The followers nodded.
Tinker felt defeated. Three days of crawling and swimming had disintegrated their issue tissue garments. Now their skins were disintegrating too. Lacking melanin and niacin, their epidermis blistered and peeled. There was no place to hide from the sun’s deadly radiant energy. The rays bounced off water and waxy leaves—seeking their naked bodies. Blister beds festered with gritty exudates.
“Certainly need our medipacks,” said Tinker.
“We just didn’t have time to bring them,” soothed Mu Ren. She touched his hand gently—weakly.
Tinker foraged briefly, returning with protein-rich whole grain. Their baking nap was brief, restless. That night they averaged two miles per hour. Feet and knees swelled. At dawn they bathed wounds in canal waters.
“Shouldn’t we ask the Big ES for mercy?” wept Mu Ren.
Tinker studied their skin lesions. Back and shoulders were getting worse—no sign of healing. But on their hands and arms blisters crusted. Ulcers dried.
“There is no mercy in the hive,” he said. “Just the law. We broke that when we came Outside and crushed crops. Each footstep deprives some citizen of calories. The hive will remember that. Our credits have been confiscated. Oh, it wouldn’t be too bad for me. After a bout with Psych I’d get my old caste position, but you wouldn’t be so lucky. And certainly Junior’s fate is the pattie press.”
He picked up his son, hugging him and letting Mu Ren rest her arms. None of the child’s blisters had broken, and now he noticed a hint of color coming to the backs of the pudgy little hands.
“He’s tanning,” exclaimed Tinker.
Mu Ren failed to see the significance.
“He has our genes. We should tan too. There is hope.”
They both squinted through the bright green radiance. Yes, there was a hint of melanin in the child’s skin. Their sleep was more restful that afternoon. On their seventh day in the gardens their courage was rewarded with a lessening of skin pain. Dry crusts covered much of their upper trunks, and covered them comfortably. Their appetites improved. On their tenth day a canal crossing was actually enjoyable—so strong was their skin.
“Those would be the mountains,” said Tinker.
“There are so many. Which one?”
“Can’t be sure from here. I’ve been trying to keep us on a course about five degrees south of due east. I hope we can find a flat-topped mountain in about ten more days of travel.”
Mu Ren climbed up onto a tree limb. Her brown scales matched the bark.
“Some have snow caps. Don’t see any flat ones yet,” she said, shielding her eyes with cupped hands.
“Huntercraft!”
They fled into the canal—three heads nose-deep in grassy waters. The craft kept its straight course, crossing a hundred yards downstream. Its large cup-shaped sensors stared ahead.
The ancient seer of Mount Tabulum climbed arthritically onto the Harvester’s neck and pressed his ball against the big neck’s knob of neurocircuitry. Ball glowed. Harvester stirred.
“My motor units have been partially disengaged,” said the bulky meck. “I detect a citizen under my RF wheel, but I can’t back off.”
“The Nebish killed himself pulling off your contacts that way,” snarled Hip. “Forget him. Tell us—is there any word of our Tinker?”
A flock of naked Eyepeople crowded against the huge wheels to listen. The meck’s power was down and its voice weak.
“The three decaying bodies were found—squeak.”
The muscular coweye who had carried the bodies smiled broadly. She had covered the distance in less than three days. Even with mummification the three corpses were a significant burden. Her peers acknowledged the feat, and would allow her any choice cuts Hip might assign. Accolades and calories.
“Good. Good,” said Hip. “Do you know where Tinker is?”
“There have been no sightings I could assign to them. They are not being hunted. That’s all I can—say—squeak.”
Satisfied, Hip and his followers began their slow climb back to their village.
That evening’s meal became a minor feast. The corpse-carrying coweye was honored with prime slices of liver and quadriceps muscle. Buckeyes admired her.
Hip spent several hours studying the heavens and drawing circles and lines in the dust. Finally he began to arrange colored stones along one of the curved lines. A large blue stone had a deep ring etched on its circumference. This he placed at one end of the line. Chanting about a wandering star, he pointed to a pinpoint of light in the eastern sky.
Near the center of the arc he placed three more stones—a big white, a little red and a little green. Pointing to the western sky—still slightly aglow from the recent sunset—he chanted about three other pinpoints. They were scattered over about a two-constellation arc.
The villagers watched and fingered piles of beads and cord. They began fashioning necklaces and bracelets to match the mystic diagrams in the dust. Their seer promised great things when the stars matched the beads.
Ball glowed—a pleasant pulsing emerald green.
Hip put his hand on Ball, frowned, and then hastily added a fourth stone to the center of his arc. Beads were threaded. Naked villagers squatted under a starry sky answering the chants of their seer.
Scabby Mu Ren lay coughing bubbles as the thin mountain air put fluid into her lungs. Exertion aggravated her pulmonary edema. Tinker squatted down beside her and took the infant.
“We’ll have to rest here for a while—until you can acclimatize. Your alveolar lining cells need more enzymes.”
He put down the infant. Immediately little Junior began to crawl among the glowing plankton towers. Little hands explored. Chewy edibles were picked and examined orally.
Spitting froth, she asked: “Can you see Table Mountain?”
“Yes,” said Tinker. “It is past that range with the heaps of cube apartments. Cubes—Rec Centers. We can cross over easily enough—when you get your pulmonary function back.”
Mu Ren watched little Junior, admiring the quick, easy way he crawled and climbed. Strong. Acclimatized quickly.
Three days later her enzymes strengthened and handled the gas differential efficiently. Tinker carried Junior and they began to cross the Rec Center’s miles of cubicles. Translucent walls pulsed with eerie lights and sounds. No one saw them, for the walls were on step-down. It was a rare Nebish that was brave enough to look Outside—even at night.
They climbed, walked and climbed again. Service ladders and spacious downspouts made their ascent easy. A harsh dawn drove them into a crevice where they found flint artifacts, ash and bone. Their scabs peeled. Tender mahogany skin appeared. A buckeye came to meet them.
As the shaggy intruder stepped into their cave, Tinker put a protective arm around Mu Ren. Noticing their distress, the buckeye set his spear down at the cave mouth and held up empty hands, smiling broadly. Although small for a buckeye, he still towered over them—leathery skin, sinewy and tanned.
“I’ve come from the Hip to take you to our village.”
Tinker put down the bleached femur-bludgeon and held up his empty hand. Exposure had darkened his skin until it almost matched the buckeye’s. A beard and unkempt hair added to the similarity.
“I am Tinker. This is Mu Ren and our child. We are very tired.”
“I understand. Follow me,” said the buckeye. He led them out slowly.
The villagers grinned silently at their approach. The robed seer awaited them at the rocky cairn. His face reflected the dignity of his position as he spoke.
“Welcome to our village. I am the Elder. My followers call me the Hip. This is my crystal ball.”