“Try telling that to Bult,” I said.
He grinned. “Okay, maybe footprints. But nothing lasting. That’s why I wanted to come on this expedition. I wanted to do something that would make me famous, like you and Carson. I wanted to discover something that would get me on the pop-ups.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, leaning down to pick up a rock, “how did we get on them?” I stuck the rock in my pack. “How’d they find out about the suitcases? And Carson’s foot?”
“I don’t know,” Ev said slowly, as if the question hadn’t ever occurred to him. “Your logs, I guess.”
It hadn’t been in the logs about my finding Carson right when the twenty-four hours were up, though. We’d told some of the stories to loaners, and one of the female ones had kept a diary. But Carson wouldn’t have told her about my crying over him.
The hills through here were covered with scraggly plants. I took a holo of them and then halted Useless, which didn’t take much, and dismounted.
“What are you doing?” Ev asked.
“Collecting pieces of the planet for you to leave C.J.’s mark on,” I said, digging around the roots of a couple of the plants and sticking them in a plastic bag. I picked up two more rocks and handed them to him. “Either of these look like a C.J. to you?”
I got back on, watching Bult. He hadn’t even noticed I was off my pony, let alone reached for his log. He was peering through his binocs at the hills beyond the tributary.
“Don’t you ever wish you could have something named after you, Fin?” Ev was asking.
“Me? Why on hell would I want that? Who the hell remembers who Bryce Canyon or Harper’s Ferry are named after even when they’ve got their names on them? Besides, you can’t name a thing just by putting it on a topographical map. That’s not the way it works.” I gestured at the Ponypiles. “When people get here, they won’t call those the Findriddy Mountains. They’ll call ’em the Ponypiles. People name things after what they look like, or what happened there, or what the indidge name sounds like, not according to regs.”
“People?” Ev said. “You mean gatecrashers?”
“Gatecrashers,” I said, “and miners and settlers and shopping mall owners.”
“But what about the regs?” Ev said, looking shocked. “They’re supposed to protect the natural ecology and the sovereignty of the indigenous culture.”
I nodded my head at Bult. “And you think the indigenous culture wouldn’t sell them the whole place for some pop-ups and a couple of dozen shower curtains? You think Big Brother’s paying us to survey all this for his health? You think as soon as we find something they want, they won’t be down here, regs or no regs?”
Ev looked unhappy. “Like tourists,” he said. “Everybody’s seen the silvershims and the Wall on the pop-ups, and they all want to come see them.”
“And take holos of themselves being fined,” I said, even though I hadn’t really thought of Boohte as a tourist attraction. “And Bult can sell them dried ponypiles for souvenirs.”
“I’m glad I came before the rush,” he said, looking at the water ahead. The hills parted on either side of the tributary, and it wouldn’t matter whether there were tssi mitss or not. A wide sandbar stretched almost the full width of the water.
The ponies picked their way across it like it was quicksand, and Ev just about fell off, trying to lean down to look at it. “The female willowback needs to lay her eggs in still water, so the courtship ritual involves the male doing a swimming dance that dams up sand across the stream.”
“And that’s what this is?” I said.
“I don’t think so. It looks like it’s just a sandbar.” He sat up in the saddlebone. “The female shale-dwelling lizard scratches a design in the dirt, and then the male scratches the same design on the shale.”
I wasn’t paying any attention. Bult was peering through the binocs at the hills between us and the Tongue, and Carson’s pony was starting to sway. “Here’s your big chance, Ev,” I said. “Rest stop!”
After Carson and I did the topographicals and we had lunch, I hauled out my rocks and plastic bags and Carson emptied his bug-catcher, and we settled down to naming.
Carson started with the bugs. “Do you have a name for it?” he asked Bult, holding it away from Bult so he couldn’t stuff it in his mouth, but Bult didn’t even look interested.
He looked at Carson for a minute like he was thinking of something else, and then said what sounded to me like steam hissing and then metal being dragged over granite.
“Tssimrrah?” Carson said.
“Thssahggih,” Bult said.
“This’ll take a while,” I said to Ev.
Figuring out the indidge name for a thing isn’t so much about understanding what Bult says as trying to keep it from all sounding the same, f-and-f all sounds like steam escaping in a blizzard, lakes and rivers sound like a gate opening, and rocks all begin with a belching “B,” which makes you wonder about the indidges’ opinion of Bult. All of them sound more or less the same, and none of them sound like English letters, which is a good thing, or everything would have the same name.
“Thssahggah?” Carson said.
“Shhoomrrrah,” Bult said.
I glanced at Ev, who was looking at the rocks and the bagged plants. It was fairly slim pickings—the only rock that didn’t look like mud warmed over was horneblende, and the only flower had five ragged-looking petals, but I didn’t think Ev would try what the loaners usually did, anyway, which was try to name the first flower we found a chrysanthemum, no matter what it looked like. Chrysa, for short.
Carson and Bult finally agreed on tssahggah for the bug, and I took holos of it and of the piece of horneblende and transmitted them and their names.
Bult had the flower, and was shaking his head.
“The indidges don’t have a name for it,” Carson said, looking at Ev. “How about it, Evie? What do you want to call it?”
Ev looked at it. “I don’t know. What kind of things can you name them after?”
Carson looked irritated. It was obvious he’d expected “chrysanthemum.” “No proper names, no technological references, no Earth landmarks with ‘new’ in front of them, no value judgments.”
“What’s left?” Ev said.
“Adjectives,” I said, “shapes, colors—except for Green—natural references.”
Ev was still examining the plant. “It was growing out by the sandbar. How about sandpink?”
Carson looked like he was trying to figure out if there was any way to make sandpink into Crissa. “A pink’s an Earth genus, isn’t it, Fin?” he growled at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’ll have to be sandblossom. Next?”
Bult had names for the rocks, which took forever, and even he started to look impatient, picking his binocs up and then putting them down without looking through them, and nodding at whatever Carson said.
“Biln,” Carson said, and I entered it. “Is that everything?”
“We need to name the tributary,” I said, pointing at it. “Bult, do the Boohteri have a name for this river?”
He already had his pony up and was climbing on it. I had to ask him again.
He shook his head and got down off the pony and picked up his binocs.
Carson came up beside me. “There’s something wrong,” I said.
“I know,” he said, frowning. “He’s been jittery all morning.”
Bult was looking through his binocs. He took them down from his eyes and then held them up to his ear.
“Let’s go,” I said, and went to gather up the specimens. “Wagons ho, Ev!”
“What about the tributary?” Ev said.