“If they destroyed the tramway, we’re finished,” muttered the Consul. The thought of it, forbidden until now, made his stomach turn over.
“I see the first five towers,” said Colonel Kassad, using his powered glasses. “They seem intact.”
“Any sign of a car?”
“No … wait, yes. There’s one in the gate at the station platform.”
“Any moving?” asked Martin Silenus, who obviously understood how desperate their situation would be if the tramway was not intact.
“No.”
The Consul shook his head. Even in the worst weather with no passengers, the cars had been kept moving to keep the great cables flexed and free of ice.
The six of them had their luggage on deck even before the windwagon reefed its sails and extended a gangplank. Each now wore a heavy coat against the elements—Kassad in FORCE-issue thermouflage cape, Brawne Lamia in a long garment called a trenchcoat for reasons long forgotten, Martin Silenus in thick furs which rippled now sable, now gray with the vagaries of wind, Father Hoyt in long black which made him more of a scarecrow figure than ever, Sol Weintraub in a thick goosedown jacket which covered him and the child, and the Consul in the thinning but serviceable greatcoat his wife had given him some decades before.
“What about Captain Masteen’s things?” asked Sol as they stood at the head of the gangplank. Kassad had gone ahead to reconnoiter the village.
“I brought them up,” said Lamia. “We’ll take them with us.”
“It doesn’t seem right somehow,” said Father Hoyt. “Just going on, I mean. There should be some … service. Some recognition that a man has died.”
“May have died,” reminded Lamia, easily lifting a forty-kilo backpack with one hand.
Hoyt looked incredulous, “Do you really believe that M. Masteen might be alive?”
“No,” said Lamia. Snowflakes settled on her black hair.
Kassad waved to them from the end of the dock and they carried their luggage off the silent windwagon. No one looked back.
“Empty?” called Lamia as they approached the Colonel. The tall man’s cloak was still fading from its gray and black chameleon mode.
“Empty.”
“Bodies?”
“No,” said Kassad. He turned toward Sol and the Consul. “Did you get the things from the galley?”
Both men nodded.
“What things?” asked Silenus.
“A week’s worth of food,” said Kassad, turning to look up the hill toward the tramway station. For the first time the Consul noticed the long assault weapon in the crook of the Colonel’s arm, barely visible under the cloak. “We’re not sure if there are any provisions beyond this point.”
Will we be alive a week from now? thought the Consul. He said nothing.
They ferried the gear to the station in two trips. Wind whistled through the open windows and shattered domes of the dark buildings. On the second trip, the Consul carried one end of Masteen’s Möbius cube while Lenar Hoyt puffed and panted under the other end.
“Why are we taking the erg thing with us?” gasped Hoyt as they reached the base of the metal stairway leading to the station. Rust streaked and spotted the platform like orange lichen.
“I don’t know,” said the Consul, gasping for breath himself.
From the terminal platform they could see far out over the Sea of Grass. The windwagon sat where they had left it, sails reefed, a dark and lifeless thing. Snow squalls moved across the prairie and gave the illusion of whitecaps on the numberless stalks of high grass.
“Get the material aboard,” called Kassad. “I’ll see if the running gear can be reset from the operator’s cabin up there.”
“Isn’t it automatic?” asked Martin Silenus, his small head almost lost in thick furs. “Like the windwagon?”
“I don’t think so,” said Kassad. “Go on, I’ll see if I can get it started up.”
“What if it leaves without you?” called Lamia at the Colonel’s retreating back.
“It won’t.”
The interior of the tramcar was cold and bare except for metal benches in the forward compartment and a dozen rough bunks in the smaller, rear area. The car was big—at least eight meters long by five wide. The rear compartment was partitioned from the front cabin by a thin metal bulkhead with an opening but no door. A small commode took up a closet-sized corner of this aft compartment. Windows rising from waist height to the roofline lined the forward compartment.
The pilgrims heaped their luggage in the center of the wide floor and stomped around, waved their arms, or otherwise worked to stay warm. Martin Silenus lay full length on one of the benches, with only his feet and the top of his head emerging from fur. “I forgot,” he said, “how the fuck do you turn on the heat in this thing?”
The Consul glanced at the dark lighting panels. “It’s electrical. It’ll come on when the Colonel gets us moving.”
“If the Colonel gets us moving,” said Silenus.
Sol Weintraub had changed Rachel’s diaper. Now he bundled her up again in an infant’s thermsuit and rocked her in his arms. “Obviously I’ve never been here before,” he said. “Both of you gentlemen have?”
“Yeah,” said the poet.
“No,” said the Consul. “But I’ve seen pictures of the tramway.”
“Kassad said he returned to Keats once this way,” called Brawne Lamia from the other room.
“I think …” began Sol Weintraub and was interrupted by a great grinding of gears and a wild lurch as the long car rocked sickeningly and then swung forward under the suddenly moving cable. Everyone rushed to the window on the platform side.
Kassad had thrown his gear aboard before climbing the long ladder to the operator’s cabin. Now he appeared in the cabin’s doorway, slid down the long ladder, and ran toward the car. The car was already passing beyond the loading area of the platform.
“He isn’t going to make it,” whispered Father Hoyt.
Kassad sprinted the last ten meters with legs that looked impossibly long, a cartoon stick figure of a man.
The tramcar slid out of the loading notch, swung free of the station. Space opened between the car and the station. It was eight meters to the rocks below. The platform deck was streaked with ice. Kassad ran full speed ahead even as the car pulled away.
“Come on!” screamed Brawne Lamia. The others picked up the cry.
The Consul looked up at sheaths of ice cracking and dropping away from the cable as the tramcar moved up and forward. He looked back. There was too much space. Kassad could never make it.
Fedmahn Kassad was moving at an incredible speed when he reached the edge of the platform. The Consul was reminded for the second time of the Old Earth jaguar he had seen in a Lusus zoo. He half expected to see the Colonel’s feet slip on a patch of ice, the long legs flying out horizontal, the man falling silently to the snowy boulders below. Instead, Kassad seemed to fly for an endless moment, long arms extended, cape flying out behind. He disappeared behind the car.
There came a thud, followed by a long minute when no one spoke or moved. They were forty meters high now, climbing toward the first tower. A second later Kassad became visible at the corner of the car, pulling himself along a series of icy niches and handholds in the metal. Brawne Lamia flung open the cabin door. Ten hands helped pull Kassad inside.
“Thank God,” said Father Hoyt.