Hal Clement - Noise

The children went their way, and Mike’s guides left him at his room with his thanks.

And with his thoughts. No, he’d have to stay and finish this job. But there was nothing to keep him from coming back later with a few partners like, say, engineers who could work out when the evolutionary branching of the equipment used in Aorangi from that on the warmer parts of Kainui had occurred. He could tie this in with—

No, he couldn’t. He had a family whose members deserved some of his time, and he deserved some of theirs. Suddenly, for the first time since reaching the planet, he felt a surge of homesickness that took every bit of his attention from his surroundings.

Joanie. Maui.

He didn’t really notice what he was eating. He was thinking too hard. Quite suddenly, and for many reasons, he now cared when he could leave Kainui. The sooner the better, language project done or not. He couldn’t leave from this city; Muamoku was the only settlement on Kainui with homing lights bright enough to guide a ship coming in from space. No other was willing to commit the energy needed. Mike suspected that Muamoku was quite content to keep it that way, though probably not to the extent of actively interfering with the policies of other floating cities.

So getting back to his hosts’ home port was the central problem. He’d have to learn Wanaka’s current feelings; it was possible that she was willing to stay here long enough to consummate the deal Hinemoa had outlined. The captain’s apparent approval might or might not have been sincere. If it were, he would have to think out some more tempting long-term profits to change her mind. It seemed unlikely that anything else would.

He’d better start thinking right now, before seeking Wanaka and Keo.

His third or fourth thought suggested that something else be done first. He didn’t exactly jump at it, but after some minutes of brooding decided to give it a try.

The room had a communicator for calling the office that had furnished his earlier guides. He was pretty sure he could find his way to the entrance they had used before, but didn’t want anyone to think he was being secretive; he wasn’t at all sure how far his hosts were prepared to go to keep Mata and her crew on hand. It was obvious, of course, that he couldn’t make off unaided with the ship, but the locals might be suspicious on general principles. At least, the ones involved in commerce probably would.

Two guides, not the same as had accompanied him before, showed up in about a quarter of an hour, in sound armor as he had requested. Mike had already donned his own, and during the walk to the air lock rechecked the route very carefully. Once outside, he would have been perfectly happy to finish the trip on his own, but neither he nor his companions made the suggestion. His own motive was of course to avert suspicion; he wished he knew what that of the guides might be. Few words were spoken during the hike to where the ships lay, and none of those was really helpful. Mostly they had to do with the poor traction of Mike’s armor shoes.

There had been at least one storm since Wanaka’s crew had come inside; Mata’italiga ’s deck and cabin roof were crusted with hailstones. Mike had given an explanation of why he had wanted to visit the craft, but this would have been a better one. He broke out ’Ao’s shovel, slid the cover from the drinking breakers, and went to work. One of his guides offered to help with a shovel from a nearby ship, but Mike declined politely if absentmindedly. He had found more food for thought.

The breakers were almost empty.

This had not been the case when they had gone ashore. He filled them without comment, scraped the surplus hailstones overboard, stowed the shovel, and went to the air lock. The excuse he had given for the trip had been to get some of his own working materials. An unstated one was to check the reactions of his guides when he tried to enter the cabin alone. It was perfectly obvious that no adult could use the lock with him; but would they let him go in first? Or follow at once, before he could do anything? Could they feel sure there was nothing he might do to which their officials might object? Were they simply and generally suspicious of him, and presumably also of his crewmates? Or completely indifferent to anything they might do?

It was pretty obvious by now—at least to Wanaka, whose opinion tended to be contagious—that Hinemoa was a trader, whatever she might have claimed. Mike had already gathered that traders were the principal diplomats in most Kainuian cities. It had been clear almost from the beginning that she was also of high rank in whatever sort of government Aorangi had. This did not, however, have to mean that the entire population of the place either knew of or fully agreed with whatever policy she and her fellow officials might have adopted. Telephones were common enough in the city, but Mike had not yet seen anything corresponding to a newspaper or vision broadcast in the place. Technologial development here, as elsewhere on the planet, had presumably been guided by what each original colony ship had had on board and what actions had been forced on their crews by circumstances at the time of arrival.

Maybe he could fit more of this into his thesis after all.

The state of the drinking breakers had increased his own Wanaka-type suspicions; what about his present guides? Should he have admitted noticing the diminished water store? Would his failure to comment cause them to wonder? Or would they put it down to his presumed lack of seamanship? He had made no secret of this when describing his Earthly upbringing to the assembled teachers. Or were they completely ignorant of the whole breaker business, even that the tanks had been full when the crew had left the ship?

The guides glanced at each other as he opened the lock, but said nothing and made no effort to hold him back. That didn’t necessarily mean much. It was not their ship, there were always the rules of courtesy—Mike suddenly realized that he had been remiss in failing to invite them inside; might not that make them suspicious?—and it was hard in any case to see what mischief he could possibly do.

He was back on deck with one of his record cases in a few moments, hoping that the brevity of the errand would excuse his discourtesy. Mike couldn’t decide whether the guides were relieved or not. He waded ashore—he had flipped back his helmet when picking up the shovel, and now closed it again in proper routine—and started back toward the city entrance. The others followed.

He deliberately missed a turning on the way back, and was promptly corrected, but had no way of guessing whether the apparent slip relieved his guides or not. It might or might not have the effect of easing the obvious local policy of having him accompanied on all occasions, or of reinforcing it; either way he was no worse off. Once again he realized that he was picking up some of the mercantile paranoia of the captain. He didn’t really like this, but just now it might be useful.

He accepted guidance back to his room, thanked his escorts, and asked when the school would need him again. They didn’t know, but said he would be called in plenty of time. He nodded, remarked that he might be in the captain’s and mate’s nearby quarters rather than his own, waved a dismissal, and thankfully went inside to doff his armor. He had become used to wearing it for over a day at a time during the large fraction of a local year since they had left Muamoku, but it was never really comfortable. People generally accepted that no really efficient recycling wear could be, but complaining was of course discourteous and likely to be answered with a shrug and the remark “Grow your own, then.”