I grabbed for the dangling reins, which did about as much good as it always does, but Carson always thinks the ponies are gonna suddenly turn rational and jump off. They reared and shied and backed Carson against the side of the heli’s bay, like always, and Carson said, like always, “You rock-headed morons, get off me!” which Bult entered in his log.
“Verbal abuse of indigenous fauna.”
“You’re gonna have to push ’em off,” I said, like always, and climbed back on.
“Ev,” I shouted down, “we’re bringing this down as far as it’ll go. Signal C.J. when it touches the tops of the scourbrush.”
C.J. circled the heli and came in lower. “Up a little,” Evelyn said, gesturing with his hand. “Okay.”
We were half a meter from the ground. “Let’s try it one more time,” Carson said, like always. “Take the reins.”
I did. This time they squashed him against the back of C.J.’s seat.
“Goddammit, you shit-brained sonsabitches,” he shouted, swatting at their hind ends. They backed against him some more.
I maneuvered around to Carson’s side, and picked up a hind paw of the one that was standing on his bad foot. The pony went over like it’d been doped, and we dragged it to the edge of the bay and pushed it out. It landed with an “oof” and laid there.
Evelyn hurried over. “I think it’s hurt,” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “Just sulking. Stand back.”
We upended the other three and dumped them on top of the first one and jumped down.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Evelyn said, looking anxiously at the heap.
“Not till we’re ready to go,” Carson said, picking up his gear. “They can’t shit in that position. Come on, Bult. Let’s get packed.”
Bult was still over by the Tongue, but he’d dropped his binocs and was squatting on the bank, peering into the centimeter-deep water.
“Bult!” I shouted, walking over to him.
He stood up and got out his log. “Disturbance of water surface,” he said, pointing up at the hovering heli. “Generation of waves.”
“There’s not enough water for a wave,” I said, sticking my hand in it. “There’s hardly enough to wet your finger.”
“Introduction of foreign body into waterway,” Bult said.
“Foreign—” I started and was drowned out by the heli. It flew over the Tongue, rippling the centimeter’s worth of water, and came back around, skimming the bushes. C.J. swooped past us, blowing kisses.
“I know, I know,” I said to Bult, “disturbance of waterway.”
He stalked over to a clump of scourbrush, unfolded an arm under it, and came up with two wiry leaves and a shriveled berry. He held them out to me. “Destruction of crop,” he said.
C.J. banked and turned, waving, and headed off northeast. I’d told her to swing over Sector 248-76 on her way home and try to get an aerial. I hoped she wasn’t so busy flirting with Ev that she’d forget.
Ev was looking south at the mountains. “Is that the Wall?” he said.
“Nope. The Wall’s off that direction,” I said, pointing across the Tongue. “Those are the Ponypiles.”
“Are we going there?” Ev said, looking sappy-eyed again.
“Not this trip. We’ll follow the Tongue south a few kloms and then head northwest.”
“Will you two stop sight-seeing and get over here and load these ponies?” Carson shouted. He had the ponies up and was strapping the wide-angle to Speedy’s pommelbone.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Ev and I picked our way over to him between grass clumps. “Don’t worry about the Wall,” I told Ev. “We’ll see plenty of it. We have to cross it to get to where we’re going, and after we do we’ll follow it all the way north to Silvershim Creek.”
“Not unless we get these ponies loaded,” Carson said. “Here,” he said, handing the reins of one of the ponies to Ev. “Get Cyclone loaded.”
“Cyclone?” Ev said, looking warily at the pony, which looked to me like it was getting ready to fall over again.
“There’s nothing to it,” I said. “Ponies—”
“Fin’s right,” Carson said. “Just don’t make any sudden movements. And if he tries to throw you, hang on for dear life, no matter what. Cyclone doesn’t get violent except when he senses fear.”
“Violent?” Ev said, looking nervous. “I haven’t had much experience riding.”
“You can ride mine,” I said.
“Diablo?” Carson said. “You think that’s a good idea after what happened before? No, I think you’d better ride Cyclone.” He held out the stirrup. “You just put your foot in here and take hold of the pommelbone nice and slow,” he said.
Ev took hold of the pommel like it was a hand grenade. “There, there, Cyclone,” he murmured, bringing his foot up in slow motion to the stirrup. “Nice Cyclone.”
Carson looked across at me, the edges of his mustache quaking. “Isn’t he doing good, Fin?”
I ignored him and went on attaching the wide-angles to Useless’s chest.
“Now swing your other leg up and over, real slow. I’ll hold him till you’re on,” Carson said, holding on tight to the bridle. Evelyn did it and got a death grip on the reins.
“Giddyap!” Carson shouted and smacked the pony on the flank. The pony took a step forward, and Ev dropped the reins and grabbed for the pommelbone. The pony took two more steps toward Carson, lifted its tail, and dumped a pile the size of Everest.
Carson came over to me, laughing fit to kill.
“What are you picking on Ev for?” I said.
He laughed awhile before he answered. “You said he was smarter than he looks. I was just checking it out.”
“You should be checking out your scout,” I said, pointing at Bult, who had his binocs up to his eyes again, “if you want to depart any time today.”
He laughed some more and went over to talk to Bult. I finished attaching the surveying equipment. Bult had his log out, and from the looks of it Carson was yelling at him again.
I swung up onto Useless and rode over to where Ev was sitting on his pony. “Looks like we’ll be here awhile,” I said. “Sorry about Carson. It’s his idea of a joke.”
“I figured that out,” he said. “Finally. What’s his real name?” he said, gesturing at the pony. It took a step forward and stopped.
“Speedy,” I said.
“And this is as fast as it goes.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t go this fast,” I said.
Useless lifted its tail and unloaded.
“Tell me they don’t do this all the time,” Ev said.
“Not like this,” I said. “Sometimes after we have ’em in the heli they get the runs.”
“Great,” he said. “I suppose sudden movements don’t spook them?”
“Nothing spooks them,” I said, “not even nibblers chewing on their toes. If they’re scared or they don’t want to do something, they just stand there and won’t budge.”
“What don’t they like?”
“People riding them,” I said. “Hills. They won’t go up more than a two percent grade. Backtrailing over their own pawprints. Going more than two abreast. Going more than a klom an hour.”
Ev was looking at me warily, like I was putting him on, too.
I held up my hand. “Scout’s honor,” I said.
“But you can walk faster than that,” he said.
“Not when there’s a fine for footprints.”
He leaned sideways to look at Useless’s paws. “But they leave foot-prints, don’t they?”
“They’re indigenous,” I said.
“But how do you cover any territory?”
“We don’t, and Big Bro yells at us,” I said, looking over at the Tongue. Carson had given up yelling and was watching Bult talk into his log. “Speaking of which, I’d better fill you in on the rest of the regs. No personal holo or picture-taking, no souvenirs, no picking wildflowers, no killing of fauna.”