“She will be down by the docks,” Wooly added. “It may not be as hopeless as you think. Consider how long and involved a journey it has been to this point, and now we have closed the gap. I feel that the search will end here. Come, let us go to the wharves.”
The city’s low hills dropped off abruptly at the coast; a cliff had been smoothed mechanically and they descended a steep, final incline to the piers, one of which, from the top, afforded a panorama of the port complex and the rough seas out to the horizon.
“Look!” Renard noted, pointing. “Smoke. A ship’s coming in!”
“Going out, more likely,” the Yaxa replied. “It draws a bit farther away. I should not like to be on it—that sky looks very threatening.”
It did indeed, but the dark clouds and occasional distant lightning contrasted with the warmth and sunshine they enjoyed. Another hex lay in that direction; Wuckl’s slightly pinkish atmosphere and somewhat darker water marked the border between Wuckl and the next hex.
Of course, such differences existed between each Southern hex, but they were usually minor—a matter of humidity, carbon-dioxide content, the addition or subtraction of some trace gas. In only a few was it necessary for visitors to use respirators or protective gear. Nonetheless, all hexes were slightly uncomfortable for nonresidents.
“It is disappearing,” Vistaru noted. “Look—you can’t see the smoke any more. They’re making speed.”
“Zanti is high-tech,” the Yaxa reminded them. “They will have full power and speed.”
Ordinarily two high-tech hexes did not adjoin, but there were exceptions. For their part, the Wuckl swam poorly and could not tolerate more than a dozen or so meters depth; the Zanti, nearly immobile plants few had seen, could not stand depths of less than one hundred fifty meters. In this case the two hexes were well balanced; neither had anything the other wanted, and in the few matters—like fishing rights—that required in-terhex cooperation, they got along well.
Renard had a funny feeling all of a sudden about that ship. “You know,” he said glumly, “wouldn’t it be a bitch if that’s the Toorine Trader, or something, and they’re on it?”
Theirs had been a long and tiring hunt; suddenly all three felt that he was right. Their pace accelerated.
At the docks they found tired longshoremen packing their gear. The Wuckl were fascinated by the strange-looking foursome, but pleasant enough.
“Excuse me—was that the Toorine Trader just left?” Renard asked with grim foreboding.
The Wuckl gave that shake of assent. “That’s right. You missed her by a good half-hour. Next boat in three days.”
There was not a shred of doubt in the three aliens’ minds that Mavra Chang was somehow aboard her.
“We can fly out and overtake her,” Vistaru suggested.
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” the Wuckl longshoreman put in. “That’s a hell of a storm brewin’ out there. If Zanti weren’t a high-tech hex, they’d never have put to sea at all, I think. They’re built to take it. But there are winds over eighty kilometers per hour in it, and a good deal of sleet. That’s cold water—dip your feet in it if you want to see how cold. It’s why we’re fogged in here almost every night.”
“How long before the storm passes?” Wooly asked the Wuckl.
The longshoreman wagged its neck a bit. “Hard to say. Meteorology up at the Port Authority Building could probably tell you. Not before midmorning tomorrow, though, I’d say.”
The Yaxa thought a moment. “Any idea how fast the ship moves in a high-tech hex?”
The Wuckl cocked its head and considered it. “In a calm with full power, maybe twenty-five, thirty kilometers per hour, more or less. They got the storm with them, though, so make it thirty, I’d say.”
Renard looked at the other two. “If the storm lasts as long as our friend here estimates, that’s about fourteen hours. Four hundred twenty kilometers head start.” He turned back to the Wuckl. “This is near the hex border, isn’t it? I mean, Zanti and the next water hex.”
The longshoreman nodded. “Yep. But they won’t go over into Simjim if they can help it. It’s nontech. They’re headin’ for Mucrol, and they’ll keep to the high-tech side unless the storm’s too bad to deal with. A straight line’s always best, you know.”
They thanked the Wuckl and Renard quickly got the map from Domaru’s saddle bags. They all peered at it intently.
“All right, here’s where they’d have to land in Mucrol,” Renard pointed. “Now, there’s Gedemondas, possibly two hex sides overland. If we assume she’s a stowaway, then she’ll have to get off at the Mucrol port. So that’s where we head to begin with. If, on the other hand, she’s managed to communicate with the crew, and if they’re willing, I’d bet on them dropping her as far north in Mucrol as possible, giving her only a hex side to cross, here, near Alestol. If there’s nothing at the Mucrol port, that’s where we head next.”
Vistaru stared at the map in concern. “I don’t know about this Mucrol—but I hope she doesn’t cross into Alestol. Those nasty barrel-shaped plants can gas you in seconds.”
“The Yaxa are friendly with Alestol,” Wooly pointed out. “If we can get to a Zone Gate somewhere I can send a message to watch for them but not to harm them.”
“Not much chance of that,” Renard responded. “We’ll be sticking to the borders, and the water hexes are out for that. No, we’ll stick to Mucrol. She’ll be aware of the dangers on the other side.”
Vistaru was thoughtful. “I wonder, though, about the dangers on the Mucrol side.”
Renard’s head shot up, looked straight at her. “You know about the place?” he asked sharply.
She shook her head. “Not a thing. Do you? Or you, Wooly?”
None of them did. It was a complete mystery.
Mucrol
Ti-gan stared into the midday sun from his post atop the caravan. It was bleak country; a desert of reds and oranges and purples, badly eroded and with occasional clumps of brush, cactus, even a few trees where ground water approached nearer the surface. It was like this for much of the year, except in early and mid spring when melting snows from the northeastern mountains sent floodwater—in its own way, as dangerous as any enemy—cascading through the canyons.
There was water, though; it was locked beneath the surface, and brought up by steam pumps into basins, which then had to be jealously guarded. To control a pack’s water was to control it completely.
Ti-gan looked like a cross between a dog and a weasel; his face came almost to a point at a moist black nose, under which a huge mouth opened to reveal a nasty set of long, sharp teeth. He had rounded, saucerlike ears. His body was disproportionately small for a creature with a head the size of Ti-gan’s. His arms and legs ended in stubby black five-fingered paws with equally dark claws, somewhat like those of a raccoon. When he moved he moved on all fours, but when seated, as he now was, he sat back on thick rear legs, resting on his tailless rump like a humanoid.
To the first-time viewer, a Pack Guard Unit was a strange sight—a massive armored platform supported on rows of giant balloon tires, each with an independent axle so that it followed the subtle contours of the harsh land like a treaded vehicle. On top was a wall of metal with gun ports, and a smaller structure atop that was also well armored. Five progressively smaller decks terminated in a huge sooty smokestack that belched great plumes of steam and ash to be sucked up by the dry air.
It was the driest of seasons, and therefore the most dangerous. Some packs had only mudholes now, with the prospect of four weeks or more until the melt started. So it was a time of desperation. Particularly during this period, all were loaded into Pack Guard Units except those in the water village that were needed for essential services. Expecting a last-ditch attack at any moment, they patrolled in a circle around the oasis that was the key to their power.