Vernor Vinge - Tatja Grimm's World

Svir had ended up near the head of the column. Even with good lighting, his two friends would have been out of sight most of the time.

Hmm. If he were Profirio, he would walk up here, too. Svir looked around with new interest. Who seemed a bit too lively? That was probably the wrong thing to look for: Profirio would be a great actor. Under other circumstances these thoughts would have filled him with fear: It was dark, the figures were indistinct, and one of them, perhaps right behind him, was a monster.

Svir was abruptly aware of the cold. He pulled his parka close and tensioned his crossbow.

There was conversation nearby. Low muttering came past the sounds of the wind. There was more than one voice; maybe three or four. Some people can grumble even when they’re exhausted. And one of the speakers might be Profirio, gathering supporters. No doubt he could be as fiendishly persuasive as Tatja and Jolle. Svir dropped back till he was even with the sounds. His prospects were in front of the lead cart. Two of them were pulling it. The six-foot tank on the cart emitted its perfume in tiny hisses.

A hand closed on his shoulder. He leaped half a foot into the air, spastically squeezing his crossbow’s trigger. But the safety was set and he was spared the mortal embarrassment of shooting himself with an explosive bolt.

“Sorry, friend, I slipped.”

Svir turned to look at the other. It was possible the fellow really had slipped. Though the floor was covered with decomposed granite, there were open patches of ice. But at the head of the column, such patches were quite dry. The man released his arm. There was a glimmer from above, and Svir saw that he was fairly old, though muscular. This could be it! The other’s face showed just a bit too much fatigue. And the man was a Celestial Servant. Profirio would most likely pose as one of them.

Svir made no attempt to start a conversation. He had a dubious advantage over Profirio. The alien must nullify the armed men in the party. Since Svir was one-third of that force, Profirio would either manipulate him with conversation—or kill him. The ploys were limited, and for once it might be possible to compete with a mind like Tatja’s. When the “old soldier” finally spoke, Svir felt a flash of triumph.

“You’re one of the Crown’s Men, aren’t you?” The soldier’s voice quavered overmuch, Svir thought.

“That’s right,” he replied, with as much disinterest as he could muster.

“I don’t mean offense, but I see you’re armed. You must be important. Maybe you can tell me. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” His reply was not an evasion. The Servant’s question seemed disconnected from the dangers that floated through his mind.

“Why do you trespass here? Why do you insult a religion that’s never done you harm?” The voice had an innocent, bewildered tone.

The official reason was that this was Marget’s whim. To her generals she had presented no more explanation, though some of them were happy to humor her. They thought the Doomsdaymen needed a leash. Certainly Svir couldn’t blurt out the real reason for this trip; only Profirio would understand that.

“Perhaps you thought,” the Servant continued, since Svir seemed bound to silence, “that we didn’t show you proper respect. 1 love my people, sir, and I love my religion. But I’ve been south. I know that we’re a pretty mean group. We own a beautiful stretch of wasteland and the conviction we’re specially blessed by the Almighty. We must be arrogant. If we weren’t, we’d have no reason to stay here.”

Old soldiers could be this sharp, but no ordinary soldier could express himself so smoothly, and with such a vocabulary. Svir set his thumb on the bow’s safety.

The Servant continued, “We make a big show of fierceness, but this was the first time in a hundred years that Celestial Servants have been in combat. I always thought military drill was a frivolous, enjoyable pastime; no one ever died, as they so often do in mine and construction work. But this morning my men—” “Your men?” Svir broke in, trying to keep the right amount of curiosity in his voice.

“Yes, I’m a Celestial Servant with Stellar Effulgence. That’s about the same as a colonel in your army.”

Damn. That could explain his diction.

“It was strange to see men die, fighting. We thought we were protecting people and land. Now I see it was for nothing. What is the point?” He sounded hurt, bewildered, almost like Cor had sounded by the watering stop. Svir turned to give an honest reply, but the other had dropped back in the formation. Emotionally, Svir was convinced of the fellow’s sincerity. In a perverse way, that was the strongest sign that he had been speaking to the illusive Profirio; when you were sure they were sincere, then you knew you had been fooled. He brought his crossbow to port arms, turned, and let the oxygen cart creak past him. The other was lost in the mob that walked behind the cart.

Profirio? Maybe that was why the other moved away. But then, why hadn’t he killed Svir and taken the bow? The alien could certainly have done so, barehanded and without noise.

Minutes later, the tunnel leveled out, and the windsound died. The observatory! He tripped on a stone step. The walls, the floor—they were solid rock now. He saw the carts behind him being pushed over the step. Ahead, the darkness was absolute. If the whole observatory were built this way it must be a pretty dreary place, with no view except of heaven.

Someone brushed past him, moving fast. He lashed out, but his wrist was caught from behind. “It’s us,” Tatja whispered in his ear. He realized they were moving quietly to the head of the file, to be the first into the observatory. Jolle was taking no chances. Svir tried to follow them, but they were virtually running through the darkness. He had to slow down and cautiously feel his way… Far ahead, Jolle was pounding on a door and shouting.

It would be an interesting bit of treachery if the High Eye Observers chose not to open up; their visitors could never make it back to O’rmouth without more oxygen. But thousands of feet below, where there was still grass and air, the gunners had instructions to fire unless they received helios from Tatja at specified times. This point had been made excruciatingly clear to all concerned.

A trapezoid of sunlight appeared ahead, casting ragged shadows down the rough-cut granite of the hallway. Svir squinted into brilliance. Beyond that doorway, just a few feet away, was the end of their long journey.

Dazzling sunlight was everywhere. Tall windows marched around the walls, and beyond them was the top of the world. The sky was indigo, as if the sun had already set. Look down and see the Doomsday Range, frozen waves of white tossed on a frozen sea. Here and there, clouds nestled between the peaks. Pale brown clung to one horizon, a trick of the westering sun … or the edge of the Central Desert?

The High Eye was not quite at the top of He’ gate: Some hundred yards west of the dome a scarp rose fifty feet higher, shielding the observatory from the winds that had pursued them here. The limestone stood brown and yellow above smooth snowdrifts. Svir turned; there was the stone hallway they had just been through. The snow lay powdery in the cracks and joints of the yellow masonry. Beyond the windshadow, it whirled with crystal violence around the stonework. Four hundred feet from the observatory, the hallway became a true tunnel, disappearing into the permanent snow pack. A large wind turbine stood north of the tunnel, its snout stuck into the gale; the derrick squatted on a contraption of gears and pistons. A covered trough extended from the turbine back to the observatory. The trough was sheathed by ice. A haze of steam or ice billowed up along its whole length.