Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 89

Yotunag, they're called, and they're outside Sugoll's sway.

We've already lost Stosh Nowak and John-Henry King in raids on the mining camp. I wanted your personal authorization before we risk Tony. After all, you paid a high price for him."

"Coo!" cried the metallurgist in vast alarm. "Now wait just a d.a.m.n minute!"

The King fixed him with an icy gaze.

"Could you see that the refining is done properly if we send you to Fennoscandia?"

"I'm needed here!" Perspiration started out on Tony's forehead. "I'm at a critical stage in the setup of the cladding device-the gizmo that'll actually make the wire!"

"Answer my question," Aiken demanded. "Could you get the pure metal, or couldn't you?"

"Probably," Tony admitted sullenly.

"Right," said Aiken. "Start packing." He turned on his heel and left the cubicle, with Hagen trailing after.

Hagen said, "One of my people, Chee-Wu Chan, will be able to finish up the cladding device easily."

"Good," said the King. "As long as I'm here, I'll do a quick inspection. See how you've settled in here at Gateway." The door closed.

"Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Tony moaned. He clutched his golden torc in both sweaty hands, seeking solace. "Here I go again."

In the cool of evening, the fisherman trolled for giant catfish from a dinghy being towed far astern of Kyllikki. The catfish were hardly the fighting fools that the Florida tarpon had been; but they routinely weighed in at 200 kilos and measured better than four metres in length. They were sc.r.a.ppy enough when their stomachs were empty at the start of a night's feeding cruise, and as a bonus, they were excellent eating.

Catfis.h.i.+ng was a quiet occupation, which suited the fisherman very well. With his small boat trailing out from under the thoughtproof screen, he could let his unaugmented farsight range about the Many-Coloured Land. There was also ample time for contemplation of his personal quandary, away from the increasing tensions aboard the schooner.

The matter had to be faced. Morale among his old a.s.sociates was deteriorating rapidly, as was inevitable once he let his own resolution waver. Too many of the Rebels found it difficult to recast the vision of Mental Man around Cloud and Hagen, from the lonely outpost in Fennoscandia. It was a cry from the heart that combined yearning for someone named Rowane with sundry curses upon the rare-earth element dysprosium.

Abruptly, the thought was cut off.

And a great catfish swallowed Marc's hook and set the reel screaming.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Brother Anatoly picked the last of the Mangetout peas in the Black Crag garden and Elizabeth sat on a bench beneath a twisted stone pine, reweaving a hole in his brown-wool scapular.

They waited for Marc, who for reasons unspecified had asked to be met outdoors, and quarrelled over the friar's scandalous absolution of the arch-Rebel.

"Only a sentimental innocent would think that Marc Remillard repented of the Metapsychic Rebellion," Elizabeth said.

"He'd do the same thing all over again without half a second's thought."

"I keep forgetting what a great mind reader you are," Anatoly said.

"And to absolve him when he didn't even confess-"

"Why do you think he made me stay there and listen to what he told his children? You expect a man like that to go down on his knees and say, 'Bless me, Brother'? So he did what his pride allowed him to do, the poor khuy, and if you were any kind of psychologist you'd know he's been sorry for twenty-seven years without knowing it."

"Poppyc.o.c.k!" She jabbed at the fabric with the big needle and narrowly missed impaling her finger. "You might as well talk of reconciling Adolf Hitler or some other infamous monster."

"Look who strains the quality of mercy-Miss Scrupulosity, who wore out Amerie's ears and patience, the one who's afraid to trust anybody but herself!" Anatoly popped a handful of crisp pea pods into his mouth and chewed ferociously.

"We're not discussing me," she snapped, "we're talking about a man who instigated an interplanetary war, who was responsible for the deaths of four billion people and who nearly destroyed the Milieu because of his twisted ambition. How you could even think of offering him forgiveness-"

"Nu, the Prodigal Son would get a chilly welcome at your place!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is a high-and-mighty pizda trying to put limits on the pity of G.o.d."

"If you think," she said coldly, "that you can avoid lack of charity by calling me vulgar names in Russian, let me remind you that any metapsychic can-"

The words died in her throat. Anatoly whirled around to see an apparition forming at the far end of the garden, where there was a gravelled drying yard. Not one but two black cerametal hulks materialized, their great ma.s.s pressing down the stones with an ominous crunching sound. Behind them stood a large computer console and a collection of instrumentation cabinets that occupied most of the yard.

"Bozhye moi!" whispered the priest.

The righthand suit of armour seemed to go momentarily transparent. Then Marc was standing outside it and the cerametal was us substantial as before.

"Good morning, Elizabeth. Brother."

The friar offered a lame grin and a wave. Elizabeth simply nodded.

Marc indicated the twin CE rigs and the auxiliaries. "The other suit is empty. This is by way of a demonstration, to show you of my progress in teleportation. I can't quite manage the power-modules yet."

"Is this-demonstration the only reason you asked to meet with me?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course not." Marc flashed his smile. "I've brought you the adaptation of Brendan's program."

She gave a joyous shout, dropped the scapular and sewing kit, and ran toward the black-clad figure. Then she suddenly pulled up short and her arms fell back to her sides. Marc's smile faded.

Anatoly hoisted the basket of peas, grabbed the fallen scapular in pa.s.sing, shot a disgusted "V'yperdka!" at Elizabeth, and stomped off to the kitchen.

Elizabeth flushed. She said to Marc, "I'm sorry if I appeared ungrateful."

"It's quite all right. I understand. And Anatoly is a churlish old peasant, isn't he? If it's any consolation to you, he's called me much worse names. It seems to be his customary spiritual counselling technique: the tough crust over the creamed ham pie ... He worries about you, Elizabeth."

The two of them sat down on the bench under the tree and Marc drew off his gloves. The pressure suit was completely dry and there was no trace of the usual brow wounds. His mind bore an impress of profound excitement.

Elizabeth said, "When we didn't hear from you after a week had gone by, I a.s.sumed the solution to the redactive problem had eluded you."

"I'm sorry it took so long. I was distracted by other matters, and the adaptation proved to be quite a challenge. I wanted to shorten the time of the operation as well as spread it among members of a manageable metaconcert. This is what I did."

And he displayed the construct.

"But it's so simple!" she exclaimed. "The way you've elided the tedious backtracking and shoring manoeuvres ... and incorporated the operancy resultant into the ongoing redactive trend.