Vala thought, Oh.
“The bottleneck is the fuel,” Chitakumishad was saying. “The Reds make a beer, it can be turned into fuel—”
“Go to your war by way of the Red pastures. We can send them the design for your distilleries by a secret means, tomorrow. Let them make fuel there while you make fuel here from your own stills and rotting grass. You will confront the Shadow Nest no more than a falan from now.”
Chit nodded, his own mind busy with plans. “Fuel to take two cruisers there and back—”
“You must cross the Barrier of Flame. I think your cruisers can do that. There are passes.”
“Takes more fuel.”
“Fuel to explore, or for towels or flame throwers, would come out of what you have. What of it? Only in victory will you need fuel to return here, and then your third cruiser can meet you, or you may leave one behind.
“Travel in mated pairs,” Harpster said. “Grieving Tube and I will travel together. Thurl, we know your customs, but from time to time your tribe divides. Do it that way. Tegger, you and Warvia believe you can resist the vampires. It may be so, but what of these others? Let them mate when they must, and not rish with bloodsuckers. Anakrin, Chaychind, you have no mates. You should go home…”
And the arguments began. No hominid here would uncritically accept a Ghoul’s plan for their war. But Vala remained silent and knew how much she had won.
They’re with us. They really are. And they’ll bathe…
CHAPTER FIVE — THE WEB DWELLER
No telling how long the wizard had been there. The older children had gone into the Great Wood to compete at catching birds. The boy Parald threw with conspicuous grace; his net kept its shape longest, flew the farthest, though he’d caught only two. Strill was thinking how to speak to him, when she chanced to look up.
The wizard was out on the river, floating far above the silver water, on a thick coin-shaped support not much wider than a man is tall.
They shouted, beckoning him down. When he noticed them, he stopped his stately progress among the treetops, then descended gradually. He smiled and spoke in an unknown tongue. He was bald over most of his body, but that wasn’t rare among visitors.
They led him home, talking all the way. Some of the boys tested his knowledge with insults. Strill disapproved, and presently knew she was right.
The wizard never did learn their speech, barring a few basic words like “flup” and “rishathra,” but he wore a necklace that spoke like a teacher before they reached the village.
Anyone of a strange species might be a teacher. A wizard who flew, who was served by a magical translator, must have a good deal to teach.
Nine years now, since he’d left Kawaresksenjajok and Harkabeeparolyn; ten since Chmeee departed for the Map of Earth. Eleven years since they’d set sail aboard Hidden Patriarch. Twelve since their return to the Ringworld. Forty-one years since Louis Wu and his motley crew first touched down, cocooned in stasis, at 770 miles per second.
The first hominids they’d found had been small, furry religious fanatics.
These chattering youths were of that or a similar species. They were chin-high to Louis Wu and covered with fluffy blond fur, and wore kilts of muted browns. They threw their wonderfully patterned nets with wonderful skill, in this maze of bare trunks beneath branches spread like the caps of mushrooms.
They were friendly. Every species around the Great Ocean was friendly to strangers. Louis was used to it.
The oldest girl asked, “What shape is the world?”
Quiet fell and heads turned. Was it a test? “I should ask rather than tell, Strill. What shape is the world?”
“A circle, the shape of infinity, the Web Dweller says. I don’t understand, though. I see an arch, like—” Strill pointed. There were small conical roofs below, sprouting among the trees: a sizable village strung along the river’s vastness. Upstream was an arch like the oft-rebuilt St. Louis Arch, broad at the base, narrowing as it rose. “-like the Upstream Gate.”
So that was all right. “The arch is the part of the ring you’re not standing on,” Louis said. Web Dweller?
He was walking with one proprietary hand on the stacked cargo plates as they floated alongside him.
There were millions of these in the Repair Center beneath the Map of Mars. He’d welded some needed items to the topmost floating disk. These included handholds, a seat back, a bin for spare clothing and another for food, and a little attitude thruster, a spare part for the Hindmost’s probes. And… well, he’d found that already in place after the battle eleven years ago. It was Teela Brown’s medkit.
Furry adults and small furry children saw the bird catchers returning early. Most stayed with their tasks, but a man and a woman waited at the arch to greet them.
Strill cried, “He’s a wizard! Kidada-sir, he says it’s a ring!”
The man glanced at the floating plates. He asked, “Do you know this?”
Louis said, “I’ve seen it. I’m Louis Wu of the Ball People.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything to them, but the Elders gaped and the children ooohed.
The woman said, “Louis Wu of the Ball People?” Age had put white in her golden fur, and more of that in the man’s. Their knee-length kilts were elaborate tapestries that would have been valuable in any culture. “I am Sawur and this is Kidada, both of the Council, both of the Weaver Folk. You are from nowhere on the Arch, yes? The Web Dweller has vouched for your power and wisdom.”
“Web Dweller?” How could anyone have known of him here?
Kidada said, “The Web Dweller is certainly of another world. It’s got two heads! And servants like itself in uncountable numbers.”
Aw, tanj. “What else did the Web Dweller have to say?”
“It showed us pictures from far up the Arch, so it says.”
“What did you see? Vampires?”
“Strange humanoids living in darkness, and an alliance of many kinds of people come to attack them. Can you tell us of those?”
“I know something of vampires. The Web Dweller may know more, but I haven’t spoken to him in thirty-six falans.”
“How do your folk manage rishathra?” Sawur asked, and there was suppressed giggling.
Louis grinned. “As best we can. Yours?”
“We Weavers are said to be very good with our hands, and visitors speak well of the touch of our fur. One must ask, shall we wash?”
“Good idea.”
Weavers, they called themselves.
Their village-city-was nowhere crowded, but it seemed to go on and on, spilling up and down both sides of the river, sprouting among the trees of the vast forest. Their houses were wickerwork shells shaped like low mushrooms, not unlike the trees.
Louis was being led toward a vertical cliff of bare pale rock. Kidada said, “See you water running down that cliff face? The baths are below. Sunlight warms the water as it flows, a little.”
The pool was long and narrow. Low tables bore little heaps of embroidered kilts. Sawur and Kidada added theirs to a heap. Three parallel furrows ran through the hair across the old man’s buttocks, old scars rimmed with white fur, leading Louis to wonder about local predators.
Weavers were already bathing themselves. Children and the elderly seemed to gravitate together; postadolescents separated out, but rarely formed pairs. Louis had learned to look for such patterns.
The water was muddy. He didn’t see any towels. He set his clothing-Canyon style camping garb and backpurse, from two hundred light-years away-on a table, and stepped in. When in Rome…