He laid the spine aside and went back to his digging with the knife; they gave her more tea and she threw that up too, the several times they gave it to her.
Afterwards her mother only looked at her, as she lay limp and buried in blankets. Scar was somewhere down below, with Weirds to keep him quiet; only Twig was in the room, and her mother just stood there staring at her, whatever went on behind her eyes, whether that her mother was thinking she was less threat now, whether she just despised the intelligence of the daughter she had birthed.
“So your starman knows everything,” her mother said.
Elai just stared back.
xii
189 CR, day 24
Message, R. Genley to Base Director
Weather has made observation difficult. Persistent fogs have obscured the riverside now and we have only limited view.
Last night the calibans came close. We could hear them moving around the shelter. When we went outside they retreated. We are using all due caution.
xiii
189 CR, day 24
The Base Director’s office
“Genley,” McGee said, “is in danger. I would remind you, sir, the Base has fallen before. And there were warnings of it. Take the calibans seriously.”
“They’re far from Base, Dr. McGee.” The Director leaned back, arms locked across his middle. The windows looked out on the concrete buildings, on fog. “But this time I do agree with you. There’s a possibility of a problem out there.”
“There’s more than a possibility. The rainy season seems to act on the calibans, and everything’s stirred up on Styxside.”
“What about your assessment of the calibans as a culture? Doesn’t this weather‑triggered behavior belong to something more primitive?”
“Do we sunbathe in winter?”
“We’re talking about aggression.”
“Early humans preferred summer for their wars.”
“Then what does this season do for calibans?”
“I wouldn’t venture an answer. We can only observe that it docs something.”
“Genley’s aware of the problem.”
“Not of the hazards. He won’t listen to those.”
The Director thought a moment. “We’ll take that under advisement. We know where you stand.”
“My request–”
“Also under advisement.”
xiv
189 CR, day 25
R. Genley to Base Director.
…I have made a contact. A band of Stygians riding calibans has shown up facing our camp oh our own side of the Styx this foggy morning. There was no furtiveness in their approach. They stopped a moment and observed us, then retreated and camped nearby. Mist makes observation difficult, but we can see them faintly at present.
189 CR, day 25
Base Director to R. Genley
Proceed with caution. Weather forecast indicates clearing tonight and tomorrow, winds SW/10‑15.
Drs. McGee, Mannin, and Galliano are on their way afoot to reach your position with 10 security personnel. Please extend all professional cooperation and courtesy. Use your discretion regarding face to face contact.
xv
189 CR, day 26
Styxside Base
They reached the camp by morning, staggering‑tired and glad enough of the breakfast they walked in on, with hot tea and biscuits.
“Hardly necessary for you to trek out here,” Genley said to McGee. He was a huge florid‑faced man, solid, monument‑like in the khaki coldsuit that was the uniform out here. McGee filled out her own with deskbound weight‑gain. Her legs ached and her sides hurt. The smell of the Styx came to them here, got into everything, odor of reeds and mud and wet and cold, permeating even the biscuits and the coffee. It was freedom. She savored it, ignoring Genley.
“I expect,” Genley went on, “that you’ll follow our lead out here. The last thing we need is interference.”
“I only give advice,” she said, deliberately bland. “Don’t worry about your credit on the report.”
“I think they’re stirring about out there,” said Mannin from the doorway. “They had to have seen us come in.”
“Weather report’s wrong as usual,” Genley said. “Fog’s not going to clear.”
“I think we’d better get out there,” McGee said.
“Have your breakfast,” Genley said. “We’ll see to it.”
McGee frowned, stuffed her mouth, washed the biscuit down, and trailed him out the door.
The sun made an attempt at breaking through the mist. It was all pinks and golds, with black reeds thrusting up in clumps of spiky shadow and the fog lying on the Styx like a dawn‑tinted blanket.
Every surface was wet. Standing or crouching, one felt one’s boots begin to sink. Moisture gathered on hair and face and intensified the chill. But they stood, a little out from their camp, facing the Stygians’ camp, the humped shapes of calibans moving restlessly in the dawn.
Then human figures appeared among the calibans.
“They’re coming,” McGee said.
“We just stand,” said Genley, “and see what they do.”
The Stygians drew closer, afoot, more distinct in the morning mist. The calibans walked behind them, like a living wall, five, six of them.
Closer and closer.
“Let’s walk out halfway,” said Genley.
“Not sure about that,” said Mannin.
Genley walked. McGee trod after him, her eyes on the calibans as much as the humans. Mannin followed. The Security fieldmen were watching them. No one had guns. None were permitted. If they were attacked, they might die here. It was Security’s task simply to escape and report the fact.
Features became clear. There were three elder men among the Stygians, three younger, and the one foremost was youngest of the lot. His long hair was gathered back at the crown; his dark beard was cut close, his leather garments clean, ornamented with strings of river‑polished stones and bone beads. He was not so tall as some. He looked scarcely twenty. He might be a herald of some kind, McGee thought to herself, but there was something–the spring‑tension way he moved, the assurance–that said that of all the six they saw, this was the one to watch out for.
Young man. About eighteen.
“Might be Jin himself,” she said beneath her breath. “Right age. Watch it with this one.”
“Quiet,” Genley said. He crouched down, let a stone slip from his clenched hand to the mud, let fall another pebble by that one.
The Stygians stopped. The calibans crouched belly to the ground behind them, excepting the biggest, which was poised well up on its four legs.
“They’re not going to listen,” McGee said. “I’d stand up, Genley. They’re not interested.”
Genley stood, a careful straightening, his Patterning‑effort abandoned. “I’m Genley,” he said to the Stygians.
“Jin,” said the youth.
“The one who gives orders on the Styx.”
“That Jin. Yes.” The youth set his hands on hips, walked carelessly off to riverward, walked back again a few paces. The calibans had all stood up. “Genley.”
“McGee,” McGee said tautly. “He’s Mannin.”
“ MaGee. Yes.” Another few paces, not looking at them, and then a look at Genley. “This place is ours.”