Darkover: First Contact (12 page)

Someone said at MacAran’s elbow, “How can the woods catch fire after all this rain?”

He brought back memory of something Marco Zabal had said that first night. “The trees are heavily resined—practically tinder. Some few of them may even burn when they’re wet— we built a campfire of green wood. I suppose lightning can set off a fire at almost any time.” We were lucky, he thought, we camped out in the center of the woods and never thought of fire, or of firebreaks. “I suspect we’ll need a permanent firebreak around any encampment or work area.”

Father Valentine said, “You sound as if you thought we were going to be here a long time.”

MacAran bent to his saw. He said, not looking up, “No matter whose side you’re on—the Captain’s or Moray’s—it looks as if we’ll be here for years.” He was too weary, and too unsure of anything at this moment, to decide for himself if he had any real preference and in any case he was sure no one would consult him about his choice, but down deep he knew that if they ever left this world again he would regret it.

Father Valentine touched his shoulder. “I think the Lieutenant is looking for you.”

He straightened to see Camilla Del Rey walking toward him. She looked worn and haggard, her hair uncombed and her uniform dirty. He wanted to take her in his arms but instead he stood and watched her attempt not to meet his eyes as she said, “Rafe, the Captain wants to talk with you. You know the terrain better than anyone else. Do you think it could be fought or contained?”

“Not in the dark—and not without heavy equipment,” MacAran said, but he accompanied her back toward the Captain’s field quarters. He had to admire the efficiency with which the firebreak operation had been set up, the small amount of ship’s firefighting equipment moved to the hospital.
The Captain had sense enough to use Moray here. They’re really two of a kind—if they could only work together for the same objectives. But just now they’re the irresistible force and the immovable object.

The fine rain was changing to heavy sleet as they came into the dome. The small dark crowded dome was dimly lit by a single handlamp, and the battery seemed to be already failing.

Moray was saying: “—our power sources are already giving way. Before we can do anything else, sir, in your plan
or
mine, some sources of light and heat have to be found. We have wind-power and solar-power equipment in the colonizing materials, although I somehow doubt if this sun has enough light and radiation for much solar power. MacAran—” he turned, “I take it there are mountain streams? Any big enough for damming?”

“Not that we saw in the few days we were in the mountains,” MacAran said, “but there’s plenty of wind.”

“That will do for a temporary makeshift,” Captain Leicester said. “MacAran, do you know exactly where the fire is located?”

“Far enough to be no immediate danger to us,” MacAran said, “although we’re going to need firebreaks from now on, anywhere we go. But this fire’s no danger, I think. The rain’s turning to snow and I think that will smother it out.”

“If it can burn in the rain—”

“Snow’s wetter and heavier,” MacAran said, and was interrupted by what sounded like a volley of gunfire. “What’s that?”

Moray said, “Game stampede—probably getting away from the fire. Your officers are shooting food. Captain, once again, I suggest conservation of ammunition for absolute emergencies. Even on Earth, game has been hunted recreationally with bow and arrow. There are prototypes in the recreation department, and we’ll need them for enlarging the food supply.”

“Full of ideas, aren’t you,” Leicester grunted, and Moray said, tight-mouthed, “Captain, running a spaceship is your business. Setting up a viable society with the most economical use of resources is
mine.”

For a moment the two men stared at one another in the failing light, the others in the dome forgotten. Camilla had edged around behind the Captain and it seemed to MacAran that she was supporting him mentally as well as backing him up physically. Outside there were all the noises of the camp, and behind it all the small hiss of snow striking the dome. Then a gust of high wind struck it and a blast of cold air came in through the flapping doorway; Camilla ran to shut it, struggling against the wild blast, and was flung back. The door swung wildly, came loose from the makeshift hinges and knocked the girl off her feet; MacAran ran to help her up. Captain Leicester swore softly and began to shout for one of his aides.

Moray raised a hand. He said quietly, “We need stronger and more permanent shelters, Captain. These were built to last six weeks. May I order them built to last for a few years, then?”

Captain Leicester was silent, and with that new and exaggerated sensitivity it almost seemed to MacAran that he could hear what the Captain was thinking. Was this an entering wedge? Could he use Moray’s undoubted talents without giving him too much power over the colonists, and diminishing his own? When he spoke his voice was bitter; but he gave way gracefully.

“You know survival, Mr. Moray. I’m a scientist—and a spaceman. I’ll put you in charge of the camp, on a temporary basis. Get your priorities in order and requisition what you need.” He strode to the door and stood there looking out at the whirling snow. “No fire can live in that. Call in the men and feed them before they go back to making firebreaks. You’re in charge, Moray—for the time being.” His back was straight and indomitable, but he sounded tired. Moray bowed slightly. There was no hint of subservience in it.

“Don’t think I’m giving way,” Leicester warned. “That ship is going to be repaired.”

Moray shrugged a little. “Maybe so. But it can’t be repaired unless we survive long enough to do it. For now, that’s all I’m concerned about.”

He turned to Camilla and MacAran, ignoring the Captain.

“MacAran, your party knows at least some of the terrain. I want a local survey made of all resources, including food—Dr. Lovat can handle that. Lieutenant Del Rey, you’re a navigator; you have access to instruments. Can you arrange to make some sort of climate survey which we might manage to use for weather prediction?” He broke off. “The middle of the night isn’t the time for this. We’ll get moving tomorrow.” He moved to the door and, finding his way blocked by Captain Leicester standing and staring into the whirling snowflakes, tried to move past him a time or two, finally touched him on the shoulder. The Captain started and moved aside. Moray said, “The first thing to do is to get those poor devils in out of the storm. Will you give orders, Captain, or shall I?”

Captain Leicester met his eyes levelly and with taut hostility. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, “I’m not concerned with which of us gives the orders, and God help you, if
you’re
just looking for the power to give them. Camilla, go and tell Major Layton to secure from firelighting operations and make sure that everyone who was on the firebreak line gets hot food before he turns in.” The girl pulled her hood over her head and hurried off through the snow.

“You may have your talents, Moray,” he said, “and as far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to use mine. But there’s an old saying in the Space Service. Anyone who intrigues for power, deserves to get it!”

He strode out of the dome, leaving the wind to blow through it, and MacAran, watching Moray, felt that somehow, obscurely, the Captain had come off best.

The days were lengthening, but even so there seemed never to be enough light or enough time for the work which had to be done in the settlement. Three days after the fire, extensive firebreaks thirty feet wide had been constructed around the encampment, and firefighting squads had been organized for emergency outbreaks. It was about that time that MacAran went off, with a party of the colonists, to make Moray’s survey. The only members of the previous party to accompany him were Judith Lovat and MacLeod. Judy was still quiet and contained, almost unspeaking; MacAran was worried about her, but she did her work efficiently and seemed to have an almost psychic awareness of where to find the sort of thing they were looking for.

For the most part, this woodland exploration trip was uneventful. They laid out trails for possible roadways toward the valley where they had first seen herds of game, assessed the amount of fire damage—which was not really very great—mapped the local streams and rivers, and MacAran collected rock samples from the local heights to assess their potential ore contents.

Only one major event broke the rather pleasant monotony of the trip. One evening toward sunset they were blazing trail through an unusually thick level of forest when MacLeod, slightly ahead of the main party, stopped short, turned back, laying a finger on his lips to enjoin silence, and beckoned to MacAran.

MacAran came forward, Judy tiptoeing at his side. She looked oddly excited.

MacLeod pointed upward through the thick trees. Two huge trunks rose dizzyingly high, without auxiliary branches for at least sixty feet; and spanning them, swung a bridge. There was nothing else to call it; a bridge of what looked like woven wickerwood, elaborately constructed with handrails.

MacLeod said in a whisper, “There are the proofs of your aborigines. Can they be arboreal? Is that why we haven’t seen them?”

Judy said sharply, “Hush!” In the distance there was a small, shrill, chattering sound; then, above them on the bridge, a creature appeared.

They all got a good look at it in that moment; about five feet tall, either pale-skinned or covered with pale fur, gripping the bridge rail with undoubted hands—none of them had presence of mind to count the fingers—a flat but oddly humanoid face, with a flat nose and red eyes. For nearly ten seconds it clung to the bridge and looked down at them, seeming nearly as startled as they were themselves; then, with a shrill birdlike cry it rushed across the bridge, swung up into the trees and vanished.

MacAran let out a long sigh. So this world was inhabited, not free and open for mankind. MacLeod asked quietly, “Judy, were these the people you saw that day? The one you called
the beautiful one?”

Judy’s face took on the strange stubbornness which any mention of that day could bring on. “No,” she said, quietly but very positively. “These are the little brothers, the small ones who are not wise.”

And nothing could move her from that, and very quickly they gave over questioning her. But MacLeod and Major Fraser were in seventh heaven.

“Arboreal humanoids. Nocturnal, to judge by their eyes, probably simian, although more like tarsiers than apes. Obviously sapient—they’re tool-users and makers of artifacts.
Homo arborens.
Men living in trees,” MacLeod said.

MacAran said hesitatingly, “If we have to stay here—how can two sapient species survive on one planet? Doesn’t that invariably mean a fatal war for dominance?”

Fraser said, “God willing, no. After all, there were four sapient species on Earth for a long time. Mankind—and dolphins, whales, and probably elephants too. We just happened to be the only
technological
species. They’re tree-dwelling; we’re ground-dwelling. No conflict, as far as I can see—anyway no
necessary
conflict.”

MacAran wasn’t so sure, but kept his qualms to himself.

Peaceful as their trip was, there were unexpected dangers. In the valley with the game, which they named for convenience the Plains of Zabal, the game was stalked by great catlike predators and only nighttime fires kept them away. And on the heights MacAran caught his first sight of the birds with the banshee voices; great wingless birds with vicious claws, moving at such speeds that only a last desperate recourse to the laser beam they carried for emergencies kept Dr. Fraser from being disemboweled by a terrible stroke; MacLeod, dissecting the dead bird, discovered that it was completely blind. “Does it get at its prey by hearing? Or something else?”

“I suspect it senses body warmth,” MacAran said, “they seem only to live in the snows.” They christened the dreadful birds
banshees,
and avoided the passes except in broad daylight after that. They also found mounds of the scorpion-like ants whose bites had killed Dr. Zabal, and debated poisoning them; MacLeod was against it, on the grounds that these ants might form some important part of an ecological chain which could not be disturbed. They finally agreed to exterminate only the mounds within three square miles of the ship, and warn everyone about the dangers of their bite. It was an interim measure, but then everything they did on this planet was an interim measure.

“If we leave the damn place,” Dr. Fraser said harshly, “we’ll have to leave it pretty much the way we found it.”

When they returned to the encampment, after a three week survey, they found that two permanent buildings of wood and stone had already been erected; a common recreation hall and refectory, and a building for use as a laboratory. It was the last time MacAran measured anything by weeks; they still did not know the length of the planet’s year, but they had for the sake of convenience and the assignment of duties and work shifts set up an arbitrary ten-day cycle, with one day in every ten a general holiday. Large gardens had been laid out and seeds were already sprouting, and a careful harvesting was being made of a few tested fruits from the woods.

A small wind generator had been rigged, but power was strictly rationed and candles made from resin from the trees were being issued for night use. The temporary domes still housed most of the personnel except those who were located in the hospital; MacAran shared his with a dozen other single men.

The day after his return Ewen Ross summoned both him and Judy to the hospital. “You missed Dr. Di Asturien’s announcement,” he said. “In brief, our hormone contraceptives are worthless—no pregnancies so far except one very doubtful early miscarriage, but we’ve been relying on hormones so long that no one knows much about the prehistoric kind any more. We don’t have pregnancy-testing equipment, either, since nobody needs it on a spaceship. Which means if we
do
get any pregnancies they may be too far advanced for safe abortions before they’re even diagnosed!”