Diane Duane - X-COM - UFO Defense

The president saw Jonelle standing there and paused while his crowd of cronies went on ahead. “Fräulein Barrett!” he said. “If you are done for the day, perhaps you will come and celebrate with us?”

“What’s the occasion?”

“My cow,” Trager said, “has gone into the national qualifiers.”

“Forgive me,” Jonelle said, somewhat bemused, “but I seem to have missed something. The national qualifiers for what?”

“The Stierkampf, the pugnieradienst,” the president said, “the cow fights which determine the herd leaders for the next year.”

“Well, congratulations! I’m sure—” Jonelle stopped, slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry—I’ve forgotten her name. And after you told me, the other day.”

“Fräulein,” Trager said, looking at her with a surprised expression, “it’s very kind of you even to be concerned about such a thing. At any rate, my Rosselana”—and he broke into a grin broader than Jonelle had ever seen on anyone there—“has, I think the English idiom would be ‘cleaned up.’ We are going down to the Krone to celebrate. Come on along!”

From these fairly reserved people, Jonelle felt sure that such an invitation was rare. Besides, it would be good PR. And it’s not like I couldn’t use something else to think ahout at the moment. “Well, thank you,” she said. “I think I will.”

She found, as she and Trager rejoined his friends and they made their way to the hotel, that reserve was not on any of their minds. They did not go to the Krone directly—they went right down to the main street, to where it curved and the other biggish hotel sat, the Stern und Post. From outside it, where some townspeople had been sitting and drinking, they collected about another ten men and women and then doubled back up to the Krone again, laughing and shouting all the way. Jonelle wondered how they were going to fit into the bar there—and indeed they didn’t. That bar was about twice the size of her office back in Irhil M’Goun, no more. But somehow, in the next ten or fifteen minutes, there were about ten or fifteen people packed into that little space, shoulder to shoulder, all very determinedly drinking schnapps and paying off a lot of bets.

Jonelle ordered a glass of the local white wine, and as she watched several particularly large cash transactions take place, she said to Ueli, only partly in jest, “Goodness, I didn’t know this kind of thing played such an important part in your local economy!”

Ueli grinned and waggled his eyebrows at her. “It is strictly seasonal.”

“But there seems to be a lot of interest. Some of these gentlemen have been collecting other people’s bets, it seems—”

“Well, lots of people in town either work with the herds routinely, or own cows themselves, or have friends who work with the herds or own cows…. A lot of competitive feeling builds up.”

“What amazes me,” Jonelle said, “is that the cows remember who wins these contests when they go out to pasture again in the spring. They do remember?”

“Oh, yes indeed. They’re not stupid. They have better memories than you might suspect—these cows in particular. They have been bred away from the original stock somewhat—what Americans call the ‘Brown Swiss.’ But they are the culmination of a long selective breeding program. Down here, where the population is so sparse and sometimes we cannot spare people to be with the cows all the time, especially at busy times like the spring and fall, the cows have to learn to take care of themselves. They have been bred to do so. And the pugnieras, the fighting cows, are bred to take care of the others, as well. It is a very special blend of aggression and caution, in these cows. I don’t think there would be any question that they are smarter than usual. Not to mention more hardy, and more active—almost athletic, you might say.”

Something clicked in Jonelle’s mind, and she found herself thinking about the increase in cow stealings and mutilations down this way. I wonder… who besides humans might be interested in the genetic heritage of cows that are so different from the norm? One more thing to look into…. “So when does she compete again, your cow? Maybe I should put some money down.”

Ueli nodded at her, an approving look. “Well,” he said, “in all honesty, you must know what to bet on. Peter? Peter, lean over this way, this lady is looking to bet in the nationals….”

Much more drinking followed, and much more discussion of the best points of a fighting cow: big shoulders, a deep chest, short horns rather than long ones—though this particular characteristic was argued with great passion from several sides. An hour or so later, Jonelle knew more than she ever needed to on the subject. Around then, the conversation began to trail off and was replaced by singing. They sang like angels, these people. One of the biggest and brawniest-looking of the men, whom Jonelle had first thought was a farmer (only to find that he ran one of the ski lifts on the north side of town), was producing an astonishingly high, pure, sweet soprano, while the others followed him in tenor and bass harmony, about twenty strong, in some mournful piece of local folk music. It was deafening, and made Jonelle’s head pound somewhat…or was that the wine?

She made her excuses, thanked Ueli, and headed out into the night. There she shivered—the cold was beginning to get to her again. It was snowing again, through still air. She walked back to the train station, caught the slanty train down to Göschenen, and called the little rail car to take her back up to the Hall of the Mountain King. She had some phone calls to make.

By the end of the evening, the data-processing centers at four other X-COM bases were sick of the sound of her voice. She refused to leave them alone until they gave her figures on cattle heists and mutilations, which at the moment the other bases seemed to consider a lot less important than the human abductions presently going on. But Jonelle pressed. When she was finished, she had more data than she was quite sure what to do with, so she began attacking it in the simplest way: by having a spare map of the world printed out for her, so that she could begin sticking pins in it.

Late that night she heard the scream of engines from upstairs and went up to see a Skyranger arrive, along with the second group of maintenance crew and extra pilots. Enough of the living block was ready to put them up, and she showed them down there herself and got them settled, warning that service in the cafeteria was likely to be spotty until the rest of the venting was installed for the catering ranges. They took it cheerfully enough, which Jonelle could understand: pilots were notorious for having extra food cached in their quarters, just in case. “The really important question,” one of them called after her when she left them to get settled, “is where’s the Crud table?”

She laughed as she made her way back to her own quarters. The desk terminal, her link to the command-and-control center, showed no messages waiting. Jonelle looked at it, reached out to it, stopped herself, and then went ahead and touched the button to call Comms. “Anything from Irhil for me?” she said.

“No, Commander,” came the Comms officer’s voice. “Are you turning in now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to call you if I hear anything?”

“Yes, please.”

Wearily, Jonelle locked up, undressed, and got into bed. Her mind was buzzing with cows and hyperwave decoders. Business…she could have been grateful for it, except that it didn’t do what it should have done. It didn’t shut out the one thought that wouldn’t go away. The still face on the pillow, the body stretched out sideways, not curled up properly, the concern that, in the proper conduct of her duty, she must put aside during the day—and with which she was now alone, in the dark.