“-And the Parole Board won't notice that little, all right? And you should have stopped him, Amnon! He's crazy-“
“We need the speckles, Wilbya!”
“We've got two man-years' weight of speckles stashed and what did we ever do with it? But now we've got something to wear, finally we've got clothes! What if Rafik gets caught now?”
Jemmy suggested, “Send someone for him?”
“We can't have two missing! He'll be back,” Willametta assured herself.
“Good. I've got a few questions.”
“Talk to Andrew-”
“The probes are going to ask me questions. We didn't know there'd be a dead man, so I wasn't told any answers. Why did the birds attack Shimon?”
“How would I know that?”
''Amnon?”
“Birds.” Amnon shrugged massively. “You never know.”
“But am I supposed to know?-No? Good. Will they ask me to guess? Willametta? Amnon?”
“Shut up, you!” The big man was going into a rage.
Willametta said, “Go away, Amnon.”
“But, Willya-“
“Amnon, what do they do to you when you hurt a trusty? Go away! Go wait for Rafik.”
“He's not- Oh.” The big man went.
“Wilbametta? Just give me a guess that doesn't sound totally stupid.” She was silent.
“Mating season makes them twitchy?”
“What? Windbirds don't have a mating season.”
“He cut himself? No, that's-“
“Human blood? It'd drive birds away!” She was laughing at him. “Try this then.” Jemmy hesitated. The bird struck, then Shimon turned the probe was sure it couldn't happen that way... so Jemmy knew that Shimon had been murdered. But how?
Did he dare to guess right? But Willametta was looking at him, waiting. “Suppose one poncho out of all our ponchos wasn't the right color.
Not quite the color of a firebird. There must be animals or plants that don't secrete potassium but that show colors, maybe a little off.”
She was shaking her head. He persisted. “Is there a paint source? In the toolhouse?”
“That thing in the toolhouse used to make survival biscuits out of Earthbife garbage. Trusty, any trusty would know that.”
“Well, that's why I'm asking, Willametta!”
She nodded.
“Let's see, you brought a bird home for dinner last night. Now, suppose Shimon was cold so he kept his poncho on, and he still had it this morning-“
Her hands gripped his arms hard. “Don't say that!”
“-with the blood of a windbird all over it. If some of those horrors whiffed Destiny blood-“
'Don't tell them that!”
“Was he a spy?”
Willametta's mouth stayed open.
Jemmy said, “The probes have to know what's going on in the barracks. They need a spy. They can tell a spy they'll make him the next trusty. Barda and Andrew, they're trusties now, but were they spies before?”
“Andrew was.”
“So he knows how a spy gets picked. Did Shimon know you've stashed some speckles?”
She pulled him close and whispered in his ear. She was scared right through. “They haven't touched it. Yes, he knew, but he didn't know where. How could you know all this, Jemmy?”
“I guess I was waiting for someone to die. Barda and Andrew have to know who the spy is, or they can't hide anything. When the birds tore into Shimon, it all just fit, except the paint, I guess. Who gave him his poncho this morning? Barda?”
They were hood to hood, arms bracing each other against the wind. An approaching probe would see only lovers. Jemmy said, “Willametta, I need a story to tell the probes. They know something. They waited for us in the rain. This morning they stayed to search for something else before they caught up with us.”
She said, “They'll search the barracks. Did Andrew tell you-“ She looked into his eyes. “Damn him. When the probes search, you open every door and drawer. Don't close any of it. They do that. You go around the room-“
“Clockwise?”
“Idon't know. Sure! Or watch their hands. If one points to something, you open it or move it or lift it. Try not to talk too much.” The rain slacked and she looked around; they all seemed to do that. She said, “Rafik's back-” Her breath caught oddly.
Jemmy could see past huddled gatherers, far down the Road to where two rainbow birds walked bike men. Two.
Willametta's hands closed like claws and she pushed her cheek against his and keened in terror. He whispered, “Not Rafik?”
“They're too soon! Where did they come from?”
“Isn't the Parole Board in that direction? No way could a runner get to them. Settler magic?” He remembered an old word from the lessons. “Phones?”
“Quick, around the side!” Willametta ducked and lifted the hem of Jemmy's poncho nearly to his chin. He guessed what she had in mind. The rain was back, a waterfall now, and he had to shout into her ear.
“We can't do that.”
“It's a distraction!” Her hand found the waistband of his shorts and dipped in to cup his genitals, and squeezed gently.
He stopped her, hand on wrist. “Nowlisten. There's a man dead and proles coming to look into it. 'Andrew Dowd' is alert and scared and waiting. He can't be around to the side rubbing up against a lovely woman when he could be having her all day tomorrow in dry comfort! It'd be suspicious as hell.”
Her hand stopped moving. He had her attention. He had an erection too, so he'd best talk fast. “Rafik went that way? Then the probes passed him, right? He's behind them!”
“Yes. Yes.”
“We have to give him a chance to join us. Okay. You get- Let go now.”
She did.
“You get Amnon and the twins. Send them around that side while the rain holds.” The Parole Board direction. “The gatherers stay huddled so they'll be harder to count. I'm at the Road, ready to serve my prole masters but looking in the wrong direction. I don't know anything about prole phones, right?”
She gaped.
“Willametta!”
“I never heard the word!”
“Good, then Andrew didn't either. You, behind me, ready to spot anything weird and tell me. And let's drape a pack or two over Shimon.”
The next break in the rain showed two pairs of proles converging. The pair from the Board direction was nearest, and Jemmy let them see him suddenly discover them. They plodded up to him and one said, “Trusty, some of your gatherers are missing.”
Jemmy looked around wildly. “Oh, man, they must be around to the side. Can I check that out? I had to stay here, man. One of my people got killed.”
“Go get them. Where are the packs?”
“We piled-”
“You're missing some of those too!”
The other prole had drawn his weapon. Jemmy shrank back, raised his arms. “No, man, we spread some packs over Shimon, over the body. I thought you'd want to look him over, I didn't want the rain to wash anything away. I still can't figure why birds would tear him up like that.” Walking backward, Jemmy led them to Shimon laid out on white rock. There: two packs covering torso and face, and when
Jemmy lifted them, there were the terrible holes in Shimon's poncho and Shimon's corpse.
For an instant Jemmy glimpsed a bird-shape with a pack in his hand, behind the probes. A moment later he'd merged with the other birdshapes. The second pair of probes, the ones who had been in the field, were bird-shadows seen through slackening rain, and Jemmy could only hope that they hadn't seen Rafik. Rita and Amnon and Dolores were coming around the toolhouse, obtrusively straightening each other's clothing, and Jemmy shouted and went to yell at them. When he looked around again the piled packs booked to be the right height.
The four probes closed on Jemmy. “Tell us how this man died, now. Don't leave anything out.”
“I swear, man. The spectre bird jabbed him before he moved,” Jemmy said, belligerent and tired.