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midplateau desert, according to the maps." His voice sounded scratchy in his
own earset, and he hoped it was just the set. "Badlands . . . mostly,"
"They didn't planoform it, so close to Lanceville?"
"It's mostly lava of some sort-I don't know the term, but it's the stuff that
you get on hotcore worlds with no oxygen and no way to reduce it. Give it a
few thousand years, and it'll be fine. Right now it isn't worth the trouble."
"People won't wait that long,"
"Probably not, but it takes money, and that's something in short supply here
on Artos."
The terrain below had become one of rough stone hills, joined by sweeps of
gray sand. Nothing grew in the ocean of stone and sand where the only movement
was that of wind-swept silica particles, not anything large enough to see from
the flitter cockpit. "Desolate," Sylvia said after a time. "Gives an idea of
what Artos was like centuries ago." The sky was clear-and empty-like the
desert beneath. "Do you have any better idea why were doing this study?" asked
Sylvia after a long silence.
"No. It's getting clearer that the government in New Avalon wants something
from it, probably for us to reveal something that they can't afford to
disclose and need an impartial source for. Either that or support for some
program. They want to be able to say that it was Accords-or the Institutes-
idea. That means politics, and trouble. But I don't know what they want, only
that someone doesn't want us to find it, whatever it may be. I'm hoping this
little trip will shed some light."
"You don't sound certain it will."
"I'm always a skeptic when you get to politics."
His words drew a laugh, and he smiled to himself, even as the silence drew out
and as he checked the nav screens. "On course . . . beacons clear."
After another stretch of silence, he cross-checked the ground beacon readings.
Supposedly their destination was less than twenty kilos ahead. With that
reminder, he re-checked the main tanksdown twenty percent-and switched the
fuel transfer pumps on. Later Welk flitters didn't have that problem. They had
others, generally harder to resolve because they used more microtronics, and
higher technology wasn't always suited to conditions of high mechanical
stress. Flitters incorporated high mechanical stress, and always would, at
least until antigrav units were finally developed that would work planetside.
To the southwest, beyond the gray and tan of sand and rock appeared a hazy
line of grayish green that grew more distinct. Nathaniel kept his scan
moving-instruments, horizon, ground ahead-as the flitter carried them toward
the green, absently flicking off the transfer pumps when the main tanks
registered full. He doubted that the automatic cutoffs worked, or worked well.
Beyond desert came the first flush of green, interspersed with gray sand, then
the river, still flat and wide and smooth, and then more green. A long strip
of permacrete road ran northwest from the cluster of hilltop buildings until
it intersected a long arrowstraight section of the wide permacrete main road
that presumably made its way back to Lanceville. "Kenn base. Port Angel two
inbound." Sylvia jerked in her seat. Had she been dozing? Nathaniel didn't
blame her. The flight had been anything but intriguing, and he personally
hadn't been that scintillating. Then, pilots with sparkling personalities in
the cockpit, like bold pilots, usually didn't live to be that old.
The Ecolitan waited, then triggered the transmitter again. "Kenn base, Port
Angel two inbound."
"That you, Jersek, still flying that antique?"
"Negative. Ecolitans Whaler and Ferro-Maine, inbound to see George Reeves-
Kenn."
"Stet. Do you have the strip and the wind indicator?"
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"That's affirmative."
"Set her down there. See you after couchdown."
"Not the most formal place," Nathaniel said. "After last night?" she asked.
"That gathering was so formal everyone creaked. And you and all chose proverbs
. . ."
"I've got several hundred more . . ."
"No..."
"You see . . . they're working." He eased off power from the turbines and
brought the nose back as he eased the flitter into a left-hand turn to bring
it into the wind, then past the fluorescent green windsock and onto the
cleared claylike strip that ran the length of the low ridge. He settled the
craft into a hover and airtaxied toward the spot where a single figure waited
by a small shed a hundred meters or so east of a long low stone house. "You
make that look easy," said Sylvia. "I've had some practice," he admitted. When
he stepped from the flitter, Nathaniels hands were empty, since he'd
reluctantly decided to leave his datacase in the Guest House-not that there
was any information that wasn't available one way or another to New Avalonian
intelligence, or the Federated Hegemony, or whoever. Sylvia slipped the strap
of her case over her shoulder and closed the transparent permaglass door on
the copilots side of the flitter. They walked toward the waiting man. "George
Reeves-Kenn." He was rail thin with a tanned and leathery face. The green eyes
were hard, and the white-gray hair was short. "Nathaniel Whaler."
"Sylvia Ferro-Maine."
"Welcome to Connaught. Understand you two wanted a look-see at how our
operation runs. That's what old Walk said, anyway." Reeves-Kenn waited.
"Thought economists just looked at numbers and paper." He frowned. "Can't say
as you look like an economist-
more like a trooper. Guess you Ecolitan types are always part military."
"We've been called that," Nathaniel said. "I can send you a copy of my latest
monograph, if you'd like, The Unrecognized Diseconomies of Decentralized
Metals Refining. "
"In plain talk . . . what was it?"
Nathaniel shrugged. "In basic terms, it's an exposition that quantifies how
much more asteroid mining costs than people recognized. But it sounds more
impressive to academics if all the title words are long."
Reeves-Kenn smiled, briefly, and turned to Sylvia. "And you look more like a
dancer . . ."
"I was, once, before I found happiness in economics." She gave the beef grower
a warm smile.
"Best we get started. It'll all make more sense if you take a ride first."
Reeves-Kenn began to walk toward the corral just below the landing strip.
Adjoining the corral was a barn. The Ecolitans exchanged glances and followed.
Reeves-Kenn halted at a fence post made of formed plastic and gestured toward
the black horse on the other side of the plastic composite "wire."
"This is Wild Will."
Nathaniel looked at the horse. The horse looked at Nathaniel. The Ecolitan
glanced toward Sylvia, who seemed to share his reaction.
"You not familiar with horses?" asked Reeves-Kenn. "Not really," admitted the
Ecolitan. "I've ridden a few times, but I'm certainly no expert." Sylvia just
shook her head.
"We've got gentle mounts." The rancher gestured toward a figure on the shaded
north side of the barn. "Jem?"
"Sir?" Jem ambled out of the shade of the shed. He was darkhaired, clean-
shaven, wearing long trousers and half-calf boots, brown and scarred.
"Our guests are Ecolitans-they're economists, not rovers. Professor Whaler and
Professor Ferro-Maine." Jem bowed. "Pleased to meet you." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]