It had been noted, though not explained, that the apparent thickness of the boundary layer was directly proportional to the percentage of planetary mass that existed in the paired universes. It was possible to cross the Mirror on Benison, but the length of the route made it impractical to carry any significant quantity of goods from side to side that way. Umber, the 5,000-kilometer disk of a planet whose calculated diameter would have been over 12,000 kilometers, carried virtually all of the direct trade between mirrorside and the sidereal universe.
Ricimer and Guillermo jumped down from the featherboat. "Dulcie says that apart from air and reaction mass, the Dalriada's in perfect condition," Ricimer explained, obviously pleased with the situation. "He'll keep his crew close by the ship and relax while we do what exploring there is."
The men stiffened, waiting for direction. Ricimer went on, "Stephen and I will cover Guillermo while he talks to field workers. Leon, you're in charge of the ship until we return. If that's more than two hours, I'll radio."
He patted the flat radio hanging from the right side of his belt, where it balanced the forty rounds of rifle ammunition on the left.
"You're leaving me under him!" Adrien said in amazement.
Piet looked at him. "No," he said with scarcely a hint of hesitation. "You'll come with us, Adrien. . But leave the rifle, that's too much to carry."
Gregg nodded mentally. Adrien couldn't get into too much trouble with a cutting bar.
"Look, I'll take off my armor instead. I-"
"Leave the rifle, Adrien," Ricimer repeated, very clearly the captain.
Adrien's handsome face scrunched up, but he obeyed without further comment.
Benison's open woodlands were as alien to Gregg as anything beyond the corridors of Venus, but he found they had a friendly feel. The leaves overhead provided a ceiling of sorts, but they didn't have the overpowering immensity of Punta Verde's layered forests.
Small animals chirped and mewed, unseen. Sometimes the ankle-high ground cover-neither moss nor ferns, but similar to both-quivered ahead of the party.
Guillermo led, carrying a fist-sized direction finder. The Molt slung a holstered revolver from a pink sash like the one he'd worn on Punta Verde when he was captured. Piet was next in line. Twice Adrien tried to come abreast of his brother and talk, but Piet brushed him back.
Gregg brought up the rear with his flashgun and bleak thoughts. He was nervous around Adrien Ricimer. He was afraid of his own temper, afraid that one day he was going to crush the boy like a bug.
Afraid that jealousy was as much a reason for his anger as Adrien's brashness.
They came to the verge of cultivated fields a quarter klick from the landing site. Hectares of waist-high sorghum stretched for as far as Gregg could see. Stripes and wedges of native vegetation, taller and a brighter green, marked patches too wet or rocky for gang plows.
A pair of high-wheeled cultivators crawled across the fields in the middle distance. Guillermo immediately entered the open area, pushing through the saw-edged leaves with chitin-clad ease.
"Wait!" Gregg said. "Shouldn't you take your, your sash off?"
The Molt's triangular head turned almost directly backward though his torso didn't move. "Any human observer will think I'm a supervisor, Mr. Gregg," he said. "A thousand years ago, his ancestors would have thought the same."
Guillermo resumed his swift progress toward the Federation equipment. Gregg sighted on the nearer vehicle, but his laser's 1.5x scope didn't provide enough magnification to tell whether the driver was a Molt or perhaps a Rabbit.
It hadn't occurred to him until Guillermo spoke that all the aspects of Molt-human interaction had been set before the Collapse. The thought made him a little queasy. He had a vision of eighty generations of Stephen Greggs sighting their flashguns toward treetops full of defiant warriors. .
"The Dalriada's truly a first-class ship," Piet Ricimer murmured as the three men watched Guillermo from the forest-edge undergrowth. "I suppose it's my cousins' way of making apology for the business when the Hawkwood landed. Though after that ordeal, nobody could blame Alexi for wild talk."
"I wanted to call him out!" Adrien snarled.
Neither of the older men spoke. Had the Mosterts bothered to respond, they would have sent servants to beat the pup within an inch of his life-or beyond. Betaport would have applauded that handling of lower-class scum who insulted his betters by claiming the right of challenge.
A red film lowered over Gregg's eyes. He pointed the flashgun toward the ground. He didn't want an accident because his trigger finger trembled.
Guillermo jumped off the cultivator he'd mounted and returned toward the waiting humans. The vehicle had never paused in its slow progress across the sorghum.
"Frankly, I did my cousins an injustice," Piet continued. "I expected them to, well, ignore that they'd been mistaken. Instead, well-I couldn't have hoped for a finer ship than the one they provided. I'd hoped to involve more of the. . upper levels of the nation in this expedition than I've done. But that will come next time."
"Sometimes people come through when they come right up against it," Gregg said. "I'm glad your cousins did."
His voice was hoarse. He coughed, as if to clear his throat.
Guillermo rejoined them. The Molt's chestplate pumped with exertion, sucking and expelling air from the breathing holes along the lateral lines of his torso. "They'll meet us tonight," he said.
"Those will?" Adrien asked. "The workers?"
"Not them," his brother explained. "Their kindred, who've escaped and hide along the Mirror. The only food available is what's grown here on the plantations, so I was sure that there'd be contact between free Molts and the slaves."
He nodded toward the Peaches to start the party walking back. "I want to understand the Mirror better before I make final plans. That means I need someone to guide me through."
30
Benison
Coye waggled Gregg's booted foot to awaken him before going on to each next man in the lean-to and doing the same. Gregg pulled his helmet on as he got up. He was already fully dressed, with the flashgun sling over his right arm.
The sky was faintly pale where it could be glimpsed through the foliage, but it did nothing to illuminate the forest floor. Even the featherboat's off-white hull was easier to sense than see in the first moments of wakefulness.
Gregg was stiff in odd places. The bed of springy boughs had seemed comfortable when he lay on it, but it had locked his body into one posture as the thin pad over the Peaches' decking hadn't done during the voyage. His sinuses were stuffy from pollen, either native or drifting from the nearby plantation.
And he was afraid. Clambering up the side of the featherboat was good for the fear. The massive solidity of the Peaches' hull soothed Gregg in a fashion that the personal weapon he carried could not.
In the hatchway Leon, who'd shared the watch with Coye, whispered to Piet Ricimer. Clipped to the coaming was the sonic scanner, another piece of hardware purchased with the profits of Mostert's disastrous voyage. Rather than magnifying sounds for the operator to classify, the scanner plotted an ambient and indicated changes above that baseline on a screen. It didn't tell the operator what a sound was, but it gave volume and vector.
Gregg glanced at the readout. He lay across the hull beside the hatch and aimed his weapon toward the line of peaks which the scanner had noted-footsteps or brush rustling past an oncoming body.