winter. The buds on the trees were swelling to bursting, and the grain sprouts,
crowded by flood against the crossed-beam lattices in the fields, would soon
want thinning and transplanting to their permanent beds. Main base would be the
first to dry out; and then the bases downriver. The river was some bit lower
today, so the report came in from the mill.
Emilio saw the supply crawler off on its way down the muddy road downriver, and
turned his back, walked the slow, well-trampled way toward higher ground and the
domes sunk in the hills, domes which had gotten to be twice as numerous as
before, not to mention those that had transferred down the road. Compressors
thunked along out of rhythm, the unending pulse of humanity on Downbelow. Pumps
labored, adding to the thumping, belching out the water which had seeped into
the domes despite their best efforts to waterproof the floors, more pumps
working down by the mill dikes and over by the fields. They would not cease
until the logs in the fields stood clear.
Spring. Probably the air smelled delightful to a native. Humans had little
impression of it, breathing in wet hisses and stops through the masks. Emilio
found the sun pleasant on his back, enjoying that much of the day. Downers
skipped about, carrying out their tasks with less address than exuberance, would
rather make ten scurrying trips with a handful than one uncomfortable, laden
passage to anywhere. They laughed, dropped what light loads they bore to play
pranks on any excuse. He was frankly surprised that they were still at work with
spring coming on so in earnest. The first clear night they had kept all the camp
awake with their chatter, their happy pointing at the starry heavens and talking
to the stars; the first clear dawn they had waved their arms to the rising sun
and shouted and cheered for the coming light—but humans had gone about with a
brighter mood that day too, with the first clear sign of winter’s ending. Now it
was markedly warmer. The females had turned smugly alluring and the males had
turned giddy; there was a good deal of what might be Downer singing from the
thickets and the budding trees on the hills, trills and chatter and whistles
soft and sultry.
It was not as giddy as it would get when the trees sprang into full bloom. There
would come a time that the hisa would lose all interest in work, would set off
on their wanderings, females first and solitary, and the males doggedly
following, to places where humans did not intrude. A good number of the
third-season females would spend the summer getting rounder and rounder—at least
as round as the wiry hisa became—to give birth in winter, snugged away in
hillside tunnels, little mites all limbs and ruddy baby fur, who would be
scampering about on their own in the next spring, what little humans saw of
them.
He passed the hisa games, walked up the crushed rock pathway to Operations, the
dome highest on the hill. His ears picked up a crunching on the rocks behind
him, and he looked back to find Satin limping along in his wake, arms out for
balance, bare feet on sharp stones and her imp’s face screwed up in pain from
the path designed for human boots. He grinned at the imitation of his strides.
She stood and grinned at him, unusually splendid in soft pelts and beads and a
red rag of synthetic cloth.
“Shuttle comes, Konstantin-man.”
It was so. There was a landing due on this clear day. He had promised her,
despite good sense, despite axioms that world-synched pairs were unstable in the
spring season, that she and her mate might work a term on-station. If there was
a Downer who had staggered about under too-heavy loads, it was Satin. She had
tried desperately to impress him… See, Konstantin-man, I work good.
“Packed to go,” he observed of her. She displayed the several small bags of
no-knowing-what which she had hung about her person, patted them and grinned
delightedly.
“I packed.” And then her face went sad, and she held out her open arms. “Come