His shoulders were stiff from hunching over, from working in tight places, from the nervous strain. Stringer slumped back in his chair, shivering and aching. He had spent the last several weeks going over everything once, twice, three times and again. What could be the problem? Anything could be the problem. With the tremendous jolt the shuttle had received on impact, it could be a cracked module, a misaligned laser, any of a thousand difficulties. But he could not raise the Crimson, and now there was nothing else to be done. Who was he fooling to think that he could fix this ship to begin with? Pike, where are you?
Stringer leaned over the console, head in hands, and thought desperately. He brought his water flask to his mouth, but it was empty. He threw it to the floor.
I thought I might find you here.
Stringer lifted his head to see first calloused fingers and then the tall
woman stepping into the cabin. Where else did you
expect? You watch over me like a hawk.
What is a hawk? Do you mean a sentry?
Never mind. What do you want?
A shock of hair fell behind her shoulders as she tossed her head. As you say, I am to keep an eye on you. Do you think it
would be good for you to go off killing someone else?
I don’t think you have to worry about that,
Stringer replied, turning his back to her, randomly flipping switches on
the control panel.
I’m sorry, there was no need for me to say that. I
just wanted to see how you were progressing.
I can’t fix it,
Stringer said flatly.
Ah, Stringer, Hopeless, what will you do?
I don’t know,
he said, standing up. There doesn’t seem to be much to do, does there?
The Time Keeper would be the one to talk to, I
think, but he is not in Ta-tjenen now.
I’ve heard him mentioned often. Who is he?
Taljen smiled inwardly. He is a thing apart, with no
nestrexa of his own. Untrusted by many but listened to at the same
time. Even I rarely trusted him, and I was his best pupil. Definitely,
Stringer, he is a thing apart, a true wizard.
Stringer couldn’t bother inquiring about a man who was probably a hermit
living off in the hills somewhere. I’m very tired
now. I think I want to go to sleep.
Why do you sleep so often, Tired Stringer?
Because I must; what else can I say? I come from a
planet where the sun goes down every fifty telclads or so—
Remember, though, a telclad is not a constant—
So I’ve heard. About every fifty telclads or so
the sun goes down, and at about that time we go to sleep. I haven’t figured
out when you sleep, that’s for sure. As infrequently as you do, it never
seems to be at the same time.
Taljen tossed her hair and laughed. You are more a
Tjenen in that than you think. You judge my sleeping habits by your own,
but, according to our clocks, you are now sleeping half a beclad out of
phase from your habit upon your arrival. You’ve been going to sleep later
and later in the beclad.
I have?
Stringer pulled a watch from a
drawer. The flashing digits meant nothing to him any more—he had not
bothered to check it for weeks. He turned it off and hung it around his
neck. So I have.
And I am sure you will continue shifting. Don’t
dismay, Funny Alien. Unless each of us pays close attention to the clocks,
a thing only the Time Keeper does for sure, we all do the same as
you. After all, there is so little to distinguish one beclad from another,
what difference does can it make? Our body clocks take over and find their
own cycles—and those vary slowly against the beclads as they will. They
vary with the Patras and the Bannks, with the height of the sun in the sky,
with the opening and closing of the pod-trees. Our bodies speed up and slow
down, our skin changes color and texture. Next Bannk, the Killer Bannk, my
skin will be so dark, so leathery, that you will not recognize me. This
Patra I will change color again completely. That is the way Ta-tjenen
works. That is the way each of us keeps time, by our own skin, by our
feelings, by the color of our eyes. There is no universal time except that
of the Time Keeper.
Stringer shook his head. How can this city get
anything done? It is so dangerous to live here—how can you be so lazy about
something like that? Isn’t everything mixed up?
Again Taljen laughed. Not lazy at all. It is more
efficient to let our work shifts follow our bodies. About the same number
of people are awake at one time, so there is no problem in shifting
shifts. If my shift gets later and later in the beclad, someone else’s will
get so late that it will be early. The nestrexam handles the list of
Sleepers Awake and makes sure that it is always current. That is one of the
nestrexam’s major tasks. Similarly, classes in the Patra are held several
times a beclad so all may attend.
Stringer had not stopped shaking his head. Ta-tjenen was beginning to seem like a looking-glass city to him: flat world, shifting time, chameleon skin; couldn’t these people do anything right?
But you are somewhat correct, Stringer. There are
special occasions, like the Parlztluzan coming, which are easier to do all
at once…I see that things here work in perhaps looser ways than you are
accustomed to, but perhaps not. We manage well enough. Better to be a slave
to your own body than to a mechanical clock, don’t you think?
Ah,
Stringer sighed, there are so many things I don’t understand about
this place. Maybe someday—
He chuckled at the impossibility of that
word. Maybe someday I will, but who knows? Now it
is time for me to get some sleep.
Stringer led Taljen out of the
shuttle and they began walking back to town. He was surprised that he had
healed so fast. His limp was almost totally gone. Perhaps it was time to
pick up the kalan once more and keep in shape.
Taljen tied the two outer cloths of her cowl together to protect her head from the bits of loose dirt that were being picked up by the winds, which were getting stronger all the time now. They had not gone far when they spied Benjfold, who was loading section of pod-trees into a large cart. Taljen ran ahead to him as he called out:
Hello, Taljen, nesta, and Alien Stringer.
Stringer did not reply, and as he walked by, Benjfold caught him by the
arm. Could you give me a hand with this piece?
Silently Stringer grabbed one end of the log and they threw it into the cart. Silently Stringer turned away, but Benjfold began answering the unasked question.
We go Under soon and will need all the fuel we can
get for light and heat. You have no idea, I am sure, Alien Polkraitz, how
much fuel Ta-tjenen will need to stay alive during this Short Patra.
Stringer did not stop to listen but walked away.
Taljen remained with Benjfold until they had filled the cart together. Then
she kicked the grask and the large wheels began creaking over. You know, Benjfold, I do not think I understand the
Alien very well.
Does it matter that you do?
It does not take much to see that he is not Tjenen,
but to pinpoint the differences is harder. I wish I could climb inside him
to understand. But we can never do that with anyone, can we? It is the
ultimate block. Even you, Benjfold; I often wonder what is inside you,
though I often suspect that it is not much.
You’re teasing me, aren’t you?
I’m sorry,
Taljen giggled. You shouldn’t get upset.
They talked no further and headed toward the city. After leading the cart
up one of the ramps to the citadel, depositing the wood in the nearest
storehouse, and making a note of the entry, Benjfold and Taljen returned to
Uslid’s house. They crossed the plaza as they always did, and Benjfold noted
that the long shadow intersected with the outer curve. He glanced up at the
sky. Dark clouds were moving in. Rains had appeared occasionally beclads
ago, and heavier ones would be coming soon. It
looks as if we’ll be breaking up soon, doesn’t it?
As we know…
answered Taljen, her voice trailing
off. She felt the wind on her face, cooling now as the Bannk wore
on. Jackets would be worn soon, and a little while after that…Windows and
doors, usually left open, were now being closed. So it was with Uslid’s
house, or what was currently Uslid’s house. Like most houses of Ta-tjenen,
this one wasn’t strictly theirs, they only lived in it with Uslid for the
current Parlztlu, the current change of houses.
Because Uslid was
the oldest member of this nestrexa, a family that lasted for one Parlztlu,
the house went under his name. When Taljen and Benjfold entered, Uslid was
sitting in the main room.
Ah, I have seen this before!
Uslid chuckled. It is nearing time to break up.
Yes, that time is coming very soon,
said Taljen.
And whom will you get?
I don’t know.
She shrugged. There are a good many whom I like well enough,
she
added with a smile.
Certainly. I suppose there is little reason to
give the matter too much thought,
said Benjfold. Will you stay with the child?
he asked, grinning at
the small baby climbing around Uslid’s leg whom Taljen had borne last Patra.
It might be nice to have a rest until the next
Parlztlu, before the next child comes. After all, since I’m going off and
so won’t be fertile until then, it’s allowed. And your old nesta did say
she would take the baby.
Well, there is to be no rest for us,
Benjfold
said. I choose soon. What about you, Uslid?
Ah, the libidinal flow is still there occasionally. I
think I’ll find somebody this time around. I’m past the mandatory age you
know.
So,
Benjfold concluded, ours was a good nestrexa; I hope my next is just as
good. But then again, I suppose one is as good as another.
Yes,
Taljen agreed, I
suppose so.
Stringer awoke to the sound of people in the street and music in the air. He shook his head in disbelief, never having heard so much noise in Ta-tjenen. His first impulse was to ignore it and get back to Number One, but then he remembered.…He stood, went to the window, and drew the blinds. The sunlight streamed in through the gaps in clouds, immersing the room in the yellow light typical of late afternoon. People were running this way and that, mostly diffusing in the direction of the great central park.
Stringer dressed himself. Soon he was in the street and a few moments later he realized that his sun suit was not filling up with sweat. For an instant he was glad of that; the heat wave was ending, the heavy rains were on their way. But Stringer’s smile did not last long. Although the sun was two dozen diameters or more above the horizon, the winds were getting stronger with the gradual drop in temperature before the Patra.
As Stringer walked up the street, his cowl continually blew in front of his face and dust flew into his eyes. A myriad of colors swirled before him, in tempo with the shifting wind and the swaying crowd. This was indeed unusual. Dark colors absorbed heat and weren’t worn as a rule. But yes, it was getting cooler.
Music came from all directions. Sometimes the wind would shift and one group of instruments would fade out, only to be replaced by another. Stringer sought the source of the loudest sounds, working by trial and error as he was fooled each time by the vicissitudes of the veering flaw. He felt the atmosphere was toying with him, and he gloated in triumph when he stumbled, finally, onto the group he had sought. Two men were playing instruments with many strings stretched to a double head on one end and to a sounding gourd on the other. A woman was playing a long, reedy-sounding instrument riddled with holes. There was something different about the music, something more subtle and confusing than the music of Two-Bit; it reminded Stringer of the Tjenen language itself.
Some of the stringed instruments, newly made, were up for sale on a nearby rack. He picked one up, examined it, shrugged, and took it, leaving Taljen’s name as payment. All accounts on Ta-tjenen would be settled on a special occasion during the Patra whose ice Stringer felt on the back of his neck. No doubt this account would be reckoned in as well.
Stringer made his way across the plaza to the park. The gnomon’s shadow had lengthened again. It seemed like a large jump since the last time he had seen it, but Stringer knew that it moved only a little at a time, degree by degree, monotonically toward the Patra. The shadow now rested on a blue marker standing on its curve. A special occasion? The red pylon on the end of the metal band was not a sixth of the scale’s length away, and the sun was almost staring him in the eye. Stringer hurried on.
The pod-trees were generating resin now, which would bind them close, and they smelled heavily of oil. More music and more dancing, pantomime about Polkraitz, and acting assailed Stringer’s senses. These activities seemed totally unusual to him. Except for the outdoor shifts, people stayed in their houses, generally avoiding each other.
It may have been several telclads later—Stringer wasn’t sure—when he suddenly realized he had left the city. He found himself looking down on it from the northern hills. The plaza was in the center, the Center, and was surrounded on all sides by the park. A few streets started off radially but quickly meandered, and in the course of their haphazard journeys any wheel effect was lost. The buildings merged into one white mosaic that seemed to float a few centimeters before his eyes. The top of the acropolis must have been several square kilometers, which meant that Ta-tjenen was bigger than Stringer had thought. Twenty thousand people must live here, and for the first time since he had arrived, they were all out in the open.
While Stringer sat, he heard a scuffling noise behind him. He turned around as several oddly dressed figures ran up the hill to his right. They were dressed oddly, but then again, for this occasion it was he who was dressed oddly. Stringer ignored the scene and set off back down the hill. The fern-moss covering the slopes was beginning to curl.
Stringer was met at the door of Uslid’s house by Uslid, who, as usual, did not stray far from the doorway.
What do you have there, Stringer?
Stringer held up his instrument. I just got it at
the fair, or whatever this is. I thought I’d try playing it just for
diversion.
A rodoft, I see, and it is very difficult to
play. But I can get you a teacher if you want.
No time for that.
Tell me, have you enjoyed the Festival of Lashgar and
the Polkraitz defeat?
So this is the occasion of my defeat?
asked
Stringer, wondering who could possibly have a name like Lashgar.
And what do you mean by that, Stringer?
Don’t you believe that I’m Polkraitz? Half the
people around here do, whatever Polkraitz is—
Uslid! Uslid!
Uslid never responded to Stringer’s question and swiveled around to see Taljen running up the street and out of breath.
Gostum have been seen! Everyone is on the watch!
Gostum!
Someone said they saw a band of Gostum heading
toward the north hills, but that’s all. Should we join the search?
Uslid knew it was hopeless, and so did Taljen. We
can. Maybe it is best we should. Do you know how many there were?
Four or five, I was told. So it might be
dangerous.
Stringer realized that he did not understand the discussion, so he went into his room and fell asleep shortly.
He awoke later and found Taljen in her room eating by herself. Her normally wavy, well-groomed hair was now dirty and tangled. Her shirt and pants were covered with dirt and grime.
Am I interrupting?
No, of course not. Please come in, Stringer.
How long were you gone? I just woke up.
I don’t know. Who but the Time Keeper can ever
tell?
Did you find what you were looking for?
We didn’t find the Gostum, Stringer, but that was
expected because we didn’t know where to look. Whenever the Gostum strike,
it is out of thin air. Where is there to look?
Who are the Gostum?
The surprise at being asked that question was clearly evident on Taljen’s
face. You don’t know?
I wouldn’t have asked if I did.
Their defeat is what we celebrate this beclad.
But who were they? Why were they at Ta-tjenen?
Taljen’s eyes grew noticeably wider. Why at
Ta-tjenen?
she repeated with a toss of her head. Isn’t it obvious? Because, Stringer, Ta-tjenen is the
Center. If you were going to found a great city, wouldn’t you put it at the
center of the world?
Stringer winced, squeezing his eyes shut, and, of course, shook his
head. Do you mean you weren’t joking when you told
me that before, that the map in the meeting tent which show Ta-tjenen in
the center really means it? It isn’t just for convenience?
Of course it means it. Don’t you see that Ta-tjenen
is in the center?
But what about those other two cities on the map?
Why shouldn’t they be at the center as well?
They were founded by Tjenens after the struggles
ended. They are offshoots and not the Center, Alien. Other than those, do
you see any more cities? It follows we are in the Center.
Stringer brushed back his floppy hair with a quick movement of his hand. I don’t see how anything can be at the center. No one
place on the globe is at the center.
Taljen leaned back and smiled. Ah, yes, that is
right. You believe the world to be round like a ball. In that case, there
is no center except the middle. Otherwise there is a Center, and Ta-tjenen,
being the city of the Polkraitz, is it.
All right, all right. Forget that. Who were
they?
A great race living here. Ta-tjenen is a great city,
don’t you think, Alien? And before the revolt it was even greater—
When was that?
When the Polkraitz founded the Center, it would
appear. Since the Polkraitz fled on the first Golun-Patra and this is the
twelfth, that would make twelve Golun-Patras ago, or about—let’s see—eight
belbannks.…
Stringer began to feel as if he were walking around in circles for all the good that these nonanswers were doing him. But he quickly translated eight belbannks into over a thousand years. So the Polkraitz, whoever they were, left over a millennium ago.
The Gostum decided to move the Center to the south,
which was clearly an act of insanity and which the Tjenens resisted. But
some of the Polkraitz, not knowing any better, sided with the Gostum. You
can be sure there was a great war and a bloody battle over where to place
the Center, here or in the south. Most of the population was destroyed;
everything was lost, and things pretty much started over again. The
Polkraitz fled, vowing to return, and their Gostum slaves were exiled. They
left in ships like yours. Where they went we do not know, but they still
come to plague us, fanatics who take us on five to one. They are indeed
fanatics, dressing in black during the Bannk, black with one orange
stripe.
Black and orange? I think I saw some people
wearing those colors earlier.
You did! Where, Stringer, where?
I was sitting up over the city, on the north
hills—
You were up on the north hills? Why didn’t you tell
us? Stringer, you knew that they were seen going in that direction. You were
standing by when I told Uslid.
It didn’t even occur to me. I thought they were
part of the festival.
How many were there?
Four or five.
Taljen sprang up, her fury instantly doubled. Stringer! How can anyone act like you? Have you walked
away from your mind? You knew we were looking for four or five on the north
hills and you said nothing! Nothing at all! Are you that empty? A Tjenen
you certainly aren’t—
I said it didn’t occur to me. I didn’t even know
what a Gostum was.
If you were caught in the Patra would it occur to
you? I suppose not. Oh, Silent Stringer, why do you never speak when you
should?
I will be caught in the Patra, it has occurred to
me. Has it occurred to you?
Stringer, I gave you an extra two teclads.…Now I
understand you. I understand you well. You think only of yourself. You have
no nestrexa in your mind, for sure. I’ve never heard of such mindlessness,
Alien. Now, if you will not help the nestrexam, you will help me. Come
on. Let’s find the others.
Stringer picked up a graser he had taken from the shuttle and led a group
of several dozen to the spot where he had been sitting earlier. They were climbing straight up there.
Taljen moved in the direction of the outstretched arm, and Stringer could see by the energy that manifested itself in the way she climbed that her anger had not subsided. He followed her. The ground was firm where it was not covered with the closing fern-moss, so there were no footprints to trace.
Didn’t you cover this area earlier?
Yes, but not much farther up. Come on.
They continued up the hill until they reached the summit, finding nothing.
Well, that’s the Edge,
said someone.
Stringer sat down.
What’s wrong, Stringer,
asked Taljen. You look puzzled.
I’m sure they went up this way. But there doesn’t
seem to be any place for them to have gone.
That’s true. Aside from Ta-tjenen, there aren’t many
places to go.
But even you will have to admit they went
somewhere.
Taljen remained thoughtfully silent as Stringer took a few
steps down the hill. All he could see were the little ferns retreating into
their spores for the Patra ahead. He sighed and glanced up. Look! Do you see that?
He pointed as he cried,
and all turned their gaze to the south, beyond the south.
Taljen froze in her tracks. Verlaxchi’s against
us. This is the end of Ta-tjenen!
She began running down the hill
toward the smoke that was beginning to spread across the southern forest.
Because there was no darkness during the Bannk, save what was caused by the ever-increasing clouds, one could expect a good portion of the people of Ta-tjenen to be awake or asleep at any given time. The city, if it ran at all, ran continuously. By the time Stringer and Taljen had reached the central plaza, the gnomon’s shadow could not be seen on the ground. Thousands of people crowded there, some still dressed in their festival garb, others in sun suits.
Taljen shoved her way into the meeting tent, and Stringer followed as closely as possible. Because of her status as tree watcher, she was not hindered. Where she reached the tent the nestrexam was there, Kenken Wer standing as usual, but not calmly this time. There was no calm at this gathering.
Taljen!
Kenken Wer commanded. Tell me how we are set for fuel this Patra.
Taljen stopped to catch her breath. We’ve completed
the farming for this Patra. After all, we go Under in a teclad or less. So
we are set this time. I cannot predict yet about the next.
It was only then that Kenken Wer noticed Stringer standing behind
Taljen. You! You Polkraitz! This is the Golun and
you are Returned. You have brought this upon us! You and those Gostum
beasts who are your slaves! I will tear your eyes out with my own
hands!
She flung herself at Stringer, who drew his gun reflexively but
then fended her off with his hands instead.
Do you think I would come to such a hellish place
as Ta-tjenen of my own free will?
Stringer shouted as he caught the old
woman by the arms. You have a forest fire burning
up your fuel. Don’t you think you should worry about that instead of me? I
am one man; your whole existence is at stake.
Kenken Wer, he is right. We have work to do.
Kenken Wer jerked herself away from Stringer with fire in her eyes. I will see to you later,
she spat at Stringer’s
feet.
Benjfold appeared at that moment, pushing his way around bodies. The wind is blowing mostly south and east,
he
said, interrupting. We are probably safe, but the
entire forest is in the fire’s path, and with the resin now being produced,
who knows how far it could spread?
Because of the recent rain the forest is damp, but
the resin is inflammable,
Taljen said. We have
got a problem. It could spread all the way to Glintz. And Glintz, the Time
Keeper has told us, is almost two thousand kilometers away.
We must try to cut it off,
Benjfold
decided. Everyone get tools and axes and
shovels. We must try to cut it off.
People started dispersing, but not quickly enough, Stringer thought, considering the emergency. When he left the tent he could see the smoke, opaline, rising up from the forest and fanning outward. It curled up, tightening on itself until the strong wind caught it and blew it southward. He thought he could see flames spreading across the treetops and imagined the crackling of bursting pods filling the air. He hoped that his shuttle would be all right; to hope was about all he could do.
Ta-tjenen did not sleep that beclad. The smoke obscured the sun when the sun itself was not obscured by clouds. The air acquired an acrid taste that hurt the throat and burned the lungs. Swarms of bidrifts, small birds with oily skin, interrupted their preparations for the Patra and flew to the north hills. Rodents, or what looked like rodents to Stringer, found their way up the ramps and stairs to Ta-tjenen’s citadel, crowding the streets already overflowing with people and sharing their food. The fire, damp wood or no, found plenty of fuel in the forest and left a charred trail of tree stumps and ashes as it worked its way south to the cities near the edge of the world.
Stringer stood with Taljen and Benjfold some kilometers south of Ta-tjenen. Their faces were covered with grime, their clothes ripped and limbs bruised. Choking on the bitter smoke that cut through his lungs, Stringer continually brushed back the ashes that were falling into his eyes. He had just felled a tree while helping to clear a fire channel and almost toppled back, exhausted. He sat down on the felled trunk and watched a small animal run past, tripping over itself in a frantic effort to escape the heat and flames.
Hundreds of people had spread out, trying to clear the channel. Stringer heard a scream and turned just in time to see a group of fire fighters lost behind a new wall of flame.
We’re losing,
said Benjfold. It moves fast, Stringer, very fast, and is now far
south. Tell me,
he continued, sitting down beside Stringer, did you bring this upon us?
The question was asked so matter-of-factly that Stringer would not have
gotten angry even if he were less exhausted. No, I
didn’t. Believe me if you want, don’t if you don’t.
Well, this is the Golun-Patra.
So I’ve heard.
What do you think we should do now?
Stringer sighed, paused, and cocked his head. There was a spark in his
eye. Is there any way of getting far south, way
past the fire, far enough so that we have time to clear a great area?
We could take the boats and sail down the coast
for a beclad and start work there. But this is a dangerous time of Bannk to
be going far, I can tell you.
Do you have any choice?
The boats set sail within a quarter of a beclad. Ta-tjenen had several hundred fishing boats at its docks, and they were quickly loaded with whatever firefighting equipment could be found. Benjfold had decided to lead the contingent south, while Taljen would do what she could near Ta-tjenen.
Taljen caught Stringer by the arm as he left Uslid’s house with a sack slung over his shoulder.
You are going, Stringer.
It was not a question.
Yes,
he said, hardly looking back.
I don’t think you intend to return. I saw your eyes
at the mention of Glintz the other beclad in the tent.
Yes, I’m glad to hear it is far, but not too
far. What would you have done in my position? Thanks for everything you’ve
done.
Taljen’s voice rose to its upper range, the high, piercing upper range that
could shatter eardrums. I’ve done nothing more for
you, Alien, than I would have done for any Tjenen.
All right, have it your way: thanks for
nothing.
Stringer found Benjfold, and they made their way down the
winding street to the outer walls, which intersected the westbound shore
road. Stringer kicked away the rodents that got in his path.
The piers were not large, having been made for small boats. Choosing the smallest boat of the dozens that he could see, Stringer climbed in, throwing his sack over the bow before him. Benjfold followed and took the tiller.
The wind was a strong and steady southerly, never shifting much farther than southeast. Stringer had hoped the trip would be a delight. But Stringer wasn’t delighted. There were the waves that swelled and troughed, leaving huge valleys for the toy boats to vanish in. To his right, the only scenery was burned-out forest, an occasional flame visible through gray clouds and soot. On his left, the sun was streaked not only by the heavy clouds but by the dirty smoke that crept across the sea and flattened over the horizon.
Stringer leaned over the boat’s edge when he dared and stared at the beach for telclads on end. The water pounded hard, but every few hours it seemed as if the whole level on the each would rise and fall. It was the only thing that convinced Stringer that they were moving at all.
A beclad or two later, the boats pulled in permanently to shore, and the Tjenens began to disembark and head for the clearing. Stringer thought their group a ridiculously puny gesture, especially with the rains due to arrive any moment. But now he didn’t care.
He waited until everyone had left the boat except Benjfold, who seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move. Stringer obliged.
Don’t wait for me,
he said, drawing his
graser.
What are you doing?
Benjfold asked with a calm
that betrayed an expectation of the action.
Taking the boat south.
The reply was unexpected. Can you sail it?
It’s small enough. I’m no sailor, but I’ll
manage. I’ll have to. The wind is with me, and Glintz shouldn’t be
impossible to reach by any means.
Do you know where it is?
South. Seventeen or eighteen hundred
kilometers from here, I would guess.
The trip is dangerous and will be easier with
two.
Why should you?
You have helped us during the fire. I’ll help you
now. Let me tell someone to take charge while I’m gone.
They set sail in short order. Even so, they could see a doubly clouded northern sky and could almost hear the crackling of the flames and taste the bitter smoke.
Some hours or telclads later, Stringer fell asleep and Benjfold took over the sailing alone. The next thing Stringer saw was a cockeyed view of the boat tumbling away and water engulfing him. He coughed, spat, and struggled to stay on the surface. The boat was out of reach and gliding quickly away from him. Stringer pulled out his graser and fired at Benjfold’s head but missed.
Do you think I’d visit you on Glintz?
Benjfold
shouted as he steered the boat around, angling it out to sea. But here, Polkraitz Murderer, survive on this!
Benjfold hurled Stringer’s plastic sack overboard and it bobbed up and down
on the water. Stringer swam for the sack and tied it around his arm.
The boat was much too far now to overtake. Stringer swam instead for the shore, which was maybe a half-kilometer away. He dragged himself up on the beach, sack trailing behind him, and collapsed. His clothing, drenched and heavy, did not dry quickly, not now in late Bannk, and he was left shivering in the dirty wind.