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swath of photons. There was a great sizzling sound, accompanied by a cloud of
smoke and vapor. The succulent foliage seared away instantly and left a
corridor blocked only by brittle burnt stems that we could push through with
ease. The hidden animals went crazy, setting up a din of shrieks, howls, and
ratchety buzzing. Bascombe ignored the noise and strode forward over the
waterlogged ground, zapping away.
Matt and Ivor went side by side after him, and I came last, keeping an eye out
for tailgating monsters.
The route wound through closely growing trees, whose scaly trunks were too
tough to be affected much by the beam of coherent light. After the first few
minutes the cries of the disturbed
wildlife diminished and the jungle became unnaturally quiet except for our
crunching, squelching footsteps and the periodic dragon hisses as Bob
incinerated the bush. There were oodles of flying insectiles, none
exceptionally vicious. Now and then a small animal blundered into the freshly
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burnt tunnel and then fled. We saw nothing bigger than a house cat.
I had given myself a stimulant dose from the medicuff before leaving the
hopper. That, plus the adrenaline flooding my veins in semi-expectation of
attack by ravening beasts, left me wired and jumpy. The fact that no large
animals of any sort appeared increased my uneasiness. I finally exchanged my
carbine for Ivor's more formidable Claus-Gewitter, which had a better
targeting scope; but the dense undergrowth and the twists and turns of our
course severely limited the spotter's effectiveness. The great lizardlike
predators Bob had spoken about with such macho enthusiasm could be trailing us
five meters back and we'd never know it.
Most of the ground we covered was soggy but fairly level, and our progress was
surprisingly swift, no doubt thanks to Bob's wilderness expertise. We left the
rank asparagus forest behind after about half an hour and skirted a
steep-banked pond where the brush thinned, so that no burning was necessary to
clear the way. Beyond the waterhole grew trees of a different variety with
jagged-edged leaves and graceful weeping branches that contained both flowers
and plummy fruits. Mothlike insectiles winged among them. The scene might have
been beautiful viewed naturally, in daylight, but the goggles made it flat and
unreal, like an antique 2-D black-
and-white screen image.
The rich fragrance of spice suddenly penetrated my ionic screen, inadvertently
triggering a memory, as odors will. I found myself recalling a certain winter
night at the Sky Ranch in
Arizona sipping a cup of hot wine mulled with nutmeg and cinnamon, a high
desert blizzard howling against the bedroom window, Joanna and I sitting
naked, side by side on a Navajo rug before a roaring fire of mesquite logs...
"Yo!" Bob Bascombe's voice in my hood's intercom brought me crashing back to
Cravat. He had come to a halt in a tiny clearing. "We're almost on top of the
yaga. Those are young pseudomyr trees growing all around. Probably a nice
grove of mature ones nearby. Ground's rising, getting rockier, kind of
territory they favor. You all take a break while I scout ahead. Keep sharp,
though. In places like this, open to the sky a little, simurghs can spot you,
divebomb you with their poop. Stuff's full of caustic alkali. Splashes right
through an ion face-screen."
He disappeared into the forest and we gathered closer together. The slick
surfaces of our envirosuits were smeared with ash, mud, and cooked plant sap.
Matt had a splatter of dark exotic blood on her hip where she'd casually
smacked a long-legged hitchhiker trying to drill through the tough fabric.
I asked Ivor, "You doing all right in the suit?"
"It's not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be," he commented, "except
for not being able to scratch where it itches and forgetting not to touch the
ionic screen. I find myself constantly trying to poke my fingers through it
and setting off the headphone buzzer."
"I wonder what a simurgh is?" said I. The travelogue video hadn't mentioned
it, probably for good reason.
"In Persian mythology," Ivor said unexpectedly, "it's the gigantic, omniscient
bird of the ages who has seen the world thrice destroyed."
Matt murmured, "Dissolved in its own horrific shit, no doubt," and the athlete
giggled.
I was watching my wrist navigator. Its glowing map showed not only the
position of Yaga
414H, concealed in the trees perhaps 350 meters away, but also bright numbered
dots that represented us. Bascombe, who had modestly chosen transponder number
four, was approaching the harvester's position.
I tongued the RF intercom. "Can you see the machine, Bob?"
"Not yet, but I think I hear it," said his voice in my ear. "The jungle
floor's more open and rocky around here, except for big trees. Tons of nutmegs
lying around. Kind of a big surprise. We
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thought the crop on Grant was "
Snap.
Silence.
"Hey, Bob?" I said.
There was no answer.
I felt my gut freeze. On the navigator, number four was no longer in motion.
Then, as 1 stared at the display, the dot moved erratically to one side and
was still again.
"Let's go," I said quietly. "Matt, cover the flanks. Put your C-G on broad
beam. Ivor, watch the rear." We set off at a slow trot.
There was no need to bushwhack. Bascombe had followed a suspiciously wide path
through head-high shrubbery. I realized it had to be a trail frequented by
large creatures seeking water.
The beautiful pseudomyr trees became increasingly larger and formed lacy
draperies overhead. A
breeze had begun to blow, dissipating the patches of mist and occasionally
showering us with flower petals.
I halted. "Listen!"
We heard a distant animal roar, bird analogues gurgling and tweeting, the
sound of wind in the trees, and a purring rumble of machinery.
"Keep close," I whispered.
The trail suddenly ended in a stony, gently sloping forest glade where the
undergrowth was sparse and much larger nutmeg trees grew. Some had trunks four
meters wide, with impressive buttresses. Only a few of their branches trailed
to the ground.
The purring sound came from a yaga about forty meters away on the glade's
uphill side, parked near a low cliff with fallen rock and heavy plant growth
at its base. The superstructure of the machine, seeming to crouch on its two
massive metal legs, had a conveyor protruding from its rear. A robot chick
that looked like a lidded bathtub with an anteater snout and caterpillar
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