"A girl!" Buccari announced, walking into the low rock-walled barracks. "Goldberg's doing fine."
A cheer erupted from the crew, followed by raucous comments and laughter. Cliff dwellers peeked into the barracks area, curious. Buccari, closest to the entryway, used crude sign language to indicate a pregnant belly and a babe in arms. The old females went away chirping, smiles on their ugly faces.
"So...uh, who does it look like?" Tatum asked.
Everyone laughed and hooted, pounding the tall Marine on the back.
"So who does it look like," Tatum persisted.
"It's not an it, you big dork!" Lee admonished. "It's a she! Her name's Honey. She looks like a little monkey, just like all newborns."
"Fenstermacher, you dog!" Wilson shouted.
"Leave me out of this!" the little man protested. "I'm innocent."
"You mean impotent," O'Toole jibed.
Laughter echoed from the narrow walls—for a change. Cramped quarters and forced indolence had been telling; tempers ran short and attitudes sour. Their small world had become a prison.
"Do you think I can see her?" Tatum asked softly.
"Won't hurt to ask," Buccari said. "I'm expecting Lizard soon. I'll write out a request. Anyone else want to go?" It was a silly question; they all raised their hands. "I'll see what we can do," she laughed.
"So what did you see?" Hudson asked.
"Corridors, polished floors. Running water. Lots of rock. And elevators! They have elevators," Buccari reported.
"They covered our heads," Lee added. "Pepper's room looks like this, only smaller and much warmer. She says they never put her under anesthetic. She had to work hard, and it took hours, but she feels good—and strong."
"Get this!" Buccari exclaimed. "They delivered the baby under water! Goldberg says they put her in a dark room with a stone tub filled with hot water."
"That used to be done on Earth," Lee said.
There were few sanctuaries at Goldmine, the science expedition's retreat for the winter. Dowornobb and Kateos, mature adults, realized they were suited for mating, and they wished to discuss the delicate matter fully and candidly. They discovered the necessary solitude under the dome housing the station's fruit and vegetable gardens. The agricultural dome did not have an elevated pressure, but the temperature was moderated. By the kones' perspective it was uncomfortably cold. It was impossible for Dowornobb to imagine what it was like outside.
Frigid winds blew leaves and debris against the dome's surface. It was snowing. The first soft flakes of the season whirled before driving winds, striking and sliding across the translucent surface; ridges of white snow accumulated on the dome's seams. Imbedded heating coils in the dome shell kept the ridges wet and narrow, causing melting snow to slide downward across the dome in long streamers of ice. Dowornobb sat with Kateos on a green bench, helmets off, staring dreamily, enchanted at the strange precipitation and its effects on the dome. They had talked for many minutes yet had said little.
"I am told each snowflake is unique," Kateos sighed.
"Et Silmarn claims the entire ground, as far as the eye can see, will be covered in white by the end of the day," Dowornobb said. He stood, walked to the dome, and tested the temperature of the dome. He yanked his bare hand away and returned it to his glove. "Ouch! Quite cold!"
He ambled back to the bench and looked at Kateos. She sat, unnaturally quiet and demur. Dowornobb had grown accustomed to her loquaciousness and her spontaneity—characteristics she revealed, with interesting exceptions, only to him. The import of their conversation was affecting him in similar ways. He sat, picked up her gloved hand, and gave a gentle squeeze. She pressed his in return, averting her eyes.
"Our lives have become complicated," he said.
"Yet at the same time more purposeful," she replied softly. "Our lives are more defined." She looked upward and outward, staring resolutely through the falling snowflakes.
"I wish to express my feelings, Mistress Kateos," he said softly.
"You have done so already, and without words, Master Dowornobb." She turned to look deeply into his eyes. Had Dowornobb retained any thoughts of independence or equivocation in the matter—which he did not—that sweet, simple, yet intense glance would have crushed all ambivalence. Dowornobb felt his gay heart and free soul climb through his eyes; he desperately wanted to belong to this female, and in wanting to belong, he needed also to possess.
"It is said that life is long, no matter how few the days, when life is shared," he said after many entranced moments.
"And it is said," Kateos added, continuing the litany, "that true love is a perpetually blooming flower that knows not seasons and can never die."
Dowornobb' s passions swelled, doubts vanished. His love scent lifted. "Mistress Kateos, our lives are uncertain. I am but a common kone, and I cannot promise comfort and wealth—"
"If certainty and wealth were that important to you, then I would rather not continue this conversation," she interrupted, most rudely.
"Please, Mistress Kateos," said the exasperated male, struggling to maintain his composure and train of thought. "Your welfare and happiness will be my responsibility. You must permit me to express my concerns, even if I am incapable of eloquence."
"Yes, Master Dowornobb," Kateos replied. "Want not eloquence if you speak sincerely."
He stared into her large, lustrous brown eyes and found himself a dazed wanderer, lost in love, not caring where he went, but ever so thankful for the chance to take the voyage. Time floated by. The air thickened with his essence.
"Master Dowornobb?" she whispered, bringing him back to the moment.
"Yes?" he said blankly. "Oh, yes!" His objective clearly in front of him, he shored up his resolve yet again and stated his position, "I want you as my mate, forever and without end."
There! It was said—a bit tersely. But she made it so difficult for him to think and talk. She looked down at the ground. No response was forthcoming. Just as he was about to expound further, she spoke.
"I have no choice in the matter. You have selected me, so I am bound to submit and to obey. It is the rule—my life is yours. Of course, I am honored." Her head bent low in submission; a large, pellucid tear welled up and clung to her lower lid. She blinked, and it fell to the ground.
"Thank you, Mistress Kateos, for your formal acceptance," Dowornobb said quietly. Suddenly it was easy for him to speak. Her abject posture injected him with the urgent need to relate his feelings. Dowornobb was a scientist and a freethinker. He loathed the orthodoxy of his society, especially if it would interfere with his ability to express his emotions, or to understand the emotions of another.
"We share a bond, an understanding, a feeling—" he stated quietly but with escalating passion, "—something deeper and more profound than ancient rules." It was his turn to lecture. "I want to be your companion. I want you to be my companion—for life—forever and always. I want you as my mate, not because I have ordered it so, and not because I am willing to take social responsibility for your children. I want you to be my mate because, and only because, you wish to be. If that is not the case, you may walk from me and not turn back. I will not invoke the social rules, and I would be disappointed in you if those were your reasons for submitting to my wish."
She gazed into his face as he lectured, and her demeanor fairly glowed with each word of admonishment. Dowornobb detected her love scent exploding in waves.
"Oh, I promise you!" she declared effusively, taking Dowornobb aback. "I promise you that my acceptance demonstrates my expression of free will. I am yours forever. I am yours because I want to be. You are my master."
"I am your mate," he said emphatically, their scents blending. She squeezed his hand, tears flowing freely down her beautiful face. "My mate, this promise is an undying flame. It will always be kindled and it cannot be extinguished," she said with a liquid fervor that made Dowornobb's emotional bubble nearly burst with boundless ecstasy.
Stemming his exhilaration, Dowornobb stared into her eyes and declared his love. "The promise is the marriage. The marriage is the promise. We are mated. I will file the necessary papers."
"We must keep them isolated," whistled Koop-the-facilitator. "They are boisterous and rude! They are unclean and they smell. We fear they may be evil!" The assembled body of elders and guild representatives listened to the harangues cataloging the questionable behavior of their guests. The cliff dwellers could not countenance the long-legs' voracious appetites, their rambunctiousness, their rudeness.
"With immense respect, my elder," Toon chirped from the visitors' gallery, standing without sanction and unrecognized. "May I speak?"
The facilitator looked down from the assembly podium, irritated with the impudent interruption. The assembly was occupied primarily by members of the dweller congress, the duly elected guild and hunter officials.
"Ah, supervisor Toon!" the facilitator acknowledged. "Thy reports art the basis of our findings. What is it thou wouldst say?"
"I humbly address the council," replied the steam user. "My reports have not served thee well, for while thy decision to continue the quarantine may be correct, thy logic for doing so is faulty."
The assemblage murmured at the steam user's blatant affront.
"The crude behavior of the long-legs should not be seen as evil or base," Toon continued hurriedly, desperately holding on to his courage. "The long-legs are different. We should reserve judgment until we have a better understanding. Arrogant and ill mannered yes, but they are not evil. They desire to be good, but they act as individuals, selfishly and without common purpose."
Murmurs grew louder. Toon raised his voice and continued.
"I humbly propose the long-legs be provided with labor, even if it means exposing them to our society. Gainful employment will exhaust their energies in worthwhile endeavor, and it will serve to give them value in our eyes."
The great hall was silent. The council of elders stared down at the lone engineer as if he were an insect. The silence lingered.
"Toon' s words have merit," interjected Braan, leader-of-thehunters. He stood erect, not apologizing for the parliamentary breach.
Koop glared down. Such disruptions reflected ill on his leadership.
"The hunter leader is recognized," warbled the facilitator with poorly concealed resignation.
"Permission to speak is humbly accepted," Braan whistled as he took the speaker's dock, talons clicking obnoxiously. "Hunters have billeted the long-legs for four cycles of the small moon and have observed them firsthand—not from rumor or from steam user Toon' s reports. The long-legs have good qualities—many good qualities. If they are evil, then we are equally so."
Remonstrative jeers whistled around the assembly. Braan turned and belligerently scanned the members, defiantly awaiting the disruption to attenuate. The floor was his.
"It is true they behave offensively," the hunter screeched over the din. "They gesture obscenely. They stare with fixed eye contact! They consume great amounts of precious food, only to convert it to malodorous waste! They seldom wash, and their bodies stink. They are loud. They respect not our customs. They even fight among themselves. All of this is true. Yes, it is true! But that does not provide reason to condemn. It illustrates only that they are different."
It was a long speech for a hunter; Braan concluded, "Listen to steam user Toon. His counsel is well measured." The hunter returned to his seat.
The assembly was silent. The facilitator recognized Toon.
The spacers waited nervously in the dark, damp cavern. Although they could not see the river, its muted roar required them to raise their voices to be heard. Steam was thick and warm around them, yet icicles dripped from the ceiling and along catwalk chain railings. Dim globes stretched out before them, a string of dingy yellow pearls disappearing in the distant curve of the cavern. Sixty meters below and on the other side of the channel, another necklace of spirit lamps ran parallel to the first, following the channel course at the cavern's bottom. Cliff dwellers worked in the dim light, splashing, scraping, and pounding in the wet channel bottom. Lurking in shadows behind them a mysterious guilder stood between lamps, watching them carefully.
"Who's that?" MacArthur asked.
"Lizard's boss," Hudson replied. "That's the guy we have to impress."
"He's not impressing me slinking in the shadows," O'Toole said.
"Stop staring," Shannon said. "It makes them nervous."
The spacers turned their attention to Buccari and Lizard Lips walking toward them. The beings from different worlds had been scouting the cavern, silently communicating, using sign language and writing.
"We're sediment cleaners," Buccari announced. The tall human males circled the twosome, compelling Lizard Lips to take an involuntary step backward. Buccari reached over, put an arm around the cliff dweller's back, and firmly pulled him into their huddle.
"Mr. Lip's been explaining accumulators to me," Buccari said, "and why they need to be cleaned. This cavern is one of four accumulator channels. They have closed and drained it so sediment-cleaning teams can clear away rocks, silt, and other debris that have deposited since the last cleaning. All four of the channels are behind schedule for cleaning. Last year's flow was one of the heaviest in their history, and it left behind tremendous amounts of sediment. We are to join one of the cleaning teams, and after we learn the job, we train the rest of our crew and form our own team. It's a big job."
"Sounds like forced labor to me," Petit said.
"We're working for food and shelter," Buccari said. "No one's forcing you to do anything. You can leave anytime you like, Petit."
"Eh, sorry, Lieutenant," Petit replied. "I didn't mean—"
"Yeah, that's okay," Buccari said. "This place gives me the creeps, too." Liquid scraping noises echoed through the dripping, musty cavern.
"We need the work," MacArthur said. "Let's get going."
"Okay, you know how important this is," Buccari said. "We earn our keep, and we have a chance to prove we're not worthless, which our friend tells me is the case right now. Anything beats sitting around on our fannies all winter."
"What do they accumulate in an accumulator channel, Lieutenant?" Shannon asked.
"Energy! Potential energy to be precise," Buccari replied. "River water is diverted into a channel, depending on availability of water and energy needs. Each channel has a series of geared waterwheels used to hoist large weights up vertical distances. The cables suspending these weights can be disengaged from the waterwheels and connected to other drive mechanisms. It's a gigantic mechanical storage battery. These guys are amazing mechanical engineers."
"That must be how they drive the elevators," Hudson said. "Did you see the weights and the gearing systems?"
"Just a peek," Buccari replied. "That's still off limits. Lizard was reluctant to tell me about it. I just kept asking questions until he caved in. So to speak."
MacArthur snorted. "How is it so warm in, uh.. .a cave this big?"
"Steam," Buccari said. "They collect steam. Water flowing through the channels is diverted into some sort of magma chamber. This produces gobs of steam which is collected in low-pressure accumulators and released to drive pistons and turbines. A lot of steam backflows into the caverns. Lizard has cautioned me a dozen times on the dangers of steam geysers and scalding water."
"Hot showers, eh? All right!" O'Toole said.
"Yeah, hot! Very, very hot!" Buccari warned.
"Does that mean they have electricity?" Hudson asked.
"Not that I can tell," Buccari answered. "I couldn't explain the concept to Lizard, either. All the steam energy is dissipated mechanically, or used directly as heat."
"What do we use for tools?" Shannon asked.
"Good question. Evidently our tools are waiting for us. Let's go," Buccari replied. "We have to climb to the channel bottom. Be careful. Our friend keeps telling me the work is dangerous, so keep your mouths shut and pay attention."
"Aye, aye, sir!" they shouted in unison.
The winter solstice had arrived. Hundreds of spirit lamps were shrouded with dark blue globes for the occasion; the great assembly hall flickered in yellows and blues. The quiet chittering of the gathered masses lowered abruptly as two hundred votaries, adult females dressed in orange robes, appeared at the entrances and dispersed into the hall, moving slowly about the central podium, lighting more candles. Bool, sitting in the masters' gallery, watched the scintillating patterns, enchanted as any child.
"Toon' s idea has proven excellent," Koop whispered. The facilitator had stopped for a subdued chat with the old steam user. Together, the dwellers watched the multiplying points of light.
"Without question, wise one," Bool responded. "My doubts have been dispelled. After only two moon cycles of instruction the long-legs are twice as productive as an equal number of dwellers, despite inexperience. In another moon cycle they will clear sediment at thrice the rate of our best teams. We are designing special tools to take advantage of their leverage and reach."
"Is it only because they are so strong?" the facilitator asked. "I am told they destroy tools because they wield them with such force."
"Perhaps," Bool responded. "And yet Toon tells me they have brought innovation to the task. We have been doing it the same way for so long that we have stopped looking for other ways. It goes well. Sediment clearing is actually on schedule—a miracle."
"Excellent to hear—sssh! The ceremony is starting. I must take my place. Good year to you and long life." The facilitator moved to his position behind the central podium as high-toned bells rang sharply. The votaries arrayed themselves, and the hall fell silent.
The celebration of the shortest day of the year began with the rhythmic pealing of a single bell—a sweet tone. Then the singing began, distant and muted. Rich harmonies and expansive tonal ranges emanated from the congregated cliff dwellers, their delicate frames physically resonating in the glory of transonic music—a deep, nearly sexual stimulation overwhelming all senses. The procession of choirs commenced. Singing grew in volume and intensity as thousands of females robed in royal blue filed in, stately and erect, moving as slowly as the passage of the stars. Time was not perceived, for the singing was ethereal, and all present prayed it would never end.
Another bell, large and deep-toned, pealed three times; the elders slipped from their perches. A keening rose from the choirs, signaling the arrival of the judges and priestesses—females all,robed in black. The regal entourage moved with dignified yet graceful pace to positions around the great hall. Several mounted the stairs to the central stage. Over half were small—hunter females—including the high priestess, for hunters were the best singers.
The high priestess moved to the raised stage center and faced the multitude, lifting her arms high, wing membranes luminously backlighted in blue, the very image of beauty and purity. Yellow fires danced at her feet, highlighting her prominent features. She slowly lowered her arms, and all present, male and female, adult and child, raised voices in harmonious accord, increasing volume in a majestic crescendo. The high priestess raised her arms once again and the female tones surfaced from the powerful male background harmonies; a lush ululation rose in wave upon wave; alternating harmonics of male and female origin, a yin and yang of sound, tumbled around each other, melding into one. When the time was right, the high priestess dropped her arms.
Silence.
The high priestess stared outward and upward, eyes closed— her vision confined to the sonic realm. She uttered sounds, musically, but very quietly. Yet every pure, harmonic emanation was clearly heard by each dweller in the hall. She projected— transmitted—her message at a multitude of sonic levels, and the acute receptors of the audience received and resolved her vibrations.
"We are blessed, my people," she trilled. "We are blessed with children. We are blessed with salt and warmth. We are blessed." She paused. The audience responded with a musical affirmation, an "amen" of surpassing harmony.
"We are blessed, my people," the litany continued. "We are blessed with food. We are blessed with flowers and families. We are indeed blessed." The audience responded with growing passion and volume.
"The gods abide in our hearts and in our souls. They live in our rocks, in the mountains and cliffs. They live in the waters of lakes and rivers. We are blessed. They look down from the moons, and they illuminate the sun and the stars. Each tree, each blade of grass, each drop of rain, each starry snowflake—they are each and every one a benevolent and compassionate spirit. We are blessed. The gods are everywhere, and they are just. The gods are just and fair. We are blessed. We are so very blessed. Let us sing! Let us sing our thanks for our many blessings. Let us sing."
The voices in the assembly hall were forcefully raised in harmonic resonance, a powerful manifestation of rising fervor. Wave upon wave of multidimensional sound permeated the great hall, rebounding from stone walls and reinforcing the next wave of song newly sent forth. The fledglings in the audience trembled before the power of the adult voices. Bells sounded in rolling peals, and the harmonious tumult continued to elevate. Spirit lamp globes vibrated. The very rock upon which they stood buzzed in sympathetic harmony, warming with the transmission of sonic energy.
Time passed but was not measured, and when it was right, the high priestess raised thin arms. Blue and gold light danced from her wings, and the concord of tones and whistles, of bells and songs, subsided in subliminal thresholds, falling through innumerable levels of frequency and harmony, until only a small portion of the choir was left chanting. And with lingering glory, the last exquisite sounds drifted into exalted silence. The high priestess scanned the audience. A radiant smile reflected her contentment and inner light.
"We are blessed. We are blessed with the voices of our ancestors," the high priestess cried, tears of joy giving her speech liquid qualities. "We are so very blessed." The assembled multitude responded, humbly but with great passion.
The deep, heavy bell tolled again, six times, and the high priestess gestured grandly. The judges strode forward—nine guilder females. They arrayed themselves, solemn and imposing, behind nine onyx monoliths. They wore the same orange robes as the votaries, but they also wore necklaces of sparkling onyx. The hall was still, a stillness beyond silence, for it was the time of reckoning. Cliff dweller laws were few, but penalties severe; any cliff dweller who willfully caused harm could be banished, doomed to die in the freezing wilderness.
"We are blessed," intoned the high priestess, "with justice. Let justice have voice! Read the names."
And the trials began.
"It's cold!" Fenstermacher complained, feeding the ante. "It's cold every day!" Chief Wilson said, dealing the cards.
"Stop complaining! It's a hell of a lot colder back at the cave," Dawson chided.
"So what's going on, Lieutenant? Why the day off?" Wilson asked. He sat on a deep pile of furs looking at his poker hand.
Buccari pored over stacks of dweller writings—the dictionary. The collection of writings and drawings had grown large. Hudson and MacArthur were helping her organize the icons and symbols.
"Liz wouldn't say," she replied. "He said we had to stay in our barracks today. Some kind of religious day—a holiday, maybe?"
"There are extra guards down the passageway," Shannon said. "I pass."
"A religious day?" Fenstermacher asked. "What kind of religion do they have?"
"Hard to say," Buccari answered. "Some kind of animism."
"What?" Fenstermacher persisted. "They worship animals?"
"They worship everything," MacArthur answered. "To them every rock, tree, and mountain has a soul. They worship the planet. And they have different sects or life-purposes—the tall ones, the workers, actually pray to the rocks, or to the plants, or to the fish, or to the steam, depending on their training. The hunters worship the wild animals."
Buccari looked up at MacArthur. The Marine, standing close to her, looked away, embarrassed.
"You're picking this up quickly, Mac," she said thickly. "Keep at it. More of us need to communicate with our new friends. It's like learning how to read." MacArthur blushed and smiled weakly.
"Yeah, Mac," Hudson agreed, absorbed in the material before him. "This stuff is ambiguous and Sharl, er—Lieutenant Buccari never buys my interpretation. Like this, Sharl; check this out."
"What's it in response to?" she asked. Hudson had organized a keying system to match questions with answers.
"It relates to the series of questions on other races and peoples," Hudson replied. "We were trying to determine if they had ever seen other aliens or flying machines."
"Yeah," Buccari said. "And..."
"I read this sequence to say they've seen flying machines, but not recently—not in four years, and then only rarely before that. They also describe giants or bear people. Here, tell me what you think." He pushed the parchment sheets over. Buccari stared at them. MacArthur moved tentatively closer.
"You're right, Nash," she said after a while. "This indicates the dwellers saw loud, rigid-wing flying objects. Four winters, er— years ago." Buccari stared at the pages, shifting her view. "Their mythology includes stories of large people—giants or bear people— emerging from such flying machines. The bear people had weapons that made music, or sang. Weapons that killed from great distances."
"Giants, eh?" Wilson remarked. The poker game halted in mid-hand.
"Don't forget," Hudson said. "They think of us as giants, too."
"Not quite the same, Nash," Buccari interrupted. "Lizard uses this term big to describe us. The term he uses to describes the mythical beings seems to be more emphatic, a difference of degree. Liz makes it clear that no living dweller has seen one of these mythical bear people, but many dwellers have seen their flying machines."
"How about the singing weapons?" MacArthur asked. "Lasers?"
"Good guess," Shannon said soberly.
Everyone's attention was drawn to the entrance of their living quarters; Chastain and Gordon walked in, shaking snow from their furs.
"We thought we heard something," Chastain said.
"Like what, Jocko?" Buccari asked.
"Music, bells, whistling, or—something. Weird noises. It kinda got under your skin. Kinda pretty, though," he said thoughtfully.
"I miss music," Dawson said absentmindedly. She started humming a long forgotten tune. After a short period of time she stopped abruptly and looked around, embarrassed.
"It was pretty, Nancy," Lee said. "Don't stop."
"I'm embarrassed," she replied.
"You mean embarrassing," Fenstermacher chuckled. Dawson' s thrown boot missed badly.
Wilson stood up. "I used to sing. I remember some old songs." "Don't go singing beer-drinking songs," Shannon jibed. "Yes! Keep it clean, Gunner," Buccari requested.
"He can't even breathe and do that," Fenstermacher needled. Everyone laughed as Wilson chased Fenstermacher into the cold passageway. Buccari turned back to the dweller writings and pondered the future. It was going to be a long winter. She looked up to see MacArthur staring at her. MacArthur grinned bashfully and turned away, his color rising. No one but Buccari noticed.
Dawson and Wilson began harmonizing an ancient carol. Soon all were singing, and it was beautiful.