Hellspark (23 page)

“It’s worth a try,” said Tocohl. “I don’t seem to be having much luck here.”

“Speaking of luck,” said Buntec, “want to come, Alfvaen? You’re a whole lot better at catching wild geese than I am.”

“Jaef?” Alfvaen used swift-Kalat’s soft-name as a full and complete query.

“Go with them,” swift-Kalat told her, “I’ll find someone else to hold the camera.”

The arachne’s legs telescoped to the fullest extent of their length, much as if Maggy wanted to make herself more noticeable. “I’ll help you, swift-Kalat, if you like,” said the voice from the vocoder.

He hesitated, considering the spidery mobile.

Maggy said, “I’ll save everything.”

Tocohl laughed. “She means that. She won’t dump any data until you’ve told her to specifically, if that’s what’s worrying you.” Snapping her wrist to give ring to her words, Tocohl added, “Her

‘eye’ is better than any camera, not only because it sees the full 360 degrees, but because she makes good choices as a rule. The fuller the information you give her, the better the choices.

Just tell her what you want taped and why. At your leisure you can sort through what footage you wish to keep and she can transfer that to the survey computer.”

“All right,” said swift-Kalat to Tocohl. Then he appeared to think better of it and turned to the arachne, “Yes, Maggy. I’d appreciate the help.”

“That’s settled,” said Buntec to Alfvaen, “you’ll come?”

“Of course. If there’s room.”

“The more the merrier. Timosie’s bugged that I want to use the big daisy-clipper. He’ll feel better if I

bring a crowd. Ruurd?”

“Thank you, but no,” said van Zoveel, “not where Buntec’s piloting.”

“You don’t know good when you see it, Ruurd,” Om im and sprookje said.”Count me in, Tocohl.”

He rose to his feet and the sprookje followed suit.

Tocohl glanced from one to the other. “How do the sprookjes feel about the daisy-clippers?”

Om im and sprookje said, “Timosie shoos them away from ‘his’ equipment. He figures it’s too dangerous to chance.”

With a broad grin, Buntec said to the sprookje, “I know just how you feel; I got shooed away, too.”

To the humans, she said cheerfully, “Let’s move—Dyxte will keep us posted on the weather, but we

already know there’s going to be another thunderstorm anytime now—there always .”

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is

Leaving Ruurd and Maggy’s arachne behind to keep swift-Kalat company, the five of them—Tocohl counted the sprookje—walked to the main gate of the compound. Just beyond it lay the makeshift hangar with its population of daisy-clippers, large and small.

Beneath her feet, the flashgrass, which anchored itself with something like roots, was springy and glistening. After the mud of the compound, Tocohl delighted in the sensation. Soon the flashgrass reached their knees and Tocohl lifted her cloak to prevent its being caught on the flickering wiry strands.

Timosie Megeve came around the largest daisy-clipper, shouted, and clapped his hands at a sprookje that stood before it. The sprookje moved off a short distance but no farther.

Megeve appeared to find the distance acceptable and came from beneath the hangar to greet them.

A throat mike swung from his hand. “I thought, just as a precaution, Tocohl, you ought to be able to talk to Buntec when you’re out of earshot.”

At this distance, Megeve’s sprookje didn’t bother to echo him. “It’s no good for long range, mind you—a mile is about the limit—but it might come in handy.”

“It might at that,” said Tocohl. “Thanks for thinking of it.” She clasped the curve of plastic about her throat and put the tiny earplug in her ear; the weight was scarcely noticeable. As Buntec had taken an identical device from her overpocket and put it on, Tocohl said, experimentally, in Jannisetti, “How’re you holding?”

“Just fine.” Buntec’s reply came as clearly through the earpiece as it did through the sparkling air of

Flashfever. “Just fine,” Tocohl repeated in GalLing’ for Megeve’s benefit. “Can you find us two more?”

Timosie Megeve frowned. “Two more?”

Indicating Om im, then Alfvaen, Buntec said, “Wouldn’t dream of going out to hunt sprookjes without a serendipitist, or somebody with rocks in his head.” Om im chuckled delightedly, but Megeve didn’t share his amusement, merely looked stubborn.

“Don’t be chintzy, Timosie,” said Buntec. “It’s not as if we’re going to eat your equipment!”

“Or use it to hang pictures on,” added Om im and his sprookje.

Buntec said, “

Please stop talking until we get into the daisy-clipper and on our way—I can’t stand it!”

“Then you’d better keep your mouth shut, too,” said the small man affably. “Here comes your sprookje.”

Having finished its echo, Om im’s sprookje turned with the rest of them to see a third sprookje push its way through the flashgrass. Timosie Megeve muttered in despair and raised his hands to clap.

Tocohl caught his hands in midair. “

No

!” she said sharply but quietly. “I think it’s got something in its hand. For Veschke’s sake, don’t do anything to scare it!”

She did not take her eyes from the arriving sprookje, but she felt Megeve’s muscles relax and released his hands. Beside her, the others all turned cautiously to follow her gaze.

Except for the sound of wind and distant thunder, everything was still as Buntec’s sprookje pushed slowly toward them.

(Maggy,) Tocohl said, (record this.)

The sprookje did indeed have something in its hand.

It stopped a scant two feet from Buntec and stared at her, its feathers ruffling in the wind. It seemed almost expectant. Then it came to Tocohl and, with a gesture identical to that with which Tocohl had passed out the bits of moss cloak, it stretched out its arm and offered her a tuft of something red and velvety-looking.

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Praying that the fragile moment wouldn’t break, that no one in the group would shout and frighten the sprookje away, Tocohl leaned forward, not daring to step closer, and reached out to take the gift. She turned it over slowly in her hands, allowing Maggy a good steady view through the spectacles, felt its texture. It was as velvety to the touch as it was to the eye, and it was not merely red, but patterned in shades of red. It was definitely vegetable matter.

Maggy said, (Nothing on it in the survey files; shall I ask swift-Kalat—) (Later, Maggy,) said Tocohl. Aloud, she addressed the sprookje in Jannisetti. “Thank you,” and on impulse, she held out her hand, just barely touching the feathery softness of the sprookje’s wrist. The

sprookje’s cheek-feathers puffed slightly but it did not move away.

Tocohl drew her hand back and stroked the bit of mosslike substance, then, as slowly and carefully as she had done it the first time, she again reached out and touched the sprookje’s wrist.

This time she made a light stroking motion. The sprookje’s cheek-feathers smoothed.

Grinning with excitement, Tocohl brought her hand back and made a great show, for the sprookje’s benefit, of placing their gift into the pouch at her hip.

Very softly, she said, “Buntec, I’d like to try an experiment.”

Buntec said in the same tone, “You name it; I’ll do it,” and her sprookje agreed.

“Your knife, please, Om im.” Tocohl brought the knife up under the cloak, thrust it outward just beneath her chin, and made a long cut down the lay of the cloak’s foliage to its now-ragged hem. A long narrow strip of moss peeled away into her hand. Its tansy scent spiced the air about her.

Cheek-feathers puffed on every sprookje face. Buntec said, interpreting the look, “You’re a rotten person, Tocohl, cuttin’ something beautiful like that.” Again her sprookje echoed her words.

“You could be right, Buntec. I hope they’ll forgive a bit of expediency.”

Om im did, for he accepted the return of his knife without the customary ceremony.

Taking the long strip of moss by either end, Tocohl spread her hands and gave it a gentle tug to demonstrate its strength. Then she held out one end to the sprookje, who took it. Still holding the other end of the strip in her left hand, she reached out again with her right to stroke the sprookje’s wrist. The strip looped between them and remained even when she withdrew her right hand.

After a moment, the sprookje’s cheek-feathers relaxed. Tocohl said, in the same soft voice,

“Now, very calmly, one at a time, I want you all to get into the daisy-clipper. Megeve, if you’re not coming with us, please go back into the hangar, out of sight.”

He stared at her aghast. In the same hushed tone, he said, “But you’ve got an exchange of gifts!

You’ve got to tell the captain—that’s more than we’ve gotten in these three years…” His sprookje too let its voice trail off as if in astonishment of its own.

“Good,” Tocohl said, “but not enough, not for your captain.”

“What more could you want?” Megeve and his sprookje demanded.

“Art, artifacts”—Tocohl glared at the sprookjes that refused to echo her and let the exasperation leak into her voice—“language. We’re still going to look for those grafts, with a native guide if possible.”

She indicated the sprookje at the other end of the strip of moss with a twist of her head; her grin returned.

For a long moment, Megeve regarded her in shocked silence. At last he found his voice. “Crazy like a Hellspark,” he said, and his sprookje thought so too. “You’ll need those microphones.

Don’t worry, I

won’t do anything to frighten off your sprookjes.”

The tableau held as Megeve stepped cautiously away. He was gone from sight for a few
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moments only, and his sprookje did not follow him, choosing to remain behind and watch with great golden eyes. It only backed slightly away when Megeve returned to distribute microphone necklaces to the others.

Om im took his with a very broad grin. “We’ll leave you the pleasure of telling the captain of the Ish shan’s first success, Timosie.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Maldeneantine grinned back. “It will keep until you get back.

Buntec would… strip me naked and roll me through the razor-grass—” The sprookje paused on the same querying note, as Megeve glanced at Buntec, who doubled her fists and jerked her elbows back sharply to attest to the accuracy of his phrasing. “—If she missed seeing the expression on Kejesli’s face,” he finished.

“Absolutely,” agreed Buntec and her sprookje. “And the minute we’re gone he’s gonna hightail it back to camp and shout his lungs out”—but despite her excitement, she kept her imaginary shout to a whisper—“The Hellspark swapped gifts! The Hellspark swapped gifts!” She exchanged a look with her sprookje and together they finished, “I know I would.”

(He probably will,) Tocohl observed privately to Maggy. (If the arachne is available, try to record the expression on Kejesli’s face for Buntec when he does.) (It’s important?)

(To Buntec, it is. Now, hush. I have to pay attention.)

“Please be careful,” Megeve was saying, “I don’t trust that thing around my machinery.” His own thing voiced the identical sentiments. He glared at it. “If you must take one, take mine.”

Then he vanished, scowling, back into the hangar.

“Okay, Buntec,” said Tocohl, “you first.” And each of the others in turn climbed into the daisy-clipper, leaving Tocohl alone with the three sprookjes. Flashgrass danced and flickered around them.

She took a single step toward the daisy-clipper, allowing the strip of moss cloak to go taut, and then a second step. The sprookje let go.

Patiently, Tocohl picked up the fallen end of the strip and offered it again to the sprookje.

The sprookje accepted it, and Tocohl took another step. This time the sprookje followed, although at the farthest extreme the length of moss permitted.

The other sprookjes came too, picking their way through the flashgrass warily, as if the strip of moss gave Buntec’s sprookje a shield that they did not have.

The strip loosened as the sprookje quickened its steps to keep pace a foot or two behind her.

When

Tocohl reached the daisy-clipper, she played out another foot of moss and climbed in, sliding well over in the plush seat to allow sufficient room for the sprookje, and began to reel in the moss strip. The sprookje did not move; the strip went taut and Tocohl tugged gently. The sprookje let go. Tocohl slid to the door, picked up the end of the strip, and offered it again to the sprookje. But before Buntec’s sprookje could accept, the second sprookje, Megeve’s, grabbed for the trailing end and caught it. Startled, Buntec’s sprookje skittered back a few feet.

Megeve’s sprookje took a single step toward the daisy-clipper.

Om im said quietly, “I think you’ve got a volunteer.”

“We’ll see,” Tocohl said. With a slight frown of concentration, she slid back to her position next to

Om im and, slowly but surely, began to reel in Megeve’s sprookje.

And slowly but surely it followed. Through the door it came, its cheek-feathers fully puffed.

Inside, it looked around slowly, taking everything in as carefully as Maggy’s arachne might.

Its thigh to calf ratio was different from the human, but it sat, turning slightly to the side, to allow room for its knees. Aside from a few ruffled cheek-feathers, it did not look uncomfortable.

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Tocohl fastened her seat belt with great deliberation, so the sprookje could see exactly what she was doing and how. She had hoped that the sprookje would follow suit, but she was disappointed. When the sprookje made no similar move, she leaned across it and, very gingerly, fastened its seat belt—snapped it open to reassure the creature—then fastened it again.

The sprookje watched her gravely, and snapped the seat belt open. “Okay,” said Tocohl,

“you’ve got that down.”

When the sprookje made no further move, Tocohl patiently fastened its seat belt again, leaned farther across to close the door, and waited to see what the creature would do next. The sprookje looked at the seat belt, looked at the door, and sighed—as if resigned to its fate—and eased back into the seat.