THIRTEEN
FOR TWENTY KILOMETERS Charlie and his flock tried to follow the little biplane as it chugged and bounced through the sky of Jem. No use. The balloonists soared high, swooped low, found winds that carried them toward the heat pole, but never fast enough to keep up. Charlie sang a mournful farewell song into his radio as they turned away, and the sound penetrated even the noisy rattle of the little engine inside the plane. “Too much noise,” shouted Kappelyushnikov cheerfully into Danny Dalehouse’s ear. “Turn off, please?”
“Let me say good-bye first.” Dalehouse sang into the tiny radio, then switched it off. Far behind and half a kilometer overhead, the flock bobbed acknowledgment. Dalehouse craned his neck to see forward, but the camp of the Greasies was of course nowhere yet in sight. They were flying almost directly toward the Heat Pole — “southeast” by the convention of considering the poles of rotation as north and south, however irrelevant that was to compasses and sextants — and it was uphill almost all the way. How foolish of the Greasies to locate their camp in the least hospitable part of the planet! But who could figure why the Greasies did things?
Kappelyushnikov leaned over and slapped him on the shoulder. “You wish to puke?” he called encouragingly, pointing over the side of the cockpit. Dalehouse shook his head. “Is all right, you know,” Gappy went on. “Is little rough, yes. We are fighting winds, not making love to them like in balloon. But you have truly outstanding aircraft technician in charge!”
“I’m not complaining.” And in fact, he had no reason to complain. The biplane was a technological marvel on Klong — on Jem, as they were supposed to call it now, he reminded himself. At least they were flying! The Greasy camp was hard to reach any other way. There were no cars on Jem, because no roads. Only a tracked vehicle could go very far, and even the Greasies did not have them to spare. Because, in their pigheaded way, the Greasies had camped ten kilometers from the nearest usable water, boats were out. You could fly there for this semi-summit meeting that was supposed to make everyone on Jem friends again. Or you could walk. And Dalehouse spared a thought of compassion for the poor, proud, pedestrian Peeps, who were no doubt doing just that somewhere below.
So just to be flying was a triumph, although he wished Gappy had not brought up the subject of airsickness. It was not so much the motion that was bothering him as the food they had been eating. With twenty-two more mouths to feed, the old catch-as-catch-can meal style was down the drain. Unfortunately, the new people had brought their appetites, but they had forgotten to pack a chef to satisfy them. The food was unbearable. No one dared complain. The person who bitched would be the next cook.
Still, the community was growing. The third resupply ship had brought a great deal! This sputtering little two-winged airplane, folded and stacked and foolish-looking, but demon-strably workable, because it was working. The little plutonium-powered machines and instruments that had given Mor-rissey sensors to study the Creepies in their tunnels under the ground and Dalehouse himself radios to pass on to Charlie. A new Argus orbiter to photograph clouds and help them predict the weather. Or at least to guess at it a little more accurately.
It had even helped them in their attempts to make contact with sentients. Sort of. Charlie was delighted with his crossbow and his radio. Jim Morrissey had taken another tack. He had used the new power auger to make three widely spaced holes along a Creepy burrow. The end holes held soft charges of explosives, the center one a hose connected to the exhaust of the auger’s little gasoline putt-putt. When Morrissey blew the charges he sealed both ends of that section of the tunnel, and the carbon monoxide caught four burrowers before they could dig away. By then they were no good for Dalehouse’s purposes, of course, but they were a joy to Morrissey.
Even further marvels were on their way. The third resupply had brought eight metric tons of equipment, but according to the tactran messages the next would bring nearly fifty, plus maybe a hundred additional personnel. It would be a city! The summons to the meeting at the Fuel camp had not only been a welcome tour of Jem, it had been a reprieve from the tedium of erecting tents to receive the reinforcements.
What the tactran had failed to say was just what the reinforcements would be used for. They certainly needed any number of specialists they didn’t have. A real cook. A dentist. Some better-looking women. A better translator… reminded, Dalehouse leaned back to see how Harriet was faring behind him.
The translator was most uncomfortably curled up in a space no more than a meter square, and studded, at that, with bolts and levers that must have been tattooing Harriet’s hips and ribs indelibly. If she had been anyone else Dalehouse would have thought of some friendly, commiserating remark. For Harriet he could find none. Her eyes were closed. Her expression registered resignation to the palpable injustice of being the smallest of the three of them, and thus the one to be squeezed into the tiny rear compartment.
“Getting close,” Kappelyushnikov bawled in his ear.
Dalehouse leaned forward, rubbing at the glass as though the Jemman murk were on the inside rather than all around. There was nothing but maroon cloud -
Then the stark white rim of the Heat Pole glittered through a break. And something else. The clouds themselves were clearly bright. As the biplane tunneled out of the last of the cloud bank they were leaving, Dalehouse saw the cause before him.
“Jesu Crist!” cried Kappelyushnikov. “Have they no shame?”
The light was the Oily camp. It stood out on the horizon like a bonfire, penetrating Jem’s dour maroon murk with beacons, lighted windows — my God, Dalehouse marveled, even streetlamps! It was no longer an expeditionary camp. It looked like a small town.
The vertical beacon dipped and swept across the biplane to acknowledge their approach, then courteously away so that they were not dazzled. Kappelyushnikov muttered inaudibly into his radio mouthpiece, listened for a moment, and then began to circle.
“What’s the matter?” Dalehouse demanded.
“Is nothing the matter, only we are no longer in hurry,” said the pilot. “Peeps will be unavoidably one hour detained, so let us study this miracle before landing on it.”
A miracle it very nearly was. There were only about forty people in the Greasy camp, but they seemed to have almost that many buildings. Buildings, not tents or plastic huts. What had they made them out of? And what buildings! Some were barracks, some seemed individual bungalows. One looked more like a tenth-size copy of the Eiffel Tower than like a structure one could live or work in. Another was a good twenty-five meters in length. And — what was that curious, shallow, round petaled cone on the far side of the camp? It seemed to be constructed of bent strips of shiny metal arrayed around a central black cylinder. Could it be a solar generator? If so, it was almost megawatt size! And — that stubby tower with the horizontally rotating fan. Wasn’t that the exhaust from an air conditioner?
Harriet had roused herself and was leaning forward over Dalehouse’s shoulder to see. Her breath buzzed annoyingly in his ear as she said sternly, “That is a … lascivious waste!”
“Oh, yes, dear Gasha!” cried the pilot. “How wonderful would be if we, too, could afford one!”
Over the rattles and groans that came from his Krinpit escort, Ahmed Dulla heard a sputtering distant sound. “Put me down. Wait. Try to be quiet,” he called peevishly in the mixture of Urdu and their own language that made communication possible between them. Or sometimes did. He lowered himself from the litter in which they had been carrying him and climbed onto a knee of a many-tree, pushing aside the pinkly glowing fronds to stare around the sky. A tiny two-winged aircraft was chuttering along just below cloud level. “So. Another triumph of technology arrives,” he said.