Ivan heard knuckles cracking, and guessed the Second Hat was frowning, also, before he said, "I spoke the truth, was all. As soon as that idiot insulted you, I had this picture-of me with the Deux to keep safe, and you not there to turn to." He made a small cough. "I'm not much for false modesty, and in most circumstances I believe I'm capable of running this ship. Or any other."

  "Yes." Ivan nodded. "I'd agree with that."

  "But now-going back to face the Tsa again, with the Hoyfarul Drive out-I need that brain of yours. You make good decisions; you have the combat-type mind, like Rissa's, and Tregare's." Very briefly, Anders laughed. "I'm working on it. But I don't think I'm quite there, yet."

  Ivan had to smile. "We deserve a drink. Want to pour?" He waved toward the corner where the little bar-console sat. "Bourbon on ice, for me."

  Slowly, compared to what a coherent drive field could have done, the Deux's speed built. Peleter and Crowfoot, with Melaine Holmbach working extra hours as "gopher" for them, spent long days working over the Hoyfarul apparatus. But despite improvisations that sounded ingenious to Ivan, the FTL drive stayed dead.

  Ivan's original job on the Deux had been Gunnery Officer, but Dacia was the ship's best remaining gunner; he set her to instructing Ellalee and Alina. He didn't have enough people for separate operation of each turret, so he had Crowfoot rearrange the controls-the pilot handled the central turret and two "side gunners" each had charge of three-turret groups, set to traverse together. Heterodyne and convergence couldn't be synchronized

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  perfectly, but after a little practice Dacia said the system seemed to work pretty well.

  Ivan wasn't satisfied, though; he wanted to be able to do more. It should be possible, he thought, for a gunner to work from auditory signals. So, in one side-position, Crowfoot rigged the circuitry to feed a set of headphones.

  The trouble was that even with different signal patterns, Ivan couldn't sort out the heterodyne indications at his right ear from the range checks at his left. Finally, swearing, he found the "Stop" switch and got up. "Come on, Jere. Maybe coffee will liven up my thinking." In the galley Ivan talked of other matters, not consciously considering the gunnery problem. He knew how his mind could work, sometimes, and finally-

  "Got it!" He snapped his fingers. His mistake, he decided- but didn't say so-was going with Crowfoot's lead, when Crowfoot himself had never been able to work a turret. How to put it? "I think we went wrong, Jere, working one function into each ear."-

  Crowfoot's tone was mild. "How else would you suggest we do it?"

  Quickly, gulping his coffee, Ivan told his idea. Then they went upship and Crowfoot made some changes. When he was ready, Ivan-hands on his control levers-said, "Feed me heterodyne," and for a few minutes he worked with it. A steady tone now, fed to both ears equally; when it rose in pitch, it meant the circle on the screen was tilting to the right; and vice-versa when the pitch lowered. When it was exactly "on," the tone was pure; any deviation distorted the waveform and threw in extra harmonics. "Well, that part works."

  The range indicator was different. When either range light came on, a different, higher tone beeped into the corresponding ear. The farther off correct range, the faster the beeping.

  Very quickly, Ivan got the hang of it. "Now for all the marbles. Both signals at once." The sounds came, and for a few moments he couldn't sort them out. And then he could. When the simulation run ended, Crowfoot patted Ivan's shoulder.

  "I think "you have it whipped. Your score's not outstanding, but after all, it was your first run using this method."

  An hour later, Ivan's performance was within a few points of what he'd done when his eyes worked. Tired, he stretched and stood. "I'll need more practice, but it does work. Thanks, Jere."

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  When he told Dacia the results, over dinner, he tried to keep his voice casual. But of course he couldn't.

  In gunnery and pilot training, people began to level off at their own natural grades of skill-for the most part, the results pleased Ivan. His own shooting, he realized, was more useful to his ego than to the ship's safety. Nearly everybody else could do much the same as he could, in that line-and see what they were doing, as well. And most could do something he couldn't at all-operate the ship itself, guide it. He considered adding audible indicators to more of the ship's instruments, then realized the sheer number of signals he'd need, and growled to Dacia, "It'd sound like fifty cats fighting. Nobody could sort heads or tails out of it."

  And meanwhile the Deux built speed to as near light as fuel economy allowed, and pushed ahead, chewing time.

  XV. Tregare

  Tregare waited until evening to

  call council. Things were a mess, he knew, but he still felt good. For dinner he'd tried a really good-sized slab of tonguewalker haunch; he was coming to like the stuff, and so was his digestion. Now he sat back with a glass of brandy and waited for people to be ready to talk, and to listen.

  His leg, in the cast, itched where he couldn't scratch-but except for twinges, the ache was gone. He wished Jenise was doing as well; she still took pills, and couldn't wiggle her fingers much.

  She looked pretty good, though, except that Tregare wasn't used to everybody's bare scalps showing through short stubble. Of course, with his ears, who was he to talk? Setting down his brandy, he lit one of his few remaining cigars. "All right, folks?"

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  Talk stopped; he had the floor. Everybody knew the situation but he skimmed it anyway. "So for now, we have to figure we're on our own. Except, if the Deux got offworld, and I don't see why not, Ivan should have it back here in a week or two. And if he circles down to spot us, which seems reasonable, he should catch our signal."

  Sipping more brandy, he blew a smoke ring-and remembered when a younger Lisele always laughed and poked her finger through the hole. "But even if he does hear us," Tregare said, "what he can do about it depends on the Tsa-whether they're still around or not."

  "And now, Bran," said Rissa, "you have a point to make?"

  "No. A question to ask." He shrugged. "Goes without saying, we wait here as long as the Deux might still come looking-and a bit longer. Question is, if they don't come, what's our best bet?"

  "What's your own guess?" said Hagen Trent. "You must have one."

  Tregare grinned. "You first. Chairman gets the wrapup spot."

  Shrugging, Trent said, "I see three choices, none good. Camp here indefinitely, undertake to raise this scoutship to launching attitude, or pack up and hike out. I'd like another alternative."

  So would I. Tregare gave the nod to everyone in turn- Rissa, Jenise, Lisele and the two Shrakken. Sevshen didn't say anything; he rarely did. Tregare knew the alien understood human language, now, but he seldom used it. Stonzai said, "Not our world, this is. It we not know." Haltingly, then, she tried to explain something that at first Tregare didn't understand. It took some repetition.

  After a time, though, he stopped her. "Stonzai-you say the swamp's drying up, farther out from here?" She signed assent. "And faster, as time passes?" The same sign: Tregare looked around the group. "Does that click, now, with anything else we know? Anybody?"

  Rissa spoke. "This latitude gives rainy and dry seasons, only-the latter with much heat. The Deux's computer could inform us as to how orbital eccentricity and axiai tilt afflect those seasons. But I recall that at this time the planet is nearing its primary, not receding. So we must be entering a hotter, drier period."

  "Yeah." It sounded right. "So pretty soon we could move out with a fair chance of making it to the mountains ahead of the

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  next rains. The foothills, rather, where the jungle ends. Though maybe-" Tregare grinned. "Jungle, outside this swamp, might be fit to live in. For a while, anyway."

  Jenise Rorvik raised her good hand. "What we really want is to get back to Sassden, where we left the Deux. Clear across the mountains, though-too far, probably." She chewed her lip. "But wouldn't we have to be out of the jungle, to have much chance of sighting anything flying over, and being seen in return?"

  "Even jungles have open spaces," Tregare said. "Usually, I mean; I can't vouch for this one yet."

  Rissa cleared her throat.' "Then you feel we should prepare ourselves, waiting for the swamp to become passable, against a trek toward the mountains? In case no rescue comes?"

  "That's about it. We can't go yet, of course; I'm in no shape to hike on this leg, especially toting a pack. Jenise needs more time, too. But we might's well start getting ready. Including an exercise program, if we want to be in marching condition."

  Hagen Trent looked about as annoyed as he ever got, so Tregare caught his gaze and nodded. The man said, "You're not even considering the chance of getting the scout upright, and flying out?"

  "No." Pausing, Tregare thought how to say it. "Last time I was outside, I took a hard look and made a time estimate on that job."

  "I'd like to hear it." Trent sounded obstinate.

  "All right. Given solid ground, so the drive nodes wouldn't sink in the mud and blow us to plasma when we tried to lift, and given a moratorium on the next rains, so our work wouldn't be washed away when we were half-finished, my guess was four hundred days. And that was everybody working double shifts." He spread his hands. "And since we don't have solid ground and we do have to expect the rains again-"

  Hagen's mouth puckered like a hurt child's. "Say no more; you're already into overkill. But how can you be so sure? I thought / was the engineer in this crowd."

  "In a drive room, you are. But I built me a spaceport once. Not fancy-you remember it, Rissa. But I did learn how much work it takes to move dirt. Mud, I don't even want to find out about."

  The water level did lower; the exposed path slowly dried. As hiking became feasible, everyone took daily workouts. Tregare

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  discarded his crutch and nagged Rissa until she peeled the cast off him; then, face pale and teeth gritted, he practiced until he could walk without limping. It hurt like hell at first, but peace take him, he was going to be ready when the time came!

  Occasionally, Hagen Trent bagged a tonguewalker. Now they boiled the sliced portions free of toxins, irradiated the meat to sterilize it, and packed it into sealed containers-that way it would keep without refrigeration.

  "The hardest part," Tregare said, one day, "is figuring what to take along and what to leave." He waved a hand. "The scout's loaded with things we need, but we're limited to what we can carry." He scowled. "It's the choosing that drives me nuts."

  He showed Rissa his list, marked with scribbled changes until it was barely legible. Running a finger down the page, she nodded. "A good start, Bran. From our food stores, mostly concentrated items, and nothing that duplicates what we can expect to find as we go." The finger stopped. "This second energy gun. A large one? But-"

  "I thought about that a lot." Once discharged, the thing would be useless. And it weighed twice as much as the smaller ones-but it held nearly five times the charge, and could be set to discharge at the smaller-gun rate.

  At his explanation, she nodded again. "Yes. But in the long run we shall have to depend on the needle guns. And the ammunition for those, in quantity, is heavy."

  Tregare spread his hands. "Everything's heavy, when you add up enough to last us. But what choice do we have?"

  The scout stocked backpacks, since its emergency function was as a lifeboat, and survivors can't count on coming groundside in settled country; drawing a habitable world at ail would be a bonus.

  Tregare found a dozen packs, lightweight and sturdy. Leafing through the instruction sheets he saw how they hooked together so a person could carry one in front and one aft. It didn't look comfortable but he guessed it would work. In this heat, though...

  Considering the number of packs they could take and the capacity of each, he checked down his list. The list far outran the capacities. Too discouraged to curse, he stood. Rissa called to him. "Time for lunch, Bran!" Realizing he'd been hungry for some time but hadn't noticed, he turned and followed her to the control room.

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  The rest were already eating. Nobody talked much, and that suited Tregare. When he was done-irritable, he skipped coffee- Rissa said, "Bran, I would like to show you something. Outside."

  Again he followed her. Now, except for scattered daubs, the airlock was free of mud, and outdoors the footing was solid. She pointed forward, where a metal framework leaned against the scout.

  "See?" He looked, and it didn't make much sense. A kind of ladder, more than two meters long and about three decimeters wide. But with rungs and diagonal braces both curved, convex downward, the way the thing was leaning. The sidepieces' upper ends were bent down to form handles; there, and spaced along the sidebars, eyebolts were fastened.

  At the bottom the sidebars fastened to a metal sheet that curved up, as the bars did, in an arc of about a radian. Of sturdy weight, the sheet was corrugated, grooves parallel to the framework's length, and rounded at the free end. And the whole thing was put together with bolts and rivets, not welded.

  Rissa's face had an expectant look. Puzzled, Tregare said, "I'll bite. What is it?"

  "A travois, Bran. As used by the aborigines of North America. They lacked the wheel, you see, but a person or draft animal can drag a much greater load than could be carried. So I_"

  "Peace be kept!" Turning, he grabbed and hugged her. "Rissa, I think you just put this outfit on a paying basis!" Now he inspected the device more carefully, asking questions and making an occasional suggestion. "At the shoulder harness we'll need a quick release, some kind of ripcord. So if a tonguewalker charges, for instance, a person can get out of the way fast."

  Rissa agreed, and marked down a note. Hagen Trent came over to join them; Rissa said, "Tregare approves our work. Bran, Hagen designed the bracing, for best strength with least weight. And all the riveting is his work."

  Tregare shook the man's hand. "Good on you, friend." He raised an eyebrow. "One question. Why the bolts and rivets?"

  "Magnesium," said Rissa. When he still scowled, she added, "We are not on Inconnu Deux, with access to an inert-gas environment for welding." Tregare's palm slapped his forehead, and he laughed.

  "Of course!" he said. "A nice big flare and a lot of smoke." Then he got down to business. First the three of them loaded packs, helter-skelter with whatever came to hand, to

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  reasonable carrying weights. "Now," said Tregare, "we're going to test this out scientifically. Maybe not very, but some."

  So each, carrying a pack, walked along the path to where the deep water began, and back. After resting, they all tried the travois over the same course with various loads, for comparison. The results-ratio of burdens for roughly the same effort- disappointed Tregare, and he said so.

  "You're not looking at the whole picture," said Trent. "We figure on three of these gadgets. Consider that ratio, to six individuals playing packhorse, and see how it looks."

  Tregare did, and he nodded. "It's better, all right."

  "And the adults form two reliefs, Bran," said Rissa. "As well matched for strength as we can manage. While one team drags the travoises, the other can walk unhampered."

  "Yeah," Tregare said. "Everybody works only half the time. I like it." He grinned. "As of now, we all practice with this thing."

  Back in the scout, reworking his list, Tregare felt better. He still couldn't take everything he'd like-not even a lot of things he was sure they'd need. But then he'd never really expected to. And at least the percentage had gone up now.

  In case a travois broke-take along extra bolts!-or had to be abandoned, they'd still need the packs. So use them, on each travois, as stowage units. Of course there'd be extra stuff to be bundled separately; that was all right, too.

  Loading. Heavier things at the rear, the bottom of a travois; let the ground, not the person, argue with gravity. On level terrain and solid footing, anyway; crossing submerged patches it might be better the other way around. And don't forget some inflatable buoyancy bags; crossing water, they'd make all the difference.

  The bottom skid, smooth curved metal, grooved in the direction of travel, should help with friction and slippage. Good enough; for the first time, Tregare felt that things might actually work.

  So at dinner he was in a mood for conversation. Lisele obliged him, telling how a tonguewalker had got away, and what its escape had shown to her and Stonzai. "She hit it good with the needlegun; she really did. And we dodged, one to each side the way we do now, so it couldn't make up its mind. But it kept going somehow-plowed through all that thick brush and into the water." Looking exasperated, the child sighed. "Almost ten

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  meters out, before it sank. The water's too deep there; we couldn't get it."

 

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