Connie Willis - Uncharted Territory

“If you mean official reprimands, there are sixteen. They’re on the computer.” She went back to the kitchen, her shirt flapping. “And get cleaned up. You’re not coming to the table looking like that.”

“Yes, dear,” I said and went over to the console. I fed in the expedition report and took a look at the subsurfaces I’d run in Sector 247-72, and then called up the pursuants.

There were the usual loving messages from Big Brother: we weren’t covering enough sectors, we weren’t giving enough f-and-f indigenous names, we were incurring too many fines.

“Pursuant to language used by members of survey expeditions, such members will refrain from using derogatory terms in reference to the government, in particular, abbreviations and slang terms such as ‘Big Brother’ and ‘morons back home.’ Such references imply lack of respect, thereby undermining relations with the indigenous sentients and obstructing the government’s goals. Members of survey expeditions will henceforth refer to the government by its proper title in full.”

Evelyn and Carson came in. “Anything interesting?” Carson asked, leaning over me.

“We’re wearing our mikes turned up too high,” I said.

He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go check the weather and then take a bath,” he said.

I nodded, looking at the screen. He left, and I started through the pursuants again and then looked back behind me. Ev was leaning over me, his chin practically on my shoulder.

“Do you mind if I watch?” he said. “It’s so exc—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “There’s nothing more exciting than reading a bunch of memos from Big Brother. Oh. Sorry,” I said, pointing at the screen, “we’re not supposed to call them that. We’re supposed to use appropriate titles. There’s nothing more exciting than reading memos from the Third Reich.”

Ev grinned, and I thought, Yep, smarter than he looks.

“Fin,” C.J. called from the door of the mess. She’d unstripped her blouse another ten degrees. “Can I borrow Evelyn for a minute?”

“You bet, Crissa Jane,” I said.

She glared at me.

“That’s what C.J. stands for, you know,” I said to Ev. “Crissa Jane Tull. You’ll need to remember that for when we go on expedition.”

“Fin!” she snapped. “Ev,” she said sweetly, “can you come help me with dinner?”

“Sure,” Ev said and was after her like a shot. All right, not that much smarter.

I went back to the pursuants. We weren’t showing “proper respect for indigenous cultural integrity,” which meant who knows what, we hadn’t filled out Subsection 12-2 of the minerals report for Expedition 158, we had left two gaps of uncharted territory on Expedition 162, one in Sector 248-76 and the other in Sector 246-73.

I knew what the 246-73 gap was but not the other one, and I doubted if it was still a gap. We’d been over a lot of the same territory the next-to-last expedition.

I called up the topographicals and asked for a chart overlay. Big Bro—Hizzoner was right for once. There were two holes in the chart.

Carson came in, carrying a towel and a clean pair of socks. “We fired yet?”

“Just about,” I said. “How’s the weather look?”

“Rain down in the Ponypiles start of next week. Otherwise, nothing. Not even a dust tantrum. Looks like we can go anywhere we want.”

“What about in charted territory? Up along 76?”

“Same thing. Clear and dry. Why?” he said, coming over to look at the screen. “What’ve you got?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Probably nothing. Go get cleaned up.”

He went off toward the latrine. Sector 248-76. That was over on the other side of the Tongue and, if I remembered right, close to Silvershim Creek. I frowned at the screen a minute and then asked for Expedition 181’s log and started fast-forwarding it.

“Is that the expedition you were just on?” Ev said, and I jerked around to find him hanging over me again.

“I thought you were helping C.J. in the kitchen,” I said, cutting the log off.

He grinned. “It’s too hot in there. Were you sending the log of the expedition to NASA?”

I shook my head. “The log goes out live. It transmits straight to C.J. and she sends it on through the gate. I was just finishing up the expedition summary.”

“Do you send all the reports?”

“Nope. Carson sends the topographicals and the f-and-f; I send the geologicals and the accountings.” I asked for the tally of Bult’s fines.

Ev looked uneasy. “I wanted to apologize to you for driving the rover. I didn’t know it was against regs to use nonindigenous transportation. The last thing I wanted to do on my first day was to get you and Dr. Carson in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it. We still had wages left over this expedition, which is better than we’ve made out the last two. The only things that really get you in trouble are killing fauna and naming something after somebody,” I said, staring at him, but he didn’t look especially guilty. C.J. must not have gotten around to her sales pitch yet.

“Anyway,” I said, “we’re used to trouble.”

“I know,” he said earnestly. “Like the time you got caught in the stampede and nearly got trampled, and Dr. Carson rescued you.”

“How’d you know about that?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? You’re—”

“Famous. Right,” I said. “But how—”

“Evelyn,” C.J. called, dripping honey with every syllable, “can you help me set the table?” and he was off again.

I got 181’s log again and then changed my mind and asked for the whereabouts. I checked them for the two times we’d been in Sector 248-76. Wulfmeier’d been on Starting Gate both times, which didn’t prove anything. I asked for a verify on him.

“Nahhd khompt,” Bult said.

I looked up. He was standing next to the computer, pointing his umbrella at me.

“I need the computer, too,” I said, and he reached for his log. “Besides, it’s almost dinnertime.”

“Nahhd tchopp,” he said, moving around behind me so he could see the screen. “Forcible confiscation of property.”

“That’s what it is, all right,” I said, wondering which was worse, being stuck with his bayonet of an umbrella or another fine. Besides, I couldn’t find out what I needed to know with all these people hanging over my shoulder. And dinner was ready. Evelyn pushed the kitchen door open with his shoulder and brought out a platter of meat. I asked for the catalog.

“Here you go,” I said, standing up. “Nieman Marcus at your disposal. Go at it. Tchopp.”

Bult sat down, shot his umbrella open, and started talking to the computer. “One dozen pair digiscan polarized field glasses,” he said, “with telemetry and object enhancement functions.”

Ev stared.

“One ‘High Rollers Special’ slot machine,” Bult said.

Ev came over with the platter. “Bult can speak English?” he said.

I grabbed a chunk of meat. “Depends. When he’s ordering stuff, yeah. When you’re talking to him, not much. When you’re trying to negotiate satellite surveys or permission to set up a gate, no hablo inglais.” I grabbed another hunk of meat.

“Stop that!” C.J. said, bringing in the vegetables. “Honestly, Fin, you’ve got the manners of a gatecrasher! You could at least wait till we get to the table!” She set the vegetables down. “Carson! Dinner’s ready!” she called and went back into the kitchen.

He came in, wiping his hands on a towel. He’d washed up and shaved around his mustache. He came over close to me. “Find anything?” he muttered.

“Maybe.”

Ev, still holding the meat platter, was looking at me inquiringly.