“Neither am I,” Treece put in from the opposite side of the group.
“All right,” Lennar said. “Perhaps we’d better inflate the habitat and have something to eat. The three hunters will hold it at this level for a while and give your eyes a better chance to adapt.”
While Lennar, Harld and Dan held the supply net in place against the action of the current, Myrah unshipped the habitat. She spread the curved petals of its bubble collector to form a dish and started the intake pump by blowing water out of one end of its cylinder. Holding the habitat in place in moving water had the effect of increasing the efficiency of the bubble collector and in a short time the fabric balloon was fully inflated. Myrah went into it, rounded up some trembling globes of water—bubbles in reverse—which were floating about inside and ushered them out through the entrance folds to become one with the surrounding water. She then started up the exhaust pump, satisfied herself that the pressure differential was being maintained, and signalled to the others that her task was completed. Treece came in at once with a bladder of fresh water and some food wrapped in a waterproof skin.
“It’s nice in here,” she said, glancing appreciatively around the dim sphere of the habitat. “Just like being inside an egg.”
“Depends on whether you like the idea of being inside an egg,” Myrah replied in a neutral voice.
“True.” Treece unwrapped a twist of kingfish meat and tore a piece off with her teeth. “I’ve been watching you, Myrah—you seem very nervous.”
“Nervous?” Myrah pretended to consider the word for a moment. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t like the idea of being eaten.”
Treece chewed comfortably for a moment. “Why did you volunteer to come?”
“Somebody had to do it.”
“But not you.”
Myrah took the bladder of water and drank from it to give herself time to think. Until this minute she had exchanged less than a dozen words with Treece in her whole life, but the other woman appeared to have a degree of insight which she found disconcerting. Myrah began to wonder why they had had so little previous contact, especially as there was a functional link between the Artisan and Netmaker families.
“Aren’t you afraid?” she said.
“I don’t want to be eaten, either—but this is a chance that probably won’t come up again.”
Myrah felt a disturbing premonition. “A chance for what?”
“To see Ka, of course. To find out for certain.”
Myrah suddenly knew why she and Treece had lived separate lives in spite of the close confines of the Home. Members of the Ka-worshipping sect were not exactly ostracised—humans faced too many common dangers to be able to afford disunity—but their dark religion created certain barriers to communication. The basic tenet was that Ka, being unimaginably huge and powerful in proportion, could have sought out and engulfed the human colony at any time—and the fact that he had chosen not to do so proved that he was benignly disposed to the people of the Clan.
Myrah was prepared to admit this as a point for discussion, although her own belief was that Ka was immobile, in some way anchored at the centre of the world, or totally indifferent to anything going on in the upper levels. But she objected to the elaborate myths, supposedly based on the account of a remote ancestor, ascribing to Ka fantastic powers which included the ability to absorb other beings, still alive, into his own body and then send them abroad as his servants. In particular, she disliked the notion that dead humans, after their gradual descent into darkness, were assimilated by Ka and partially revitalised, thus achieving a kind of afterlife. Myrah preferred to regard death as a clean and final exit from the rigours of existence.
“Why did you wait so long?” she said, concealing the unease that Treece inspired in her. “You could have swum down at any time. A lot faster than we’re going now.”
“I did start out once, then I realised I would never have found my way back. There’d be no point if I couldn’t get back with the word.”
“Perhaps Ka would have shown you the way.”
Treece laughed delightedly. “I like that. You know, you’re intelligent enough to be one of us.”
“I’ll stay as I am.”
“I know—but perhaps something will happen to make you change your mind.”
Myrah shook her head. “I doubt it. Besides, it looks as though we’re not going down much further. The current is changing direction.”
“That’s because the world turns round,” Treece said with calm conviction. “Currents have to flow in curves, but you’ll find this one goes deep.”
Myrah tried to think of a reply which would make her sound unimpressed and unconcerned, but in the pervasive dimness of the dysphotic zone it was strangely difficult to rally her spirit against the other woman’s mental attack. That night, because of the way the guard rota worked out, she found herself sharing the habitat during her sleep period with Lennar and Harld. They came to her at separate times with silent advances of love, and she accepted on each occasion, glad of the reassurance that life, too, was a force beyond the comprehension of individuals.
CHAPTER SIX
The damage to Tarrant’s boat was not as bad as he had feared.
None of the bullets had passed through ribs or intercostals, and—although the exit holes were large and ragged—they were close enough together to be cut out on one rectangular section of skin. Tarrant reckoned he would be able to shape, key in and weld a new piece of plastic in a couple of hours, provided there were no unforeseen snags. He enlisted the help of two beachboys to unship the batteries, drag the boat high on to the sand and put it on its side.
One of the first things he noticed was that the paint had been lifted here and there in a series of small circular patches—evidence of the sucking power of the big squid which had tried to overturn him. He measured the diameter of the patches and their distance apart, and noted the figures down to give the experts something to work on later, on the assumption that he would be able to win their serious attention.
It was a warm, pleasant morning with a feathering of lacy cirrus across the blue dome of the sky to remind Tarrant, who still had a pilot’s three-dimensional view of the weather, that eight or ten kilometres above him ice crystals were blowing in the high winds. Appreciative of the comforts of life at sea level, he took off his shirt and got down to working on the skin of his boat with a keyhole saw. He had completed two sides of the rectangular cut when he saw the portly, piratical figure of Will Somerville approaching from the direction of the jetty.
“Morning, young Hal.” Somerville sat down on the palm tree stump and used his red bandana to wipe perspiration from his forehead and neck. “Hot, isn’t it?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“It’s all right for you skinny people.” Somerville ran an aggrieved eye over Tarrant’s frame. “Tell me, how do you manage to stay so skinny?”
“Lean is a better word,” Tarrant told him. “Lean, or hard, or fit.”
“Skinny—how do you do it?”
“I work a lot and I don’t eat much.” Tarrant put his saw down and reached for a bottle of drinking water.
Somerville snorted loudly. “Don’t give me that old story. I’ve seen the way you skinny guys eat and…. Say, what happened to your boat?” He stood up and came closer to inspect the damage. “It looks like somebody went to work on it with a pickaxe.”
Tarrant slaked his thirst before replying. “I doubt if you’d believe me.”
“Try me.” Somerville’s intelligent brown eyes registered concern. “Hal, is this more of the sabotage you were talking about? Because if it is….”