Walter made a motion to ease his bulk into Foxhound. Val blocked his way gently.
“Stay and keep an eye on HC. You can help me more back here with the buckeye detectors. I don’t know how long I’ll be out.”
The sphincter opened. Walter shielded his eyes. After Foxhound left, he tapped Tinker’s dispenser for its audio and optic memories. The infant’s birth interested him. He watched Tinker’s talented hands run through the primip procedures smoothly—treating Mu Ren and the baby just like any of the mecks he was always working on—a little wet and soft, but a biologically sound machine. Walter fed the recordings through Security’s Psychokinetoscope searching for FBMs—the fine body movements that indicated psychoses. Nothing. Both Tinker and Mu Ren appeared to be stable until their desertion. Walter was puzzled. Going buckeye had to be psychotic—for Outside was a hostile environment—fatal for citizens.
The Huntercraft settled quietly into a grove of fruit trees and scanned the scum-flecked canal. Cetaceans bellowed and submerged. Val turned off the cabin lights, put his bow across his knees and waited. He was certain Tinker would be along as soon as the sun set. Unexpectedly, the viewscreen picked up a figure walking toward him.
“The sun is still up,” muttered Val. “Tinker should know better than to expose his epidermis to—”
The figure registered seventy kilograms—with mane, shoulders and breasts of a coweye. She waded knee-deep in weedy water along the bank. Val cringed and whispered into his wristcom.
“A rogue coweye. A big one. Her IR skin pattern reads way over in the luteal phase.”
She paused and glanced around suspiciously.
“Can you get a shot at it?” wheezed old Walter.
Val quietly nocked his arrow and motioned for the Huntercraft to crack the hatch. The meck refused.
“Prime directive, sir,” it said. “You cannot hunt from inside my cabin. I would be taking an active part in hominid killing. Step outside. Expose yourself.”
“But I’m a supervisor!” blustered Val.
“She has spooked,” said the meck.
The quarry lowered herself into deeper water. For a few seconds her dry hair trailed on the surface. Then she was gone, leaving tiny bubbles. Foxhound rose with a cloud of dust and leaves—tracking. Her warm body glimmered on the screen. Val swung down-harness, landing in the coweye’s path on the opposite bank. He renocked his arrow. Foxhound moved off in his passive role of taxi—waiting. Val watched the mint-green waters, trying to estimate where she would surface for air. Seconds dragged into minutes. More time allowed her more distance. Nervously alert, he crept further down the bank.
Stumbling over something cold and wet, he let the arrow fly out over the canal. Foxhound’s optic followed the trajectory—a wobbling flight into a distant flowery canopy. Val struggled to his knees and groaned into his wristcom.
“What is it?” asked Walter.
Val pulled off his glove and palpated the slippery form.
“It’s the coweye. She somehow got ahead of me. Powerful swimmer.”
“Hurry and cut her carotid. She’s dangerous.”
“She’s dead already,” scoffed Val.
Walter studied the sensor readings. The body was that of the coweye—same seventy-kilo mass reading. Same breasts and shoulders. Same long hair. Only now she was reading wet and had a temperature the same as the ambient. Mud covered her legs below the knees.
Val signalled Foxhound for pickup. “Aren’t you going to take a trophy?”
“I didn’t kill her,” said Val. “Besides, I’m here for Tinker. Lost too much time already. Make a note to have the Sampler check her remains in the morning.”
Darkness settled. Val relaxed in the cabin listening to an entertainment channel while the Huntercraft scanned. Telltales danced.
“Sighting.”
“Let’s see it on the Hi Lo beam,” whispered Val. “I want to get a look at…” He paused open-mouthed. “The coweye!”
They watched the long-haired female rewarm and climb from the dewy kale greens into the warm canal. Slipping under water she vanished again.
“They’re immortal,” gasped Val.
“Get hold of yourself,” commanded old Walter. “I saw it too, but there must be a logical explanation. Probably just a defective sensor or poor transmission. Foxhound isn’t in the best of condition. I think you should call off your Hunt and get back here. The routine patrols will find Tinker tomorrow.”
Val didn’t need further coaxing. Shuddering, he buckled himself into the safety of his seat and turned the entertainment on loud.
Moses Eppendorff fitted the new louver into its sockets and tested its mobility. He wore his Pipe caste emblem—Aquarius. As each louver was added the defect narrowed and the bright gardens were slowly shut out. Bright, ominous gardens.
“Moses. Walter here. How is it going up there?” Moses glanced at his belt communicator.
“Fine. I’ve got enough in place to relax. If they come back now, at least they won’t be able to get in this way.”
Walter could sympathize with any citizen working so close to the Outside—being conditioned to life in the hive so long. Added to that was the potential attack of an IA like Tinker.
“Well you can relax,” said Walter. “The three bodies have been found cooking in the sun about a mile from there. The Sampler is already on its way. You are safe now—as are we all.”
Moses relaxed.
The robot Sampler trundled around the three brown flaky corpses while the teck directed its operation from the safety of an adjacent shaft cap.
“That will do for the optic records. Pick up the infant’s body first and put it on the lid of the hopper.”
The Sampler’s heavy lower appendages scooped up the friable mess. The green grass underneath caught the teck’s eye. “Sample the grass. The body hasn’t been here long.”
While they watched the small blades of grass slowly stood up. The Sampler’s small upper appendages quickly dissected the corpse, indexing a missing segment of rib and a perforated heart and chest wall. Moving to the nearest adult-sized body it noted six large puncture wounds of the trunk—each about three inches in diameter. Sex, male. Liver and large muscle masses of thigh missing.
The teck made a mental note that the buckeyes must have killed them—making a meal out of parts of Tinker.
The next body also had the marks of many spears. Liver and muscle groups were missing—but the sex again was male! The teck checked the roster of the missing—Tinker, Mu Ren and a one-year-old infant.
All the bodies were loaded on the meck. They were dry and mummified—months dead. The grass under the bodies was bright green. The teck shrugged. It didn’t make sense.
A nervous Nebish work crew blundered around the quiet bulk of the renegade Harvester at the base of Mount Tabulum. Their cumbersome suits snagged the tools and the phobias of Outside clouded their minds. The huge meck’s power cell was exhausted, but enough charge remained on its plates for mentation and tightbeam operation.
The Hip and several of his naked followers watched from a high sheltered crevice.
“They know not what they do,” murmured Hip majestically. “They will not take our Harvester.”
As if to confirm his prediction the big meck lurched and crushed one of the suited forms under a tire. The others ran frantically around in circles for a few minutes. Then one collapsed, apparently from shock. The rest withdrew to a shaft cap.
The Hip held his crystal ball high and repeated.
“The hive will not take our Harvester. The meck will be faithful to us alone. We will have wheels and a tightbeam. And—we have a meck brain to share our love of freedom.”
Then he studied the horizon… adding: “A Tinker is coming to us—from the hive. He is one of us, as you will see by his child’s toes. His hands are skilled. His mate is fertile. We will welcome him to our village.”