JACK HOLLOWAY LEANED forward for his tobacco pouch, his eyes
still on the microbook-screen. The Fuzzies on the floor in front of
him were also looking at the screen, yeeking softly to one another;
they had long ago learned not to make talk with Big One voices
around Pappy Jack when he was reading. They were reading, or trying
to, too; at least, they were identifying the letters and spelling
out the words aloud, and arguing about what they meant. They
probably missed Little Fuzzy; whenever they were stumped on
anything, they always asked him. Jack blew through his pipe stem,
and began refilling the pipe from the pouch.
The communication-screen buzzed. He finished refilling the pipe
and zipped the pouch shut. The Fuzzies were saying, “Pappy
Jack; screeno.” He said, “Quiet, kids,” and
snapped it on. As soon as they saw Victor Grego’s face in it,
they began yelling, “Heyo, Pappy Vic!”
“Hello, Victor.” Then he saw Grego’s face, and
stopped, apprehension stabbing him. “What is it,
Victor?” he asked.
“Little Fuzzy,” Grego began. His face twitched.
“Jack, if you want a shot at me, you’re entitled to
it.”
“Don’t talk like a fool; what’s wrong?”
By now, he was frightened.
Grego said, “We think he’s gone into the
river,” as though every word were being pulled out of him
with red-hot pincers.
Jack’s mind’s eye saw the Yellowsand River rushing
down through the canyon. He felt a chill numbness spread through
him.
“You ‘think.’ Aren’t you sure? What
happened?”
“He’s been missing since between 1530 and
1700,” Grego said. “He and Diamond lay down for a nap
in the afternoon. When Diamond woke, he was gone; he’d taken
his shoulder bag and his chopper-digger with him. Diamond went out
to look for him, and couldn’t find him. He came back while
some of us were having cocktails and told me. I supposed he’d
just gone out to look for a land-prawn, but I didn’t want him
running around the diggings alone. Harry Steefer called the captain
on duty at the police but and had a general alert put out—just
everybody keep an eye open for him.
“He didn’t show up by dinner-time, and I began to
get worried. I ordered a search and took Diamond up in a
supervisory jeep, with a loudspeaker to call him, and we hunted all
over the area. Diamond assured me that he’d warned him
against going down in the canyon, but we began looking there. After
it got dark, we put up lorries with floodlights in the canyon.
Maybe I should have called you then, but we were expecting to find
him every minute.”
“Wouldn’t have done any good. I couldn’t have
done anything but worry, and you were doing that
already.”
“Well, about half an hour ago, a couple of cops in a jeep
were going along the edge of the river, and one of them saw a glint
of metal among the rocks. He looked at it with binoculars, and it
was Little Fuzzy’s chopper-digger. He called in right away. I
went down; I’ve just come back from there. That’s all
there was, just the chopper-digger. The place is all loose rock
that’s been thrown down from above; it’s right under
where we made one of the prospect digs. We think the loose rock
started to slide and he threw the chopper-digger out of his hand,
trying to catch himself, and the slide took him down . . . Jack, the
whole damn thing’s my fault . . . ”
“Oh, hell; you couldn’t keep him on a leash all the
time. You thought he’d be all right with Diamond, and Diamond
thought he was going to take a nap too, and . . . ” He paused
briefly. “I’m coming up right away; I’ll bring
some people along. That river’s a hell of a thing for anybody
to get into, but he might have gotten out again.” He looked
at the clock. “Be seeing you in about an hour.”
Then he screened Gerd van Riebeek, who was getting ready for
bed, and told him. Gerd cursed, then repeated what he had been told
over his shoulder to Ruth, who was somewhere out of
screen-range.
“Okay, I’ll be along. I’ll call Protection
Force and have Bjornsen and the rest of the gang who were up there
with me called out; they know the place. Be seeing you.”
Then Gerd blanked out. Jack kicked his feet out of his moccasins
and pulled on his boots, buckled on his pistol and got his hat and
a jacket. There was a kitbag ready, packed for emergencies. Weather
forecast hadn’t been good; southwest winds, with a warm front
running into a cold front at sea to the west.
He got a raincape too. He only had to wait a few minutes before
Gerd was at the door. Ruth was with him.
“I’ll Fuzzy-sit, and put them to bed,” she
said. “Or maybe they’d like to come down to our place
for tonight.” He nodded absently, and she continued:
“Jack, maybe he’s all right. Fuzzies can swim when they
have to, you know.”
Not in anything like Yellowsand Canyon. He wouldn’t bet on
a human Interstellar Olympic swimming champion in a place like
that. He said something, he didn’t know what, and he and Gerd
hurried to the hangar and got his car out.
After they were airborne, he wished he hadn’t let Gerd
take the controls; flying the car would have given him something to
concentrate on. As it was, all he could do was sit while the car
tore north through the night.
In about ten minutes they began running into cloud—that rain the
forecast had warned of. They got below the clouds. Maybe they were
flying through rain now; an aircar at Mach 3 could go through an
equatorial cloudburst on Mimir without noticing it. He could see
lightning to the northwest, and then to the west. Then there was a
blaze of electric light on the underside of the clouds ahead.
It was drizzling thinly when they set down at the mining camp at
Yellowsand. Grego was waiting for him, so was Harry Steefer, the
Company Police chief who had transferred his headquarters to
Yellowsand when the mining had begun. They shook hands with him,
Grego hesitantly.
“Nothing yet, Jack,” he said. “We’ve
been over that canyon inch by inch ever since I called you. Just
nothing but that chopper-digger.”
“Victor, you’re not to blame for anything. If
blaming anybody means anything. And Diamond’s not to blame,
and I don’t even think Little Fuzzy’s too much to
blame. He wanted to see what it was like down there, and maybe he
thought he’d find a zatku. Aren’t many zatku around
Hoksu-Mitto anymore.” Hell, he wasn’t talking to Grego,
he was talking to himself. “Hirohito Bjornsen’s on his
way, with the gang he had here before you took over.”
“He’s not in the canyon at all; we’re sure of
that. We’re looking along both banks below, but I don’t
think he got out of it. Not alive.”
“I know what it’s like. Hell, I discovered it. Now I
wish I hadn’t.”
“Jack, I’d give every sunstone in this damned
mountain if . . . ” Grego began, then stopped, as though it were
the most useless thing in the world to say, which it was.
Bjornsen arrived with a combat car and two patrol cars. George
Lunt was along, and so was Pancho Ybarra. They spent the night
searching, or drinking coffee in the headquarters hut, listening to
reports and watching screen-views. The sky lightened to a solid
dull gray; finally the floodlights went off. The rain continued,
falling harder, a constant drumming on the arched roof of the
hut.
“We’ve been halfway to the mouth of Lake-Chain
River,” Bjornsen reported. “We didn’t see
anything of him on either side of the river. If the visibility
wasn’t so bad . . . ”
“Visibility, what visibility?” a Company cop wanted
to know. “Anything down there I can see, I can hit with a
pistol, the way the fog’s closing in.”
“Damn river’s up about six inches since
midnight,” somebody else said. “It’ll keep on
rising, too.” He invited them to listen to that obscenely
pejorative rain.
Jack started to yawn and bit on his pipe stem. Grego, across the
rough deal table, was half-asleep already, his head nodding slowly
forward and then jerking up.
“Anybody fit to carry on for a while?” he asked.
“I’m going to lie down; wake me up if anybody hears
anything.”
There were a couple of Army cots at the end of the hut. He rose
and went toward them, unbuckling his belt as he went, sitting down
on one to pull off his boots. He was about to stretch himself out
when he remembered that he still had his hat on.
JACK HOLLOWAY LEANED forward for his tobacco pouch, his eyes
still on the microbook-screen. The Fuzzies on the floor in front of
him were also looking at the screen, yeeking softly to one another;
they had long ago learned not to make talk with Big One voices
around Pappy Jack when he was reading. They were reading, or trying
to, too; at least, they were identifying the letters and spelling
out the words aloud, and arguing about what they meant. They
probably missed Little Fuzzy; whenever they were stumped on
anything, they always asked him. Jack blew through his pipe stem,
and began refilling the pipe from the pouch.
The communication-screen buzzed. He finished refilling the pipe
and zipped the pouch shut. The Fuzzies were saying, “Pappy
Jack; screeno.” He said, “Quiet, kids,” and
snapped it on. As soon as they saw Victor Grego’s face in it,
they began yelling, “Heyo, Pappy Vic!”
“Hello, Victor.” Then he saw Grego’s face, and
stopped, apprehension stabbing him. “What is it,
Victor?” he asked.
“Little Fuzzy,” Grego began. His face twitched.
“Jack, if you want a shot at me, you’re entitled to
it.”
“Don’t talk like a fool; what’s wrong?”
By now, he was frightened.
Grego said, “We think he’s gone into the
river,” as though every word were being pulled out of him
with red-hot pincers.
Jack’s mind’s eye saw the Yellowsand River rushing
down through the canyon. He felt a chill numbness spread through
him.
“You ‘think.’ Aren’t you sure? What
happened?”
“He’s been missing since between 1530 and
1700,” Grego said. “He and Diamond lay down for a nap
in the afternoon. When Diamond woke, he was gone; he’d taken
his shoulder bag and his chopper-digger with him. Diamond went out
to look for him, and couldn’t find him. He came back while
some of us were having cocktails and told me. I supposed he’d
just gone out to look for a land-prawn, but I didn’t want him
running around the diggings alone. Harry Steefer called the captain
on duty at the police but and had a general alert put out—just
everybody keep an eye open for him.
“He didn’t show up by dinner-time, and I began to
get worried. I ordered a search and took Diamond up in a
supervisory jeep, with a loudspeaker to call him, and we hunted all
over the area. Diamond assured me that he’d warned him
against going down in the canyon, but we began looking there. After
it got dark, we put up lorries with floodlights in the canyon.
Maybe I should have called you then, but we were expecting to find
him every minute.”
“Wouldn’t have done any good. I couldn’t have
done anything but worry, and you were doing that
already.”
“Well, about half an hour ago, a couple of cops in a jeep
were going along the edge of the river, and one of them saw a glint
of metal among the rocks. He looked at it with binoculars, and it
was Little Fuzzy’s chopper-digger. He called in right away. I
went down; I’ve just come back from there. That’s all
there was, just the chopper-digger. The place is all loose rock
that’s been thrown down from above; it’s right under
where we made one of the prospect digs. We think the loose rock
started to slide and he threw the chopper-digger out of his hand,
trying to catch himself, and the slide took him down . . . Jack, the
whole damn thing’s my fault . . . ”
“Oh, hell; you couldn’t keep him on a leash all the
time. You thought he’d be all right with Diamond, and Diamond
thought he was going to take a nap too, and . . . ” He paused
briefly. “I’m coming up right away; I’ll bring
some people along. That river’s a hell of a thing for anybody
to get into, but he might have gotten out again.” He looked
at the clock. “Be seeing you in about an hour.”
Then he screened Gerd van Riebeek, who was getting ready for
bed, and told him. Gerd cursed, then repeated what he had been told
over his shoulder to Ruth, who was somewhere out of
screen-range.
“Okay, I’ll be along. I’ll call Protection
Force and have Bjornsen and the rest of the gang who were up there
with me called out; they know the place. Be seeing you.”
Then Gerd blanked out. Jack kicked his feet out of his moccasins
and pulled on his boots, buckled on his pistol and got his hat and
a jacket. There was a kitbag ready, packed for emergencies. Weather
forecast hadn’t been good; southwest winds, with a warm front
running into a cold front at sea to the west.
He got a raincape too. He only had to wait a few minutes before
Gerd was at the door. Ruth was with him.
“I’ll Fuzzy-sit, and put them to bed,” she
said. “Or maybe they’d like to come down to our place
for tonight.” He nodded absently, and she continued:
“Jack, maybe he’s all right. Fuzzies can swim when they
have to, you know.”
Not in anything like Yellowsand Canyon. He wouldn’t bet on
a human Interstellar Olympic swimming champion in a place like
that. He said something, he didn’t know what, and he and Gerd
hurried to the hangar and got his car out.
After they were airborne, he wished he hadn’t let Gerd
take the controls; flying the car would have given him something to
concentrate on. As it was, all he could do was sit while the car
tore north through the night.
In about ten minutes they began running into cloud—that rain the
forecast had warned of. They got below the clouds. Maybe they were
flying through rain now; an aircar at Mach 3 could go through an
equatorial cloudburst on Mimir without noticing it. He could see
lightning to the northwest, and then to the west. Then there was a
blaze of electric light on the underside of the clouds ahead.
It was drizzling thinly when they set down at the mining camp at
Yellowsand. Grego was waiting for him, so was Harry Steefer, the
Company Police chief who had transferred his headquarters to
Yellowsand when the mining had begun. They shook hands with him,
Grego hesitantly.
“Nothing yet, Jack,” he said. “We’ve
been over that canyon inch by inch ever since I called you. Just
nothing but that chopper-digger.”
“Victor, you’re not to blame for anything. If
blaming anybody means anything. And Diamond’s not to blame,
and I don’t even think Little Fuzzy’s too much to
blame. He wanted to see what it was like down there, and maybe he
thought he’d find a zatku. Aren’t many zatku around
Hoksu-Mitto anymore.” Hell, he wasn’t talking to Grego,
he was talking to himself. “Hirohito Bjornsen’s on his
way, with the gang he had here before you took over.”
“He’s not in the canyon at all; we’re sure of
that. We’re looking along both banks below, but I don’t
think he got out of it. Not alive.”
“I know what it’s like. Hell, I discovered it. Now I
wish I hadn’t.”
“Jack, I’d give every sunstone in this damned
mountain if . . . ” Grego began, then stopped, as though it were
the most useless thing in the world to say, which it was.
Bjornsen arrived with a combat car and two patrol cars. George
Lunt was along, and so was Pancho Ybarra. They spent the night
searching, or drinking coffee in the headquarters hut, listening to
reports and watching screen-views. The sky lightened to a solid
dull gray; finally the floodlights went off. The rain continued,
falling harder, a constant drumming on the arched roof of the
hut.
“We’ve been halfway to the mouth of Lake-Chain
River,” Bjornsen reported. “We didn’t see
anything of him on either side of the river. If the visibility
wasn’t so bad . . . ”
“Visibility, what visibility?” a Company cop wanted
to know. “Anything down there I can see, I can hit with a
pistol, the way the fog’s closing in.”
“Damn river’s up about six inches since
midnight,” somebody else said. “It’ll keep on
rising, too.” He invited them to listen to that obscenely
pejorative rain.
Jack started to yawn and bit on his pipe stem. Grego, across the
rough deal table, was half-asleep already, his head nodding slowly
forward and then jerking up.
“Anybody fit to carry on for a while?” he asked.
“I’m going to lie down; wake me up if anybody hears
anything.”
There were a couple of Army cots at the end of the hut. He rose
and went toward them, unbuckling his belt as he went, sitting down
on one to pull off his boots. He was about to stretch himself out
when he remembered that he still had his hat on.