The meal ended with a bitter black brew which the Grad refused, and he continued to talk. He was hoarse when he finished.
Klance the Scientist puffed at his pipe-shorter than the one the Quinn Chairman had used-and clouds of smoke drifted sluggishly about the room and out. The room was more a cage of timber than a hut, there were narrow windows everywhere, and boards would swing to cover them. Klance said, "This giant mushroom bad hallucinogenic properties, did it?"
"I don't know the word, Klance."
"The red fringe made you feel strange but nice. Maybe that was the reason they were protecting it?"
"I don't think so. There were too many of those fan fungi. This one was big and nicely formed and had a special name."
"The Checker's Hand. Jeffer, have you ever heard that word Checker before?"
"My grandmother used to say, 'Treefeeder must think he's the Checker himself,' when she was mad at the Chairman. I never heard anyone else—"
The Scientist reached for the Grad's reader and one of his own cassettes. "I think I remember…
CHECKER. Officer entrusted with seeing to it that one or a group of citizens remains loyal to the State. The Checker's responsibility includes the actions, attitudes, and well-being of his charges. The Checker aboard Discipline was the recording of Sharls Davis Kendy in the ship's master computer.
"This is strictly starman stuff. Hmm. The State…it took me four days to read the insert on the State. Have you seen it?"
"Yes. Strange people. I did get the feeling that they lived longer than we do."
Kiance snorted. "Your Scientist never tumbled to that? They had shorter years. They used one whole circle of their sun for their year. We only use half a circle, but it's still about seven-fifths of a State year. The truth is, we live a little longer than they do, and grow up more slowly too."
To hear his teacher so slighted set the Grad's ears burning. He barely heard Klance add, "All right, Jeffer, from now on you must think of me as your Checker."
"Yes, Scientist."
"Call me Klance. How do you feel?"
The Grad answered with careful half-truth. "I'm clean, fed, rested, and safe. I'd feel even better if I knew the rest of Quinn Tribe was all right."
"They'll get showers and food and drink and clothing. Their children may become citizens. The same goes for you, Jeffer, whether or not I keep you here; but I think you'd be bored in the tuft."
"So do I, Klance."
"Fine. For the time being I have two apprentices."
Lawri exploded. "It's unheard of for a freshly claimed copsik to be at the Citadel at all! Won't the Navy—"
"The Navy can feed the tree. The Citadel is mine."
Chapter Fifteen
London Tree
GAVVING WAS ON THE BICYCLE WITH THREE OTHER COPSIKS.
There wasn't tide enough to pull him against the pedals. Straps ran from the belt around his waist to the bicycle frame. Forcing his legs down against the pedals pushed him up against the belt. After the first session he'd thought he was crippled for life. The endless passage of days had toughened him; his legs no longer hurt, and the muscles were hard to the touch.
The bicycle gears were of old metal. They squealed as they moved and gave forth a scent of old animal grease. The frame was massive, of cut wood. There had been six sets of gears once; Gavving could see where two had been ripped out.
The frame was anchored to the trunk where the tuft grew thin. Foliage grew around the copsiks. Surrounded by sky, with most of the tuft below them, they could still snatch and eat a handful while pedaling. They worked naked, with sweat pooling on their faces and in their armpits.
High up along the trunk, a wooden box descended slowly. A similar box had risen almost out of sight.
Gavving let his legs run on while he watched the elevator descend. The mindless labor let his eyes and ears and mind run free.
There were other structures around the trunk. This level was used for industry, and here were all the men. Man's work and woman's work never seemed to intersect in London Tree, at least not for copsiks.
Sometimes children swarmed through or watched them with bright, curious eyes. Today there were none.
The citizens of London Tree must have kept copsiks for generations. They were skilled at it. They had chopped Quinn Tribe apart. Even if opportunity came to run, how would he find Minya?
Gavving, pumping steadily, watched storms move sluggishly around a tight knot on the eastern arm of the Smoke Ring. Gold was nearer than he had ever seen it, save for that eerie time when he was a child, when Gold had passed so near and everything had changed.
The jungle hovered hundreds of klomters beyond the out tuft: a harmless-looking green puffball. How are you doing Clave? Did that broken leg save your freedom? Merril, were those shrunken legs finally good for something? Or have you become copsiks among the jungle people or are you dead?
Over the past eighty-five days or so, twenty sleeps, the tree had drifted to the eastern fringes of the cloud bank. He'd been told, during the trip across the sky to London Tree, that the tree could move by itself. He had seen no evidence of it. Rain swept across them from time to time…surely the tree had collected enough water by now.
The elevator had settled into its slot and was releasing passengers. Gavving and the others stopped pedaling. "Navy men," Horse puffed.
"Come for the women."
Gavving said, "What?"
"Citizens live in the out tuft. When you see a boxful come down and it's all men, they're come for the women."
Gavving looked away.
"Nine sleeps," said Horse. He was in his fifties, three ce'meters shorter than Gavving, with a bald, freckled head and tremendously strong legs. He had driven the bicycles for two decades. "Forty days till we meet the women. You wouldn't believe how rancy I get thinking about it." By now Gavving was strangling the handbar. Horse saw the muscles standing out along his arms and said, "Boy, I forgot. I was never married, myself. I was born here. Failed the test when I was ten."
Gavving forced himself to speak. "Born here?"
Horse nodded. "My father was a citizen, at least mother always said so. Who ever knows?"
"Seems likely. You'd be taller if—"
"Na, na, the jungle giants' kids aren't any taller than the citizens."
So: children raised in the jungle grew taller, without tide to compress them. "What are the tests like?"
"We're na supposed to say."
"Okay."
The supervisor called, "Pedal, you copsiks!" and they did. More passengers were coming down. Over the squeal of the gears Horse said, "I flunked the obedience test. Sometimes I'm glad I didn't go."
Huh? "Go?"
"To another tree. That's where you go if you pass the tests. Heh, you are green, aren't you? Did you think your kids would stay as citizens if they passed the tests?"
"That's…yes." He hadn't been told that, he'd been allowed to assume it. "There are other trees? How many? Who lives in them?"
Horse chuckled. "You want to know everything at once? I think it's four bud trees now, settled by any copsik woman's kid who passes the tests. London Tree goes between them, trading for what they need. Any man's kid has the same chance as a citizen's, because nobody ever knows, see? I thought I wanted to go, once. But it's been thirty-five years.
"I did think I'd be picked for service in the out tuft. I should've been. I'm second-generation…and when they turned me down for that, I damn near lost my testes for swatting a supervisor. Jorg, there" — Horse indicated the man pedaling in front of him—"he did. Poor copsik. I don't know what the gentled ones do when the Holidays come."