Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 46

Every tray along the trapline this morning had been full of the creatures. Drawn by the seductive aroma of hops, they crept over the floor of the alpine valley rain forest and up the mossy stumps upon which the trays rested. After drinking themselves into a blissful stupor, the slugs tumbled into the beer and drowned. It was an easy death and Purtsinigelee, who was a peaceable dwarf, often reflected upon it philosophically as he made his daily collections in the Gresson Vale. Later, after they had been pickled and stored in small firkins, the slugs would not only provide protein-rich food for his family when the winter storms swept down from the Helvetides, but they would also be a valuable trade item. The more sophisticated Firvulag in western Famorel paid a hefty price for prime, season-end molluscs like these. The delicacy might even find its way to the banquet table of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa at this year's Grand Tourney. Purtsinigelee hoped that would happen; he was a stay-at-home sort himself, but it was nice to think that some of his slugs would be relished in the highest social circles ...

Humming a happy tune, he transferred the final creature to the tote-skin slung over his shoulder. He strained the liquid in the tray, topped it off with more stale beer, and replaced the loose-fitting lid with care. Then he was off for home and lunch, striding along the steep trail with the mist coiling about the green, dripping rhododendron trees and the birds and oreopithecine apes making a great racket down by the river.

After a time he emerged from the densely wooded gorge into more open, rocky country. The fog burned away as the sun mounted and it became a cool and splendid September morning.

The meadows were dotted with flowers, the sky was so intensely blue that it made the eyes ache, and along the northern horizon the stupendous front range of the Pennine Alps reared in dazzling majesty. The Famorel Firvulag called them the G.o.ddess Mountains-not only because of their beauty, but also because certain First Comers said that the snow-clad peaks resembled the ancestral territory of the Little People on lost Duat. No mountains on Pliocene Earth were more lofty.

Purtsinigelee's home, like that of many other isolated Firvulag living in caveless terrain, was situated on a commanding height.

It sat just below the ridge that separated the Gresson Vale from that of the River Ysez to the east. Pausing for a moment on the trail, he spied the snug little cottage, shaped like a stone beehive, nestled among pin oaks and wind-twisted pines at the edge of a tiny tarn. And grouped around itHe wailed in dismay and darted behind the shelter of a large boulder.

Machines!

Merciful Te-there were some kind of alien contraptions surrounding his home! He cautiously extended his farsight and spotted fair numbers of people as well. Horror upon horror! The Foe was upon him! He moaned out loud and let the sack of slugs slip squis.h.i.+ly to the ground.

"My poor Hobbino-and the children! G.o.ddess preserve them!"

Heart pounding, he crept out from behind the rock, keeping down under a low-growing juniper. There appeared to be seven machines, cartlike vehicles with eight fat wheels along each side.

They bristled with appendages of unfathomable function and had many dirty windows that gleamed dully in the suns.h.i.+ne.

They were a little over twice his height and perhaps four times as long. Not only Tanu knights in gla.s.s armour but also torced and bareneck Lowlives were in evidence, strolling in and out of the open front door of his cottage and lounging about the grounds as though they owned the place, the vile miscreants!

Te alone knew what atrocities had been perpetrated.

Getting a grip on his palsied nerves, he ventured to call his wife's name on the intimate mode. As he feared, there was no answer. The house walls were thick, proof against all but the most extraordinary telepathic penetration. He considered calling to the children, but his two sons and three daughters were all under ten years of age, totally unskilled at mental screening.

They would surely betray his presence to the Foe.

He lay there for some time, his senses whirling, clutching the slug sack in anguished desperation. Then he made an effort to pull himself together. What was the Foe doing here? Tanu never ventured into remote Famorel. Once in a great while a pathetic outlaw human might wander up from Var-Mesk, but none of them lasted very long. Not with the likes of Tatsol Flamespitter and Ryfa the Insatiable lurking among the Maritime Alps!

Because the region had always been secure, the Little People had no garrisons. The only trained fighters lived close to the viceregal capital, Famorel City, six days' journey to the southwest.

Purtsinigelee cogitated as he had never done before. More might be at stake here than the survival of his precious family!

From what he could make out, the expeditionary force numbered at least fifty. Some of them carried gadgets that were all too likely the futuristic Lowlife weapons that everyone was buzzing about. It was necessary-obligatory!-that he pa.s.s along this information via the farshout relay.

Using the utmost caution, he crept backward the way he had come. It was only necessary to go a few hundred metres in order to drop below the line of sight from the cottage. Once he was safe from view he began to run. He reached a fork in the trail and turned south, paralleling the ridge and the river, until he had placed the fa.r.s.ense-proof bulk of Pimple k.n.o.b between him and his invaded homestead.

He flopped down and caught his breath. His nearest neighbour was Tamlin the Mephitic, a musk-oil processor who lived a day's journey to the west. Because of the solitary nature of his trade he was the most dedicated telepathic gossip in the entire piedmont. Old Tarn would see that the great hero Mimee himself learned of this outrage. Gathering all his mental resources, Purtsinigelee made the call. When he had finished he picked up the sackful of slugs and trudged resolutely back to his cottage without any effort of concealment.

He arrived to find the invaders gone. The only trace of them was a lingering dust cloud along the northern crest. His wife and children were quite safe, sitting numbly around the kitchen table.

"What happened?" he cried.

"They said they're going to climb Big G.o.ddess," Hobbino told him. "They didn't hurt us. They wanted to buy provisions before heading into the high country." She began to laugh rather hysterically, then fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and took out a chamois pouch. "Look!" She undid the strings and tipped a glittering little pile of gemstones onto the homespun tablecloth.

"More than we could earn in five years!"

"They emptied the cellar," said the oldest boy. "Took every last firkin and keg."

The youngest girl added solemnly, "But, Daddy-you should have heard the naughty things they said when they opened a keg and saw what they'd bought."

VEIKKO: Hagen.

HAGEN: Right here, keed. Hold on a sec while I freshen my drink.

VEIKKO: Lucky sod. The only liquor we have left here is designated medicinal.

HAGEN: Stick to herb tea or you'll end like your old man.

VEIKKO: Better like mine than like yours, a.s.shole.

HAGEN: All right, all right, you win that one hands down. Now cool it and report. It's been too long.

VEIKKO: [Edited replay.] HAGEN: [Laugher.] I hope Irena's well fixed for escargot recipes.

VEIKKO: Listen, given a choice of climbing that mountain or staying here in base camp eating naked snails, I'll take the creepies a la mode every time. You should eyeball this Monte Rosa monster! It's not an isolated peak, it's a whole b.l.o.o.d.y range-like the wall of the world's edge, dripping glaciers.

Who would've thought there'd be so much snow in the Pliocene? And it just shoots up out of the Po Valley flats: instant Alps-below sea level to nine thousand high inside of sixty kilometres.

HAGEN: Give me a firm position on your camp.

VEIKKO: 45-50-31 north, 7-48-13 east, 4322.3 metres up. We must be six kloms from the main summit as the crow flies.

Too friggerty bad we're not crows! I'm gasping like a beached porpoise from alt.i.tude sickness. Andre fainted three times this afternoon, and some of the King's Men look like they'd like to. I think their torcs keep 'em going. But the Tanu seem to feel fine, and Basil's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are downright perky.

Wimborne calls this place Camp Bettaforca. There's snow but we're cosy enough in the decamole huts except for the anoxia.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d quacks say we'll probably get acclimatized in a few days.

HAGEN: Any fresh info on plans for the actual climb?

VEIKKO: The big conference is tomorrow. The climbing party doesn't actually have to reach the top of the sucker, you understand. Just kind of circle around to the other side where the aircraft are parked. The idea is to melt one out, fly it back here, then ferry up the rest of the folks and shuttle off to Goriah. It shouldn't be too tough getting the birds operational. After all, they haven't been on the mountain all that long-just since the end of July. The hard part is reaching the aircraft with the first a.s.sault team. Wimborne will use a kind of relay operation with support groups to get the princ.i.p.al climbing party over the top.

HAGEN: None of our people are involved in the climbing, are they?

VEIKKO: Well, Buckmaster and Collins volunteered. You know them.

HAGEN: G.o.ddam dips.h.i.+ts! Tell 'em to forget it! None of our people risk their lives unless there's no alternative.

VEIKKO: Amen.

HAGEN: Who's slated for the princ.i.p.al a.s.sault team?

VEIKKO: Not sure. But they'll all be b.a.s.t.a.r.ds except for the boss Tanu, Bleyn, and one of his exotic underlings. Going along to make sure the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't nip off with the birds. You should see the boots this guy Nirupam whipped up for the climbing high pocketers: big enough to boil a chicken in! G.o.d, I wish we had some chicken ...

HAGEN: While this climbing is going on, the rest of you just sit tight and wait?