“Well, I don’t understand that either, Gappy. The Krinpit almost killed him.”
“Then how is possible they become native bearers for fine Pakistani sahib as he daringly marches through jungle?”
“I can explain that,” Boyne said gloomily, “although I can’t say I like it. That first Krinpit you and I carried here, Dalehouse, the one that calls itself Sharn-igon? It’s mad at all human beings. Apparently its girlfriend, or actually I think it was a boyfriend, died from the first contact with the Peeps, and it just wants to get even. Only its idea of getting even seems to be to make as much trouble for as many human beings as it can. It’s raised a hell of a fuss with the Krips near here; we can’t make any contact with them at all. I guess it thinks the Peeps are pretty well screwed, so it’s willing to help them screw the rest of us. Looks damn bad for the future, if you ask me.”
He was walking along with them toward the airstrip, but his manner seemed reserved; he made no eye contact with any of them, and what he said was more of a monologue than a conversation.
Kappelyushnikov said placatingly, “Hey, Boyne, you pissed about something?”
“Me? Why should I be?” But Boyne still did not look at him.
Kappelyushnikov glanced at the others, then back to the pilot. “Hey, Boyne,” he wheedled. “We two are members of great interstellar brotherhood of pilotry, should not be pissed at each other.”
“Look, it’s not you personally,” said Boyne angrily. “I got my ass eaten out for lending you chaps the backhoe, not to mention talking a little more openly than I was supposed to about what we were doing here.”
“But we’re all in this together,” Dalehouse put in. “It’s like Pontrefact said at the meeting. We’re supposed to share information.”
“Oh, Ponty’s got the right idea, but that’s supposed to go both ways. You didn’t see fit to mention some of your own little deeds, did you? Like arming the balloonists against the Krinpit?”
“We didn’t! I mean, that’s my own department, Boyne. We’ve given them a few simple weapons to protect themselves against the ha’aye’i, that’s all.”
“Well, they’ve been using them against everything they can catch. Not to mention that business with the Peeps’ supply ship.”
“That was an accident!” Dalehouse said.
“Sure it was. Same as it’s an accident that your plane—” He hesitated, then closed his mouth.
“Come on, Boyne, what are you trying to say?” Dalehouse demanded.
“Nothing. Forget it.” Boyne glanced back toward the camp, then said rapidly, “Look, this peace conference was a bust, right? Nothing got settled. And the way things are going — well, I’ve got a bad feeling. The local Krips are gassing our Creepies in their burrows every once in awhile — that’s Peeps’ doing, I suppose. The Peep ship gets blown up; you say it’s an accident, but the gen says CIA. You’re giving the Loonies weapons. And your plane — well, shit, man,” he said, glaring at Kappelyushnikov. “I’ve got eyes. So right now I don’t feel like having a heart-to-heart, all right? Maybe some other time. So, so long, and have a nice flight home.” He nodded briskly and turned back to the Greasy base.
Kappelyushnikov broodingly watched him go. “I too have bad feeling,” he said. “About dear friend and fellow pilot Boyne, too. Questions I would like to ask, but this is not good time.”
“I’d like to know more about what they’re using the Creepies for,” Dalehouse agreed. “And frankly, that bit about our being responsible for the Peeps’ accident is beginning to get under my skin. Do you think there’s any possibility it could be true?”
Gappy regarded him thoughtfully. “You are very nice person, Danny,” he said sadly. “Perhaps you do not wonder enough. Like, do you wonder why Greasies have landing strip when gillicopter lands anywhere?”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” Dalehouse admitted.
“Occurred to me,” said the Russian. “Just like occurred to Boyne to wonder why strange little hatch dear Gasha rode on is in our plane. You and Gasha look at it, you say, ‘Oh, what a nuisance. Cannot understand purpose.’ But when pilot looks at it, Boyne or me, we say at once, ‘Oh, how strange that aircraft designed for peaceful exploration has built-in bomb bay.’ ”
Thirty meters below the airstrip, Mother dr’Shee woke with the smell of cyanide in her splayed nose, too faint to be dangerous, too strong to ignore. The Shelled Devils were at it again.
She yipped peremptorily for the brood-member on duty. It turned out to be t’Weechr, the runt of the litter and the one the others saddled with the least attractive jobs — including, she realized justly, attending to the wants of the Mother when she first woke up. There were only seven in this present brood of hers, and all of them male, and none of them the size or the strength or the wit of their father. It was a loose and unsettling time, and it spoiled her temper.
“Food,” she ordered harshly. “And drink. And someone to groom me while I am waiting.”
T’Weechr said humbly, “There is no one but me, Brood Mother. I will be quick with the food and groom you while you eat.”
“And why is there no one?”
“The New Devils are teaching, Brood Mother. All are commanded to be present.”
“Tssheee.” If dr’Shee had been a human, the sound would have been a grunt, written “Humph” for convenience’s sake. But she was not actually displeased, merely fretful; and when t’Weechr returned it was not only with tubers and a shell of water, but there were even some fresh leaves and fruits from Above.
“Taken or given?” she demanded, sniffing them suspiciously.
“These were gifts of the New Devils, Brood Mother,” the youth apologized.
“Tssheee.” They were, however, tasty, and she was hungry. She defecated neatly into the shell when she was finished, and t’Weechr folded it closed.
“Is there any other service, Brood Mother?” he asked, licking a final strand of her fur into neatness.
“No. Be gone.” He touched noses and wriggled away to deliver the package to the rotting rooms. The next brood would mix it with the planting mud and plaster it into the ceilings of the farm tunnels when they prepared the next crops. By then it would be well aged, and of great value in growing the tubers.
Runt or not, t’Weechr was a good child. She would miss him when the litter matured and scattered. And that time was not far off. At every awakening now, her dugs had been smaller and harder. The breeding males knew it, and every time she left her nest they wriggled close to touch her, nose to anus, testing to see how near she was to courtship. Only yesterday the male with the scarred leg had said, half-jesting, “What would you like next time, dr’Shee? Krinpit shell? A live Flying Devil? The head of a New Devil?”
“Your own head,” she had said, half-irritated, half-flirtatious. He had snorted laughter through the spreading folds of his nose and crept away, but he would be back. It was not an unpleasing thought. Dr’Shee’s brood-sister had mated with that one, two litters ago. A fine brood, three females! And the sister had said he was indefatigable at rut. Well. A proper courtship was a proper courtship, but she could not help hoping that he might turn out to be the male with the finest gift to lay before her.
Faint and distant vibrations in the earth set her whiskers to quivering. That was the New Devils, too. Time was when such tremors had meant only a particularly violent thunderstorm Above, or perhaps the crash of a falling many-tree. Now the New Devils scraped and shoved hillocks and boulders around at will, and the earth was no longer easy to her senses. As she moved around her chamber, sniffing and touching to make sure everything was in its place, it was touch and smell and taste that principally guided her. Sometimes her males had plastered bits of fungus and vegetation into the walls along with the secretions that made their tunnels hard and waterproof, and from the plant decay there was some faint glow. Dr’Shee appreciated the light but did not need it. For her people, eyes were almost a handicap, especially on their infrequent dashes to the Surface, when only the densest of clouds and worst of storms dimmed Kung’s radiance enough for them to bear.