“Bridge, give me a ground link,” said Captain Kanawa, continuing to stand beside his console. His left hand switched the display from figures to a visual of the terminal, but he didn’t bother to look at it.
“Empress to Terminal Control,” Kanawa continued after a pause.
“Terminal Control,” said a colorless voice. Because Kanawa was using the general pickup, the response came through the bridge speakers unless he chose to switch it through a lockout channel to his ears only.
“Advise me as to the status of the starliner Brasil,” Kanawa said. He stood rigidly upright, with his wrists crossed behind his back. “Over.”
Mainland Terminal swelled on the visual displays. At higher magnification, patches of jungle could be glimpsed through the mist over the lowlands.
“The Brasil is seven hours and thirty-two minutes overdue,” Terminal Control replied without emphasis.
“Control,” Kanawa ordered. “Switch me to a human operator. Over.”
The Empress trembled as the magnetic motors increased their braking thrust and the pulses reached a harmonic with the starliner’s hull. The First Officer’s fingers dipped, but this time the autopilot had erased the problem before Seligly could react to it.
The speakers crackled, then burped as though someone had tapped a microphone. “Empress, this is supervisor Vogt,” said a voice with normal human intonations. “What can I help you with? Over.”
“Ground, what’s the situation with the Brasil?” Kanawa said. “You must have had some reports about her. Over.”
“Not a word, Empress,” the terminal supervisor said. “We thought you might know something yourself. Over.”
“And why did you think such a bloody stupid thing as that?” shouted Captain Kanawa. “Empress of Earth, out!”
All those on the Empress’s bridge kept their eyes focused on their instruments. A rating swallowed a sneeze to keep from calling attention to herself. Her eyes bulged.
Kanawa switched his console back to an alphanumeric display of thrust, fuel, and force vectors. It was the first time any of his bridge crew had seen the captain openly lose his temper.
* * *
“Know where you’re going, Ran?” Wanda Holly asked from behind him on the noisy platform.
“You bet,” Ran said, turning. “But I haven’t a clue to how I’m going to get there. I figured there’d be signs up in the station.”
The remaining contingent of Third Class passengers were marching down the rear ramp of the Empress into a huge shed whose sidewalk stood only a meter and a half high to permit the sluggish breeze to flow through. The emigrants looked around curiously, nervously. Some of them fanned themselves with their shirtfronts.
“If it’s this hot in the highlands,” Ran added, “what’s it like down where the settlements are?”
“Muggy,” Wanda said. “Not really hotter, but you can get used to anything if you have to. They’ll have to,” she added, nodding toward the emigrants.
First Watch was responsible for off-loading this time. The task was deemed simple enough that Kneale hadn’t drafted in personnel from other watches.
“They don’t seem to mind when they get off the ship here,” she mused, as much to herself as to Ran. “But in a lot of ways, Biscay might be an easier place to live, once you settle in.”
Wanda shrugged, as though losing a weight. “Where is it you want to go, then?” she asked.
“Taskerville,” Ran said. “I’m not sure the place even exists anymore.”
“Oh, it exists, all right,” Wanda said. She pursed her lips. “By way of Kilmarny,” she said, “but it’s on the Hunter’s Hill line, and that’s down at this—”she pointed and began walking “—end of the platform.”
Diesel-electric monorails passed with a hiss and the rattling of valves. Most of them were only two or three cars together, garishly painted but scraped and battered in appearance. The roof of the lead car invariably mounted a machine gun on a Scarff ring.
Some of the rough-clothed men and women on the platform carried guns of their own, powerful rifles or even plasma weapons. Ran glanced at them and frowned.
“It’s for the wildlife,” Wanda commented. “The Long Troubles ended when the Prophet Elias was hanged.”
Ran nodded. “I didn’t know what . . .” he said.
Wanda stopped at a two-car train whose engines chittered at idle. A metal sign above on the platform’s overhang said Hunter’s Hill, though corrosion had eaten away all but the first letter of Hill. Six people were aboard the train already. They sat in sullen apathy. Each guarded a bale of goods purchased or picked up at the port.