Конни Уиллис: Terra Incognita: Three Novellas

I held up my hand. “Scout’s honor,” I said.

“But you can walk faster than that,” he said.

“Not when there’s a fine for footprints.”

He leaned sideways to look at Useless’s paws. “But they leave footprints, don’t they?”

“They’re indigenous,” I said.

“But how do you cover any territory?”

“We don’t, and Big Bro yells at us,” I said, looking over at the Tongue. Carson had given up yelling and was watching Bult talk into his log. “Speaking of which, I’d better fill you in on the rest of the regs. No personal holo or picture-taking, no souvenirs, no picking wildflowers, no killing of fauna.”

“What if you’re attacked?”

“Depends. If you think you can survive the heart attack you’ll have when you see the fine and all the reports you’ll have to fill out, go ahead. Letting it kill you might be easier.”

He looked suspicious again.

“We probably won’t run into anything dangerous where we’re going,” I said.

“What about nibblers?”

“They’re farther north. Hardly any of the f-and-f are dangerous, and the indidges are peaceful. They’ll rob you blind, but they won’t hurt you. You wear your mike all the time.” I reached over and took it off and stuck it back on lower down on his chest. “If you get separated, wait where you are. Don’t go trying to find anybody. That’s the surest way to get yourself killed.”

“I thought you said the f-and-f weren’t dangerous?”

“They’re not. But we’re going to be in uncharted territory. That means landslides, lightning, roadkill holes, flash floods. You can cut your hand on scourbrush and get blood poisoning, or get too far north and freeze to death.”

“Or get caught in a luggage stampede.”

I wondered how he knew about that. The pop-ups, whatever they were. “Or wander off and never be found again,” I said. “Which is what happened to Stewart’s partner, Segura. And you won’t even get a hill named after you. So you stay where you are, and after twenty-four hours you call C.J. and she’ll come and get you.”

He nodded. “I know.”

I was going to have to find out what these pop-ups are. “You call C.J.,” I said, “and you let her worry about finding the rest of us. If you’re injured and can’t call, she’ll know where you are by your mike.”

I paused, trying to remember what else I should tell him. Carson was yelling at Bult again. I could hear him clear over by the ponies.

“No giving the indidges gifts,” I said, “no teaching them how to make a wheel or build a cotton gin. If you figure out what sex Bult is, no fraternizing. No yelling at the indidges,” I said, looking over at Carson.

He was coming this way, his mustache quivering again, but he didn’t look like he was laughing this time.

“Bult says we can’t cross here,” he said. “He says there’s no break in the Wall here.”

“When we looked at the map, he said there was,” I said.

“He says it’s been repaired. He says we’ll have to ride south to the other one. How far is it?”

“Ten kloms,” I said.

“My shit, that’ll take us all morning,” he said, squinting off in the direction of the Wall. “He didn’t say anything about it being repaired when we did the map. Call C.J. Maybe she got an aerial of it on her way home.”

“She didn’t,” I said. Swinging north to Sector 248-76, she wouldn’t have gotten any pictures of where we were going.

“Dammit,” he said, taking his hat off, looking like he was going to throw it on the ground and then thinking the better of it. He looked at me and then stomped back toward the Tongue.

“You stay here,” I said to Ev. I dismounted and caught up to Carson. “You think Bult’s got it figured out?” I asked him as soon as we were out of Ev’s earshot.

“Maybe,” he said. “So what do we do?”

I shrugged. “Go south to the next break. It’s no farther from the northern tributaries, and by that time we’ll know if we have to check 248-76. I sent C.J. up there to do an aerial.” I looked at Bult, who was still talking into his log. “Maybe he doesn’t have it figured out. Maybe there are just more fines this way.”

“Which is just what we need,” he said glumly.

He was right. Our departure fines came to nine hundred, and it took a half hour to tally them up. Then it took Bult another half hour to get his pony loaded, decide he wanted his umbrella, unload everything to find it and load it again, and by that time Carson had used inappropriate manner and tone and thrown his hat on the ground, and we had to wait while Bult added those on.

It was ten o’clock before we finally got started, Bult leading off under his lighted umbrella, which he’d tied to his pony’s pommelbone, Ev and I side by side, and Carson in the rear, where he couldn’t swear at Bult.

C.J.’d landed us at the top end of a little valley, and we followed it south, keeping close to the Tongue.

“You can’t see much from here,” I told Ev. “This really only goes another klom or so, and then you should get a better view of the Wall. And five kloms down, it comes right up next to the Tongue.”

“Why is it called the Tongue? Is that a translation of the Boohteri name for it?”

“The indidges don’t have a name for it. Or half the stuff on this planet.” I pointed at the mountains ahead of us. “Take the Ponypiles. Biggest natural formation on the whole continent, and they don’t have a name for it, or most of the f-and-f. And when they do give stuff names, they don’t make any sense. Their name for the luggage is tssuhlkahttses . It means ‘dead soup.’ And Big Brother won’t let us give things sensible names.”

“Like the Tongue?” he said, grinning.

“It’s long, it’s pink, and it’s hanging out like it’s going ‘aah’ for a doctor. What else would you call it? That’s not its name anyway. The Tongue’s just what we call it. The name on the map’s Conglomerate River, after the rocks it was flowing between up where we named it.”

“An unofficial name,” Ev said half to himself.

“Won’t work,” I said. “We already named Tight-ass Canyon after C.J. She wants something named after her officially. Passed, approved, and on the topographicals.”

“Oh,” he said, and looked disappointed.

“What about that?” I said. “Any species besides Homo sap have to carve a female’s name on a tree to get a jump?”

“No,” he said. “There’s a species of water bird on Choom where the males build plaster dikes around the females that look a lot like the Wall.”

Speaking of which, there it was. The valley had been climbing and opening out as we rode, and all of a sudden we were at the top of a rise and looking out across what looked like one of C.J.’s aerials.

It was flat all the way to the feet of the Ponypiles, with the Tongue slicing through it like a map boundary. Boohte’s got as many oxides as Mars, and lots of cinnabar, so the plains are pink. There were mesas here and there off to the west, and a couple of cinder pyramids, and the blue of the distance turned them a nice lavender. And meandering around them and over the mesas, down to the Tongue and then away again, arched white and shining in the sun, was the Wall. At least Bult hadn’t been lying about the break. The Wall marched unbrokenly as far as I could see.

“There she is,” I said. I turned and looked at Ev.

His mouth was hanging open.

“Hard to believe the Boohteri built it, isn’t it?”

Ev nodded without closing his mouth.

“Carson and I have this theory that they didn’t,” I said. “We think some poor species of indidges who lived here before built it, and then Bult and his pals fined them out of it.”