“We could walk,” said Lenar Hoyt. The priest looked pale and weak, obviously in the grip of both pain and drugs, and barely able to stand, much less walk.
“No,” said Kassad. “It’s hundreds of klicks and the grass is over our heads.”
“Compasses,” said the priest.
“Compasses don’t work on Hyperion,” said Kassad, still watching through his binoculars.
“Direction finders then,” said Hoyt.
“We have an IDF, but that isn’t the point,” said the Consul. “The grass is sharp. Half a klick out and we’d be nothing but tatters.”
“And there are the grass serpents,” said Kassad, lowering the glasses. “It’s a well-preserved ecosystem but not one to take a stroll in.”
Father Hoyt sighed and half collapsed into the short grass of the hilltop. There was something close to relief in his voice when he said, “All right, we go back.”
A. Bettik stepped forward. “The crew will be happy to wait and ferry you back to Keats in the Benares should the windwagon not appear.”
“No,” said the Consul, “take the launch and go.”
“Hey, just a fucking minute!” cried Martin Silenus. “I don’t remember electing you dictator, amigo. We need to get there. If the fucking windwagon doesn’t show, we’ll have to find another way.”
The Consul wheeled to face the smaller man. “How? By boat? It takes two weeks to sail up the Mane and around the North Littoral to Otho or one of the other staging areas. And that’s when there are ships available. Every seagoing vessel on Hyperion is probably involved in the evacuation effort.”
“Dirigible then,” growled the poet.
Brawne Lamia laughed. “Oh, yes. We’ve seen so many in the two days we’ve been on the river.”
Martin Silenus whirled and clenched his fists as if to strike the woman. Then he smiled. “All right then, lady, what do we do? Maybe if we sacrifice someone to a grass serpent the transportation gods will smile on us.”
Brawne Lamia’s stare was arctic. “I thought burned offerings were more your style, little man.”
Colonel Kassad stepped between the two. His voice barked command. “Enough. The Consul’s right. We stay here until the wagon arrives. M. Masteen, M. Lamia, go with A. Bettik to supervise the unloading of our gear. Father Hoyt and M. Silenus will bring some wood up for a bonfire.”
“A bonfire?” said the priest. It was hot on the hillside.
“After dark,” said Kassad. “We want the windwagon to know we’re here. Now let’s move.”
It was a quiet group that watched the powered launch move downriver at sunset. Even from two kilometers away the Consul could see the blue skins of the crew. The Benares looked old and abandoned at its wharf, already a part of the deserted city. When the launch was lost in the distance, the group turned to watch the Sea of Grass. Long shadows from the river bluffs crept out across what the Consul already found himself thinking of as the surf and shallows. Farther out, the sea seemed to shift in color, the grass mellowing to an aquamarine shimmer before darkening to a hint of verdurous depths. The lapis sky melted into the reds and golds of sunset, illuminating their hilltop and setting the pilgrims’ skins aglow with liquid light. The only sound was the whisper of wind in grass.
“We’ve got a fucking huge heap of baggage,” Martin Silenus said loudly. “For a bunch of folks on a one-way trip.”
It was true, thought the Consul. Their luggage made a small mountain on the grassy hilltop.
“Somewhere in there,” came the quiet voice of Het Masteen, “may lie our salvation.”
“What do you mean?” asked Brawne Lamia.
“Yeah,” said Martin Silenus, lying back, putting his hands under his head, and staring at the sky. “Did you bring a pair of undershorts that are Shrikeproof?”
The Templar shook his head slowly. The sudden twilight cast his face in shadow under the cowl of the robe. “Let us not trivialize or dissemble,” he said. “It is time to admit that each of us has brought on this pilgrimage something which he or she hopes will alter the inevitable outcome when the moment arrives that we must face the Lord of Pain.”
The poet laughed. “I didn’t bring even my lucky fucking rabbit’s foot.”
The Templar’s hood moved slightly. “But your manuscript perhaps?”
The poet said nothing.
Het Masteen moved his invisible gaze to the tall man on his left. “And you, Colonel, there are several trunks which bear your name. Weapons, perhaps?”
Kassad raised his head but did not speak.
“Of course,” said Het Masteen, “it would be foolish to go hunting without a weapon.”
“What about me?” asked Brawne Lamia, folding her arms. “Do you know what secret weapon I’ve smuggled along?”
The Templar’s oddly accented voice was calm. “We have not yet heard your tale, M. Lamia. It would be premature to speculate.”
“What about the Consul?” asked Lamia.
“Oh, yes, it is obvious what weapon our diplomatic friend has in store.”
The Consul turned from his contemplation of the sunset. “I brought only some clothes and two books to read,” he said truthfully.
“Ah,” sighed the Templar, “but what a beautiful spacecraft you left behind.”
Martin Silenus jumped to his feet. “The fucking ship!” he cried. “You can call it, can’t you? Well, goddammit, get your dog whistle out, I’m tired of sitting here.”
The Consul pulled a strand of grass and stripped it. After a minute he said:
“Even if I could call it … and you heard A. Bettik say that the comsats and repeater stations were down … even if I could call it, we couldn’t land north of the Bridle Range. That meant instant disaster even before the Shrike began ranging south of the mountains.”
“Yeah,” said Silenus, waving his arms in agitation, “but we could get across this fucking … lawn! Call the ship.”
“Wait until morning,” said the Consul. “If the windwagon’s not here, we will discuss alternatives.”
“Fuck that …” began the poet, but Kassad stepped forward with his back to him, effectively removing Silenus from the circle.
“M. Masteen,” said the Colonel, “what is your secret?”
There was enough light from the dying sky to show a slight smile on the Templar’s thin lips. He gestured toward the mound of baggage. “As you see, my trunk is the heaviest and most mysterious of all.”
“It’s a Möbius cube,” said Father Hoyt. “I’ve seen ancient artifacts transported that way.”
“Or fusion bombs,” said Kassad.
Het Masteen shook his head. “Nothing so crude,” he said.
“Are you going to tell us?” demanded Lamia.
“When it is my turn to speak,” said the Templar.
“Are you next?” asked the Consul. “We can listen while we wait.”
Sol Weintraub cleared his throat. “I have number 4,” he said, showing the slip of paper. “But I would be more than pleased to trade with the True Voice of the Tree.” Weintraub lifted Rachel from his left shoulder to his right, patting her gently on the back.
Het Masteen shook his head. “No, there is time. I meant only to point out that in hopelessness there is always hope. We have learned much from the stories so far. Yet each of us has some seed of promise buried even deeper than we have admitted.”
“I don’t see …” began Father Hoyt but was interrupted by Martin Silenus’s sudden shout.
“It’s the wagon! The fucking windwagon. Here at last!”
It was another twenty minutes before the windwagon tied up to one of the wharves. The craft came out of the north, its sails white squares against a dark plain draining of color. The last light had faded by the time the large ship had tacked close to the low bluff, folded its main sails, and rolled to a stop.