The water was getting rougher under the tutelage of the winds. It splashed up over bow and stern as the crewmen tied the small craft to the dock. Stringer strapped on his kalan and holstered his graser across his chest.
And why is this?
the Time Keeper asked as he came
out of the cabin with a bundle of paper hidden beneath his oiled jacket.
That’s a long story,
Stringer replied, his
sack slung over the bow.
Where are you going, Hurried Stringer?
To my ship.
Stringer paused on the dock
briefly. Tell me, are you called anything else
besides Time Keeper?
Of course,
the Time Keeper chuckled. My name is Alhane.
Good. I’ll see you again.
Stringer hurried off
with the rain lashing his face, over the rise and up the once sandy
road. It was a few kilometers to the city, which he avoided, skirting
around the acropolis and heading past the fields. He soon entered the
nearest part of the forest, which was still intact. The trees were almost
fully closed, and Stringer could smell the resin that was binding the trunks
together. They bent this way and that in the stiff wind, and Stringer
covered his eyes with his hands to protect his face.
Finally he reached Number One. As he expected, it lay there untouched. He doubted that any Tjenen would think of touching it, much less molesting it. The forward hatch opened to his usual heavy tug and he climbed in. Ash, having found its way through the shattered window, covered both console and floor, and the rain water had mixed with it, forming an ugly slime. Stringer opened one of the storage bins behind the cockpit and fetched a sheet of malleable plastic insulation. After a few moments he had managed to fix it tightly over the window. Then he pressed for fuel readings. He checked the storage bins for food rations. He went to the computer console and punched in a few numbers. The answers returned instantaneously. The numbers on the screen reflected off his eyes, and he bit his lip and tapped his fingers on the console. The answer was no answer at all. He had enough food, or could certainly muster anything else he needed. The remaining fuel might be enough to heat the shuttle for the Patra, the long Short Patra. But then again, it might not. Stringer pursed his lips and nodded. Well, he would find out soon enough.
Alhane stumbled past a yard littered with his collection of instruments and tripped into a house equally littered. He was tired after the long expedition and wanted only to sleep. He dumped his armload of papers onto the first chair beyond the door and began to remove his cloak.
Alhane! I was hoping you would be in about now.
The voice from the workroom was a familiar one, and he walked into his shop
to see his former pupil, present assistant, Taljen. She ran up to him and
encircled his small body with her own. It is good to
see you again. It has been a long Bannk without you.
And equally long without you, my young helper. Tell
me, are my children about?
No, they are off trying to build something to
impress you, no doubt. A strange thing to have children. And tell me, my
Favorite Fool Alhane, have you discovered your empty theory yet?
Alhane smiled. No, I am sure that one glance at your
data will tell me that I was right. Let me see your Mid-bannk readings.
Taljen showed him the papers she had kept. Alhane looked for the shortest
length of any shadow that Taljen had recorded, as well as those she had
collected and averaged from the other helpers. Aha!
You see, I was right. There is absolutely no question any longer. Five
centimeters’ difference at least between my shortest and all of yours. Look
at this.
Alhane ran into the other room and brought in his own data.
Taljen ran her eyes over it, nodded slowly, and sat down on a chair.
Why, you don’t seem to be very happy about it. This
is a great occasion, is it not?
You could still be wrong. It is only a handful of
centimeters. A mistake would be all too probable. To change, the shape of
the world on a handful of centimeters…
But the trend! The difference is bigger than it was
at Glintz. Look here! The trend! It’s what you’d expect if you travel
further, isn’t it? And the times and all the other objections? We’ve gone
over that before.
I…I guess you’re right,
Taljen said. Oh, I don’t know.
Why, then, are you so unhappy? It doesn’t matter
that I was right or that you were wrong, but that we have found out
something about the world that we didn’t know before. Isn’t that enough?
Why bring ideology into it?
It’s not that at all. It’s that…that maybe I have
made a mistake; I’m not sure.
There is certainly nothing wrong with making
mistakes, as long as we make them as fast as possible.
It has nothing to do with the experiment, Teacher,
but with the Alien. I thought he was just a murderer who talked with ideas
crazier than your own, who asked stupid questions that were impossible to
answer and got everyone he met angry at him.
I have met an Alien on my trip, and his questions
were most interesting.
What?
Taljen looked up abruptly and grabbed
Alhane’s arm. Tell me his name! Do you know it?
Yes, of course. His name is Stringer and he is
somewhere about now. I brought him back when we found him stranded down the
coast.
Taljen froze. Lashgar help us! He’s back. Benjfold…I
must warn him. Who knows what will happen—
What are you talking about?
Taljen had already jumped out of the chair. Stringer
killed Mornli, my first brother’s nesta’s sister, when he came to Ta-tjenen
and was going to be exposed. He tried to escape during the fire and
Benjfold tried to kill him by throwing him overboard. There is no time; I
must warn Benjfold.
Taljen started to run out of the room, but
Alhane caught her.
Stringer didn’t seem like a murderer to me.
I don’t know what Stringer is, but he isn’t one of
us, that’s all I can tell you. Now let me go.
She bolted out the door
and Alhane shuffled after her.
Stringer was crossing the plaza, shining wet in the rain. The gnomon’s shadow was gone, wiped out by the black clouds, and he doubted that any Tjenen was aware of the time. Work would continue as long as possible, which wasn’t long now. Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder rolled over his head. The wind whipped at the battered old cloak that he had always worn on Two-Bit, and he had to walk hunched over, holding the guy ropes so as not to be blown over by the wind. His kalan felt good thumping against his thigh. It was anxious to be used. The gong of the town bell, its restraining rope broken, clanged in the howling wind against Stringer’s ear.
People were slinging nets over their houses and tying the ends to stakes that were everywhere driven into the ground. Now he understood their function: the real winds were on their way.
Clang!
He pulled his hood more tightly around his face and kept walking in long, hunched strides. Uslid’s house was not far.
He passed the main gateway. Supplies were being taken Under for the Patra, the long Short Patra. Huge carts, loaded with household good, food, and now the precious wood for fuel, disappeared into the mouths of the gateways. The wind was biting and the cool rain heavy.
Uslid’s house was third after Chicken Market.
The Tjenens named
intersections or places, not streets. A stupid convention, thought
Stringer; it made giving directions impossible. But everyone in Ta-tjenen
seemed to know everyone else and where they lived. And even he knew where
he was going.
Clang! Clang!
It was late Bannk and, of necessity, the doors to the houses were shut. The house of Uslid was crisscrossed with rope and staked down. Stringer could not tell if anyone was inside. There was as good a chance that they would be asleep as not; everyone went by his own cycle. Stringer drew his kalan.
The door opened easily; Tjenens’ doors were never locked. Stringer took three steps before Benjfold looked up.
Stringer undid his hood and pushed it back from his head. Benjfold gasped and fell backward off his stool, flattening himself against the creaking wall.
Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pierce
your throat,
Stringer said, swinging the knife point under the other’s
chin.
You wouldn’t risk killing me, not after the
first—
Why not? Ta-tjenen and I are nearing the parting
of the ways, anyway, Benjfold Traitor. I was to leave you in good faith
before and you tricked me. Why shouldn’t I leave you permanently now?
You are Polkraitz; this is the Golun-Patra. You
caused the fire, you and the Gostum.
If you believe that, you are more of a fool than I
thought.
You would not leave Ta-tjenen alive if you killed
me.
So what else is new?
Benjfold screwed up his face into a contorted knot of fear, and Stringer
nodded his usual slow nod. You begin to understand
what it is like to be under a death sentence. How desperate are you? What
will you do to live? What kind of bargain will you strike?
I…I don’t know. I don’t understand,
Benjfold
managed to cough out. A crack of thunder obscured his last words.
Of course you don’t. Everyone you’ve ever known is
a close friend. You’ve never been threatened by anything but Patra-Bannk
in your life.
Taljen broke in at that instant, with Alhane puffing behind her. Stringer!
she screamed, her voice the highest
pitch. She dove at him, knocking his arm away. The point of the kalan
grazed Benjfold’s throat and a thin line of blood trickled out. Stringer
spun around and was gone in a lightning-streaked gray sky.
Benjfold got up with his hand clasped around his neck and walked to the door. He started out for many moments before Taljen turned him around.
He almost killed you!
I’m not sure,
replied Benjfold. I’m not sure at all.
Then he went to bandage his
wound.
So,
said Alhane, turning to Taljen. Don’t you think Stringer had good reason to want to
kill Benjfold? Benjfold had tried to kill Stringer before, is that not
right?
Yes, but what difference does that make? Stringer
just wanted—
Revenge was a word that Taljen didn’t have in her
vocabulary. It would be as if I were to kill you or
my third nesta, or my mother’s third cousin.
And what about Benjfold wanting to kill Stringer?
Whoever heard of that?
Stringer has caused many problems.
But, I ask you, is it worth abandoning him to the
Patra for those problems?
If he is a killer—
And Benjfold? A killer? Who would believe it? There
is too much in Stringer to be wasted, my young friend, and I think you see
that.
Taljen nodded with tears in her eyes. She had not cried in many
Patra-Bannks. Alhane, you are better at confusing
things than anyone I have ever met—
Except Stringer. What will you do to help him
live?
Taljen tossed her hair, heavy and wet. What can be
done now?
There may be one thing. The nestrexa is at the heart
of Ta-tjenen, am I not right?
Yes, but for yourself, that binds us all
together. It is true.
The Parlztluzan is later this beclad, Taljen.
Taljen stared at Alhane wide-eyed in shock, but he was already at the
door. Tell me, where is Stringer’s ship?
Later, after a long, well-deserved sleep, Alhane stepped into the clearing and saw Stringer’s shuttle. He admired it for a moment before searching out the entrance. When he found it, he pulled the latch open without knocking. Knocking wouldn’t have occurred to him. But he did hesitate, not out of politeness or concern, but because of the slow, mournful music emerging from the craft and mixing with the whistling wind and pounding rain, struggling to be heard over the frequent thunder. The playing was not badly in tune, he thought, but could certainly be better, especially with the seventh harmonic off so consistently.
He was surprised to see Stringer sitting on the floor, playing a rodoft, bowing a melody slowing and deliberately. Stringer ignored him. Alhane took this opportunity to look around the craft. He walked forward a step or two into the cockpit and back into the cargo hold. He saw a great deal of empty space back there, and the hollow amplified the sound of raindrops falling on the roof.
What do you want?
came Stringer’s voice from
behind him.
I’ve been told that you plan on staying here for the
Patra.
I’ve told no one that.
We guess well. Do you realize how foolish that is?
How impossible?
This ship is made for worse conditions than are
found on your planet—if you can believe it.
But you’d be alone, and it will be a Short Patra,
longer than this Bannk.
I have a rodoft and my mind.
Perhaps, Young Stringer, your mind will be your
worst enemy. And if you survive, what will you do then, I ask you?
Stringer continued to bow absently on the rodoft and pluck its strings. I came with companions who are now lost. I must find
them if they are to be found. So I will go south.
Alhane sat down. I didn’t know there were
others. How far are they?
When I left them, about one hundred thousand
kilometers, a little more.
The Time Keeper shook his head. Humph. A long way,
to be sure. A hundred thousand! No one at Ta-tjenen thinks in terms of ten
kilometers, let alone a hundred thousand. If not for my calculations, I
thank them, I wouldn’t have believed the world was that big myself.
I know. I’ve gone through that before, but this
ship travels that kind of distance.
But I see it is damaged. Will you still fly?
No. I’ll sail, walk, I don’t know. Do you think I
will stay here?
Alhane shook his head. His silver hair was bright in the cabin light, and
he had to talk loudly to penetrate the noise of the rain. And what will you do next Patra, another Short one, and
the Patra after that, which is Long, and during the Bannks in between?
What do you suggest?
Stringer sighed, finally
putting down the bow and looking up for the first time.
First you have to live through the Patra—
I plan on doing my best.
—and then at the beginning of the Bannk you could
make a balloon.…No, that wouldn’t work; it’s too slow and unreliable.…At
the beginning of the Bannk…Wait! That’s it! It might work. It’s possible. I
may be correct—
What?
A moment, I ask you, wait a moment.…
Alhane put
his hand to his chin. Yes, why not? At the beginning
of the Bannk and almost all through the Bannk, the ocean is cooler than the
land; I’ve measured it myself, I’ll not tell you otherwise. And you can see
the air rising over the land where the clouds form. Then they are carried
south by the prevailing winds.
I’ve noticed that.
Then the answer is clear: glide!
Oh, come on. You can’t take a sailplane one
hundred thousand kilometers! We don’t even know if the wind is south all
the way.
It’s my guess that it is.
I’m not so sure. Still, you have to stop
sometime. You need food, sleep. The best I’ve flown is about a thousand
kilometers on a good day.
A day? Do you mean a good Bannk? A good Bannk lasts
six teclads. And the next Bannk is the longest, thirty per cent longer than
this one. Yes, it is the Killer Bannk—
A pleasant thought…I’d still have to land, and once
I land that’s it.
There certainly must be towns along the way. They
could launch you with grask, as we will here. Grask, as you undoubtedly
know, are very strong and can run very fast. There is no problem. In theory
it should work.
In theory.
Stringer got up and sat at the
computer. he punched in a code to produce a map from the trip north. He fed
in a scale to reduce the pictures to microfilm. He took a hand viewer from
the cabinet. He clamped the viewing cassette to the output of the map
maker, and when one hundred thousand kilometers’ worth of microfilm had
been fed into it, he took a quick look through the magnifier. A few minutes
later he said, Yes, there are towns. We must have
missed them on the way up because they were too small to see or because we
were going so fast, or because of the haze. Maybe the surprising thing is
that we saw Ta-tjenen. But they’re there; the cameras caught them, even if
they are no more than villages.
So, you already have a map, I take it. All you have
to do is land near the villages. Then up you go again with the help of a
few grask.
Stringer swiveled around in his seat. We still
need a sailplane. I might be able to build one. Pike made me fly in them
often enough; they’re similar to this shuttle in flight characteristics. I
even had to take them apart and put them back together as training for
emergencies. I think I could do it.
With my help. This should be an interesting
project. All I’ve built so far are models.
I’ll have to check on the distances between
towns.
I doubt you will find them far. Ta-tjenen was the
first town, and how far do you think you can move a settlement in the Bannk
before you die of the heat, before you must dig Under for the Patra? Moving
on Patra-Bannks must be very slow. I’ve never met anyone from farther south
than Godrhan, and I’ll tell you this: I’m surprised your map showed any
villages at all.
Stringer smiled. So you didn’t know. I suspected
that. Well, I’ll have to check more carefully. But even if all this manages
to work, we still have one problem.
And what is that?
When is this sailplane going to get built?
Alhane laughed his soft chuckle. There is a Short
Patra ahead—
—with you under and me Above.
The Going Under is not for half a teclad yet—
But the teclads have been growing shorter, I’ve
been told.
Remember,
said Alhane, holding up a finger, this is the Weird Bannk, and even the sunset seems too
long, even if it isn’t. So we’ll work on it. Right now I need your help
with an experiment.
With that, Alhane dragged Stringer to his feet and
they went off together to the citadel amid heavy rain and thunder.
The Time Keeper’s dwelling was on the outskirts of Ta-tjenen, close to the edge nearest Stringer’s shuttle. When they reached it, Stringer was surprised to find quadrants and similar pieces of apparatus scattered around the yard. A miniature version of the great plaza sundial dominated the setting, the gnomon—useless now at Bannk’s end—sticking straight out of the ground.
The Time Keeper pushed the door open and led Stringer inside, and Stringer almost laughed aloud. How unlike any Tjenen house he had seen before! The four rooms were amazingly cluttered. Parchments littered the floor and tables along with oddly shaped glassware. Models hung from the ceiling; a fire burned in a corner under a metal pan. A plank with insects stuck to it was propped up on a cabinet filled with great dusty notebooks. A faded portrait of a man and a woman dangled from the ceiling.
And then there were the clocks. The workroom was filled with the ticking and buzzing of dozens of clocks standing on the floor, on shelves, on top of one another. Some glittered; others were dull and crudely built. One would click rapidly like a ratchet wheel, another would creak with rust, a third would drip water, drop by drop. Each seemed randomly placed about the room, and all said something randomly different. Stringer peered at one whose case was nothing more than a metal framework. Among its intricacies were two pinioned bars, intersecting, which oscillated in a vertical plane, first merging into one and then parting like butterfly wings. He moved to another where a horizontal beam swung forth and back again. Yet another was encased in glass, the first glass Stringer had seen in Ta-tjenen. A little ball, smaller than a marble, rolled down a sloping brass plate, its path a groove cut like a switchback road into the metal. The ball traveled always downward, first in one direction, then hitting a switchback, reversed itself in the twinkling of an eye, and continued its descent. When it finally reached bottom, the ball struck a little rod, a catch was released, the plate flipped up, and the ball began rolling in the new downward direction. An escapement mechanism then advanced a notch, and a small hand set inside a small circle moved a millimeter. As on all the clocks, there were seven scales, some dials, some linear, all unequally calibrated.
The Time Keeper passed them off with a wave of his hand. They’re all wrong, useless. Hardly a one keeps as good
time as the sun. There’s hardly a point in having clocks at all if they
can’t tell me when to come out at Bannkbreak.
Alhane disappeared for a moment into one of the other rooms and returned
with a reel of wire. Noting Stringer’s surprise, he said, From the Junk. Now, I’d thank you if you will come out
into the rain again with me.
Alhane led stringer out to a windmill that stood near his house. Its giant
eggbeaters whirled continuously in fury as the wind blew around loose bits
of fern-moss and houses. Do you see those two posts
up there? The little ones jutting out? I’d ask you to attach these two
wires to them.
Stringer took the wires and climbed up the wet, slippery scaffolding. He
continuously ducked his head even though he knew that the blades were
safely above him. What are you doing?
he
shouted as he dropped down.
You’ll see even as I do!
Alhane scurried off,
unreeling the twin wires over the muddy path back to his house. When
Stringer returned inside, Alhane was standing over a tank of water. Two
wires ran from the tank to a small open box sitting next to it. The box was
filled with a black substance. The Time Keeper took the two wires that were
running in from the windmill and placed two fingers across them. Ouch! Lashgar is with us. Let’s hope the wind keeps
up.
A trivially easy wish.
All right, then…
Alhane took one incoming wire
and tied it to one from the tank. The other he pushed into the box near the
second wire that was running out of the tank. Aha! I
think we have something here! Let’s see if we cannot make it brighter.
He carefully moved one wire in the box closer to its partner. The water in
the tank glowed. He moved the wire still nearer, and the water glowed
brighter and brighter until it lit up the entire room. Ahahahah! We have light, and not a little of it!
You’ve invented the dynamo?
The what? I haven’t invented anything. I just copied
an old rusted thing I found in the Junk a few Patra-Bannks ago and saw what
it could do.
Is this water in the tank?
It’s sea water. The process doesn’t work with
rainwater, so there must be something else here, too.
I don’t think this works with Two-Bit sea
water. At least I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Well, then this isn’t Two-Bit sea water, is it?
Evidently we have an added ingredient, another chemical or microorganism,
perhaps. To be truthful, I haven’t the faintest idea of why it works at
all—
I don’t, either.
But you indicated you knew of such devices.
Dynamos? On my world things like that are taken
for granted—
What good is taking something for granted?
Stringer laughed. You’re right. So now what will
you do with it?
What will we do with it? After that fire, we need
all the fuel we can get. This will save all the fuel that normally goes for
lighting. And the chances of suffocating go down, too. Do you realize how
hard it is to ventilate the Under, especially with fires burning all over
the place? We will have to start the installation this moment and no
later.
Well, good luck, or Lashgar be with you, whichever
you prefer.
You won’t help?
Alhane asked. That’s very curious.
No. I’m not feeling very generous toward
Ta-tjenen. I’d rather relax for the next few beclads and collect some
supplies if I can.
That is rather self-centered of you.
Yes, it is. But then, I’m not a Tjenen. Good-bye,
Time Keeper; I hope I see you again sometime.
Stringer left the house and thought he could dimly make out the outline of
a sun growing large as it neared the horizon. Moving again, I see,
Stringer said aloud. When will you learn to slow down? Do you ever hear
me, Sun?
But the Sun just got lost in the thick gray clouds, leaving
Stringer to wonder if he had seen it at all. A few paces behind him trotted
Alhane in pursuit.
Come on!
Alhane commanded with the curious
squeak in his voice that appeared whenever he was excited. He grabbed
Stringer’s arm and pulled him toward the center of town.
The plaza was filled with people standing in the heavy rain and wind, and
more people arrived with every passing clad. Stringer pulled his cloak
around him more tightly and it tangled in his legs. Alhane pushed him
through the crowd to the meeting tent until they were inside. Stay here!
he said, disappearing before Stringer
could argue.
Stringer did not know why he stayed. It was insane to remain here among so many enemies. But he did, one hand clenching the hood of his cloak around his face and the other resting on the hilt of his kalan.
Kenken Wer was there. She had not noticed him. The others of the nestrexam gradually arrived, unaware, now that the sundial was useless, of exactly when they were expected. Finally the bell was sounded and the last stragglers squeezed their way in. Eventually, in the unhurried way of Ta-tjenen, things were ready, and a young man and woman came up to Kenken Wer, who stood at the Center.
Kenken Wer looked at them. So you are Gwyned, my
third brother’s son’s first nesta.
Her raspy voice could hardly be
heard over the wind and rain pounding on the tent and dribbling through the
partly blocked apex hole.
The girl nodded.
Kenken Wer turned to the table that had been set up behind her and spent a
moment examining some lists. Well, it seems that
there are no problems. You are both on for at least the first half of the
Parlztlu, correct?
Yes,
the girl answered. Here are the names.
Kenken Wer wiped off a splash of water that had fallen through a leak onto
the Center and took the piece of paper. Oh, yes, one
last thing. When do you sleep?
Hmm,
the boy mused. I am
currently sleeping around the third part of the beclad.
And I the second.
So we will put you in the two-three section for the
moment, unless, of course, you want to live separately.
No, we’ll adjust to each other,
the girl
replied.
And naturally, you can shift sections if you find
yourself getting out of phase with those around you.
So, Stringer thought, it looks as if underground Ta-tjenen was divided according to people’s sleeping habits. Not a bad idea.
Kenken Wer looked up from the newly formed couple. Who’s next?
Taljen stepped forward and Stringer’s knuckles turned white. He stepped behind a bystander and hoped she had not noticed him. He could see her clearly and was annoyed that she was always so beautiful without trying to be. Her hair was heavy with wetness and the drops sprinkled on her graskhide jacket.
So, Taljen,
Kenken Wer remarked, glancing
at the lists. I see you are going off and will
be unable to bear children this Parlztlu. What are your plans?
Taljen brushed back her hair with nervous hands. She hesitated, then
finished her reply in a rush: I want…I want the
Alien.
Kenken Wer cackled. And will you breed with
him?
The tent was filled with whirring laughter, and Stringer felt numb.
Besides,
Kenken Wer continued, spreading her
palms, the Alien is finally gone.
Taljen shook her head. He is Returned.
Verlaxchi! That Polkraitz is Returned? Who
murdered and who caused the fire that ruined us all? He is not dead and you
want him as nesta?
Taljen stood erect and pulled up her jacket. Yes,
she said expressionlessly.
Impossible. He must be exposed.
It is my right to choose anyone because I am going
off. If you refuse, I will stay Above also when you Go Under. It is that
simple.
Taljen’s voice remained soft, pitch level, little modulation.
Kenken Wer shook her fist in rage and turned to the others of the
nestrexam. This is outrageous!
she
screeched. Is this to be permitted?
Several of the elder bowed their heads together. One finally spoke. Unless we want Taljen dead, we don’t see what can be
done. It is within her rights. She will have to be responsible for the
Alien’s actions, of course.
Ugh!
Kenken Wer slammed her fist down on the
table and bent to the lists. Your child will
remain with Uslid or be given to another for this Parlztlu, unless, of
course, you have plans for it, too.
I have no plans.
Stringer could see the tears in Taljen’s eyes as she turned from Kenken Wer and made her way through the crowd toward the exit. The Tjenens parted, stared as she went, kept their distance. She looked at each in turn as she walked by, and it was they who flinched, not she. Finally Stringer lost sight of her. He took one look at the great map hanging above him and followed her.
He didn’t find her until he reached the end of the plaza. She didn’t hear him when he called her name. Not until he spun her around with hands clasped around her arms did she know he was there.
Taljen…
he began as the rain kept coming down
and the thunder trundled its way across the sky.
Please, Stringer, I don’t want to talk now.
I don’t know why you have done this for me,
but…I…I want to thank you.…Never…
Taljen looked at Stringer, the way she always used to, and gazed deeply
into his eyes. Don’t be sure, Alien, that I did it
for you. Now leave me be.
Stringer left her.