Alan Dean Foster - Voyage to The City of The Dead

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Author: Alan Dean Foster
Title: Voyage To The City of the Dead
Series: A Novel of the Humanx Commonwealth
Series No:
Original copyright year: 1984
Genre: Science Fiction
Date of e-text: 01/14/2001
Prepared by:
Last Revised: / /
Revised by:
Version: 1.0
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By Alan Dean Foster : Published by Ballantine Books:
The Icenggger Trilogy
ICERIGGER
MISSION TO MOULOKIN
THE DELUGE DRIVERS
The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth
FOR LOVE OF MOTHER‑NOT
THE TAR‑AIYM KRANG
ORPHAN STAR
THE END OF THE MATTER
FLINX IN FLUX
MID‑FLINX
BLOODHYPE
THE HOWLING STONES
The Damned
Book One: A CALL TO ARMS
Book Two: THE FALSE MIRROR
Book Three: THE SPOILS OF WAR
THE BLACK HOLE CACHALOT
DARK STAR THE METROGNOME and Other Stories
MIDWORLD NOR CRYSTALTEARS
SENTENCED TO PRISM SPLINTER OF THE MIND'S EYE
STAR TREK@ LOGS ONE‑TEN VOYAGE TO THE CITY OF THE
DEAD
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . . ... WHO NEEDS
ENEMIES?
MAD AMOS PARALLELITIES*
* forthcoming
Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity
discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund‑raising, and special
sales use. For details, please call 1‑500‑733‑3000.
***************************************************
Copyright © 1984 by Alan Dean Foster
First published in the USA in 1984 by Ballantine Books
This edition published by arrangement with Ballantine Books, a Division of
Random House, Inc.
First NEL Paperback Edition 1986 Third impression 1987
British Library C.I.P.
Foster, Alan Dean
Voyage to the city of the dead.
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I. Title
813'.54[F] PS3556.0756
ISBN 0 450 39874 9
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no
relation to any real person or actual happening.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, byway of trade or
otherwise, be lent, re‑sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or
any information storage or retrieval system, without either the prior permission
in writing from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying,
issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 7 Ridgmount Street, London WC1E 7AA.
Printed and bound in Great Britain for Hodder and Stoughton Paperbacks, a
division of Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., Mill Road, Dunton Green, Sevenoaks, Kent
TN13 2YA. (Editorial Office: 47 Bedford Square, London WC1 B 3DP) by Cox & Wyman
Ltd., Reading
***************************************************
For, Daniel, with love,
For when he gets older and starts traveling…
***************************************************
Chapter One
They didn't call in the Guard because the intruder was already half dead. Still,
they were upset.
Muttering angrily among themselves over the outrageous breach of protocol, the
members of the Zanur looked to their leader for direction, but Najoke
de‑me‑Halmur held his peace. It was up to the intruder to explain himself, and
fast. Hands still hovered close to sheathed knives, although it was be-coming
apparent this was no assassination attempt‑the in-truder was too enfeebled to
present a threat to anyone but himself. So Najoke stayed his hand as well as his
lips. Seeing this, the other members of the Zanur calmed themselves.
Two unkempt servants attended the intruder, and they had their hands full
keeping him on his feet. He was com-pletely bald, as befitted his age, but more
than age had been at work on that body recently. Pain was evident even in the
movement of the eyes, and their owner was breathing as if he'd run a long ways,
for all that two younger Mai supported him.
Several of the more impatient members of the Zanur started toward the stranger.
De‑me‑Halmur stayed them with a wave of one slim, six‑fingered hand. "Patience,
my friends. Let us hear what this despoiler of etiquette has to say.
Retri-bution can come later. We are no judges here."
The leader's words sparked the withered visitor's atten-tion. He shrugged off
the helping hands of his servants, much as he continued to push away the
clutching hand of death. Though unsteady and shaking, he stood straight and by
him-self. "Good members of the Zanur, I beg forgiveness for this intrusion on
the affairs of state. When one has little time left, one has no time at all for
protocol. I have much to tell you."
De‑Yarawut rose and pointed, hairless brows drawing to-gether. "I know you. You
reside in my district."
The elderly speaker tried to bow to the side, as etiquette required, and the
effort nearly sent him sprawling. His servants rushed to help but he gestured
them back.
"I am flattered by your remembrance, Zanural de‑Yara-wut. I am Bril
de‑Panltatol. A humble trader who works Upriver." The drama of the oldster's
intrusion, his unfor-givable breach of tradition, was beginning to fade. And he
was known. No surprises were here.
Legends sing of the wrongness of such thoughts.
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"No excuse can be made for your interruption, de‑Panlt-atol," de‑me‑Halmur said.
"You know the penalties."
"Your most excessive indulgence, Moyt, but as I said and as you can see, little
time is left to me."
De‑me‑Halmur had not become ruler of a great city‑state without the occasional
ostentatious display of compassion. "You must have bribed efficiently to obtain
this entrance, oldster. You are to be admired for that. Say what you have come
to say."
"Good members of the Zanur, I have for most of my life been a trader of fine
woods and metals between our great city of Po Rabi and the Upriver. Hai, even as
far as Kek-kalong." Kekkalong was a very long way Upriver, and many of the
Zanurals had never journeyed beyond the boundaries of the city. They listened to
the rover with a little more respect.
"I am a good citizen and work hard for my city. So I listen well to any tale or
rumor that suggests the opportunity to increase my wealth."
"As do we all," Zanural de‑Parinti commented. "Get on with it."
"Among the many tales of the Upriver are those which speak of a dead place, home
to spirits and ghosts and demons beyond counting, who guard such wealth as could
not be counted in a thousand lifetimes by all the accountants of all the
city‑states that ring the Groalamasan itself."
"A wonderful story, I'm sure," another Zanural called from his council seat. "I
too have heard such stories."
"It is well known," de‑Panltatol continued, "that the nearer one travels to the
source of such tales, the more vivid and impressive they become‑or else they
fade away entirely.
"This particular tale is told over and over again in a hundred towns and
villages of the North. I have listened to it for more than fifty years. I
resolved finally to pursue it to the last storyteller. Instead it drew me
onward, pulling me ever farther north. Sometimes the tale smelled of truth, more
often of village embroidery, but never did I lose track of it entirely.
"I went beyond maps and merchant trails, always up the Barshajagad, following
the current of the Skar and in places abandoning it completely. I walked‑ I,
Bril de‑Panltatol- upon the surface of the frozen Guntali itself!"
Now the whispers of interest were submerged by ill-concealed laughter. The
Guntali Plateau, from which arose all the great rivers of the world that drained
into the single ocean that was the Groalamasan, was so high and cold and thin of
air that no Mai could travel upon it. Yet the wrinkled old trader was laying
claim to such a feat.
Like his fellow merchants and Zanural, de‑me‑Halmur refused to countenance the
possibility, but neither did he laugh. He had not become Moyt of Po Rabi by
dismissing the most elaborate absurdities without careful dissection. "Let this
one continue proving himself the fool, but let him not be convicted until he has
finished his story."
"Up past even far Hochac I went," de‑Panltatol was breathing harder now, "and my
journey was but beginning. I lost servants and companions until I was obliged to
travel on my own, because none would go farther in my company. All believed me
mad, you see. I nearly perished many times. The rumors and the river led me ever
onward."
"Onward to what?" another of the Zanural snorted deri-sively.
The oldster glanced sideways and seemed to draw strength from his scoffers. "To
the source of all the tales and songs. To the land of the dead. To the part of
the world where demons and monsters make their home. To the top of the world,
good Zanural."
This time the laughter could not be contained. It did not appear to discourage
the old trader.
"I found the City of the Dead. I, Bril de‑Panltatol! And I came away with a
piece of it." He frowned then, and wheezed painfully. "I don't remember that
time very well. My mind was numbed by all I had endured. How I stayed alive I
don't know, but I drove myself to make another boat. I made many boats, I think.
It's hard to remember. I dis-guised what I had brought away beneath a bale of
Salp skins and brought it all the way Downriver, all the way back to my home, to
Po Rabi."
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De‑me‑Halmur's wide black eyes flickered. "A most in-teresting and entertaining
story, de‑Panltatol, but all such tales of demon cities are entertaining. I hope
you are a better trader than you are a storyteller." Polite laughter rose from
the other members of the Zanur.
"Is that what you broke into our conference to tell us?" snapped another Zanural
angrily. "If you can do no better than that, I promise you your age will not
save you."
"There is only one thing I can add to what I have told you," the exhausted
trader admitted. "For it I have ruined my mind and my self, so there is little
for you to threaten me with. My triumph will be short‑lived and I will not buy
the seat on the Zanur that I longed for." A few insulted murmurs arose among the
Zanural, loudest from those whose fortunes were smallest.
"So I will leave my tale to you, together with that one other thing, and let you
judge, Zanural of the city, if I might have been thought equal in wealth to sit
among you." He turned and blew on a small bone whistle that hung from a cord
around his neck.
A dozen laborers entered in two columns of six. Between them they held ropes
attached to a low dolly. Laughter gave way to curiosity and confusion among the
members of the Zanur. The dolly had six axles and fat rubbery wheels made from
the treated sap of the arer tree.
From his place at the head of the long council table de--me‑Halmur saw the pile
of fine gray Salp pelts piled high on the dolly. They were valuable but not
exceptionally so. Cer-tainly they weren't heavy enough to require the use of a
six-axle and twelve strong Mai to pull the load. He could see the way muscles
strained against something massive but con-cealed. He stood slightly,
unconscious of the movement, to have a better view.
The laborers halted and moved aside. With the aid of his servants Panltatol
staggered to the dolly, Disdaining help, he reached out and shakily pulled the
skins onto the floor. They'd been sewn together and came off as one.
There was something else on the dolly, as de‑me‑Halmur suspected, but the sight
of it struck him speechless‑a single metal bar reposed on the wooden platform.
It was twisted and bent by some unknown force and was as thick as a large Mai's
body. But that observation passed quickly. The Zan-ural were interested in its
composition far more than its shape.
It had not been polished and it displayed long gashes and much pitting, evidence
of exposure to powerful chemicals or energies. Its color was familiar.
"I did not actually enter the place of the dead." Panltatol's voice was
weakening. "I was near, very near, when weather so terrible it cannot be
imagined except in dreams finally forced me to retreat. This relic I found on
the banks of the Skar, where the river had carried it. This alone I was able to
bring back with me. Zanural of Po Rabi, this is my legacy."
Forgetting their dignity, abjuring protocol, they left their seats to examine
the massive metal bar. Sensitive six-fingered hands caressed the smooth gray
substance. The dull silvery sheen was a property of the metal itself.
It looked like sunit. It had the color of sunit. It felt like sunit. When three
of the Zanural from northern Po Rabi tried to lift it and could not, they were
positive it was sunit.
De‑Changrit, who on the Zanur was second in power only to de‑me‑Halmur himself,
removed a small ingot from the money belt that circled his waist. It was a serl,
the largest denomination coined by any of the great city‑states that lined the
shores of the Groalamasan Ocean, newly minted in pow-erful Chienba. He placed it
in one of the gouges cut in the flank of the bar and tried to calculate the
worth of the twisted mass in his head. He was a superb businessmai and his
estimate was very near the mark.
"Several million," he announced aloud. "At least." Hav-ing already made their
own calculations, several of his associates nodded by way of confirmation.
De‑Panltatol abruptly sat down on the edge of the dolly, leaning back against
the bar for support. He ran one hand gently across the cold metal, lovingly, as
if it were a woman reclining in his hammock. There was not a Mai among the Zanur
who did not feel the same love for that bar. It rep-resented a great and compact
fortune.
When the murmurs and excited conversations began to die down it was Changrit who
asked the question uppermost in all minds. "Is there more?"
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His tone was respectful now, no longer sarcastic or ac-cusing. Thus vindicated,
Panltatol seemed to draw strength from some unknown source. They were no longer
laughing at him.
"Honored sirs, I do not know. I found only this one piece, washed up on a rocky
and wild shore. But the rumors that drove me to the top of the world always
spoke of more in the City of the Dead."
Many signs were made by the Zanural, for they were as intensely superstitious as
the common folk. Daily their lives were punctuated by the performance of rituals
designed to ward off unfriendly deities and spirits, which all Mai knew ruled
the affairs of each individual from birth to death. At the rear of the chamber a
wide‑eyed servant hastily dumped more incense in the ritual burner, in case the
spirits in at-tendance that day were possessed of particularly large noses. The
air of the chamber was immediately suffused with sweet fragrance.
"No actual City of the Dead exists," one of the Zanural ventured hesitantly. "It
is not a real place."
De‑me‑Halmur used his hands eloquently. "No such solid piece of sunit as this
exists, yet it sits there before us."
"More," Panltatol mumbled. "More in the City of the Dead."
"How much more?" asked Changrit with becoming avariciousness.
"They say ... the rumors say ... that the city itself is built of sunit." Dead
silence greeted his declaration, appropriately. "I am sorry I did not go
farther." A thin smile appeared on his withered face. His right arm lay like
brown cloth against the cold metal. "I am so tired, honored ones. I must rest a
while."
"Wait!" Changrit rushed forward. With his own arms he supported the oldster, a
sign of the esteem in which Panltatol was suddenly held. "How do we find the
City of the Dead? How could one retrace your travels?"
"Why, don't you know?" Panltatol whispered. "There is no City of the Dead. The
journey cannot be made. But I made it. I, Bril de‑Panltatol, went where it is
impossible to go. But you can't follow, none of you." He said it with vehemence
as he unexpectedly sat up without aid. "You can't follow because only an insane
one could make such a journey. I am mad, you see, and you are not." A sudden
thought made him blink with confusion.
"Very tired." He leaned back against Changrit again and closed his eyes. They
would not open again.
Changrit gently lowered the thin body. "A true Mai. He sacrificed everything in
hopes of improving his fortune. I honor him."
"We all honor him," de‑me‑Halmur said, "as we will honor his memory."
"What of the sunit?" Lust was apparent in the voice of the Zanural who voiced
the common thought. All eyes were on the bar.
"You know the law," de‑me‑Halmur said sternly, if a trifle reluctantly. "I covet
it as much as any of you, but it goes to his family and employees." He made a
protective sign in case certain spirits were listening. "The law is clear."
Zanural de‑Peyetmy was almost in tears. "Couldn't we bend the law just a
little?"
"I am sworn to uphold it, and I will do so. Those who would bend the law
ultimately find themselves strangled by it." Murmurs of assent sounded from
around the table.
"Of course," de‑me‑Halmur went on, "there is the matter of a death tax." A few
smiles appeared. "Also the fact that de‑Panltatol undertook this journey without
proper author-ization, and we still must deal with the matter of his rude
intrusion into the Zanur Chamber." He studied the bar. "I would say that perhaps
half should go into the city treasury."
"That still leaves a nice fortune." Changrit had retaken his seat on
de‑me‑Halmur's left. "No family could be disappointed to receive such an
inheritance. Now that the law has been dealt with, how are we to deal with this
remarkable story?"
"A great journey," one of the other Zanural announced portentously. "One to be
enshrined in memory and song. I myself will commission a song cycle to
commemorate it."
"A thoughtful gesture," de‑me‑Halmur agreed, thankful for the Zanural's support.
His proposal meant that de‑me-Halmur would not have to pay for the requisite
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memorial. Other Zanural cursed themselves for not thinking to make the clever
political move.
"Now who shall volunteer to help equip a new expedition to journey to the top of
the world in search of this rumored City of the Dead?"
Suddenly every member of the council sought to shrink in his seat. One, bolder
than the rest, said sharply, "I would not venture more than a thousand legats
Upriver for all the sunit on Tslamaina."
"Nor would I," de‑me‑Halmur agreed. "De‑Panltatol was quite right. None of us is
mad. The very idea of setting foot on the Guntali Plateau is a concept only a
disturbed mind could conceive. To attempt to retrace his wild path would be
impossible." He gestured toward the bar and the body lying next to it. "We must
be satisfied with this."
"Not necessarily." All eyes turned in surprise to Changrit. De‑me‑Halmur waited
warily for any suggestion his rival might make. Each had much respect for the
other, so much so that they never employed assassins. Such methods they left to
cruder Mai while they dueled with words and gestures.
"It is true that any journey far up the Skar is daunting, let alone one to the
top of the world. One might undertake such an expedition only to perish within
sight of one's goal. It is more likely any travelers would end up staring at the
inside of a Na's belly instead of the City of the Dead." Zanurals executed signs
indicating anxiety.
"Or else they would find themselves deceived by the Tsia. We do not have the
means for accomplishing such a journey, but there are those who do."
"I don't see them here," another Zanpral called. Laughter punctuated his
observation.
Changrit gave him a withering look until the laughter had subsided. "A good
merchant knows his responsibility to the Zanur, to his city‑state. He knows also
his own limitations. I am quite aware of mine as you must be of yours.
"But there is something new come recently to Tslamaina. I speak of the visitors
from the sky."
Uncertain mutterings were silenced by de‑me‑Halmur. "I've heard much of them.
What is it you propose, Chan-grit?"
"I can propose nothing unless recent information I have received from my agents
can be confirmed. Call for the ambassador to Losithi."
There followed a long delay, made palatable by a regal midday meal, while Ror
de‑Kelwhoang, ambassador to Los-ithi, was summoned from his offices in the
Ministry. He arrived in due course, breathless and puzzled.
"For what reason have I been summoned in such haste, honored Zanural?"
There was much respect among the members for the skills of the elderly
Kelwhoang, just as there was in the Zanur of Losithi. Po Rabi's main rival in
trade and commerce, it lay several hundred legats to the southwest and
controlled the western end of the Skatandah Delta, the great marshland formed by
the emptying of the Skar River into the Groala-masan.
Midway between the two city‑states but slightly nearer Losithi lay the station
established by the strange visitors from the sky. Their science was much
advanced and gain was to be made there for those who knew how to ferret it out.
The visitors were carefully courted by diplomats from Losithi as well as Po
Rabi.
"Tell the Zanur," Changrit instructed the ambassador, "what you told me several
weeks ago concerning the visitors from the sky. The .new visitors."
"New visitors?" De‑me‑Halmur frowned, as did several other Zanural. "You mean
that more of the large bug- creatures have arrived on Tslamaina?"
Kelwhoang looked toward his sponsor Changrit uncer-tainly, but received a
gesture of openness by way of reply.
"All are friends here today, Kelwhoang. Speak freely."
The ambassador nodded. "There came upon us a day rainy and cold, which forced me
to-"
De‑me‑Halmur interrupted him. "Our time is valuable, Kelwhoang. Spare us the
poetry."
"Forgive me, Moyt. I was taken aback by this sight." He indicated the monstrous
bar of sunit.
"Understandable. Your attention to potential profit marks you well in our sight.
Still, make your tale concise."
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Kelwhoang gestured in agreement. "Members of the Zanur. As you know, I make it
my business during the long journey between our city and Losithi to take note of
all of interest that transpires within the Delta. The visitors from the sky keep
to their building‑that‑walks‑the‑water, but I have cultivated my
acquaintance
with them.
"Thus did I learn that five weeks ago allies from the sky arrived among them. I
was astonished to learn that these newcomers look not like those who built the
sky‑station, but much like us." That bit of news prompted gasps of astonishment
from the Zanurals.
"You mean," Guptinak asked, "that they are not as hor-rible to look upon as the
large bug‑things?"
"No," said Kelwhoang, gratified by the reaction his rev-elation had produced.
"They are much like Mai, only taller, taller even than a Tsla but not so large
as a Na. They have more body hair and their features are sharper and more
pronounced, rougher and not as beautiful. They suffer from our climate much as
does a Tsla, unlike their bug‑thing friends who are quite comfortable in the
Delta. One male and one female, similar enough to us that at a distance one
could almost think them Mai.
"I did not meet them myself, only saw them conversing with the Moyt of the
station, the one called," and he struggled with the difficult alien name,
"Porlezmozmith. Later I was able to talk with her and she remarked on the
similarity between us and the new visitors. Truly the resemblance is striking
between us. These newcomers' faces have smaller eyes, larger ears that are great
curved winged things visible even at a distance. Oh yes, they have but five
digits on their hands and feet instead of the normal six, even as the bug-things
have but four, though they have that extra pair of arms and legs. It may be that
these new visitors are more akin to us than the Tsla or the Na, with whom we
share our world."
"All fascinating," de‑me‑Halmur said, "but how does this profit us?"
"Tell them what the bug‑thing told you his new guests have planned," Changrit
prompted.
"Ah. I was told they brought with them a wondrous mag-ical boat which walks upon
the water more freely than the station the visitors first built. It does not
depend on wind or muscle for power but carries its own energy inside it. I was
told that it can travel at great speed Upriver, against the current of the
Skar."
More mutters of astonishment rose from the assembled members. "We've heard much
of the wonders brought by the visitors from the sky," de‑me‑Halmur said. "I
sense your thought, Changrit, but surely they would not sell us this amazing
craft?"
"Never," the ambassador admitted. "I have been told many times by the Moyt
Porlezmozmith that they can have only the briefest of contacts with us and that
they are for-bidden by their own laws to sell us any of the advanced tools and
instruments they have brought with them."
"No profit in that," one of the Zanural grumbled. "Truly these visitors are
alien."
"These newcomers who are like us," the ambassador con-tinued, "are scholars, not
merchants. They intend to make a study of the Barshajagad, the canyon which
cradles our river Skar."
"Now that makes sense," de‑me‑Halmur commented. "There is always profit in good
scholarship." He made a sign to invoke the spirit of knowledge and insight, but
finally had to ask, "What is in your mind, Changrit?"
"These visitors from the sky still know little of our world. Beyond the Delta
they are ignorant, for all their knowledge. They know nothing of the ways of the
Skar, or of the Hotiek or the Aurang or any of the lesser tributaries. They know
nothing of the peoples who inhabit the canyon. They will need guides."
"Ah!" De‑me‑Halmur's expression was fed by enlight-enment. "Friendly locals to
show them the way."
"Yes, to show them the way."
"And good friends that we are, it behooves us as the rulers of Po Rabi to find
volunteers to assist them?"
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"Every chance we can find," Changrit agreed firmly.
"How do we know that these strange creatures have any interest in traveling up
the Skar farther than the town of Ibe?" a Zanural wondered aloud.
"We do not," Changrit admitted. "How does one divine the intentions of aliens?
Yet if they are as similar in appearance to us as Ambassador de‑Kelwhoang says,
who is to say that their motivations are different?" He looked away from the
table. "You've no idea how far they intend to go Upriver, Kelwhoang?"
"No. The bug‑Moyt was not too clear. He did say a long journey. Certainly
farther than Ibe."
"Then our course is clear, Zanural." De‑me‑Halmur leaned forward the better to
emphasize his words and gestures. "We must do our utmost to ensure that these
visitors make use of our good intentions and accept the aid that the people of
Po Rabi will freely extend to them."
"Assuming they accept," said another member. "What if they do not travel to the
region of our hopes? What if they reach Kekkalong and decide they have journeyed
far enough?"
"Then perhaps," Changrit murmured quietly, "they might at that time be persuaded
to loan us the use of their wondrous craft. I'm certain that the loquacious Ror
de‑Kelwhoang will employ all his admirable verbal talents to ensure that the
immediate requirements of the Zanur are met."
"I shall do my best, of course." The ambassador per-formed an elaborate gesture
designed to invoke the spirits of all the great diplomats of the past. He
glanced sideways at the huge, gleaming mass of solid sunit.
"However, if I am to do my best, honored ones, it would help if you could
explain to me the reasons behind my mission. Would I be remiss in assuming it
has something to do with the astonishing wealth that lies next to a dead Mai in
the center of this chamber?"
"You would not," de‑me‑Halmur said. "Seat yourself."
Gesturing his thanks at the honor, de‑Kelwhoang joined the table as Changrit
related the events of the morning.
The subsequent discussion and laying out of plans lasted well into the evening.
The heat of day was followed by the heat of night and still the Zanur sat in
extended session. Bureaucrats and guards gossiped and wondered, but still the
rulers of Po Rabi remained sequestered in their chamber.
It was only when they finally adjourned in the early hours of the morning that
someone thoughtfully directed attendants to remove the stiffened corpse of that
soon to be memo-rialized merchant‑explorer Bril de‑Panltatol. Great care had
already been taken to ensure that a proper share of his legacy was safely
transported to the city treasury.
Greater care and craft might make possible the seemingly impossible task of
securing for the Zanur of Po Rabi the rest of his legacy.
Chapter Two
Etienne Redowl was sick of measuring current flow. He was sick of taking samples
from the river bottom. Recording the ebb and flow of sandbars and mudbanks no
longer in-terested him, nor did watching the analyzer spit out graphs listing
gravel composition mineral by mineral.
But there was nothing else for him to do at Steamer Sta-tion.
It seemed as if they'd been waiting for permission from the native authorities
to begin their Upriver expedition since the beginning of time. Anyone who
thought the bureaucracy of Commonwealth Science and Exploration difficult to
penetrate should have to cope once in his life with the byzantine machinations
of the Mai of Tslamaina. The station's location between the rival city‑states of
Po Rabi and Losithi only made it tougher to obtain the necessary clearances.
There was no pushing the matter, however. Where a Class Four‑B world was
involved, Commonwealth policy was strict. Porlezmozmith, the officer in charge
of Steamer Station, was sympathetic to the Redowls' plight, but not to the point
of challenging regulations. So the husband‑wife team sat and sweated and waited.
Etienne paused on the ladder long enough to adjust the thermo‑sense on his
fishnet shirt and shorts. Minuscule cool-ing units woven into the material
struggled to cool his skin. He checked his wrist telltale. A fairly mild
afternoon, with the temperatures hovering around a hundred and twenty degrees
and the humidity a mere ninety percent. He longed for the coolness of their
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quarters on the station platform above.
The thranx found the temperature a mite hot, but the humidity suited them just
fine. That was why they'd been chosen to staff the only Commonwealth outpost.
For them it was almost like home. For humans it was pure misery.
Survey should have named it misery, Etienne thought. Instead it had been named
for its geology. That geology and the unique civilization it had produced were
the reasons why Etienne and his wife Lyra had braved endless application forms
and sweltering weather in order to be the first humanx scientists allowed to
work beyond the boundaries of the outpost. Or such would be the case if the
native authorities ever gave them the okay to travel Upriver. Until that
hap-pened they were stuck at the station. Months of waiting for permission to
arrive, endless days spent battling the terrible heat and humidity had sapped
his initial enthusiasm. Lyra was bearing up better beneath the day‑to‑day
disappoint-ment, but even she was starting to wilt.
He forced himself to see Tslamaina as it looked from high orbit. The refreshing,
cooler image reminded him again why they'd come to the world its discoverers had
named Horseye. Lyra had no room for flippancy in science and preferred
Tslamaina, the native name, but the image cer-tainly fitted.
Eons ago the planet had collided with a meteor of truly impressive dimensions.
In addition to creating the vast cir-cular basin that was now filled by the
Groalamasan Ocean, the concussion had badly cracked the planet's surface. That
surface, high above the single world‑ocean, comprised the Guntali Plateau.
Water running off the Guntali for hundreds of millions of years patiently
enlarged those surface cracks, eventually resulting in the most spectacular
river canyons ever encoun-tered. The combination of geological and
climatological factors necessary to produce such awesome scenery had not been
duplicated on any other of the explored worlds.
Of all the river canyons by far the greatest was the Bar-shajagad, which in the
Mai language meant "Tongue‑of‑the-World." More than two thousand kilometers wide
at the point where it finally emptied into the ocean, it reached northward from
its delta some thirteen thousand kilometers to vanish in the cloud‑shrouded
north polar wastes. From the edge of the Guntali, a few hundred kilometers
Upriver, to the surface of the slowly moving river Skar, the Barsha-jagad
dropped approximately eight thousand meters in ele-vation. Where mountains rose
from the plateau, the disparity was even greater.
So wide was the Barshajagad at its mouth, however, that a traveler on the
surface of the river could not see where the gradually ascending slopes finally
reached the plateau to east and west.
The, result was an astonishing variety of life forms orga-nized into ecological
regions not by latitude but by elevation, as nature made use of the different
temperature and moisture zones that climbed the canyon walls.
Three different intelligent mammalian races had appeared on Tslamaina, each
confined to its own portion of the river canyons. The intensively competitive
and primitively capi-talistic Mai ruled the ocean and the river valleys. Above
them in the more temperate zone between three thousand and fifty‑five hundred
meters were the Tsla. Clinging to the frozen rims of the canyons and freely
roaming the Guntali were the carnivorous Na. Or so the locals claimed. None of
them had ever seen a Na, and since Mai society was infused with a healthy
respect for and belief in thousands of spirits, demons, and ghosts, Lyra Redowl,
circumspect xenologist that she was, was reluctant to give instant recognition
to the existence of this legendary third intelligent race.
Temperature and pressure and not national or tribal boundaries kept the races of
Tslamaina separated. That made for a sociocultural situation every bit as unique
as the local geology, as Lyra was fond of pointing out to her husband.
Their hope, the dream that had brought them across many light‑years, was to take
a hydrofoil all the way up the Skar to its source, making a thorough study of
the geology and the people of the planet as they advanced. But Tslamaina was a
Class Four‑B world. That meant they could only pro-ceed with the natives'
permission, and that permission still was not forthcoming, despite repeated
anxious requests.
So Etienne had been confined to examination of the delta soils and the geology
around the station which was, in a word, flat. Lyra was better off, able to
visit with those fish-erfolk who sometimes stopped at the station to chat and to
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attempt to steal anything not bolted down. Station personnel never ventured
reprisals for the attempts. For one thing the attempts were always unsuccessful.
For another, it was part of the local culture.
Six months had passed since the shuttle had deposited the Redowls at Steamer
Station and Etienne was close to calling off the expedition. Only the knowledge
that they would be the first to make an Upriver journey kept him from book-ing
passage out on the next supply run.
It would help if Lyra would learn to keep her frustration to herself, but no,
not her. She'd declaim long and loud to anyone within earshot. The thranx were
too polite to tell her to shut up, and Etienne had tried many times and failed.
After the first month he simply gave up and tuned her out. It wasn't hard. He
had been doing it for twenty years. Eight or nine years ago the conflict might
have ended in divorce, but now they had too much invested in each other.
Con-venience and familiarity balanced out a lot of bickering, though sometimes
he wondered.
Something was itching sharply on the back of his neck. Holding onto the ladder
with his right hand he reached up and back with his left, coming away with
something soft and flexible. He eyed it with intense distaste.
It was as long as his hand and thick as his thumb, com-pletely transparent
except for the dark maroon color spread-ing slowly backward from the head. As he
held it firmly it wiggled and twisted in search of the blood so recently
dis-covered and quickly vanished.
The dangui was an elegant local bloodsucker related to the annelid worms but
possessed of a cartilaginous backbone which when flexed allowed it to jump at
its intended host. It turned red as it filled up with blood. It looked like a
glass leech and seemed to find human plasma perfectly palatable, much to
Etienne's enduring disgust.
Forcing down the gorge rising in his throat he flung it as _far away as he
could, heard the faint plop when it hit the murky green water. He felt the back
of his neck and his hand came away bloody. First stop inside the station would
be for antibiotic spray.
The metal stilts on which Steamer Station rested carried a mild electric charge
to discourage infestation by such local pests though they rarely troubled the
thranx because of their tough exoskeletons. Etienne dealt in smooth, hard
surfaces and clean stone and didn't care much for biology, particu-larly when it
chose to get personal.
High thin clouds blocked out some of the ultraviolet, but Etienne was still
grateful for his naturally dark coloring, a legacy of ancient Amerindians. A
lighter‑skinned human would quickly fry under Tslamaina's relentless sun. Though
he'd been outside less than ten minutes, the sweat was pour-ing off him. The
cooling meshwork shirt and shorts were all that kept him halfway comfortable.
Even the climate might be bearable if only they'd receive permission from the
native authorities. The frustration of waiting was worse than any heat, he mused
as he made his careful way up the ladder.
Behind him tall fat pseudopalms thrust enormous green fronds over the lazy
water. Table tree roots exploded side-ways from their trunks before dipping down
into the mud. Nappers, tiny crustaceans with multihued shells, filled the air
with their doglike barking.
Little relief beyond the shade it offered was available inside the station since
the internal temperature was set to accommodate thranx and not humans. A hundred
was cer-tainly cooler than one‑twenty, but the humidity was un-changed. Only
when he entered the rooms reserved for less tolerant visitors did the humidity
begin to drop. By the time he reached their quarters, station machinery had
lowered the temperature forty‑five degrees and sucked out more than half the
humidity.
Lyra Redowl barely glanced up at him. She sprawled in a chair studying her
clipboard viewer.
"Anything interesting?"
"Glass leech bit me."
"Bad?"
"I doubt it." He moved to a cabinet and removed a tiny spray can, dosed the back
of his neck. "The Skar flows into the Groalamasan, the Groalamasan goes round
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