On the third day, Bluecloak roused her before dawn when the voices came again. Ofelia hobbled across to the center, stiff as she always was in the early morning, and grumpy with being awakened in that last sweet deep slumber before she would have awakened on her own.
“They’re landing this time,” Ofelia said. “They’re coming here.” She had known they would—it was the only reasonable thing for them to do, and they must by now have noticed that a human and some of the creatures were here—but she had hoped very much they would do the unreasonable thing and go away.
Bluecloak’s throat-sac expanded, and it thrummed at her.
“I know,” Ofelia said. “I have to do something.” What, she had no idea. She listened to the pilot of the shuttle describing his descent, his plan for landing. They would make one low-altitude pass to look again at the colony and check for weapons. It would be noisy, then, worse than just landing. They had made a low-altitude pass the day before, scaring all the creatures, sending the sheep and cattle into panicky stampedes around the meadows. Ofelia looked at Bluecloak, pointed up, and covered her ears.
Far in the distance, she heard the approaching growl of the shuttle. They would circle out to sea, then come back and land. She would have to go meet them, and say . . . what? What could she say that would keep them from bothering Gurgle-click-cough? She stood up, only then realizing that she had come from her bed wearing nothing at all but the string of beads she rarely took off these days.
And she had no idea where her dress was, the only dress that strange humans would find decent. Or shoes . . . she had thrown that last pair of shoes in the recycler, she remembered.
As fast as she could, she hobbled back to her house through the predawn twilight, and grabbed the green embroidered cloak that had impressed Bluecloak. At least one of the peoples here would find it appropriate. The shuttle thundered overhead; she did not go outside to look at it. She used the toilet, splashed water on her face, scrubbed at her teeth, swiped at her flyaway hair with both hands. Then she wrapped a length of cloth around her hips, and looped more strands of beads around her neck. They might think she had gone native, but at least they would recognize an effort made to look festive.
This took longer than she wanted; she had to use the toilet again. Now she heard the great roar of the shuttle approaching, descending. She went out her front door, and shooed the creatures back into shelter. If there was only one old woman, she did not think the other humans would shoot first—and if they did, at least the creatures might have a chance to escape.
She saw the shuttle angling in, but ignored it to look in the doorway of the house where Gurgle-click-cough was. The two creatures on guard waited just inside the door, looking tense even in the dimness. They could have turned the light on, Ofelia thought, but when she reached for the switch, one of them caught her wrist. She heard a wheezy rasp from the closet. Ofelia sighed. Naturally it would happen now, at the worst possible moment. And she would not get to see it, because she had to go deal with her own kind. It seemed as unfair as the rest of life.
“Good luck to you,” she said softly.
“Click-kaw-keerrr,” they all replied in soft chorus. As if she could forget that responsibility. By the time she reached the shuttle strip, the sun was just up, shining right in her face, making it hard to see anything but a great dark blur that stank of scorched plastics and oils. Ofelia squinted into the light, moving slowly over the rough pavement where grass was doing its best to reclaim its domain. No one called out to her; no one came toward her.
When she got into the shadow of the shuttle, she could see them clumped on the ramp above, all wearing bulky suits that would be intolerable later in the day. Ofelia could have laughed at them, but then they would think she was crazy. They might think that anyway—with their eyes on her, she was far more aware of how she must look. She felt herself going hot, but perhaps they wouldn’t notice with her dark tanned skin and the early light.
Two of them held weapons, and looked past her to the village with professional intensity. The unarmed man in front was probably the one in charge. He had that expression, of one used to telling others what to do. She had forgotten how much she disliked that expression. Beside him, crowding him, stood a woman who looked as disgruntled as Ofelia felt. Remembered resentment gave her the courage to speak first.
“This was not a good time,” she said. She put into it all the reproach of the experienced mother. “You’ve upset them.” No need to specify who was upset; they would know.
The man puffed out his chest; he didn’t like it that she had spoken first. Ofelia didn’t care, and she didn’t listen past the first “. . . authority . . .” She interrupted, telling him again that it wasn’t a good time. “You could have listened when I tried to talk to you,” she said. They didn’t have to know that she’d only keyed the transmitter once.
This time the woman answered. Her voice sounded mature, but she was certainly younger than Ofelia. Perhaps middle-aged, but it was hard to tell with shipfolk, who hardly ever saw weather. Ofelia answered her, trying to think ahead to what would impress this woman. She wasn’t afraid of the man who thought he was the leader, that was clear. Perhaps this woman would be sensible, and listen. The men, of course, did not; she had hardly started talking to the woman when two of them interrupted. But their voices clashed over each other, and the woman spoke again.
“Who are you?” she asked, as if she had a right to know.
Ofelia turned the question back on her—would she recognize that as the insult it was?—and the woman did not answer, but reassured Ofelia that they had not come to hurt her, but to help her.
Help! She had not asked for help; she didn’t need help; she needed them to go away and let her alone. She snorted before she could stop herself, and the woman looked embarrassed, as if she realized how preposterous that was.
She made it very clear, spelling it out. “I don’t need help.” And they might as well know that she knew about the other colony. “If you’re here about that other lot—”
The man interrupted, and then the armed man; it was as if they had a contest on, which could ask questions the fastest. Ofelia answered, shortly. She was not a schoolchild in a contest; they might at least have had the courtesy to come down to her level, offer her a seat, before pouncing on her with all these questions. The creatures, alien as they were, had shown more courtesy.
“Didn’t you try to help?” the unarmed man said finally. Ofelia glared at him, wishing boils on his posterior and head lice to his children. One moment he questioned her as if she were a stupid child, and the next he thought she had magical powers and could fly thousands of kilometers to rescue healthy young people from disaster? Ridiculous, insulting . . . she ran through her store of invective, in grim silence, until he turned red.
The woman spoke again, asking how long she’d been there. Another stupid question, if less insulting; it was just possible, Ofelia thought, that some silly old woman with a spaceship might have crashed here, or even come here prospecting or something. She explained, briefly; she enjoyed the shock on the woman’s face when she told the truth about the Company’s attitude toward old colonists. Didn’t know everything, she didn’t, no matter what fancy job she had. Wait until she was old enough to face her company’s scorn . . . then she’d know. But the man broke in again, this time scolding her for being there. Like the Company, he thought she was just a nuisance, just something to be dealt with. The old resentment boiled up, making a bad taste in Ofelia’s mouth. That one had not even been a colonist, was not due the respect she had paid to the men who worked with their women to build the village she lived in. She had not liked all of them, or all the things they did, but the slackers had died early on, one way and another, and the men who had been evacuated had earned her respect if not her affection. This one, with his smooth ship-bred skin, hiding in that protective suit as if one old woman were a threat to his safety . . . She probably was, she thought.