Diamond Mask (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (25 page)

“The decon procedure is very simple,” Gran was saying briskly. “We put on paper clothes, and then step under lights that zap any stray Earth organisms on our skin or hair that might not be compatible with the Caledonian ecology. Our regular clothes and other things will be decontaminated separately before we get them back.”

The carpeted deck beneath Dee’s feet shuddered briefly. Suddenly, she felt slightly heavier.

“They’ve turned off the artificial gravity,” Gran said. “We’ve splashed down.”

“Do you think Daddy will be waiting for us?” Dee asked eagerly.

Gran only said, “We’ll see.”

A
MOVING WALKWAY CARRIED THE PROFESSOR AND THE TWO CHILDREN
and the other passengers from the Drumadoon Bay toward the terminal and their first true experience of the planet Caledonia. It was past midnight local time and a violent storm had just broken out, filling the atmosphere with jangling ions and making it impossible for Dee to get a proper feel of the new world’s aura. Through the concourse windows she could see a rain-lashed tarmac and tossing trees down by the seashore where their starship and three others had just docked. Egg transports, hop-lorries, groundcars, and scuttling people in raingear gleamed wetly under the starport’s halide lights. Every few moments the exterior scene was lit up and bleached colorless by blasts of lightning. Thunder made the concourse walls tremble, but its noise seemed almost insignificant compared to the telepathic tempest that began to assault Dee’s mind once she got within “shouting” range of the crowd swarming within the terminal.

Tuning out the mind-chatter of the crew and the other passengers on the Drumadoon Bay had become second nature to Dee by the time the voyage ended, but this fresh attack on her immature ultrasense left her shocked to numbness until she finally managed to regain control. The mental voices had never seemed so loud before, not even back on Earth. Were there more operants on Caledonia? Surely not. More people lived in Edinburgh Metro than on the entire Scottish planet. Were the minds here more powerful then?

No. You are simply becoming more sensitive to farspeech.

She gave a great start. (Fortunately, it coincided with a deafening thunderclap and Gran never noticed.) The telepathic voice seemed to be that of the man named Ewen Cameron, but when Dee cautiously looked about there was no sign of him among the other disembarking passengers on the walkways. How odd! Up until this moment she had completely forgotten the mysterious stranger who had inexplicably promised to help her. Holding tight to the walk’s rail, she closed her eyes and tried to summon up a mental picture of him; but all she perceived was a shadowy figure who appeared to be wrapped in a huge pair of folded wings, standing before a rampart of glowing, multicolored boxes.

 … Angel? Was it YOU talking to me?

Yes. When you really need the answers to questions about your metapsychic abilities, you may ask me.

Are you really Citizen Cameron?

No. I am a preprogrammed response with psychoanalytic discretionary options. Now open your eyes. You are at the end of the moving walkway and you don’t want to trip and fall down and look silly.

Dee hadn’t the least idea what a “preprogrammed response” with all the rest of it was. But she did as she was told and saw that they had reached the terminal’s luggage-claim area. Gran herded the children ahead of her once they stepped off the walkway. The air inside the building was chilly and humid and had an unfamiliar perfumey smell that Dee decided she liked. Even the canned music playing on the public address system was pleasant, a woman’s voice singing a haunting tune.

The aura of the place was invigorating, hopeful, friendly. Here and there among the tourist-services booths, rent-a-rho kiosks, roboporter stands, and banks of televiews were glazed crocks with odd little trees growing in them. They reminded Dee of the colorful coleus plants that grew in shady nooks of Gran’s garden during the summer. The big leaves had crisped edges and were
blotched and spotted and striped with every conceivable shade of green, and also with purple, pink, white, orange, yellow, and rose red.

Ken poked her in the ribs. “Those trees. They’re like the ones in Dad’s picture. Aren’t they weird?”

“I think they’re pretty. Most of the plants here on Caledonia have colored leaves. I read about them in the ship’s library. They make food from sunlight with chlorophyll just like green plants on Earth do.”

Ken pulled a face. “Ooo! Aren’t you the clever clogs!” But an instant later he forgot about teasing her and began anxiously searching the crowd that awaited the arriving passengers, trying to find their father. The welcomers were all human and all of caucasoid appearance. Dee recalled that exotics and humans of non-Scottish heritage were allowed to visit Caledonia freely and even work on the planet for a limited time, but they were forbidden to settle permanently. Hardly anyone among the natives wore kilts (perhaps because of the weather), but a kaleidoscope of tartan patterns graced everything from raincoats to baby bonnets.

Some Caledonians held up small signs with names on them or messages written in English or Gaelic. Others rushed forward calling greetings when they managed to locate friends or relatives. A tremendous gabble of farspeech filled the aether, some of it emanating from operants using the declamatory mode and even more being broadcast inadvertently by nonoperants. Of course Daddy was latent, so Dee knew there was very little chance that she would be able to pick up his subvocal speech even if he did chance to farspeak her name. But no one called her, and finally she shut out the crowd-thoughts altogether.

The professor led the way to the nearest roboporter kiosk, where she and the children joined a queue to retrieve their checked luggage. Gran Masha’s face was serene and her thoughts remained in the intimate mode, screened almost as perfectly as Dee’s own and quite unreadable; but the little girl did perceive that her grandmother was becoming increasingly apprehensive and irritated because Ian Macdonald had failed to appear.

A number of people in the queue were talking Scots Gaelic, and Dee was both shocked and delighted to discover that she understood the spoken language quite well, even though she had learned only a few words and phrases from teacher-flecks at her day school in Edinburgh. However, the written Gaelic on the bilingual
signs in the terminal remained as difficult to decipher as ever.

Dee asked the angel why this should be, and he replied promptly:

Farsensors who are very talented, as you are, perceive the meaning of spoken foreign languages easily. All words are symbols for meaningful thoughts. When people speak to each other, they think the meaning of the words at the same time their lips pronounce them, and this meaning is evident to you. But written words are only accompanied by thoughts when they are first put down by the writer. You will also find that your ultrasenses will not enable you to speak Gaelic without studying. You will still have to learn the vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation, or else use a Sony Translator.

I see. Am … am I really very talented?

But this time the angel did not reply, and before she could formulate another question her brother spoke and brought her back to the reality of the starport terminal.

“Do you think something might have happened to Dad?” Ken was asking Gran.

The professor had finally been able to take her turn at the roboporter. She handed Ken the release token the machine had spit out after it scanned her ticket. “Stand over there and accept the luggage when it comes up. I’m going to make a phone call and see why we weren’t met.”

She went into one of the nearby teleview cubicles. The children could not see the screen, but they saw Gran’s face tighten as she carried on a conversation for some minutes. Unfortunately, Gran’s thoughts were shielded and Dee was still unable to eavesdrop with any other ultrasenses.

“Maybe Dad was delayed by the storm,” Dee said. “It’s the beginning of autumn here. The sixth of Mios Gailbheach. That means ‘blustery month.’ ”

“Quit being such a show-off,” Ken muttered grouchily. He was feeling badly let down. “I hope Dad still talks Standard English. What a stone dragola it’d be to have to learn Gaelic right away.”

“I could help you,” Dee said eagerly. She would have told him about her new translation talent, but one of the floor-doors of the roboporter suddenly opened and up popped a carrier with their bags and the big trunk on it The carrier’s mechanical voice said: “The citizen claiming this baggage must deposit the claim-token in the slot below the red light.” When Ken did, the light
turned green and the thing said: “Thank you. Shall I follow you to your ground transport? Or do you wish the baggage transferred to the egg platform via tube? For other options, please consult my command menu.”

“Wait,” Ken snapped. The roboporter blinked its green light at him and rolled a short distance away from the lift so that the next batch of bags could be delivered. The two children followed it. Then Gran came striding back, pale and tight-lipped and obviously trying to hold her temper.

“We will spend the night at the terminal hotel,” she said, “and go on to Glen Tuath Farm tomorrow. It seems there was an extraordinary bloom of airplants. According to your father’s housekeeper, the phenomenon represents an opportunity for him to earn a great deal of money. He and every other qualified person on the farm have done nothing but harvest and process the plants for the past two weeks. He has been working night and day with very little sleep and could not spare the time to come for us since the harvesting season will end tomorrow. Someone else will meet us in the morning and fly us to Glen Tuath.”

“Who?” Ken asked.

But the professor had turned to address the roboporter, instructing it where to take the luggage. Then she was off to Tourist Services to book rooms, with Dee and Ken trailing slowly behind.

“I know who’s coming for us,” Dee said in a low voice. “Gran’s thoughts about him were really loud.”

“Who cares,” Ken retorted, “if it’s not Dad.”

“It’s Grandad. He’s coming from the University of New Glasgow and flying us to Daddy’s farm himself.”

The next morning there came a great pounding on the door of their hotel suite. Dee and Ken ran together to open it and there he stood, seeming to fill the entire doorframe.

“Fàilte,” bellowed Kyle Macdonald, dropping to one knee. “Bhur beatha an dùthaich! D’you know what that means? Welcome to my country—to my world!” He flung out his arms and swept the pair of astonished children into a bear hug before they had time to think. “And do you remember your old grandfather at all?”

“Yes! Yes!” Ken shrieked happily. Dee knew her brother was lying, wanting to please Grandad and succeeding. She herself was overcome with shyness, and she could only stare wide-eyed at the burly newcomer after he had put her down, hiding her
confusion behind a tentative little smile and her adamant mind-screen.

The famous fantasy writer had on a hairy tweed jacket and rumpled cord trousers stuffed into muddy half-Wellingtons. A waistcoat made of the ancient hunting tartan of Macdonald of the Isles strained to confine his paunch without bursting its stag-horn buttons. He wore a flat cap, and a thatch of bushy gray hair straggled out from under it, covering his ears. His face, imperfectly shaven below the jowls, had once been strikingly handsome but now the brow and cheeks were ravaged and furrowed. Great pouches of flesh hung below his rheumy eyes, and capillary webs reddened his thickened, arched nose.

Dee heard her grandfather’s clumsy, subvocal musings distinctly:

The lass seems sonsie enough for all she’s pokerfaced and no oil painting but Christonacrutch the lad is a poor shilpit thing pale as milk and no more meat on him than a bloody-broomstick I wonder if he’s got a decent brain behind those whippedpuppydog eyes? …

“Who’s ready to fly to Glen Tuath Farm?” Kyle Macdonald cried heartily. “The trunk and your big bags are all stowed in my egg, the room tab’s paid, and we’ve sixteen thousand kloms to travel so let’s be off! Where’s your grandmother hiding? Masha! Maire nic-cridhe! Where are you, old wumman?”

The professor’s voice, cool and penetrating, replied “Coming.” A moment later she emerged from the inner bedroom, carrying the children’s anoraks. She had put away the sensible cotalene skirt and blazer she had worn most of the time on the starship and was now dressed in a dramatic formfitting bodysuit of metallic hunter-green nebulin with an ornate golden belt. Over this she wore a long hooded cape of amber cashmere, lined in green silk. She had changed her hairstyle, loosening the familiar severe braided coronet so that two thick, wavy auburn tresses fell over the cape’s golden clasp onto the high swell of her breasts. Her face, slightly shadowed by the hood, glowed with skillfully applied cosmetics.

Dee and Ken gawked at her, never having seen Gran Masha in this amazing aspect before. Grandad’s incoherent subvocalizations revealed his own shocked incredulity. He staggered back a step and for a moment was lost to words.

“Great God in heaven,” he whispered at last. “Can it be
you
, Maire a ghràidh? Young again and so beautiful you tear the heart out of a man?”

She swept past him, ignoring his outstretched arms, and began bundling the children into their jackets. “Rejuvenation therapy is a common thing in the more civilized parts of the Milieu. It’s safe, reasonably priced, and requires only a few months’ sabbatical”—she looked him up and down critically—“provided that one has maintained a reasonably healthy lifestyle. You might present more of a challenge to the genetic engineers, Kyle, but they’re accomplishing the most remarkable things with difficult cases. Even regenerating pickled livers.”