They discussed the age of the frozen Habra in private; they had decided not to reveal it even to S’Nash, to make sure that Rekchellet’s expressed wishes weren’t accidentally frustrated. The body was, in fact, much more recent than the wing which had been found earlier, little over twenty-two thousand Common Years — well within the carbon reliability range on this world. They wondered where and how it had actually been found. The only source either one could guess was the putative Ennissee dig, and thinking of that made Hugh impatient again. All Janice could do was point out the obvious fact that the body could have come from anywhere on Habranha where ice existed, and that this was not even restricted to the dark hemisphere. The reminder didn’t really help. A confrontation with Ennissee, with a Naxian on hand to indicate whether the Crotonite were telling the truth, was very high on Hugh’s want list.
Whenever he was less self-centered, of course, the list had Rekchellet’s recovery even higher. Frequent calls to the Naxian station brought only the ages-old and galaxy-wide medical response — progress was normal. Since the biologists had admittedly never before tried the current techniques on a Crotonite, Hugh was tempted to ask just what the word could mean in this case.
He restrained himself, however, with Janice’s help, and tried to concentrate on his work. Occasionally a minor accident somewhere in Pitville would help, or at least relieve boredom. So did the training of Erthumoi workers in the use of diving fluid and Pit equipment, against the approaching time when Naxians would be unable to support the pressure at the bottom. Work on designing a Habra suit able to protect the natives from liquid air temperatures was making some headway, Ted reported. Erthumoi and Naxians had been helpful with information about the insulations they used. The Habra could not say what the difficulty was; he wasn’t involved with the matter himself, and had merely been asked by his Erthuma chief whether he knew anything about the program. Hugh, at the time of the question, had been particularly annoyed by the carelessness of some trainees of his own species, and was made no happier by Ted’s answer.
Twice he was able to talk to Rekchellet himself.
The second time the Crotonite reported that his hands and legs were done, but his wings were still immersed and restrained in growth tanks. He seemed disinclined to accept the Erthuma’s congratulations; wings appeared to be all that really mattered. Neither Hugh nor Janice, who happened to be in the safety office at the time, was greatly surprised, but did their best to point out the good side. The woman asked whether the Naxians were supplying proper Crotonite food, and found that this was precisely the wrong question.
“They haven’t fed me a shred!” Rekchellet snarled. “By the time my wings have grown back, my stomach will have shriveled. They insist they have to keep track of every molecule that gets into me. It’s all synthesized from chemically purified minerals, they brag, and is pumped straight into the tank — just enough into my arteries to keep my brain from shriveling, too! Not a drop or a sip in my mouth!”
“Do your people have organic feeding enthusiasts?” asked Janice. The other failed to get her meaning, and the discussion at least distracted him from his troubles for a few minutes. Unfortunately, her description of the people she was trying to explain carried a suggestion of extremism, and this reminded Rekchellet of Ennissee. The patient soared into another rage and was still in it when duty forced Hugh to drop out of the conversation. Hoping his wife could smooth matters over, he left his office to inspect the Pit area. He made it a point to get all the way to the bottom and be very detailed.
“I got him thinking about Ennissee waiting for us to set out for the Cold Pole and wondering whether we really would, as Reekess did before. It seemed to work,” Janice said hours later when both were back in their quarters. “Rek was almost gloating. I still hope you — we — don’t walk into more trouble. I’d hate to have us in a couple of those Naxian tanks growing new extremities.”
“I doubt that’s what Ennissee’d want for us,” answered her husband. “We were born crawlers, beneath his dignity to hate from the beginning. Rek is a renegade by his standards, worth real emotion. That’s hypothesis, of course; I’m not at all sure. He may not even feel strongly about Rek, may just have wanted a Crotonite subject to go through the routine before he faced it himself. Don’t worry about our trip — I mean, worry as sensibly as you can; we’ll be careful.”
Fafnir had just risen again in the northeast as seen from Pitville when a Naxian called to say that someone could come to collect Rekchellet. He had already been brought down to Pwanpwan, and was waiting at the Guild center, or possibly flying about the city; the speaker could not be sure. It was Barrar, not Hugh, who received the call. The Erthuma knew nothing of the matter until minutes later, when Rekchellet settled beside him outside his office. The Crotonite was in very high spirits.
“Strong as ever,” he whistled, spreading his broad wings to full span — fortunately there was little wind at the moment. “You’d better take a good look, so you’ll know me still. The wing-face isn’t exactly the same. They said there was nothing they could do about that; the basic nature of the pattern is genetic, but the details are random.” Hugh obeyed. He had become as accustomed during the last Common Year to recognizing Crotonites by their wings and Naxians by their body swirls and ripples as his own species by their faces, and felt after a few seconds that he would still know Rekchellet among any number of his fellows. He was about to ask whether Ennissee might also recognize his former victim when Rekchellet forestalled him.
“Are we ready for the trip? Who’s going? I want that (no-symbol-equivalent) to have a chance to recognize me again, too.”
“Almost. We decided four other Crotonites, you, and four Habras, all of you flying yourselves, at least until a lot of the food’s used up, with the big craft carrying the food. The trip will take longer than if you all could ride, but we won’t be so restricted when we get there. Does that make sense to you? Can you fly that far on your new wings?”
“Of course. It’s the same old muscles, just new webs, and the muscles certainly need the exercise. I want to fly anyway. It’s been much too long. What’s not ready?”
“I don’t have the ship, of course. I didn’t even dare ask for it until I knew when you’d be here and we could go. Also, I think I’m learning something. I’m not going to ask for it.”
“Who is? I don’t carry any weight. There isn’t a flying person anywhere in Administration. I can guess why.”
“There are no Cephallonians, either, and only one Erthuma, for that matter. I’m it. I don’t try to guess why. It took me a long, long time to get an aircraft the other time, and I think I can shorten it now. Never mind why.”
“How?” asked Rekchellet.
“I’ll have S’Nash ask.”
“That doesn’t make sense. It/he isn’t an administrator, or even a section chief.”
“Not officially. Just a communication engineer and documentarian on Spreadsheet-Thinker’s table. But it/he gives me a strong impression of having weight to throw around, for reasons I can’t yet guess, and I’m going to encourage another throw. Wait and see. I’m a little surprised it/he’s not here already, but I’ll call around.”