“Habitable zones,” said the scientist. “Ancient Venus is, in effect, our nearest accessible exoplanet. If we can confirm the existence in space-time of the Venusian habitable zone we’ve detected, that’s a major confirmation of our ability to identify viable alternate Earths. We may not be able to use this method to send probes across the light-years, to distant systems; there may be insuperable barriers to that, but—”
“Bullshit. Your motive was glory, and the glory is mine now.” Forrest grinned. “You lose, I win. That’s what I do, PoTolo. I see an opportunity, and I take it.”
“Are you quite ready, Mr. Forrest?”
“I am.”
Forrest assumed the position, standing in the gate, arms loosely by his sides. He turned his head for a last glance at that bright star. The world disappeared.
He stood in a rosy, green-tinged twilight, surrounded by trees. Most seemed young, some had boles thicker than his body. Fronds like hanging moss hung around him; the ground underfoot was springy and a little uncertain, as if composed entirely of supple, matted roots. No glimpse of sky. The air was still, neither warm nor cold; the silence was absolute, uncanny. He looked at himself, checked the contents of belt loops and pockets. He was dressed as he had been in West Africa, complete with a sturdy, familiar, outdoors kit. This struck him as very strange, suddenly, but why not? What is a body but a suit of clothes, another layer of the mind’s adornment? And his body seemed to have made the trip. Or the translation, or whatever you called it. No pack. PoTolo had told him he couldn’t carry a pack.
PoTolo!
The name rang like a bell, reminding him just what had happened. What an extraordinary feat! He took a few steps, in one direction, then another: keeping himself oriented on the drop zone. Pity he didn’t have a ballpark figure for the “interval.” Ten minutes or ten hours? How far was it safe to stray? Grey-green boles crowded him, the hulk of a dead giant or two lurking, back in the ranks. He suddenly wondered if he was dreaming. Yes, probably he was. The PoTolo narrative, the apparatus, the act of standing in that gate, feeling absurd in his wilderness kit, folded up like a telescope, became implausible as a dream. Only the twilit jungle remained concrete, but how did he get here?
He heard nothing. He simply became aware of a rush of small, purposeful movement, closing in. The creatures were highly camouflaged, about the size of ground squirrels: long, flexible snouts, shaggy, apparently limbless bodies. Their swift appearance seemed uncanny, the dream turned to nightmare, but of course they had smelt his blood. He fled, grabbing at appropriate defense, spun around and pepper-sprayed them. Which did the trick. Hell, they weren’t armor-plated, and they liked the taste of their own kind, a useful trait in aggressive vermin. Inevitably the drop zone was now out of sight, but before he could think about that, a new player arrived. Shaggy four-legged things: bigger than the first guys and smart, organized pack-hunters. He ran, but they had him outflanked. Forced to climb, he shot up the first three or four meters of his chosen refuge in seconds, and went on climbing, easy work, to a knot of boughs high above the ground. There he perched, assembling his pellet gun, thrumming with adrenaline and almost laughing out loud.
An exhilarating place, this planet called Desire!
No pack, and no effective firearms, a lack he might come to regret. He was equipped for the wilderness, but not for slaughter. How do you say “I come in peace” to a pack of Venusian hyenas? He saw formidable teeth, and hoped his armory was sufficient. But apparently Venusian hyenas couldn’t climb. The brutes circled, panting in frustration, then retreated, vanishing into the dim ranks of the trees.
Not worth it, muttered Forrest. Or I smell wrong, unappetizing.
He took stock of his situation: treed in a trackless forest full of hungry predators, some 2 or 3 billion years and around 38 million kilometers from home, and noticed that his secret burden of depression—the Black Dog mood that had haunted him for years—had vanished. Savoring PoTolo’s crowning moment, he wondered if he might be here for days. He’d need food; water; shelter; some way to defeat beasts that could tear him apart! The challenges he might face, possibly fatal, possibly insurmountable, delighted him.
He was debating whether to take the gun apart or carry it down assembled, when a severe, numbing pain alerted him to the tree’s behavior.
He bared his right leg and saw grey noduled strands tightly wrapped around his calf. The knot of boughs had produced suckers and sent them to feed, stealthily creeping inside his pant leg. Forrest grabbed his knife and slashed. The pain was unmistakably deep and compelling: there was venom involved and no time to lose. The suckers fell away. He slashed again at a row of puckered wounds, like scribbled smiley faces, opening a long gash, in the hope of bleeding the poison out. Too late. In the act of securing a tourniquet below the knee, he stopped being able to breathe, lost consciousness, lost his balance, and fell.
He woke on his back, lying on some kind of bed, a very warm coverlet confining him. He smelled foul meat and remembered being dragged through darkness, maybe in the teeth of those hyenas, in a red mist of pain … The pain was still intense, and there were other discomforts, possibly broken bones, but hyenas hadn’t brought him here—wherever here was. Flickering light showed a hollow, interior space, crudely furnished. There was someone with him, a figure squatting by a firebowl, poring over small objects on a slab. Silvery fingers rearranged the items, a sleek bent head pondered the pattern. He was sure he’d seen the same thing before, far away, in another world—
She’s telling my fortune, he thought, though how he knew the figure was female he had no idea. The items were swept away and vanished. The figure sat back, murmuring, looking down into upturned palms, seeming to engage in a dialogue with the Unseen.
He slept again. The pain burned low, like a smothered fire.
When he next woke, she was by his couch, in a very unhuman posture.
“Good,” she said. “You’re awake. Your head is clear?”
He nodded, staring. He had been rescued by a glistening, greenish woman with a muscular, sheeny tail, which she was using as a third lower limb, a hairless head, and bird- or snakelike features (green eyes that filled the face, a long mouth with an eerie curl, glint of needle teeth). She spoke and he understood her. He must be dreaming, after all.
“Your fall saved your life, at a cost. I have set your broken bones, the venom is overcome, but the nibbler bite itself is now urgent. Rotten flesh must be excised, regeneration triggers implanted. You should know: I can immobilize you, I can give you analgesics, but I can’t put you out.” She showed him her palm: he saw moving symbols. “I can read your cell signature on this, but not the details of its expression, and anesthesia is complex. I might kill you.”
“You are a medicine woman,” said John Forrest slowly.
“Yes.” Her eerie mouth curled further, until he thought her jaw would split from her face. “I am indeed. The procedure will be very painful.”
“Go ahead and operate, Doctor. Do I need to sign anything?”
“Not necessary.”
The operation was a success. When pain was once more a smothered fire, she told him all was well and he would soon mend. She asked him where he’d come from.
“From the sky,” said Forrest, “does it matter?”
“Not to me,” said Lizard Woman, her long mouth curling.
He noticed, at last, a spidery transparent headset, and a mic by her mouth, catching gleams of firelight. He raised an arm, the one that wasn’t still immobilized by the heated coverlet.