The desk was cluttered, which was not unusual because the desk belonged to Alhane. The old books were opened before him with columns of figures scrawled in a fine, neat script. Alhane constantly wondered how his predecessor could have wasted time being so neat. After all, life was too short to bother with such refinements. But, he conceded, the old Time Keeper’s neatness did make things easier.
Alhane shivered, pulled his blanket up over his shoulders, puffed life into his frozen fingers, tried passing them over his heating coil, then finally scribbled down some more figures. Oh, how he hated simple arithmetic. Geometry was better. Why couldn’t they be separated? Why couldn’t he be better at both? One thing for sure, a mathematician he wasn’t. A short snort of amazement—or of disgruntlement—escaped him after he finished the computation, and he heard a tapping at his open door.
Naturally, it was Taljen. Except for his children, she was the only one whom he ever bothered with these days. She needed the bother. Her old self had disappeared somewhere on that trip south, and now only the strained smile she wore on her face recalled her earlier incarnation.
So, Alhane, Tireless One, you have been pouring over
those numbers for teclads now, more than a Patra-Bannk. And what have you
found?
Other than a headache, you ask? Well, it seems as if
my father made good measurements. So far all of mine agree with his, and
the clocks can be set by the stars. What an amazing idea! I thank him. Of
course, I will continue checking.
Taljen sat down on the one bed in Ta-tjenen. But
what have you found?
Well,
Alhane sighed, pulling up his blanket
again. Do you want a blanket?
He gave his
graskhide to Taljen, who accepted it gratefully. Alhane thought that if he
had a pan of water in the room, it would freeze over this Patra. At first, after you convinced me to put the sun in the
center, I thought for sure that nature would have made the orbits
circles. If you were nature, wouldn’t you do that? Squares don’t seem very
probable. After all, why, I ask you, should a planet first go in one
direction and then suddenly change to another? Any force emanating from the
sun certainly wouldn’t act in such an erratic manner. But a circle, now
there is an aesthetically pleasing shape. Unfortunately, all my
work over the last Patra-Bannk indicates that the orbits, at least the
orbit of the Runaway, isn’t quite a circle. Almost, but not quite.
What do you think it is?
Alhane snorted again, then sneezed. I am
certain—they must be ellipses. After circles, ellipses are unquestionably
the most pleasing of all shapes. Nature would have been foolish to pass up
such an opportunity—
But?
Humph. I have finally derived an equation here for
an orbit. And if it is an ellipse, I can’t see it. Therefore I have made a
mistake and will have to start looking again. I renounce this equation!
Alhane lifted his arm and was about to throw the paper away, but Taljen
caught his hand.
How do you know that your equation is not correct
and the orbits are, in fact, not ellipses?
I trust my nose and not foolish equations.
Alhane sneezed. Well, are you ready to help me set
the clocks?
Taljen stood up. That’s why I’m here.
Good. It has been too long since I made the last
trip Above. Now, let me see…
Alhane took out his father’s star charts
and found the star he had currently been using to set his clocks. He made a
mental note of its position so that when he went outside, he would be sure
to find it.
As he was bent over the paper, Taljen asked, Why are
you so worried about keeping your clocks set, Alhane? We always come out on
the right beclad, even with the old way, even if you never set your clocks
all Patra.
Sometimes we do. You might not know the difference
between one beclad and another, but I do. So don’t tell anyone, all right?
Now, help me get into this quazzat. The Patra is deep and my old body will
need help in confronting it.
A little while later, Alhane was wrapped in the layers of graskhide, wool, and parkas that made up a quazzat. He checked the chemical heaters in the boots, ensuring that there was plenty of air for insulation and that his hood was totally unfurled.
Will you be all right?
Taljen asked anxiously.
Of course,
came Alhane’s muffled voice, As long as I keep moving and breathe through my
nose. Now, help me up.
Taljen opened the inner door to the air lock Alhane had built directly under his house. Handing him a lantern, she shut the door after him, and Alhane pushed open the hatch that led into one of his workrooms. The house was empty. Pieces of roof, having fallen during the winds, littered the floor. The door was blown in and large holes gaped in the ceiling. Alhane had seen this often enough; it did not bother him. Repair would begin as usual at Bannk’s beginning.
The little yard was quiet. A glaze of ice covered everything, too cold to be slippery, reflecting the starlight in half-seen images. The air was not quite as still as it was cold, but the wind was mild in midpatra, seemingly frozen out of the sky. Only the long hood on his quazzat heated the air enough for Alhane to breathe, or else his lungs would freeze, too. He cleared his mouth and the spit tinkled against the snow, frozen solid before it hit the ground.
Alhane spent a moment, as always, gazing upward and smiling. Then he bent
to his instruments. He had two tasks now: first to set his clocks, then to
take a new reading on the position of the Runaway. He found the star he had
been following, easily identifiable as the brightest in a rosette of five
others. He bent to his quadrant and sighted along the notched eyepiece,
then brought his lantern close to the metal scale and took the reading. He
ran over to the house and shouted down his speaking tube to Taljen. Do you have that?
Yes, I’ll check the charts for the time.
Alhane turned next to the Runaway, another planet, he was sure from what Stringer had told him. He sighted it and took an accurate measurement of its position. Amazed at his own stubbornness, he still did not fully trust his father’s readings, even though they all agreed with his own. But perhaps a new reading would show him where his equation was wrong. New data never hurt.
Finished, Alhane stood up and took one more look around before he prepared to go Under once more. Something caught his eye on the plain to the west of Ta-tjenen, on one of the planting fields. It was a light! A large circle of yellow light, with smaller bright spots inside, illuminated a big part of the field. What could that be? Light in midpatra? By Lashgar—or was it Sarek?—that made no sense.
I’ll be down shortly,
he called to Taljen.
Where are you going?
Taljen called up after him,
but she received no answer.
Alhane held his lantern in front of him as he set off for the light. His destination was marked but the path to it unlit, and he fell time and again on the rock-hard snow and ice.
A scant kilometer later, he reached the periphery of the light and was surprised to see a large building being erected. Three walls built of precious tree trunks and other materials had already been constructed. Men scurried back and forth and gathered around bonfires. Searchlights shone into the dark and lanterns were strung, burning not with flame and swaying in the wind. What could they be doing out here when it was suicide to remain Above for more than a telclad or two? Alhane wondered. In the midst of all the activity sat three ships, just like the one Stringer had flown. Stringer! Could he have returned? Alhane started running toward the construction site. Stringer back? How amazing!
Alhane was now close to the circle of light. He could easily hear the cutting of trees and the moving about and the hammering of wood. Men continually came and went into the three spacecraft, replacing others for the new shift. A small figure standing in the darkness outside the area of illumination, Alhane was not noticed. Should he try to find Stringer? The idea of seeing him again was exceedingly pleasant. He never though it would happen.
Well, he said to himself, if I am going to risk freezing myself to death, I should not do it for nothing. No, by Lashgar, if by no one else. Alhane walked forward into the camp. No one stopped him; under his bulky wraps he looked no different from anyone else. He drew close to one of the fires, hopefully to warm his feet since the heaters had ceased.
Two men paused briefly at the fire next to Alhane. He heard them talking with an accent so strange that it was not even his own language. He listened for a few moments to this odd dialect and finally began picking out familiar words and then putting together whole phrases.
Do you think the plan will work?
he
heard one say after he had taken a moment to reconstruct the sentence.
It is a good plan. Our Commander has never
failed, has he?
Careless men have died out here, even
careful ones.
Is that the Commander’s fault?
Yes, you’re right about that. This Bannk,
Triesk will fall for certain and the Polkraitz will be Returned.
Alhane jumped and moved quickly away from the fire. He circled outward again, this time passing close to one of the shuttles. On the wing was a black patch crossed with orange. Gostum! An invasion! A surprise attack!
The cold, which was now beginning to creep through Alhane’s boots, could not have made him move any faster toward the city than he would have on his own.
When he climbed through the airlock, Taljen was still waiting for him. Alhane, your spirit and your reason have parted
company! I thought I’d never see you again.
Her voice was modulating
quickly and the tempo was fast. For a moment she paused and slowed down. Did you get the reading for your planet?
Yes, no, I forget. Verlaxchi’s out for us now. I’m
almost ready to believe there’s something to this Golun-Patra.
But your reading—
It’s not important now. I’d thank you to take it
again for me. I must see the nestrexam.
Alhane! Have you walked away from your mind? What
happened out there?
Alhane was not listening but was hurriedly removing his quazzat, blindly
stumbling toward the door with the outer parka stuck over his head. Taljen
grabbed him as he collided with the door frame and pulled it off. She
steadied him by the shoulders. Alhane, Old Teacher,
please tell me what has minced your head.
My young student, who never believed anything I
said, you certainly won’t believe this: there is a Gostum camp not more
than a kilometer from here and they are preparing to invade
Ta-tjenen. There are also three shuttles out there like Stringer’s.
Stringer!
Taljen cried. Is he there?
I don’t know; I didn’t see him.
Taljen’s eyes grew misty and lost what little sparkle remained in them. And I thought that I was finally free of him, that I
was on my way to forgetting him.…He must be there. The last time I saw him
he was on his way south with a Gostum woman to find his friend. She knew
where this friend was. Stringer must be Returned.
Do not jump to conclusions, Taljen.
Am I?
The Time Keeper turned toward the door. I must see
the nestrexam,
he said without looking back.
The nestrexam was in session. Alhane paced furiously, waiting for the couple who had failed to conceive before one of them went off. An important matter, indeed.
Finally they finished and Alhane was called. He walked in, his breath visible in the cold air.
What is it, Alhane?
asked Kenken Wer. You’re acting like a crazed Verlaxchi.
You’ll be acting like that in a moment, you old
fools.
Alhane, we don’t need this. Speak what you want
to speak.
Ta-tjenen is going to be invaded by the Gostum. I
saw them building a camp a kilometer west of here, with Alien shuttles, and
heard them speaking of the invasion.
In the middle of the Patra? You are the only one
foolish enough to venture out there.
Alhane had expected this reaction. And now the
Gostum have also become foolish.
But how can we believe you?
Look for yourselves! Don’t you ever do that? If I am
wrong, then I am the only fool and no harm is done. If I am right and no
precautions are taken, then all of Ta-tjenen will be destroyed. I’ll be in
my workroom.
Alhane spun around and left.
He found Taljen waited silently in his workroom among the ticking of his clocks.
Did they believe you?
Taljen asked, looking up,
her voice constricted by choking sobs.
No, but they will very shortly.
Taljen lapsed into silence.
You are thinking of Stringer. Not very Tjenen of
you.
Alhane walked to one of his desks and rummaged about under some
papers. He pulled a worn book from the mess and held it out to Taljen. Do you remember this, Taljen?
Taljen nodded. Yes, it’s Stringer’s journal.
Alhane tossed it gently to her. You might read
it. Maybe it will tell you something you didn’t know before and your hate
for Stringer will subside. Maybe not. But, I ask you, read it before you
pass judgment on Stringer as a traitor.
A messenger called Alhane to the council room at that moment. Already word must have begun to travel, because the room was densely packed with people. At least that made it warmer.
Kenken Wer stroked her chin. You are right,
Alhane. There are Gostum to the west with Alien solofars. Surely this is
another result of the Golun-Patra and the Alien Stringer. He should have
been executed, clearly.
What makes you so sure it is Stringer?
The evidence: he came on the Golun, was found
with a dead Gostum, he killed, he caused the fire; he is the Polkraitz
Returned. The Alien solofars lie at our Gateway; what other evidence do you
need?
Alhane felt his surety slipping but also found himself shouting. His voice
squeaked. You have no direct evidence and you are a
bunch of superstitious old fools! Why do you not confront the problem that
is at hand instead of falling back on your useless superstitions? Polkraitz
or not, argued from now until the crawfish whistles on the hill, does
nothing to alter the problem.
What do you suggest?
Kenken Wer sighed.
Asking my advice?
Yes, we are asking your advice.
Alhane couldn’t remember the last time his advice had been sought by anyone
but Stringer. It was an interesting sensation. He liked it. I thank you. We are in a very bad position. You feel
the cold creeping in on us. The Tree Counters could tell you what is in
store for us next Bannk and any Patra afterward—if there are to be any. Now
we have the Gostum to face, surely. If we fight, we lose time collecting
fuel. Even if we win, the time is still lost, that I can tell you without
being Time Keeper. Death is a certainty if we fight. Surrender is the only
possibility. At least in that even, there is hope.
No. The result is known. Gostum show no
mercy. We would all be killed.
Would we?
Alhane asked.
There can be no argument about that,
said another of the nestrexam, but if you
want, we can hold a referendum.
Alhane shook his head. No, the outcome of that would
be clear.
After a poll of the nestrexam had been taken, Kenken Wer announced, We must prepare for the attack and defeat of the
Gostum.
This is collective suicide, Alhane
thought. Realizing that survival beyond next
Patra was, at best, dubious, they have decided to kill themselves.
Call it a war, it was still suicide. But Alhane shrugged it off—for
the time being. When a house is burning, one doesn’t waste time deciding
what to do with it. All right. We must begin
immediately. I have a few ideas.