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25: The Garden

The opinion of the strongest is always the best.

—JEAN DE LA FONTAINE

COUNTDOWN: H PLUS FIVE WEEKS

They had floated forward, then inward along half a mile of spiral corridor, not quite in free-fall, but with so little gravity that motion was difficult for the newcomers. Wes tried to help where he could.

Two alien warriors carried large boxes. Tashayamp led the way.

A huge door opened for them: a cargo door, much bigger than would be needed to pass a fi'. They entered.

This huge chamber must be along the axis of the ship, forward of the chamber of the Podo Thuktun. A line of yellow-white light ran down the middle, too bright to look at directly. Elsewhere there was green, everywhere green, with splashes of carmine and yellow. Alien plants grew in cages, rooted in thick wet pads fixed along the walls. Green banners flapped in the breeze from the air conditioning. A field of yellow flowers turned as if to look at the intruders.

Here was a roughly rectangular block of loose dirt. Vines wrapped it loosely, and it was riddled with seven-inch holes. A head popped from a hole and was gone before Wes could react. A streamlined head, it had been, like a ferret's, with red beads for eyes.

It was, finally, like being on another world.

Wes stole a glance at the others. Jeri Wilson was keeping her calm. Carrie Woodward expected to be killed at any moment. The prospect didn't seem to frighten her much. Before she allowed herself to be escorted from the cell, she had led the others in prayer, and stared disapprovingly at Wes Dawson when he didn't join in.

Melissa and Gary were gaping: not frightened, but delighted. Plants, birds, animals—and distant objects, after confinement in cells and corridors. Melissa pointed at something above them. It was gone before Wes could see it. but they all stopped to look.

Takpusseh looked back impatiently. "Come!" They followed hastily. Otherwise the warrior fithp would use their gun butts as prods, not brutally but playfully, as if they were herding children.

A tree grew along the ship's axis, thirty feet tall. One continuous green leaf ran round it in a spiral. Guy wires along its trunk braced it against lateral acceleration.

Something dived at Wes's head. He ducked as the warrior behind him casually brushed the thing aside with his trunk. The thing flapped off shrilling a musical curse. A bird. They were everywhere: long-necked birds with large, colorful aft wings that turned up sharply at the tips, and small canards set to either side of the long neck. Wes gaped in wonder. "Is this your food source?" he asked.

"Ours and yours." Takpusseh waved his trunk at a plot of bare dirt. It must have been recently cleared: dust and plant detritus floated in the air around it. The teacher said, "Now you have plants from your own world to grow here. Space has been set aside."

John Woodward came forward to the boxes of soil. Gingerly he took a handful and rubbed it in his fingers. "Good Kansas soil," he said. "Maybe we'll live long enough for something to grow."

"You will live," Takpusseh said. He peered at the farmer. "Do you suffer for your distance from your home? One day you will land with us."

Woodward didn't answer. His eyes glittered.

"For now you will grow your own food," Tashayamp said. "On the level trays, and in those." She pointed to cages filled with earth. "There is a flower. This." She held out a flower, bright, shaped like a long, thin trumpet. It was as large as a sunflower, with wild colors. Strange shapes lurked deep within the blossom.

She's learned English fast, Wes thought. But her posture is—strange. Why? I wish I could read their body language.

"We have seeds," she said. "You will grow this in soil from your world."

"What if it won't grow?" John Woodward demanded.

"It will grow. If need, we will mix soil from other world. It will grow."

"And that's important?" Wes asked.

"It may be," she said. She glanced at Takpusseh. "You will begin now."

"You will also grow to feed you." Takpusseh took a seed packet from one of the boxes. It was tiny in his ropy digits. He peered at it, tore it open. Some of the seeds spilled. A warrior was prepared: he swept a fine-mesh net through the cloud. Takpusseh himself ignored the incident. "Farming is different when you float. Seed must be pushed in, so, with small tool . . . no, your digits are small enough. Water comes from below, from wall. Against forward wall, find special tools. Sticks to hold plants against thrust. Tools to stir dirt."

John and Carrie Woodward were examining the dirt plot. They began taking seeds out of the boxes. John said. "Plants should grow taller here," with a question in his voice.

The children moved warily away, their eyes wide with wonder. Something like a bird whizzed past.

"Not there," Tashayamp called. She motioned the children back to the group. "You wait here: Do not disturb those—"

Aft, from the grove of spiral-wound trees, came the wind instrument murmur of fithp voices.

* * *

The Herdmaster had climbed a huge pillar plant. Like the humans themselves, in the minuscule gravity he had become a brachiator. He found the viewpoint odd, amusing. He watched.

In a forward corner of the Garden the human prisoners worked. The Herdmaster admired their agility, newly trained dirtyfeet that they were. They seemed docile enough as they planted alien seeds in alien soil. Yet the Breakers' disturbing reports could not be ignored much longer. It was more than enough to make his head ache.

Yet here were smells to ease his mind: plants in bloom, and a melancholy whiff of funereal scent. The end of life for the Traveler Fithp was the funeral pit, and then the Garden. Twelve fithp warriors, wounded on Winterhome, had gone to the funeral pit after Digit Ship Six returned them to Message Bearer.

The Garden was in perpetual bloom. Seasons mixed here, created by differing intensities of light, warmth, moisture. The alien growths might require alterations in weather. He hoped otherwise. Winterhome would be hospitable to Garden life, if the humans actually persuaded anything to grow here.

The Herdmaster would have preferred to loll in warm mud, but Message Bearer's mudrooms had been drained while her drive guided the Foot toward its fiery fate. He had sought rest in the Garden; and it was here that the Year Zero Fithp confronted him. In the riot of scents he had not smelled their presence. Suddenly faces were looking at him over the edges of leaf-spiral, below him on the trunk of the pillar plant.

He looked back silently, letting them know that they had disturbed his time of quiet.

Born within a few eight-days of each other in an orgy of reproduction that had not been matched before or since, the Year Zero Fithp all looked much alike: smooth of skin, long-limbed and lean. Why not? But age clusters didn't always think so much alike. These were the inner herd that led the larger herd of dissidents.

One was different. He looked older than the rest. His skin was darkened and roughened, one leg was immobilized with braces, and there was a look. This one had seen horrors.

With the Advisor's consent, the Herdmaster had chosen to divide the Year Zero Fithp. Half the males had gone down to Winterhome. They were dead, or alive and circling Winterhome after the natives' counterattack. That injured one must be fresh from the wars.

The Herdmaster's claws gripped the trunk as he faced nine fithp below him. For a moment he thought to summon warriors; then a sense of amusement came over him. Dissidents they might be, but these were not rebels. So. They sought to awe the Herdmaster, did they?

And they had brought a hero fresh from the wars. No, these were no rogues. They wanted only to increase their influence . . .

"You have found me," he said mildly. "Speak."

Still they were silent. Two of the smaller humans wandered toward the group, but were retrieved by Tashayamp. Now the humans worked more slowly. They watched, no doubt, though they must be out of earshot. What passed here might affect all the herds of Winterhome. Still it was an imposition, and the Herdmaster would have asked Tashayamp to remove them if he could have spared the attention.

Finally one spoke. "Advisor Fathisteh-tulk had said that he would gather with us. He said that he had something to tell us. He did not come. We are told that he has not been seen on the bridge in two days."

"He has neglected his duties," Pastempeh-keph said mildly. "He has avoided the bridge, and his mate, nor does he answer calls. I have alerted my senior officers, but no others. Is it your will that I should ask for his arrest?"

They looked at each other, undecided. One said firmly, "No, Herdmaster." He was a massive young fi', posed a bit ahead of the others: Rashinggith, the Defensemaster's son.

"So you do not know where he is either?"

"We had hoped to find him through you, Herdmaster."

"Ha. I have asked his mate. She has not seen him, yet she has a newborn to show." The Herdmaster became serious. "There are matters to decide, and we have no Advisor. What must I do?"

They looked at each other again. "The teqthuktun—"

"Precisely." Pastempeh-keph breathed more easily. They still worried about the Law and their religion. Not rogues, not yet. "I can take no counsel nor make any decisions without advice from the sleepers. It is the teqthuktun, the pact we made with them, and Fistarteh-thuktun insists upon it. Now I have no Advisor, and there are matters to decide. Speak. What must I do?"

"You must find another Advisor," the wounded one said.

"Indeed." This hardly required discussion. The Traveler fithp might continue on their predetermined path, but no new decisions could be made without an Advisor.

Fathisteh-tulk might be dead, or too badly injured to perform his duties. He might have shirked his duty, crippling the herd at a critical moment. He might have been kidnapped . . . and if some herd within the Traveler Herd had been pushed to such an act, it would be stripped of its status. But the Advisor would still lose his post, for arousing such anger, for being so careless, for being gone.

The Herdmaster had already decided on his successor. Still, he must be found. "You, the injured one—"

"Herdmaster, I am Eight-Squared Leader Chintithpit-mang."

He had heard that name; but where? Later. "You must come fresh from the digit ship. Do you know anything of this? Or are you only here to add numbers?"

"I know nothing of the Advisor. What I do know—"

"Later. You, Rashinggith. If you knew where the Advisor might be, you would go there."

His digits knotted and flexed. "I assuredly would, Herdmaster."

"But you might not tell me. Is there a place known only to dissidents? A place where he might commune with other dissidents, or only with himself?"

"No. Herdmaster, we fear for him."

There must be such a place, but the dissidents themselves would have searched it by now. "I too fear for Fathisteh-tulk," the Herdmaster admitted. "I went so far as to examine records of use of the airlocks, following which I summoned a list of fithp in charge of guarding the airlocks—"

"I chance to know that no dissidents guard the airlocks," Rashinggith said.

An interesting admission. "I was looking for more than dissidents. Did it strike any of you that what Fathisteh-tulk was doing was dangerous? Consider the position of the sleepers. In herd rank the Advisor is the only sleeper of any real authority. The sleepers could not ask his removal. Yet he consistently opposed the War for Winterhome. How many sleepers are dissidents? I know only of one: Fathisteh-tulk."

They looked at each other, and the Herdmaster knew at once that other sleepers held dissident views. Later. "There are sleepers in charge of guarding the airlocks. The drive is more powerful than the pull of the Foot's mass. A corpse would drop behind, but would not disintegrate. The drive flame is hot but not dense. Our telescopes have searched for traces of a corpse in our wake." Pause. "There is none.

"Shall we consider murder, then? By dissidents seeking a martyr, or conservative sleepers avoiding future embarrassment? Or did Fathisteh-tulk learn something that some fi' wanted hidden? Or is he alive, hiding somewhere for his own purposes? Rashinggith, what did Fathisteh-tulk plan to tell you?" The Herdmaster looked about him. "Do any of you know? Did he leave hints? Did he even have interesting questions when last you saw him?"

"We don't know he's dead," Rashinggith said uneasily.

"Enough," the Herdmaster said. "We will find him. I hope to ask him where he has been." That was a half-truth, Fathisteh-tulk would cause minimal embarrassment by being dead. On to other matters. The Herdmaster had remembered a name.

"Chintithpit-mang, you had something to say?"

Nervous but dogged, the injured warrior got his mouth working. "The prey, the humans, they don't know how to surrender."

"They can be taught."

"There was a—a burly one, bigger than most. I whipped his toy weapon from his hand and knocked him down and put my foot on his chest and he clawed at me with his bony digits until I pushed harder. I think I crushed him. Of the prisoners we brought back, only the scarlet-headed exotic would help us select human food! Even after we take their surrender they do not cooperate. Must we teach them to surrender, four billion of them, one at a time? We must abandon the target world. If we kill them all, the stink will make Winterhome like one vast funeral pit!"

Chintithpit-mang was one of six officers under Siplisteph.

Siplisteph was a sleeper; his mate had not survived frozen sleep, and he had not mated since. He had reached Winterhome as eight-cubed leader of the intelligence group. It was an important post, and Siplisteph had risen higher still due to deaths among his superiors. The Herdmaster intended to ask him to become his Advisor, subject to the approval of the females of the sleeper herd-and Fistarteh-thuktun, as keeper of the teqthuktun.

Chintithpit-mang was among those who might have Siplisteph's post.

"Why did you seek me?" the Herdmaster demanded.

The response was unexpected: first one, then others, began a keening wail. The rest joined.

It was the sound made by lost children.

Frightening. Why do I feel the urge to join my voice to theirs?

"We no longer know who we are, Herdmaster," Chintithpit-mang blurted. "Why are we here?"

"We bear the thuktunthp."

"The creatures do not seek the thuktunthp. They have their own way." Chintithpit-mang insisted.

"If they do not know the thuktunthp, how can they know they do not seek them?" Could this one be worthy of promotion? Are any? Shall I ask him to remain? No. Now is not the time to judge him, fresh from battle and still twitching, injured, and plunged suddenly into the scents of blooming Winter Flower and sleeper females in heat. "Chintithpit-mang, you need time and rest to recover from your experience. Go now. All of you, go."

For one moment they stood. Then they filed away.

The Herdmaster remained in the Garden, trying to savor its peace.

Chintithpit-mang did not now seem a candidate for high office. Another dissident! Yet he had fought well on Winterhome; his record was exemplary. Give him a few days. Meanwhile, interview his mate. Then see if she could pull him together. He didn't remember Shreshleemang well . . . though the mang family was a good line. At a Shipmaster's rank the female must be suitable and competent.

Where was Fathisteh-tulk? Murdered or kidnapped. He had suspected the Year Zero Fithp, but that now seemed unlikely. They were nervous, disturbed, as well they should be; but not nervous enough. They could not have hidden that from him. Who, then, had caused the Herdmaster's Advisor to vanish? How many? Of what leaning? He might face a herd too large to fear the justice of the Traveler Herd; though the secrecy with which they had acted argued against it.

There were herds within herds within the Traveler Herd. It must have been like this on the Homeworld too, though in greater, deeper, more fantastical variety. Even here: sleepers, spaceborn, dissidents; Fistarteh-thuktun's core of tradition-minded historians, the Breakers' group driving themselves mad while trying to think like alien beings: the Herdmaster must balance them like a pyramid of smooth rocks in varying thrust.

* * *

"He is late," Dmitri whispered. "We must go."

"Not yet. We will wait for him," Arvid Rogachev said.

"But—"

"We will wait."

Dmitri shrugged.

He obeys me because he has no choice, yet he considers himself my superior. Perhaps he is. He is a better strategist.

There was a rustle behind them, and Nikolai's legless form appeared from a lateral shaft. He fell to the corridor between them, catching himself with his arms just before he struck the deck. Once more Arvid marveled at how agile a legless man could be in low gravity.

"Where have you been?" Dmitri demanded.

Nikolai ignored him and turned to Arvid. "Comrade Commander, I have success," he said.

"Come." Arvid led the way out of the air shaft. They took their time about attaching the grill covers. Arvid worked in silence. Although he didn't feel especially tired, he thought of how exhausted he was, and presently he felt it. Be wary. Do not let them know our true strength. Dmitri says this. I am beginning to think like KGB now. Is this good?

"I have seen women," Nikolai said in an undertone.

"Ah," Dmitri said.

Arvid felt a twinge. Women! I have been long in space—"Where?"

"In the center of the ship, in a garden area, Comrade Commander. They were with the American, Dawson."

Dawson! How has he deserved this—

"The newly arrived warriors," Dmitri said. "They came with those. New prisoners from Earth. Were they Russian?"

"No, Comrade Colonel. They were by their dress American. There were children also. Three women, two children, a man, and Dawson. I could not know what they were saying."

Nikolai lifted the heavy grill. Crippled, Arvid thought. He has more strength in his arms than I have in my legs.

"Tell us," Dmitri said.

"As you ordered, I explored farther than ever before. At first I took each turn that presented itself. There are grills everywhere. There are radial ducts. Some ducts are too small even for me, but"—Nikolai stretched his arms above his head, exhaled completely, and grinned—"I can make myself narrow.

"The fore end of Thuktun Flishithy is too far. We expect to find the bridge there, but I made no try to reach it. I saw a big room full of sleeping fithp, all females, sleeping with all four feet gripping the wall rugs, like gigantic fleas. I saw a slaughterhouse or a kitchen. Fithp were cutting up plants and animal parts and—and arranging them, but there was nothing like a stove.

"I tired of this and went inward along radial ducts. I found the room of the Podo Thuktun, and the priest all alone at the television screen. He muttered to himself, too low to understand. I found the greenhouse region. It is lighted. It was there that I saw Dawson and the newcomers. They were all at work planting things. The garden is at the center of the ship. There were many fithp.

"I saw no need to watch Dawson longer, and I had little time, so I continued aft. I found what may be a bridge aft of the greenhouse. No ducts run aft of that point. It may be an engine room, serving the main drive, but it is also an emergency bridge."

"Da," Dimitri said. "At the axis it would be quite safe, like the Podo Thuktun. So?"

"The room is circled by television screens, square and thick, with the same proportions as the Podo Thuktun. I saw our prison, empty, of course. I saw Dawson and one of the newcomers, a redhaired woman, working in the garden. They worked together, but they ignored each other. I saw you, Comrade Rogachev. Heh-heh-heh. Very industrious you looked."

"Go on," Arvid said,

"There was much on those screens. One showed three of the fithp watching a viewscreen. On the screen they were watching, were scenes of a man and a woman—Comrades, the man had an enormous pecker, and she swallowed it, all of it."

"What is this?" Dmitri asked sharply.

"I have told you what I saw," Nikolai said. "On one viewscreen were three fithp who watched a viewscreen. On that viewscreen was that scene, and others like it."

"What else did the woman do?" Arvid asked.

"Nonsense," Dmitri hissed. "What did the fithp do when they saw this?"

"Comrade Colonel, they must have found it interesting, because they rewound the tape and watched it again. Then they spoke among themselves, and spoke into communications equipment."

"So," Dmitri said to himself.

"What?" Arvid demanded.

"I do not know why, but I find it disturbing," Dmitri said. "Did you see who they spoke with?"

"No. Soon that screen was blank. I waited, but there was no more. Then when I was ready to leave, I saw two views of the main control room, and there is a window, so it must be at the fore end. I knew there must be other screens, so I circled through the ducts for another view." Nikolai's voice had dropped until he was nearly whispering. Dmitri and Arvid crowded close. They pretended to have difficulty replacing the fastenings for the grill.

"I saw outside. Four screens in a row. Three look at the stars, and the views move back and forth. So does the fourth, but it looks out on black rock. At one end of its swing the screen looks along the hull of Thuktun Flishithy. The fore end is right up against the rock,

"Do you remember the films they showed us? Thuktun Flishithy leaving that other star? The nose was up against a kind of ball, pushing it. Now it is against black rock that has been carved like the kind of sculpture the Americans in New York are so fond of, twisted shapes that tell nothing."

Arvid said, "So they have an asteroid base."

"But they are pushing it," Dmitri said. "Can't you feel it?"

The hum of the drive: he had learned to ignore it, but it was there. "Pushing it—yes. Where? I cannot think we will like the answer. So, Nikolai, you saw along the hull. Was it smooth, or was there detail?"

"I was lucky. One of the star-views turned to look sideways at an oval hatch. It opened while I watched, and a big metal snake uncoiled. Then the view shifted, and it was a view from the head of the snake, looking at another metal snake as it coiled itself into its own hatch. Then it turned and looked back along the hull. I saw quite a lot before it turned again and looked at nothing but stars. Aft of the ship is a violet-white haze. Ships are mounted along the rim, big ships, but there were many empty mountings."

"Empty. Good," Dmitri said. "Perhaps ships we have destroyed."

"And perhaps ships that remain to attack our world," Arvid said. "You have done well, Nikolai."

Women! It has been long . . .

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