Larry Niven - The Ringworld Engineers

He put the flying belt into Vala’s backpack and shouldered it. The pack already held his impact suit, vest, binoculars, flashlight-laser, and the flask of nectar. It was lumpy and heavy. Louis set the pack down, adjusted the flying belt to give him some lift. He set the translator box just under the cover and shouldered the pack again.

He was wearing a pair of Vala’s shorts, with a length of rope to hold them up. They were too big for him. His depilated face would be taken as natural to his race. Nothing about him now suggested the star traveler, except the earplug for his translator. He’d risk that.

He could see almost nothing of where they were going. The day was too bright; the shadow, too extensive and too dark.

They walked from day into night.

Vala seemed to have no trouble picking her path. Louis followed her. His eyes adjusted, and he saw that there were narrow paths among the growths.

The fungi ranged from button-size to asymmetrical shapes as tall as Louis’s head, with stalks as thick as his waist. Some were mushroom-shaped, some had no shape at all. A hint of corruption was in the air. Gaps in the sprawl of buildings overhead let through vertical pillars of sunlight, so bright that they looked solid.

Frilly yellow fungus fringed in scarlet half smothered an outcropping of gray slate. Medieval lances stood upright, white tipped with blood. Orange and yellow and black fur covered a dead log.

The people were almost as various as the fungi. Here were Runners using a two-handed saw to cut down a great elliptical mushroom fringed in orange. There, small, broad-faced people with big hands were filling baskets with white buttons. Grass giants carried the big baskets away. Vala kept up a whispered commentary. “Most species prefer to hire themselves in groups, to protect against culture shock. We keep separate housing.”

There, a score of people were spreading manure and well-decayed garbage; Louis could smell it from a fair distance away. Were those of Vala’s species? Yes, they were Machine People, but two stood aside and watched, and they held guns. “Who are those? Prisoners?”

“Prisoners convicted of minor crimes. For twenty or fifty falans they serve society in this—” She stopped. One of the guards was coming to meet them.

He greeted Vala. “Lady, you should not be here. These shit-handlers may find you too good a hostage.”

Vala sounded exhausted. “My car died. I have to go to the school and tell them what happened. Please, may I cross the shadow farm? We were all killed. All killed by vampires. They have to know. Please.”

The guard hesitated. “Cross, then, but let me give you an escort.” He whistled a short snatch of music, then turned to Louis. “What of you?”

Vala answered for Louis. “I borrowed him to carry my pack.”

The guard spoke slowly and distinctly. “You. Go with the lady as far as she likes, but stay in the shadow farm. Then go back to what you were doing. What were you doing?”

Louis was mute without the translator. He thought of the flashlight-laser buried in his pack. Somewhat at random he laid his hand on a lavender-fringed shelf fungus, then pointed to a sledge stacked with similar fungi.

“All right.” The guard looked past Louis’s shoulder. “Ah.”

The smell told Louis before he turned. He waited, docile, while the guard instructed a pair of ghouls: “Take the lady and her porter to the far edge of the shadow farm. Guard them from harm.”

They walked single file along the paths, tending toward the center of the shadow farm. The male ghoul led, the female trailed. The smell of corruption grew riper. Sledges of fertilizer passed them on other paths.

Blood and tanj! How was he going to get rid of the ghouls?

Louis looked back. The ghoul woman grinned at him. She certainly didn’t mind the smell. Her teeth were big triangles, well designed for ripping, and her goblin ears were erect, alert. Like her mate, she wore a big purse on a shoulder strap, and nothing else; thick hair covered most of their bodies.

They reached a broad arc of cleared dirt. Beyond was a pit. Mist stood above the pit, hiding the far side. A pipe poured sewage into the pit. Louis’s eyes followed the pipe up, up into the black, textured sky.

The ghoul woman spoke in his ear, and Louis jumped. She was using the Machine People speech. “What would the king giant think if he knew that Louis and Wu were one?”

Louis stared.

“Are you mute without your little box? Never mind. We are at your service.”

The ghoul man was talking to Valavirgillin. She nodded. They moved off the path. Louis and the woman followed them around an extensive white shelf fungus, to huddle under its far lip.

Vala was edgy. The smell might be getting to her; it was certainly getting to Louis. “Kyeref says this is fresh sewage. In a falan it’ll be ripe and they’ll move the pipe and start hauling it away for fertilizer. Meanwhile nobody comes here.”

She took the pack off Louis’s back and spilled it out. Louis reached for the translator (the ghouls’ ears came sharply alert as his hand neared the flashlight-laser) and turned up the volume. He asked, “How much do the Night People know?”

“More than we ever thought.” Vala looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t.

The male answered. “The world is doomed to fiery destruction in not many falans. Only Louis Wu can save us.” He smiled, showed a daunting expanse of white wedge-shaped teeth. His breath was that of a basilisk.

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic,” Louis said. “Do you believe me?”

“Strange events can spark an urge to prophecy in the insane. We know that you carry tools not known elsewhere. Your race is not known either. But the world is large, and we do not know all of it. Your furry friend’s race is stranger yet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Save us! We dare not interfere.” The ghoul lost a little of his grin, though his lips still didn’t meet. (That would take a conscious effort. Those big teeth… ) “Why should we care if you are insane? The activities of other species rarely interfere with our own lives. In the end they all belong to us.”

“I wonder if you aren’t the real rulers of the world.” Louis said that for diplomatic relations, then wondered uneasily if it might be true.

The woman answered. “Many species may claim to rule the world, or their own part of it. Would we lay claim to the forest tops of the Hanging People? Or to the airless heights of the Spill Mountain People? And what species would want our domain?” She was laughing at him, that was certain.

Louis said, “There’s a Repair Center for the world somewhere. Do you know where?”

“No doubt you are right,” the male said, “but we do not know where it might be.”

“What do you know about the rim wall? And the Great Oceans?”

“There are too many seas. I know not which you mean. There was activity along the rim wall before the great flames first appeared.”

“ Was there! What kind of activity?”

“Many lifting devices raised equipment beyond even the level of the Spill Mountain People. There were City Builders and Spill Mountain People in great number, many other species in lesser number. They worked right at the upper edge of the world. Perhaps you can tell us the meaning of it all.”

Louis was dazed. “Tanj dammit. They must have been… ” Remounting the attitude jets, and he probably didn’t want to say so. So much power and ambition, so close, could be bad for a puppeteer’s nerves. “That’s a long way for carrion-eaters to pass messages.”

“Light travels farther than that. Does this news affect your predictions of doom?”

“I’m afraid not.” There might well be a repair crew in action somewhere, but they had almost run out of Bussard ramjets to be remounted. “But with the great flames acting, we should have more than the seven or eight falans I thought we had.”