“It may not be a trick. Stay here.”
But she felt shaky as she climbed quickly back into the forest toward the sea-haval rookery. The theoretical Tuvela, totally self-confident, certainly would be willing to talk to the aliens at this point, press the psychological advantage she’d gained. On the other hand, the Tuvela presumably would know what to do if it turned out she’d stepped into a Parahuan trap. Nile wasn’t sure she would know what to do.
She caught her breath briefly as the wind backed up and assorted rookery stenches billowed around her. Far enough from the lagoon. . . . She opened the pouch, took out the roll of tanglecord, added the otter caller to the other items, closed the pouch and shoved it into one of the fins, the buti stick into the other. She taped the fins together. They made a compact package which she wedged into a floatwood niche and secured further with tanglecord, leaving the roll stuck to the package. She was keeping the climb-belt and the UW.
She looked around a moment, memorizing the place, started back to the lagoon. Sweeting was hissing with alarm and disapproval when she got there. Nile calmed the otter, explained the situation as well as she could. The boat lights hadn’t yet appeared around the curve of the forest to the east. They set off in that direction, Nile moving through the floatwood not far from the edge of the lagoon, Sweeting in the water slightly ahead of her. If a trap had been laid, they should spot it between them before they were in it. . . .
Going by Ticos’ descriptions, the six Parahuans in the boat with him were Palachs. Concealed at a point some fifty feet above the water, Nile looked them over. Two were about his size; four ranged down from there, though none came near the midget level. In the boat lights they displayed odd headgears and elaborate harness arrangements . . . and, of course, they might be carrying concealed weapons.
She studied Ticos more carefully than his companions. There was a stiffness in the way he moved which showed he wasn’t in good physical condition. But his amplified voice was clear; and if his phrasing had more than a suggestion of obsequiousness about it, that fitted the role he was playing: an inferior addressing the Guardian. A role of his own choosing; not one he had been forced to assume.
She was convinced that so far there was no trap. But there were other considerations. . . .
The loudspeaker began booming about her again. It was set to penetrate high and deep into the forest, overriding the surging winds, to reach the attention of the Guardian Etland wherever she might be. Ticos and one of the Palachs used it alternately. The others squatted about the boat as it moved slowly through the lagoon along the forest.
The message was repetitious. She’d been listening to it for the past few minutes, keeping pace with the boat. Her talk with the Great Palach Koll had been monitored by the Everliving. The transmitting device presumably had been another of the jewels fixed to Koll’s head; and the idea might have been Koll’s—to let the other Great Palachs and Palachs follow his interrogation of the captured human, witness the collapse of her pretensions as Guardian and Tuvela. If so, the plan had backfired. Everything said, the fact that Koll was the prisoner, the Tuvela’s evident knowledge of Porad Anz’s secrets, was designed to further undermine the Everliving’s confidence. It explained Koll’s sudden furious attack. He felt she had to be silenced then and there to preserve the goals of the Voice of Action. Oganoon trackers had found his body an hour later.
Nile gathered that the ranks of the Everliving had been in turmoil since. The loss of the sea patrol did nothing to calm them. They didn’t suspect she had nonhuman assistants, so it appeared to them that the patrol had encountered the Tuvela on her way over from the other forest and that she’d wiped it out single-handedly before it could get out an alarm. Then a short while ago they’d begun getting reports that a small fast surface vessel was maneuvering elusively about the Drift—the Sotira sleds had kept their promise to provide her with a message courier. The Everliving naturally associated the presence of the ship with that of the Tuvela. But they didn’t know what its purpose was. . . .
They’d been under psychological pressure since she’d first avoided what had seemed inevitable capture. With each move she’d made thereafter the pressure increased. That the moves were forced on her they didn’t realize. All of it would seem part of the Tuvela’s developing plan . . . a plan they didn’t understand and seemed unable to check. They didn’t know to what it would lead. Fears they’d nourished and fought down for over half a century fed heavily on them again.
So they, the proud Palachs of Porad Anz, had sent out Dr. Ticos Cay and a delegation of the Voice of Caution to offer the Tuvela a cessation of hostilities and the opportunity to present the Guardians’ terms to them in person. No doubt some of Koll’s adherents remained ragingly opposed to the move.
Could she risk talking to them?
As things stood, she had a very good chance of getting away from here presently. Then she could warn her kind that there was an enemy among them and that they must prepare for attack. If she walked into the enemy’s camp and couldn’t maintain the Tuvela bluff, she’d have thrown away the chance. If Ticos had understood that, he mightn’t be urging her now to reveal herself.
But if she didn’t respond and remained concealed, the pressure on the Everliving wouldn’t let down. They’d interpret silence to mean that they were no longer being offered an opportunity to withdraw. How would they react? They might feel it was too late to attempt retreat. They’d had many weeks to prepare the strike against Nandy-Cline from their hidden floatwood bases. If they decided to launch it before countermoves began, how long would it be before space weapons lashed out at the mainland? Hours? Her warning would come too late in that case.
The real question might be whether she could risk not talking to them.
Abruptly, Nile made up her mind.
The Parahuan boat came slowly around the curve of the forest. The loudspeaker began to shout again. After a few words it stopped. The Palach Moga, standing beside Ticos Cay, lowered the instrument carefully and turned it off with an air of preferring to make no sudden moves. There was a burst of sibilant whisperings behind Ticos. They ceased. The boat’s engines cut out and it drifted up against a tangle of lagoon weeds. The man and the six aliens stared at the motionless figure standing at the forest’s edge ten yards away.
The Tuvela’s voice said crisply, “Dr. Cay!”
Ticos cleared his throat. “Yes, Guardian?”
“Have that craft brought over here and introduce the Parahuan officers to me—”
Stepping down into the boat was like crossing the threshold of a grotesque dream. They stood erect on long legs, abandoning the natural posture of their kind, balanced not too certainly on broad feet. Parahuan heads inclined in obeisance to the Guardian as Ticos introduced them in turn. She knew the names of the Palach Moga and one of the others from his report. Along with half a dozen Great Palachs, Moga was the most influential member of the Voice of Caution. He retained his place beside Ticos. The others stood well to the back of the boat as it turned out again into the lagoon.
Moga spoke briefly into a communicator, said to Nile, “The Everliving are assembling to hear the Guardian. . . . ”
She didn’t ask where they were assembling. A Tuvela would show no concern for such details. An angry whistling came for an instant from farther out in the lagoon. Sweeting still didn’t approve of this move.
The sound seemed to jar all along Nile’s nerves. She was frightened; and knowing that now of all times she couldn’t afford to be frightened simply was making it that much worse. For moments her thoughts became a shifting blur of anxieties. She tried to force them back to what she would say to the Everliving, to anticipate questions to which she must have answers. It didn’t work too well. But the physical reactions faded gradually again.
Stocky Oganoon figures, weapons formally displayed, lined the sides of the water-level entrance to the blockhouse. The boat moved a few yards along a tunnel, was moored to a platform. She followed Moga up into the structure. Ticos stayed a dozen steps behind, effacing himself, playing his own role. After the introductions, she hadn’t spoken to him. On the next level, she realized he was no longer following.