"We'd prefer a jungle, of course," Ilsa said.
One of the women bristled. "Nine of us and three of you! If—"
Clave said, "Hold it, Merril. Ilsa, are you sure? You can move a jungle, and that's good, right?"
Ilsa nodded cautiously. Anthon said, "That's one of the things we like about jungle life."
"But you can only do it every twenty years or so. We can moor the carrier…carm to the middle of an integral tree and move it when and where we like."
"Why not do that with a jungle?"
"Where would you mount the carm?"
Anthon thought it over. "The funnel? No, it might suddenly blow live steam—" He smiled suddenly. "There are more of you than us anyway. Sure, pick a tree."
There was a grove of eight small trees, thirty to fifty kilometers long.
The Grad chose the biggest, without asking. He hovered on the forward jets at the western reach of the in tuft.
It was a wilderness. A stream ran down the trunk and directly into the treemouth. He looked for the rounded shapes of distorted old huts, and they weren't there. The foliage around the treemouth had never been cut; there were no paths for burial ceremonies or moving of garbage. No earthlife showed, not even as weeds.
It was daunting. He said cheerily, "It seems we're the first here. Lawri, have you thought of a way to land this thing?"
"You have the helm."
He'd thought it through in detail. "I'm afraid our best move is to moor at the trunk and go down."
"Climb?"
"We did it before. Clave could lead most of us down while, say, Gavving and I wait. We'd have the carm for rescue operations. After the rest of you get down, Gavving and I can follow. We've climbed before—"
"Hold it," Clave said. "This is taking too treefeeding long. Grad, quit fooling around and just land in the treemouth."
"We might set it on fire!"
"Then we try again with another tree!"
Lawri had gone berserk at the suggestion of landing in the treemouth of London Tree. Now she just rubbed her eyes. Tired.
They were all too tired. They'd had enough of shocks and strangeness. Clave was right, delay would be torment, and there were trees to waste.
There was no kind of landing site in that wilderness. Everything he saw was green; there was no drought here. Would it burn?
He went in over the treemouth and rammed the carm into the foliage hard enough to stick. Still shaken by the impact, they forced their way through the doors, fast, and flailed with ponchos at the smoldering fires until they went out.
Then, finally, they had time to look around.
Minya stood panting, grinning, her black hair wild and wet, the blackened poncho trailing from hen hand. She snatched at his hand and cried, "Copter plants!"
Gavving laughed. "I didn't know you liked copter plants."
"I didn't either. But in London Tree they weeded out the copter plants and flowers and anything else they couldn't use." She tapped at one, two, three ripe plants, and the seed pods buzzed upward. Suddenly she was looking into his eyes, close. "We did it. Just like we planned, we found an unoccupied tree and it's ours."
"Six of us. Six out of Quinn Tuft…sorry."
"Twelve of us. More to come."
She had fought the fire with a predatory grace unhampered by the thickening around her hips. Mine, Gavving thought. Whether it looks like me or some copsik runner…or Harp, or Merrill Mine, ours.
He'd tell her when the mood was right. But that was too serious for now. "Okay, everything you see is ours. What shall we call it?"
"The thing I like best…I can say citizen and mean all of us. I'm no copsik and I'm not a triune. Citizens' Tree?"
The foliage tasted like Quinn Tuft in the Grad's childhood, before the drought. He lay on his back in virgin foliage and sucked contemplatively.
He became aware that Lawri was watching him from the dappled shadows. She looked cold, or just twitchy, hugging her elbows, cringing as if from a blow. He snapped, "Can't you relax? Eat some foliage."
"I did. It's good," she said without inflection.
It was irritating. "All right, what's got you worried? Nobody's ever going to call you a copsik runner. You saved our lives and everyone knows it. You're clean, fed, rested, safe, and admired. Take a break, Scientist. It's over."
Now she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Jeffer, how does this sound? There are only two London Tree citizens for at least ten thousand kiometers around. Doesn't it stand to reason that we'd…get along best together?"
He sat back on his haunches. Why ask him? "I suppose it does."
"Well, Mark thinks so too."
"Okay."
"He didn't have to say so. We talked a little about building huts, that's all, but he looks at me like he knows. Like, he's too polite to broach the subject yet, but where else can I go, who else is there? Jeffer, don't make me marry a dwarf!"
"Uh…huh."
She turned, convulsively, to see his face. He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. "In principle, two Scientists ought to make good mates too. Does that make sense? But you watched me murder Klance. I didn't warn him. I didn't make any speeches about copsiks and freedom and war and justice. I just killed him the first good chance I got. I'd have killed you too to get us free of that place."
She didn't nod, she didn't speak.
"You could put a harpoon in my belly while I'm sleeping. So don't push me. I have to think."
She waited. He thought. Now he knew why she irritated him with her twitchy unhappiness. He was guilty, and she had seen it. Not quite what one wanted in a mate!
Did he want a wife? He'd always thought he did, and with seven women and five men in Nameless Tuft…no chance for an unmarried man to play around in such a tiny population, but he should have his choice of wives. So who?
Gavving and Minya: married. Clave, Jayan, Jinny: a unit, and the twins seemed to like it that way. Anthon, Debby, Ilsa might all have left mates in Carther States, and they might all be looking around…but Anthon didn't seem to think so, and even if Debby or Ilsa were available…a romp might be fun, but they looked so odd. Which left Lawri.
He said, being nearly sure he could get away with it, "Lawri, will you forgive me for murdering Klance?"
"I notice you said murder. Not kill."
"I'm not even claiming it was war. I know what he was to you. Lawri, I demand this."
She turned her back and wept. The Grad did not turn his back. He'd virtually invited her to try to kill him. Now or never, Lawri! You can add too. There's me or there's Mark or there's nobody. I might be giving Mark another reason to kill me. Do I want to risk that?
She turned around. "I forgive you for murdering Klance."
"Then let's go to the carm and register a marriage. We'll pick up witnesses along the way."
Clave looked down into the treemouth. "I see rocks down there. Good. We'll have to collect them for a cookflre. Cook Gavving's waterbirds. Tear out some foliage so we'll have room. Where do we want the Commons?"
He didn't see many of his citizens in earshot, and none were listening. He raised his voice. "Treefodder, we have to get organized! A reservoir. Tunnels. Huts. Pens. Maybe we won't find turkeys, but we're bound to find something. Maybe dumbos. We need everything. Sooner or later we want elevators to the midpoint so we can moor the carm there. But for now—"
Anthon, flat on his back in the foliage with a long, long woman in each arm, bellowed, "Claaave! Feed it to the treeee!"
Gave grinned at Anthon. He did seem to represent the majority opinion. "Take a break, citizens. We're home."