"Who's that?" the Grad asked.
The Scientist's Apprentice disdained to answer. The pilot said, "That's Kiance the Scientist. Your new owner. No surprise there, he thinks he owns the whole tree."
Klance the Scientist was arguing with himself as he approached the carm. His white smock reached just below his hips; the ends of a citizen's loose poncho showed below. He was tall for a tree dweller, and lean but for a developing pot belly. Not a fighter, the Grad thought — forty-odd, with slack muscles. His hair was thick and white, his nose narrow and convexly curved. In a moment the Grad heard his voice speaking out of the air.
"Lawri." Sharp, with a peremptory snap in it.
The pilot tapped the yellow button and spread two fingertips apart over the resulting pattern of yellow lines (remember), beating Lawri to it. The carm's two doors swung out and in.
The Scientist was already in conversation as he entered. "They want to know when I can move the tree. Damn fools. They only just finished topping off the reservoir. If I moved it now the water would just float away. First we have to—" He stopped. His eyes flicked to the pilot's back (the pilot hadn't bothered to turn around), then to the Grad, then to Lawri. "Well?"
"He's the Scientist of a ruined tribe. He carried these." Lawri held up plastic boxes.
"Old science." His eyes turned greedy. "Tell me later," he said. "Pilot."
The Navy man's head turned.
"Was the carm damaged in any way? Was anything lost?"
"Certainly not. If you need a detailed report—"
"No, that will do. The rest of the Navy party is waiting for the elevator. I think you can still catch it."
The pilot nodded stiffly. He rose and launched himself toward the twin doors. He nearly brushed the Scientist, who held his ground, pulled himself through the doors and was gone.
The Scientist tapped at yellow lights. The window sprouted a display.
"Fuel tanks are damn near dry. We'll be filling them for weeks. Otherwise…looks all right. Lawri, from you I do want a detailed report, but tell me now if anything happened."
"He seemed to know what he was doing. I don't love the treefeeder, but he didn't bump any rocks. The foray team brought back these, and him."
The Scientist took the plastic objects Lawri handed him. "A reader!" he breathed. "You bring me treasure. What's your name?"
The Grad hesitated, then, "Jeffer."
"Jeffer, I'll wait for your story. We'll get you cleaned up first. All these years I've been waiting for the Navy to lose my carm, reader and all. I can't tell you what it means to have a spare."
The tide was lighter. Otherwise Minya couldn't tell London Tree from her own tuft. Here was the same green gloom, the same vegetable smells. Branching tunnels ran through foliage stripped bare by passersby. The tall women led them in silence. Jinny and Minya followed.
They passed nobody.
They were still naked. Jinny walked hunched over, as if that would cover her. She hadn't spoken since Jayan was taken away.
They had traveled some distance before Minya felt the wind. Minutes later the tunnel swelled out into a great cavity, lit by harsh daylight at the far end.
"Jinny. Was the Commons this big in Quinn Tuft?"
Jinny looked about her, dutifully, and showed no reaction. "No."
"Neither was ours." The cavity ran round the trunk and all the way to the treemouth itself. She could see the empty sky beyond. The shadows were strange, with the blue tinge of Voylight glaring from below. In Dalton-Quinn Tuft Voy had been always overhead.
All that foliage had had to be torn out. Weren't the copsik runners afraid of killing the tree? Or would they only move to another?
Thirty or forty women had formed a line for food. Many were attended by children: three years old and younger. They ignored Minya and Jinny as they were marched past, toward the treemouth.
"Tell me what bothers you most," Minya said.
Jinny didn't answer for several breaths. Then, "Clave."
"He wasn't on the box. He must be still in the jungle. Jinny, his leg has to heal before he can do anything."
"I'll lose him," Jinny said. "He'll come, but I'll lose him. Jayan's got his child. I won't be his anymore."
"Clave loves you both," Minya said, though she hadn't the remotest idea how Clave actually thought.
Jinny shook her head. "We belong to the copsik runners, the men. Look, they're already here."
Minya frowned and looked about her. Was Jinny imagining…?
Her eye picked up something in the green curve that roofed the Commons, a dark shape hidden in shadow and foliage. She found two more…four, five…men. She said nothing.
They were led to the edge of the treemouth, almost beneath the great reservoir mounted where branch merged into trunk. Minya looked downslope. Offal, garbage…two bodies on platforms, completely covered in cloth. When she turned away, their escorts had stepped out of their ponchos.
They took their charges by the arms and led them beneath the huge basin. One of the supervisors heaved on a cord, and water poured forth like a flood in miniature. Minya shuddered with the shock. The women produced lumps of something, and one began rubbing it over Minya's body, then handed it to her.
Minya had never experienced soap before. It wasn't frightening, but it was strange. The supervisors soaped themselves too, then let the flood pour forth again. Afterward they dried themselves with their garments, then donned them. They handed scarlet ponchos to Jinny and Minya.
The suds left her skin feeling strange, tingly. Minya had little trouble stepping into the poncho despite its being sealed between the legs; but it did seem uncomfortably loose. Was it made for the elongated jungle people? It bothered her more that she wore tuftberry-red. Copsik-red here, citizen-red at home. She had worn purple too long.
Their escorts abandoned them at the serving table. Four cooks — more of the elongated women — ladeled a stew of earthlife vegetables and turkey meat into bowls whose rims curved inward. Minya and Jinny settled themselves into a resilient arm of foliage and ate. The fare was blander than what she was used to in Dalton-Quinn Tuft.
Another copsik settled beside them: two and a half meters tall, middle-aged, walking easily in London Tree's tide. Sile spoke to Jinny.
"You look like you know how to walk. You from a tree?" Jinny didn't answer. Minya said. "A tree that came apart. I'm Minya Dalton-Quinn. This is Jinny Quinn."
The stranger said, "Heln. No last name, now."
"How long have you been here?"
"Ten years, or something like. I used to be Carther. I keep expecting well."
"Rescue?"
Heln shrugged. "I keep thinking they'll try something. Of course they couldn't, then. Anyway, I've got kids now."
"Married?"
Heln looked at her. "They didn't tell you. Okay, they didn't tell me either. The citizens own us. Any man who wants you owns you."
"I…thought it was something like that." She moved her eyes only, toward the shadows at the outskirts. And they'd watched her naked—"What are they doing, making their selections?"
"That's right." Hem looked up. "Eat faster if you want to finish." Two shadowy men were coming toward them, drifting at leisure along the interlocked branchlets that formed the ground.
Minya watched them while she continued eating. They paused several meters away, waiting. Their ponchos fit more closely than hers and were a riot of colors. They watched the women and talked. Minya heard " — one with the bruises broke Karal's—"
Hein ignored them. Minya tried to do the same. When her bowl was empty, she asked, "What do we do with these?"
"Leave them," HeIn said. "If no man takes you, take it back to the cooks. But I think you'll have company. You look like citizens, the men like that." She grimaced. "They call us 'jungle giants.'"