"There's no harm telling you. We'll build an airtight hatch over the barge and leave Magarak."
"Ah." The pilot nodded. "Now, indeed, I will join you."
"Now? Your previous promises could not have been sincere."
"You misunderstand. We of Splang are very delicate in our meanings."
"Chevrr up there is a Splang; I have no difficulty understanding him."
The pilot hissed contemptuously. "He is the mountain stock, a crude uncouth race. We of the coast forests are a different people entirely."
"Well, no matter," said Barch. "I'll take a chance on you. What's your name?"
The pilot said something like, "T'ck-T'ck-T'ck."
"I'll call you Tick," said Barch. "You understand that I'll think poorly of any attempt to visit Quodaras?"
"Certainly. That's to be expected."
"Then help fill the hole with rock. I'll talk more to you later."
Barch sat studying his list of the tribe members, a heterogeneous crew. Of men with technical skills useful in the conversion of a cargo barge to a space-ship, there was a depressing paucity. Pedratz claimed a knowledge of welding; Kerbol displayed familiarity with explosives; Tick could fly the barge. But who knew anything about air purification, who could repair drive-circuits, who knew the lore of space navigation?
Barch looked unseeingly into the fire, drumming his fingers, thinking. The first thing to do was isolate the problems, work on each by itself. First, there must be greater security against the Klau. Barch critically inspected the opening to the cave, where nothing prevented Podruods from stepping in to kill them all.
He rose to his feet, walked through the winding crevice out into the night. Darkness everywhere. The wind roared down the valley, the great black leaves flapped a melancholy undertone, like surf on a rocky beach. Behind him the faintest glimmer of light shone out from the crevice.
Tomorrow he would arrange some kind of trip-alarm system around the clearing. But there was still tonight. Barch returned within. Nearest the opening sat two Calbyssinians, Ardl and Arn busy at their incomprehensible love-making, each trying to divine the other's sex. Barch knelt beside them, took off his wrist watch. "Tonight we keep guard. You two will watch first, for as long as it takes this little finger to move from here to here. Then one of you will wake"-he looked over his shoulder-"the two Griffits. Come outside and I will show you where you must station yourselves. It's important."
At the cave mouth he said, "Arn, you stand here; Ardl, you walk quietly through the forest at the edge of the clearing. At every circuit report to Am. Change off if you like. When you wake the Griffits, give them the same instructions."
Returning inside he set four more watches, himself taking the middle watch with Kerbol.
One problem temporarily shoved back out of the way.
Tick, the hatchet-faced pilot, was engaged in conversation with Chevrr, his brittle countryman. Barch joined them. "How did you get your assignments? Did you work out of a central transportation depot?" he asked.
"Correct. My depot is-was-Quodaras Thirteen, and every day I might receive a different assignment."
"You must know Magarak well."
Tick preened himself. "As well as any man can know it."
"What if there was freight for a strange location?"
"There is always the locator in the dome."
"Locator?" Barch pricked up his ears. "A chart?"
Tick said with airy superiority, as if he himself had designed the mechanism, "No, no. Much more complicated and complete. It's a three-dimensional view-box, indexed to all parts of Magarak."
"Let's look at this locator."
Tick spoke volubly as they climbed the winding passage to Big Hole. "… a good barge, a fine sleek barge, freshly fueled, and why? Because I, Tick, have done favors for Goleimpas Gstad, dispatcher for Quodaras Thirteen: a Bornghaleze, very influential. 'Tick,' says Gstad, 'the range of the hangar is yours; select a barge which reflects your own excellence.' So daily I watch the route strip and only two days past comes a barge fresh from the growth vats-"
"Growth vats? Do they grow the barges, too?"
"Indeed." Tick turned Barch a look of surprise. "Do you not grow ships and vessels on your planet?"
"No," said Barch. "We use different methods."
"If you arrive home, as I confidently expect, you will be a great innovator. It is all a matter of selecting the correct secretors, of priming them with responsible fluids and directing the growth with care. As a result-" They rounded the sharp chunk of marble agate at the top of the passage, stepped out into Big Hole. Tick waved at the sleek black hulk silhouetted against the firelit limestone wall.
Barch stopped, impressed by the magnitude of his acquisition. "How do you refuel the barge?"
Tick made a disdainful gesture. "I am the pilot. I am never concerned with such matters… However, the accr is inserted in the hatch under the dome."
"How much? How often?"
Tick blocked a rectangle six by three inches in the air. "Once a month perhaps, a new charge is inserted."
Fuel shortage would be no problem, thought Barch. Accr was evidently an atomic fuel, compressed electricity, solidified radiation. It made no real difference as long as he could lay his hands on enough of it.
Tick sprang nimbly into the dome. Barch thought with grim humor that if Tick ever made it into the trees, he'd be a hard man to catch. He followed more sedately. Tick was peering with interest into a glowing slit, a trifle to the left of the seat. "Ha, hm."
Barch waited impatiently. "Well?"
"Quodaras Thirteen is very active; I was watching the traffic."
"Let's see." Barch pressed Tick out of the way, looked inside the slit.
His first impression was of looking at a glowing abstract painting. There were pink blocks, orange squares, feathery light-blue towers. Black lines webbed the pattern; almost invisible squares of white film floated above. Sparks of every conceivable color drifted slowly over the panorama. "Those sparks," asked Barch, "What are they? Barges?"
"Correct," said Tick cheerfully. "Each district has a distinct color; Quodaras Thirteen is pale green."
Barch said in a strained voice, "This barge shows as a green spark?"
Tick hesitated, as if troubled by a passing thought. "Well, yes."
"Show me on the chart."
Tick slowly twirled a knob, glanced into the slit. "There is Palkwarkz Ztvo. And there-"
Barch peered down at a pale gray physiographic outline of the mountains. A green spark showed dimly against the mountainside.
Barch looked up quickly. Tick was sidling restlessly toward the door. "Come back here."
Tick crossed the dome with a cheerful expression on his face.
"How do you disconnect whatever is broadcasting our position?"
Tick's eyes wandered toward a little knob joined by a chain to the box. "Best not think of it."
Barch leapt forward like a leopard. Tick's eyes popped in alarm. "Disconnect that light, or I'll kill you right here!"
Tick babbled in a frenzy, "It's not allowed; Goleimpas Gstad would discredit me completely."
Barch tightened his fingers around the pipe-stem throat. Tick's eyeballs protruded an incredible distance. Barch released the pressure. "Disconnect that light!"
Tick, moaning and wheezing, bent over the box, tenderly broke the chain, slid back a plate, punched a glossy green bubble. "Gstad will reduce me to the manure belts."
Barch looked into the viewer. The pale-green spark had disappeared.
Barch turned back to Tick, who was feeling his neck. Tick said quickly, "There are other useful aspects to the locator. Observe. If I would return to Quodaras Thirteen hangar, I find the name on this index." He gave a rotary spindle a whirl, characters glowed and spun. "Then I touch this cell here-" He looked up plaintively as Barch grabbed his wrist.