayor Kimmeron or other high-ranking officials. At no time, despite Cerenkov's carefully phrased requests, was the contact team taken to anything resembling a communications or computing center; nor were they shown any of the city's industrial or manufacturing capability.
And yet such capability obviously existed. The glimpses they got of intercity roads and the relatively sparse traffic on them showed Sollas's goods weren't simply being shipped in from somewhere else.
"It's got to be underground," Rynstadt commented that evening as the four men relaxed in the lounge that connected their two sleeping rooms. "All of it: refining, manufacturing, waste processing-maybe there's even a tunnel network for product distribution."
"Except for smaller operations like the boron plant we saw the first day?"
Cerenkov shrugged. "Possibly. Probably, even. Sure seems to be the hard way to do it, though."
"Depends on what they were after," Joshua put in. "Aesthetically, this is a clean, beautiful city, a good place to spend your leisure time even if you have to work underground all day."
"Or else," York said quietly, "they were simply worried about having everything out in the open."
Cerenkov felt his jaw tense up, forced it to relax. The unspoken assumption was that the Qasamans were eavesdropping on these conversations, and to go anywhere near military concepts made him nervous. But on the other hand, ignoring such a normal aspect of human societies was likely to look even more suspicious. As long as York didn't let his professional interests run away with him-"What do you mean? They built underground to protect their manufacturing base from attack?"
"Or from detection," York replied. "Remember our assumed starting point:
‚migr‚s-or exiles-from perceived repression, having gone way farther than they intended and now stuck on Qasama with a useless stardrive."
"Do you suppose they ran into some Troft ships on the way here?" Joshua suggested. "The Dominion probably hadn't met either them or the Minthisti when the Qasamans left. If I'd just seen a Troft for the first time, I think I'd probably have kept going until my tanks ran dry."
Nodding, York said, "I suspect that's exactly what they did. The distance seems right for a colony ship's full dry-tank range." He looked back at Cerenkov. "I'd guess they had their whole city underground to begin with, moving up only as they started to outgrow the space and no one showed up to stomp them."
"And they came up smack in the middle of the bololin migration pattern,"
Cerenkov sighed, shaking his head. "Definitely poor planning on someone's part."
"That doesn't explain where the villages came from Rynstadt mused. "Though maybe we can get some of their history tomorrow. Assuming the trip is still on."
Cerenkov shrugged. "As far as I know Moff and company are driving us out there first thing tomorrow morning." He broke off as a familiar hooting sounded faintly in the distance.
York grimaced. "More bololins. I think I'd have stayed underground until I found a way to keep the damn things out."
At least, Cerenkov thought, the streets ought to be pretty empty by now. I wonder how many people those things kill every year? "I assume they had their reason. Maybe Moff will loosen up some day and talk about it."