I could imagine them all, posted safely outside this system’s oort cloud, watching the sensors, expecting to strike their decisive blow. No wonder they were bitter.
But Sim had fought on for another year and a half, and never used the solar weapon. I wondered about Kindrel Lee’s idea that the weapon, after all, had been flawed, rendered unworkable by some quirk of nature, or incapable of execution at the Resistance Era level of technology. That she had, after all, killed Matt Olander for no reason.
Midway through the afternoon, I took the skimmer up into a stiff wind. Street traffic was heavy, and several giant holos of eminently good-looking models demonstrated winter fashions to a crowd gathered outside an emporium. I arced over the downtown area, gained altitude, and sailed into a gray sky.
During the evacuation of Point Edward, Christopher Sim had left his staff to direct operation, and had busied himself with other matters. A curious thing then happened: his officers noticed that he rose well before dawn each day, and took a skimmer north along the coast from the city. His destination was a lonely shelf on a cliff face high over the sea. What he did there, or why he went, no one ever learned. Toldenya immortalized the scene in his masterpiece, On the Rock, and the place has been designated an historical site by the Ilyandans. They call it Sim’s Perch.
I wanted to look at the war through his eyes. And visiting his retreat seemed a good way to do it.
The vehicle leveled off at about a thousand meters, and began a long swing toward the sea. I was feeling vaguely overwhelmed by the combination of peaks, city, ocean, and mist, when it occurred to me there was someplace else worth visiting.
I switched to manual, and turned back inland. The computer buzzed at me, insisting on a higher altitude. I went up until the noise stopped, and was near the clouds when I passed over the western edge of the city. That was also the western rim of the volcano. Safely dead, according to the literature. Taken care of by engineers centuries ago, and checked periodically by the Point Edward Environmental Service.
All the romance has gone out of life.
I descended toward the vibrant canopy of a purple forest. To the southwest, the land was divided into large farms. Two streams wound across the countryside, joining approximately eight kilometers beyond Point Edward, and disappearing into a mountain.
On the horizon, the spires of the spaceport looked fragile against the threatening sky. A curtain of water fell from the top of the Blue Tower. I watched a shuttle loop in from the far side, bank gracefully, and descend into the complex.
It took a while to find what I was looking for: the road that Lee had taken from Point Edward out to Richardson. It no longer existed in any real sense. All transport between the two points was by air now; and anyone living in the small towns that still dotted the landscape had damned well better have a skimmer.
But sections of the ancient track were visible. It skirted the edge of a cluster of hills, and ran parallel first to one river, and then the other. For the most part, it was little more than a place where the trees were younger.
I put the map on the overhead monitor, and looked through the atlas, trying to find the town where she’d crashed. Walhalla.
It was a small farming community, maybe a dozen houses, a hardware store, a food store, a city hall, a restaurant, and a tavern. Two men were atop a roof, installing a dormer. A few people were gathered on the deck outside the hall. No one glanced up as I passed overhead.
She’d described a sharp curve, which could only be the eastern side, where the trace wound down out of hilly country. There was no sign of a ditch or depression, but two hundred years is a long time. Somewhere here, it had happened. An unmarked, unknown spot on a world littered with memorials. And I wondered how different Ilyanda’s history might have been had Kindrel Lee died out here that night.
An hour later, I flew out over the glassy waters of Point Edward’s sprawling, island-studded harbor.
The city had spread up the sides of the surrounding ridges. It clung precariously to precipices, supported by a combination of metal struts and gantner light. Landing pads gleamed on rooftops and in grottos cut from the cliffside. Some public buildings arched across rock fissures. Seaway Boulevard, which follows almost the same route that it did during Resistance times, skirted the harbor, narrowed in the north to a two-lane, and climbed into the peaks.
Forest, rock, and snow: in both directions along the coastline, the craggy landscape turned gray-white, and disappeared into a hard sky. I flew in lazy circles over the area, admiring its wild beauty. And then, after a while, I turned north.
Point Edward fell behind. The coastal highway drifted inland and plunged into thick trees.
Mountains crowded together, and merged gradually into a monolithic gray rampart, smooth and reflective and timeless. The Ilyandans call it Klon’s Wall, after a mythical hero who built it to protect the continent against a horde of sea demons. In its shadow, the air was cold. I stayed low, near the spray.
Sails stirred the mist and, well above me, skimmers and even an airbus plowed back and forth. A few gulls kept pace. They were ungainly creatures with scoop snouts and enormous wingspans and cackles like gunshots. Floaters drifted idly in the air currents.
Occasional trees clung to the cliff face. The computer identified some of these as cassandras, thought to possess a kind of leafy intelligence. Tests had proven inconclusive, and skeptics held that the tradition had developed because the web of branches tended to resemble human features, particularly when seen with the sun behind them.
Some were clustered along the rim. I turned the navigator’s telescope in their direction. Their branches were entwined, and their broad spined leaves extended for whatever gray light they could capture. But there was no sun, and no face. As I neared Sim’s Perch, a repeating message turned up on the commlink. "Full tourist facilities are available," it said. "Please return your vehicle to controlled guidance. Manual navigation is not permitted within eight kilometers of the park." I complied. The skimmer immediately swung out to sea, gained altitude, and began a long slow turn back toward the escarpment.
Three of us were lined up on the approach. A couple of kids waved from the skimmer immediately ahead, and I waved back. We were above the cliff rim now, approaching a blue and scarlet landing pad complex, which was atop the summit. Sim’s shelf was about a third of the way down the cliff face.
It was marked by a complex of structures, cut from the rock. Among them was a gold-domed hotel, with mush courts and swimming pools. In Sim’s time, the ledge must have been of modest proportions, a strip of rock barely wide enough to support a skimmer. But it’s been braced and extended and broadened and fenced.
The voice on my commlink was young, female, and syrupy. "Welcome to the Christopher Sim Perch," she said. "Please do not attempt to leave the vehicle until it has completely stopped. Quarters are available at the Sim Hotel. Do you wish to make a reservation?"
"No," I said. "I only want to see the shelf."
"Very good, sir. You can reach the Christopher Sim Perch by following the blue markers. The Resistance Committee reminds you that refreshments may be consumed only in designated areas. Please enjoy your stay."
I followed another vehicle onto a blue pad, turned the skimmer over to a service attendant, and took a tube down to the main level. That left me in the hotel lobby. But a blue arrow pointed toward a side door.