Anne McCaffrey - Petaybee 2 - Power Lines

Power Lines

by: Anne McCaffrey

And Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Chapter 1

SpaceBase occasionally still rumbled underfoot, as if to remind everyone

that Petaybee planet was by no means pacified. The riders from Kilcoole

village had kept well to the wooded trails farthest from the steaming, freshly

thawed river, now merely rimmed with ice like a frosting of salt along the top

of a glass. Several times on their journey, the planet shook and shifted, as

if telling them of the urgency of their mission, but by now the Petaybeans

calmly accepted the planet's new mood.

Major Yanaba Maddock, Intergal Company Corps, Retired-well, mostly

retired, anyway, looked around at the faces of her lover and her new friends

and neighbors. Their own mood was both happy and expectant as they dismounted

in front of the SpaceBase headquarters building. Clodagh Senungatuk,

Kilcoole's healer and one-woman information center, dusted her divided skirts

while her curly-coated horse gazed impassively as flurries of its freshly shed

hairs floated on the unseasonably warm air.

Sinead Shongili, Yana's own beloved Sean's sister, assisted Aisling,

Clodagh's sister, from the saddle while Buneka Rourke held the reins of her

Uncle Seamus's and Aunt Moira's horses as they dismounted. The churned mud

that formed the roads at SpaceBase was dotted with stones and boards and

pieces of metal to be used as steps. Hopping from one of these to the next,

the party of Petaybeans made their way into the building.

They all had such high hopes for this meeting, Yana thought, almost with

irritation. Personally, she hated meetings. Always had. Most of them

provided no more input than could be contained in a two-second burst on a comm

link. Waste of time, ordinarily. She took a deep breath and neatly tucked in

the shirt tails of the uniform blouse that Dr. Whittaker Fiske had suggested

might be the politically tactful costume for the occasion. Partisan as she

was, she was the most neutral person attending the meeting. While the company

she kept announced her leanings, the uniform would remind the bosses of her

long-standing affiliation with Intergal.

Sean Shongili, sensing her tension, reached up briefly to knead the back

of her neck, and she gave him a nervous smile. As the chief geneticist for

this area of the planet, Sean was a key member of the Petaybean delegation.

He and the others seemed to think that it was predestined that the company men

would see reason and accede to the requirements of their planet and its

people. Sean, who despite his profession was no more experienced at being a

prospective parent than she was, had already suggested that her premeeting

trepidation was in part at least a hormonally stimulated response. He was

wrong, but as he had been born and bred on the planet, she could hardly expect

him to understand.

Petaybeans gathered only to entertain themselves and each other or to

discuss a problem and arrive at a consensus for solution. Company meetings

were far more often power plays where the issue was secondary to whose view

prevailed. But then, Yana had never before been to any meeting where the

issue was the survival of a sentient planet and its people.

Two deep breaths, and she followed Sean into the building and on into

the conference room. As the Petaybeans and Yana entered, Dr. Whittaker Fiske

stood, forcing the other dignitaries to do likewise. Here most of the cracks

from the earthquakes had been sealed. The screens along the walls were still

slightly askew on their brackets but functional. There wasn't enough seating

for all the Petaybeans who had been invited, but the major players ringed the

beautiful table, hand crafted from native Petaybean woods.

As nominal chairperson, Whittaker Fiske sat in the center with his son,

Captain Torkel Fiske. Yana, Sean Shongili, Clodagh, and the Petaybean

survivors of the last ill-fated exploratory mission sat to the left of the

Fiskes; Francisco and Diego Metaxos and Steve Margolies were placed to the

right, along with various other company dignitaries. The latter looked

considerably more confused than the Petaybean group, who were, to a person,

optimistically resolute.

A bare half hour later, when the comm link with Intergal Earth had been

established, the optimism on many faces had been replaced with disgust and

dismay at the unreasonableness of certain officials.

"And you actually have the unmitigated gall ..." declared the occupant

of the main screen, Farringer Ball, the secretary-general of Intergal's Board

of Directors, "to tell me that the planet is making these demands on us!" His

round, fleshy face had taken on a reddish orange hue.

Yana thought some of that color had to be generated by the faulty

connection or the disrupted innards of the comm screen. No human flesh could

turn such a shade.

"Yes, Farrie, that's what I'm saying," Whittaker Fiske replied, smiling

gently as a fond parent might to an erring child. "And I've proof enough that

I haven't lost my marbles or melted my circuits or any damned thing else you

can think up to account for such a-" Whittaker Fiske paused and grinned before

he added, "delusion. Delusion it isn't!" He said that with no smile whatever

and a very solemn expression. "We may not have encountered such a phenomenon

before, Farrie, but we have now, and I don't need my nose rubbed in it any

more than it has been. So let's get on with-"

"We'll get on with nothing, Fiske," Farringer Ball said explosively, and

a thick finger rose from the bottom of the screen, followed by a hand that was

shaking with anger. 'I'm sending a relief company down immediately, with a

squad of medics to check out every single-"

"Just be sure none of the company or the medics happen to have Petaybee

as their planet of origin," Torkel interrupted.

"Huh? What's that, Captain?" The secretary-general shifted his scowl

slightly to Torkel.

"It'll be hard to do, Secretary Ball, since most of your best men and

women come from this planet."

"I don't believe what I'm hearing." Farringer turned away from the

camera to address others on his end of the communications channel. "We've got

a planet issuing orders, respected scientists gone barmy, and now captains

telling secretary-generals how to choose reinforcements! This situation is

now Class Four!"

"You never were reasonable, Farrie," Whittaker Fiske remarked in an

amiably placatory tone, "when you come up against something remotely unusual."

"Remotely? Unusual?"

"Like I said ..." Whittaker glanced around the screens at the other

people who were attending the conference from a distance. "You can't handle

what isn't in the book. This isn't. I came here myself to sort out what

looked like a minor glitch. And it's the majorest one I've ever encountered.

However, keeping both mind and options open, I'd still like to get on with the

substance of this conference. Take a trank, Farrie, and listen, will ya?

I'll explain if you stop interrupting me."

"We do owe Whittaker the courtesy of hearing him out, Farringer," said

one of the other board members, a woman of elegant bearing and composure. She

had a beautiful countenance, sculpted on classic lines that owed nothing to

surgical skills. Her black hair waved back to frame her heart-shaped face;

even the harsh colors of the comm unit could not hide the porcelain fairness

of her complexion, or the clear, bright blue of her eyes. Her makeup was

discreet, and the only hint of her high rank was the exotically set firestones

that she wore as earrings. Marmion de Revers Algemeine had made several

fortunes on 'hearing people out.' I rather fancy the idea of a planet knowing

what it wants, and doesn't want! Sentience on a vast scale." She leaned

forward, elbows on the surface in front of her, and rested her chin on her

fists. "Besides, Whittaker never gives boring reports."

She flicked her glance sideways, but as the speakers were in different

offices, at widely separated locations, it was impossible to tell if she was

looking at someone in her vicinity or one of the other attendees.

This won't be the least bit boring, Marmie," Whittaker said, grinning.

"Torkel sent me an urgent call that there was a breakdown in the terraforming

on this planet, we used Terraform B, the Whittaker Effect, which has never

before broken down, so I figured that a simple adjustment would suffice, but I

certainly wanted to be on hand ... "

"Yes, yes, we know your grandfather developed that program," Ball said

testily, flicking his fingers impatiently.

"The point, then, my impatient friend, is that no break down has

occurred. Unless one counts evolutionary development of a quite extraordinary

nature as breakdown." Whittaker said the last triumphantly, and Yana saw some

of the Petaybean contingent nodding in agreement and looking relieved.

"Am I missing something here?" Ball demanded. "Have you found a way to

extract the minerals we require after all? Or located the missing members of

the teams?"

"No, but one surviving team member, who has made quite a spectacular

recovery, is sitting here in this room. Dr. Metaxos?"

"Secretary-General Ball." Francisco Metaxos nodded to the screen.

Metaxos's hair was now spectacularly white, but otherwise he looked much

younger than he had when he was first found, closer to his true age of

forty-some-odd years. When Yana had first seen him, she'd thought him a man

of seventy or so. The only change that hadn't reversed was the hair. It had

been, when he landed, as black as his son's, or so Diego had said.

Marmion Algemeine suddenly smiled. "Frank! We heard you were ..."

"I was," Metaxos said, returning her smile. "But as happens with many

maladies, once the cause of mine was made clear, the appropriate treatment was

administered and I'm fine now."

"Why is everybody talking in riddles?" Ball asked, almost plaintively.

"If you'll allow me, sir," Torkel cut in, I think I have the

explanation. It seems that all of us, myself included, have been under some

sort of massively induced hypnotic illusion. It is quite strong, quite

real-seeming. Under this illusion, one becomes certain that this terraformed

rock on which we stand is actually a sentient being. That is, of course,

impossible, a bit of superstitious nonsense, but I assure you the quality of

the illusion is exceptional. I feel that it is induced primarily through two

of the inhabitants of this area, the woman called Clodagh and this man, Dr.

Sean Shongili. Even our own Intergal agent, Major Maddock here, has fallen

under their influence and-"

"None so blind as the man who will not see, son," Whittaker Fiske said

sadly.

"Even my father has been taken in, sir."

"Excuse me," Yana said. "I thought we were here to present evidence, to

talk over solutions. There is the evidence of Lavelle Maloney. The autopsy

report is objective enough. There were physiological changes in Lavelle's

body that the doctors couldn't explain. Dr. Shongili here can. Whether or

not the company accepts the explanation is another matter but you should at

least hear Dr. Shongili out."

Ball waved a dismissive hand. "We've seen the reports and the treatise

he sent in with its highly imaginative explanation of Petaybean adaptation.

Still smacks of obstructionism. Besides, Shongili is one of the ringleaders

down there, if certain parties are to be believed."

The Petaybeans cast resentful eyes on Torkel Fiske, who smiled, a

wronged man vindicated.

The elegant Marmion spoke again in her slow, considered way. "Tell me,

Doctor Shongili, Ms. Senungatuk, are your perceptions that the planet is

sentient shared by other Petaybeans, planet wide?"

Clodagh nodded, but Sean looked dubious. "We aren't in direct contact

with the southern land mass," he said.

"Not directly," Clodagh said, shrugging. "But they know."

"You seem so sure."

"How could they not know a thing like that!" Clodagh asked. Yana had

the distinct impression that Clodagh was hedging, unwilling, for some good

reason, to divulge more just then. Knowing Clodagh, that would not be out of

character. The woman was like the planet, round, subtly active, and full of

mysteries. In Yana's experience, they were mostly comfortable, benign

mysteries, but mysterious nonetheless.

Marmion let that drop for the moment, but another member of the

committee, whose balding, ponytailed head had been turned to the comm screen,

turned to face them. His eyes were a beautiful celestial blue, but his mouth

was a thin hard line, the upper lip beaking over the lower like a snapping

turtle's.

"We must ask them, certainly," he said. "We must conduct a survey all

over TerraBeta and inquire of its inhabitants what their beliefs are

concerning the planet and what experiences they have had there. It is a study

long over due." His speech contained a slight lisp and an odd intonation, an

accent perhaps, mostly erased.

Yana thought Marmion and Whittaker Fiske might find support in the man's

suggestion, but instead, Whittaker visibly scooted his chair farther from the

table and the comm screen, and Marmion let the tip of her tongue show against

her upper lip before answering carefully. "An excellent suggestion,

Vice-Chair Luzon. I shall go personally."

"And I, as well, will go, Madame Marmion," Luzon said. "I am most

interested in the belief patterns and customs of colonial peoples, especially

those who have been without the benefit of extensive company contact over the

years."

"I'm sure you'll find Petaybee a fountain of information, Matthew,"

Whittaker Fiske said with a somewhat strained attempt at his customary

amiability.

Matthew Luzon. Yana had heard the name often before, she realized

suddenly, and not in a positive light.

"Your investigations and attempts to correct the thinking of colonists

are well known, if not widely appreciated," Whittaker said. "But I think an

actual fact-finding expedition, led by Marmion here, is in order now. Her

delegation could take advantage of the warm weather to use audiovisual

recording equipment generally too sensitive for the climate on this planet. I

think the more subjective material could wait until later."

Luzon allowed the corners of his mouth to curl in his version of a

smile. "Oh, no. I think my presence will be of great assistance. Come,

come, Dr. Fiske. I do not take up so much room. I will accompany Madame

Marmion."

The floor trembled beneath their feet and the screen wobbled on its

brackets for a few moments. Yana glanced at Clodagh and saw that the big

woman was watching the image of Matthew Luzon with a certain studied wariness

that Yana had never seen on her face before. It wasn't fear exactly; dread,

perhaps. That was when it hit Yana who Luzon was. And she was instantly

appalled to learn that he had risen to such prominence in the company.

Luzon was trained in cultural anthropology, a discipline that should

have made him more broad-minded and accepting of others. Instead he had the

reputation of using his eminence to condemn the 'less civilized' or

'unenlightened' peoples, using their cultural differences as cause to withdraw

or withhold company support or cooperation. Saved the company a lot of money,

she supposed. His name had been bandied about when the inhabitants of the

central continent of a world called Mandella, had been herded into tenements

so the jungles and bogs they had formerly inhabited could be tapped for fossil

fuels. The tenements had not been well built, and the reeducation program had

not included instruction in the use of the modern implements in the new homes,

including the sanitation devices. Those Mandellans not killed in the great

fire that raged through the tenements died of the communicable diseases that

swept through later. Luzon's reports had been what allowed the company to

sidestep its responsibility when dealing with the Universal Court. In fact,

Yana thought she recalled hearing something once about Luzon being under

consideration as a judge for the court.

And now the man was proposing to come looking down his nose at Petaybee!

"Well, I'm not coming down there," Farringer Ball was saying. "Lot of

damned nonsense. I have a company to run here. Can't go traipsing around to

every backwater bush planet whose colonists get a little peculiar. Hell, if

they weren't peculiar, they'd be in the corps or out in space."

Marmion raised an eyebrow and he desisted. "Anyway, I can't and won't

interrupt my work to go. But Matthew's done some crack investigating before,

and Marmie will bring back the goods. I'll be guided by their evidence."

"That's a relief," Whit snapped. "You sure as hell haven't shown any

inclination to be guided by mine, or that of Metaxos and Margolies."

"Of course I have. I read the reports and I haven't evacuated the place

and stripped it back to rock yet, have I?"

"Sir," Torkel Fiske said. "What about the additional troops? And I

insist that Major Maddock face an official inquiry and possible court-martial

for her actions."

"We're already talking about an official inquiry, Captain, or hadn't you

been paying attention? If the inquiry determines that there's been subversion

or sabotage, I doubt Maddock will have gone far, and she may he able to assist

the investigators. Now then. There'll be an escort with Madame Marmion and

Dr. Luzon, of course, and additional technical personnel. If we decide to

evacuate, we'll call in more then. Meanwhile, you've got enough manpower on

hand already, I should think. It's not like an army's going to be any help

stopping earthquakes and volcanoes. This meeting is concluded."

Goat-dung knew that she was evil, willfu1, spiteful, malicious, and

would someday, if she didn't mend her wicked ways, be prey for the creature

from the bowels of the planet. She had been told so often enough, as the

welts from the Instrument of Goodness impressed the lessons on her backside.

For her crimes, she usually got the hardest, dirtiest work to do of any

girls her age; but when the warming came, melting the ice falls on the sides

of the cliffs and turning the floor of the Vale into a great lake, the rest of

the community joined her in scrabbling up the sides of the Vale to higher

ground, carrying with them the teachings of the Shepherd Howling and all of

his sacred implements, plus what food, clothing, and housing materials they

could salvage. All of the greenhouse gardens were lost and many of the

animals had drowned.

For days the waters rose up the icy walls of the Vale, creating slush

and even mud underfoot and also a steaming mist that made it impossible to

see. Goat-dung and the other children, packs strapped to their backs, climbed

the walls of the canyon and carried dripping parcels to the adults, then

splashed back down in the bright cold water to try to retrieve other articles.

Bad as she was, even Goat-dung was so used to obeying the will of the

community, the will of the Shepherd Howling, that she failed to see the

possibilities for escape in the situation.

She'd just climbed up again after falling three times back into the

water. Shivering with cold, muddy, scraped and bruised, half-naked, she

huddled by the fire and ate the bowl of thin soup she had at last been

permitted to ladle out for herself. The soup was mostly cold, and the fire, a

pitiful stinking thing of still-damp animal dung, was nothing but a slightly

sultry draft that failed to chase the ache and chill. It didn't banish the

goose bumps, never mind the frigidity in her bones.

For once, no one else was better off than she, however. The one hundred

or so followers of the Shepherd huddled along the rim of the steaming Vale of

Tears, their lives and homes inundated by the Great Flood the Shepherd claimed

had been sent to try them.

The monster seeks to subjugate us to its will in this fashion," the

Shepherd said over and over again. "We shall not succumb. When the waters

subside, we'll return to our Vale and continue to defy that which would

corrupt us."

The Shepherd, instead of staying within his offices and superior

quarters, was now among the flock organizing, counseling, exhorting and

observing. Feeling the disapproving eyes of the rest of the flock on her was

bad enough, but twice Goat-dung looked up from her misery to see the Shepherd

himself watching her, and his regard made her colder than the waters in the

Vale.

She rested from her last climb, as the short day drew to a close and the

mists from the Vale crept up over the edge of the encampment. She heard soft

footsteps approach and Conception, her belly as flat as it had been before the

Shepherd married her and her name was still Swill, squatted beside her.

"Good news, little sister," she said.

Goat-dung said nothing. Until she knew what Conception wanted, silence

was safest.

The other girl, a bare four years older than Goat-dung, held forth a

piece of metal. "You've been chosen," she said simply, and rose to go.

Goat-dung stared at the piece in her hand. It was cut into the shape of

a heart. The Shepherd had chosen her to be his wife.

"What? When?" she called after Conception.

Tonight," the older girl called back and was lost in the mist.

And that was when she did the worst thing she had ever done in all of

her wicked days. She ran.

The mist covered her trail and the slush muffled the sound of her steps.

She ran as hard and as long as her exhausted, undernourished body could. She

had no idea where she was going. She had known no other people but her own,

though sometimes the Shepherd made allusions to others, outsiders, those who

had fallen into error. They were horrible people, the Shepherd said, who

would sacrifice girls like her to the Great Monster.

Better that than be a dutiful wife to the Shepherd, like Swill,

Conception and Nightsoil, now known as Assumpta. Wives of the Shepherd,

though they were no older than children, were given adult names, usually

related to the Teaching.

Assumpta, once a rosy-cheeked, titian-haired angel of a girl, full of

childish agility and grace, was now old at thirteen. She had lost four

children to a bleeding disease and had been beaten after losing each one. She

no longer walked very well.

Conception, on the other hand, was still barren at fifteen, and she was

beaten for that, as well. Their own mother, Ascencion, was another of the

wives, and supervised the beatings herself.

Goat-dung's mother had also been the Shepherd's wife, although Goat-dung

was not one of his own lambs. One reason she was so wicked, the others told

her, was that her parents had been outsiders. She had been too small when her

mother died to realize it, but it was said that her mother had been an

extremely unrepentant outsider who had not wanted to be the Shepherd's wife

and had been prevailed upon to accept the blessings of union with him only

through the firm kindliness of the flock. No one among them had met

Goat-dung's father, who had died in ignorance and error and slavery to the

Great Monster.

Goat-dung ran and ran, splashing through slush, hot with her effort as

long as light remained in the sky, then ran to keep from freezing as the night

swallowed the planet. The moons came up and she stumbled on by their light.

She ran on and on, down and down, as if into another Vale. Looking back, by

the moonlight, she saw the peaks of the mountains behind and above her: the

monster's back, its snout, its teeth.

She dragged herself farther. Down here the slush gave way to mud in

places, and a stream ribboning down the mountain steamed just as the water in

the valley floor did. As she drew near it, it gave forth warmth, and when she

touched it, it was as hot as if it had been heated in a pan and only cooled

slightly.

She eased her way into it. It was deeper than it looked and had quite a

current. It buffeted her along, lapping her with warmth, until it ran into a

kind of tunnel, carrying her with it.

She was too tired, too full of lassitude from the water, to avoid being

swept into the side of the mountain, and remembered, just before she hit her

head on a rock and all became blackness, that the Shepherd taught that this

was the very sort of place never to be caught.

Chapter 2

"Well?" Bunny Rourke asked breathlessly as the elders and the company

friends of the Petaybeans filed out of the building. She handed the reins of

the curlies to each rider. "How'd it go?"

Clodagh shrugged. "Like usual. They pretended we weren't there, and if

we were, that we'd nothin' sensible to say. They're sendin' down more

investigators."

Yana sighed. She'd known it wouldn't be easy, but something else was

disturbing her. As they rode back through the woods to Kilcoole, she asked,

"I don't get it. Torkel was with us. He felt the planet, too. He knows

about it. If he had really rejected it, he'd be like Frank Metaxos was."

"Denial," Diego said, drawing on his own counseling experience. "He

knows, okay, he just can't stand to admit it. He's not a complete creep,

after all. You and he used to be friends, didn't you, Yana?"

"Friendly, at least," Yana said. "Or I thought so. But he's been so

unreasonable ... "

"Maybe irrational's a better word," Sean said. "He might not have had

the reaction Frank did, but it strikes me that Fiske isn't sledding on both

runners anymore, if he ever was. Maybe his unwilling contact with the planet

has done him more harm than shows on the surface."

"At least it's that lady coming to investigate," Moira Rourke said with

some relief.

"Yes, but I don't like the look of that bald fella," Clodagh said.

"Nor do I," Yana agreed. "At the risk of sounding like the conspirator

Torkel thinks me to be, I suggest that all of you avoid any direct contact

with Luzon and save your explanations strictly for Madame Marmion. He is

known to ... twist ... anything he's told."

As they neared the village, they were met by a pride of cats, all of

them striped bright rusty orange and all of them meowing and purring and

twining dangerously around the large snowshoe-sized hooves of the shaggy,

curly-coated horses.

"What a welcoming committee!" Yana said as Marduk, or at least she

assumed it was he, hopped up behind her and rubbed his head against her back

briefly before hopping down again. "Did you call them, Clodagh?"

Clodagh shook her head. "No, but I was worried, before we left, about

how committed the other villages were to the planet. So far the PTBs have

only questioned us, but I figured they'd get around to asking some of the

others sometime soon. These little ones scattered as soon as we left, and

here they are back again." She tilted her head as she looked down at the

cats.

"What's got 'em so antsy?" Bunny asked.

Clodagh reined her curly-coat to a halt. Immediately the cats converged

on her, stropping the legs of the pony, who regarded this activity with mild

surprise and didn't so much as twitch a muscle.

"You'll get muddy doing that," she told the cats, since the pony was

coated up to and including his belly with good Petaybean wet earth. With a

groan, she heaved one leg over the saddle and dismounted, ignoring the fact

that her skirts immediately became as dirty as the pony's legs. "Now, what's

all this?" she asked, hands on her hips, looking from one upturned cat face to

the next.

Clodagh's special relationship with her cats was known-or at least

suspected-by everyone in Kilcoole. So the other villagers, except for Sean,

Bunny, and Yana, rode politely around the cats and pretended not to notice

anything more than a woman being greeted by overly fond pets.

Frank Metaxos, in whose healing process the cats had had a rather

unusual role, remained behind, too, along with his son Diego. The two were

returning to Kilcoole without Frank's partner, Steve Margolies, who, still on

the company's payroll, had stayed on at SpaceBase.

Both cats and Clodagh waited for the rest of the village to parade past

before the mewing and chirruping began.

Ordinarily the cats would have sat down to impart what was evidently a

long story, but the mud offended their dignity. So they prowled around her,

twitching their tails high, as they communicated their messages. The humans

waited patiently.

Sparks of uncharacteristic anger flickered in Clodagh's eyes as she

looked up at Sean and Yana "We got all kinds of trouble now." She gave a

disgusted snort. "Seems like some villages want Intergal to come down and

mine, while the mining's good and they can get paid for working."

Sean frowned and Yana told her heart to stop racing. "How many

dissidents? she asked.

"Four towns that the cats know of." Clodagh's usually merry face was

solemn.

"Which ones?"

"Deadhorse, McGee's Pass, Wellington, and Savoy."

Sean let out a burst of sour laughter. That figures." Clodagh had

named villages which in recent years spurned contact with the others. He

sighed deeply. "Have the cats any good news?"

"Yes, out the bad news is they haven't had a chance to check everyone

out. If four villages oppose us ... "

"How many more might be disaffected and looking to please Intergal for

the sake of wampum? Sean asked.

"So, the good news? Yana prompted with a sigh.

"Well, we do have at least twelve communities behind us solid. Tanana

Bay, Shannonmouth, New Barrow, Twin Moon Village, Little Dublin, Oslo Inlet,

Harrison's Fjord, Kabul, Bogota, Machu Picchu, Kathmandu, and Sierra Padre."

"Most of the closest ones," Sinead said, looking encouraged.

"And the ones," Clodagh went on with a pessimistic expression, "that

have the most Petaybean boys and girls in company service."

"What bothers you about that?" Yana asked. "Wouldn't they be on their

folks' side in this?"

"Might be, if they weren't required to lean on their folks to do what

the company asks," Clodagh said gloomily.

"Oh!" Yana sighed Dirty tricks department Farringer Ball and Matthew

Luzon would pull every one they needed out of storage to see that their

interpretation became the official one. "Could you be wrong about which side

of the blanket the Petaybean troops would fall on? The pilots, O'Shay and

Greene in particular, gave us some support during the volcanic crisis."

Clodagh shrugged her broad shoulders. "You can always be wrong about

anything. Sure, I think a lot of them would feel loyalty for us and for the

planet. But they've been out there," she nodded toward the heavens, "for a

long time. They're used to the kind of stuff you're used to. Some of 'em

have prob'ly forgot how to cook, too, like you, and how to hunt. How to take

care of themselves. And if the company decided to punish them and us by

dumping them here and pulling out support, well, that'd be pretty hard on

them, pretty hard on us, and pretty hard on the planet. I figure if all the

Petaybee troops still working for Intergal got sent back here, it'd triple our

population. At the least! I don't know how many kids those troops have had.

Course they'd be welcome and the planet would provide, but it might be as hard

on it as some kinds of mining operations."

Anne McCaffrey - Petaybee 2 - Power Lines

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