A DIALOGUE CONCERNING THE TWO CHIEF WORLD SYSTEMS

The clatter of distant rotors woke him from his siesta. Carlos Montero sat up from his resting place against the mast of the Orion II, shaded his eyes with his hand; a gyro was flying in from across the Midland Channel, a silver dragonfly against the pale blue sky. Standing up, he watched as the aircraft made its descent; it circled the beach once at low altitude, the pilot searching for a place to set down, and Carlos pointed toward an area that he and Barry had cleared of scrub brush. Propwash rippled the canvas awning above the keelboat's upper deck as it came in for touchdown; the men on the shore turned away from the sand kicked up by the rotors, then the gyro was on the ground.

Carlos walked across the gangway to the beach. The gyro's blades were gliding to a halt when its rear hatch slid open; Anastasia Tereshkova climbed out, her long legs unsteady as her boots touched ground once more, and she unnecessarily ducked her head as she darted out from beneath the rotors. Carlos smiled to himself; Tereshkova might be the commanding officer of the EASS Columbus, but when it came to being a passenger, it was obvious that she was a nervous flier. Or maybe it was the age of the aircraft itself that disturbed her; he had to admit, these old Union Guard gyros didn't offer the smoothest of rides any longer.

"Welcome," he said. "Hope you had a good flight."

Tereshkova gave him a dour look. "As well as I should expect," she replied. "The trip was longer than I thought it would be."

Carlos nodded; Midland looked small on a map, but it was actually a couple of thousand miles across. "Takes a while to get here from Liberty. At least you picked good weather."

"Pretty much so, yes." She turned to gaze at the beach surrounding them. Her hair had grown out in the past three months, and now she swept it back from her face. "Still, I don't understand why we couldn't have used my skiff to come here. It would have taken much less time. An hour, perhaps less."

"As I said, this is a protected area. We try to disturb it as little as possible." Carlos gestured to the gyro. "That's as far as we let any sort of aircraft come. Even then, I had to pull some strings to get you here. Otherwise, you would've had to take the long way . . . on the boat with the rest of us."

Tereshkova gave a distant nod; it was plain that she didn't quite appreciate the special privilege she was being afforded. They'd left Liberty that morning, flying east across Midland, but after a brief stop in Defiance to take on more fuel, there was nothing but wilderness. Carlos had to wonder what she'd thought when she'd gazed down upon the highlands of the Gillis Range, the vast forests of the Pioneer Valley, the ash-covered steppes of Mt. Bonestell. There was nothing like this on the Moon or Mars; indeed, from what he'd been told, there was little like this even on Earth anymore.

Behind her, two more passengers had disembarked from the gyro. Gabriel Pacino, the Columbus's first officer, helped the pilot unload the bags; unlike his captain, he appeared unruffled by the flight. Neither did Jonas Whittaker, despite his years; indeed, he seemed fascinated by his surroundings. Indeed, from the moment he'd first set foot on Coyote almost three months ago, Whittaker took an inordinate amount of pleasure in every new experience he had. Not that he blamed him, Carlos mused; after all, if he'd collectively spent almost three hundred years in biostasis, as Jonas had, he, too, would probably treat every moment alive as a blessing.

"You haven't set up the tents yet." Raising a hand against the midday sun, Tereshkova looked around. "Aren't we going to make camp here?"

"Nope. We're going straight onto the boat." Carlos pointed to the south; about a quarter mile up the shore lay the mouth of the broad creek that led into the island's interior. "We've got six, maybe seven hours of daylight left. Way I see it, we can get a couple dozen miles downriver before we have to stop for the night. So why waste time here?"

Tereshkova didn't reply, yet she gazed back at the gyro, as if regretting her request to visit Barren Isle. Once again, Carlos wondered why she'd asked to be shown this part of the world. Only a handful of people had come here since humans had arrived on Coyote; in fact, this was the first time he himself had returned to the island since he'd discovered it . . . how long ago? Eleven years, by the LeMarean calendar; a little more than thirty-three years by Gregorian reckoning. Last time he was here, he'd been a teenager. And now . . .

"We could camp here tonight," Tereshkova said. "Perhaps explore the coast for a day or so."

"Uh-uh." Carlos roused himself from his reverie. "There's probably more interesting places than this once we get inland."

"But if you've never explored this part of the island . . ."

"You can't learn anything from sticking close to the coast. You have to go into the interior if you want to find anything new. And that's the point of us coming here, isn't it?"

Tereshkova glared at him, and once again he had to remind himself that she was a starship captain, and therefore used to having her way. Nonetheless, this wasn't her expedition; Carlos was in charge, both in his official role as president of Coyote Federation and, less formally, as leader of this expedition. The sooner she learned to accept this, the better.

Be tactful, Wendy had warned him just before he left. You've got to think like a diplomat. Easy for her to say; she was accustomed to being a politician, while this was a job he'd taken only with great reluctance. Yet he stared back at her, refusing to be intimidated, and after a moment she finally nodded. "If you say so," she murmured.

"Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ." Carlos turned away, walked back to the gyro. Pacino had unloaded the rest of the bags, and the pilot was eager to leave; he had a long flight back to New Florida ahead of him, not counting another landing in Defiance to refuel. Carlos thanked him, then the pilot climbed back into the cockpit. The gyro's engines coughed, then its props gradually spun to life and the aircraft slowly lifted off, heading west toward the distant coast of Midland.

Once they carried their bags aboard the keelboat, Carlos introduced the passengers to her crew. Barry Dreyfus, the Orion's captain, one of Carlos's oldest friends and another original colonist. Will Gentry, the first mate, also Barry's partner; once again, Carlos found that he still had trouble thinking of them as a couple, even though it'd been many years since Barry had finally revealed his sexual orientation to his family and friends. And Jud Tinsley, once the executive officer of the Alabama, now content to spend his golden years sailing aboard whatever boat needed a crewman; although he'd grown old and grey, he still had the energy of a man half his age, and when Barry had told him that an expedition was being made to Barren Isle, Jud had practically begged to come along.

So here they were: three original colonists and a Union immigrant, escorting three new arrivals— one of whom would have been aboard the Alabama, too, were it not for bad luck— on a trip into the frontier. Carlos couldn't help but reflect upon the irony of the situation as he watched the Columbus officers stow away their belongings and Orion crew pull up the anchor and unfurl the sails. Captain Tereshkova had wanted to see more of Coyote, and he'd wanted to revisit a place that had made a profound impact upon him in his youth. And so here they were. Coincidence, perhaps, yet he couldn't help but wonder if something else lay beneath the surface.

Sails catching the warm autumn breeze, wheel creaking softly as Barry turned the rudder to starboard, Orion II glided across still waters, hugging the coastline as it headed for the inlet. A leisurely sojourn down an unexplored river; not a bad way to spend the last week of Barbiel.

Nonetheless, he had a feeling that it would be more than that.

Barren Isle was a small, diamond-shaped island between Midland and Hammerhead, straddling the equator about a hundred miles northwest of the Meridian Archipelago. Carlos first visited it in C.Y. 2, when he'd set out on his own to explore the Great Equatorial River in a handmade canoe— the original Orion, after which this fifty-five-foot keelboat had been christened— yet although he'd spent nine days upon the island, he had only paddled along its southern coast and never gone farther ashore than the beach. It wasn't until several years later that anyone set foot on Barren Isle again, and this time it was a research expedition from the Colonial University, sent to investigate the aboriginal species he'd called sandthieves and which they now knew as chirreep.

"So you were the first to find them." Sitting on a barrel on the forward deck, Pacino munched on an apple as he watched the riverbanks drift by. "Why did it take you so long to tell anyone?"

Carlos didn't answer at first. Crouched on his knees in the bow, he slowly let a plumb line slip through his hands into the creek, carefully counting the knots tied at regular intervals along its length until he felt the lead weight at its end touch bottom. "Mark twain!" he yelled back to Barry, then grinned at Pacino. "Ever heard of Samuel Clemens? American writer? He took his pen name from that call . . . means we've got two fathoms below us."

"Fascinating." Pacino took another bite from his apple. "But you didn't answer my—"

"Same reason I called this place Barren Isle. Name like that, I didn't think anyone would be interested in coming here." Carlos hauled back the line, rolling it around his elbow as a tidy coil. "If I had my way," he reflected, "no one would still know about them. Would've been my own little secret."

"Didn't last very long, did it?" Pacino had gnawed the apple to the core; he pulled back his arm, flung it toward shore. It didn't reach the ground, though, before one of the swoops that had followed the keelboat since it entered the creek dove down from the sky to snag it in midair. The other birds shrieked in avarice, then circled the boat even more closely, hoping that the intruders would discard another tasty morsel. "Damn," Pacino said. "Hungry little buzzards."

"Everything we do here has an effect." Carlos dropped the line into a wicker hamper, brushed his wet hands on his trousers. "That swoop you just fed, for instance. It'll digest your apple, and somewhere nearby it'll crap out the seeds. If they land in the right place, then apples might grow somewhere on the island."

"Glad to make a contribution."

"Maybe . . . but what sort of long-term effect do apples make upon an ecosystem where there's never been any apple trees before?" Standing up, Carlos gazed at the landscape slowly moving past them. Sandy lowlands, bleak and dun-colored, devoid of forest; desert country, seemingly lifeless, save for scrub brush and small, stunted trees. "That's why I didn't tell anyone about the sandthieves . . . the chirreep, I mean. This is a new world. We've got to be careful what we do here."

"So how did—?"

"Things happened that were beyond my control." It was a long story, and Carlos didn't feel like repeating it now. "Watch what you throw overboard, all right? Excuse me."

Stepping past Pacino, he went aft. Will and Jud were minding the sails; Whittaker sunned himself on the mid-deck, his arm draped across his eyes as he took an afternoon nap. Climbing the short ladder to the upper deck above the cabin, he found Barry at the rudder, studying the river with a wary eye; Tereshkova sat on a bench next to him, quietly observing every move he made. Two captains: one accustomed to traveling by water, the other intrigued by a form of transportation that didn't require an AI.

"So far, so good." Barry's gaze never strayed far from the river. "I'll need another sounding before long, though."

"No problem. Maybe we can teach our first officer to handle that." Carlos glanced at Tereshkova. "Think Mr. Pacino is up to it?"

"He can learn." She hesitated. "May I ask which way we're going? Our course, I mean."

"Certainly." Carlos bent down to open a cabinet and withdraw a rolled-up chart, which he spread out across the bench next to her. Like most maps of Coyote, it was a montage of high-orbit photos; although overlaid with grid lines for latitude and longitude, there were very few place-names, and those were for the major waterways that surrounded the island: the Midland Channel to the west, Short River to the east, and the Great Equatorial River and the Meridian Sea to the south and southeast.

"We entered here," Carlos said, pointing to the inlet just south of the northern tip of the island, where the Midland Channel split off from Short River. "The creek we're on now will take us about sixty miles to this other creek." He tapped a finger upon the Y-shaped confluence of a longer waterway that flowed southwest from Short River. "And then we'll follow it due south until it empties into the Great Equatorial. Another two hundred miles or so."

Tereshkova studied the map. "And this will take us how long?"

"About five, six days. Maybe a little longer, if we get hung up."

"Hung up?" She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Orion's got a five-foot draw." Barry didn't look back at them as he spoke. "That means we need at least five feet of water beneath us before we drag bottom. If that happens . . . say, we run aground on a sandbar or something . . . then we've got a choice. Either get out and push, or abandon ship and walk the rest of the way."

Tereshkova blanched, and Carlos caught a sly wink from Barry. "He's just putting you on," Carlos said. "We've had a lot of rain lately, so the creeks are running high. And even if it did, I'll just call for a gyro to pick us up. We've got the satphone."

"Unless you throw it away, of course." Barry meant that as a joke, but then he caught the sour expression on Carlos's face and quickly shook his head. "It'll never happen."

"So long as it doesn't." She didn't notice the silent exchange as she studied the map more closely. "You don't have names for these creeks. Why not?"

"Sort of a tradition." Carlos shrugged. "Most of this world is still unexplored. There's many islands and waterways we haven't yet visited, and we've only named the major land masses and channels near New Florida."

"Not exactly," Barry said. "There's the Northern River, and the North Sea, and Medsylvania and Highland and Vulcan. And the major volcanoes . . ." Again, Carlos glared at him. "But that's just because they're pretty obvious and we needed to call them something."

"So we reserve that privilege for those who see them first." Carlos paused. "You're our honored guest. Would you like to name this creek?"

This caught Tereshkova by surprise. "You . . . you can't mean that."

"Sure I do." He grinned at her, then pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. "Name it, and I'll put it on the map. When we get home, I'll have the university add it to the official atlas. Simple as that." He didn't tell her that whatever name she chose would have to be ratified by the Colonial Council; so long as she didn't pick anything obscene, though, it would probably pass muster.

Absently touching a forefinger to her lips, Ana pondered the question for a moment. "Valentina," she said at last. "I'd like to call this Valentina Creek."

"Sure. Nice name. Any particular reason?"

"For Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman in space." Embarrassed, she looked away. "My ancestor, at least so I've been told."

Carlos glanced at Barry, and his friend raised an eyebrow. History repeating itself; Robert Lee, the commanding officer of the Alabama, also had a famous ancestor. Carlos nodded, then he inscribed VALENTINA CR. on the map. A simple act of diplomacy, he told himself, but one that he hoped would break the ice.

It seemed to work, for a smile briefly appeared on Tereshkova's face. "Thank you," she said, then she excused herself and went forward to join Pacino.

"Nice idea," Barry murmured. "Now maybe she'll talk to us."

Carlos shook his head as he returned the pen to his pocket. "Talking to us isn't the problem," he said quietly. "It's what she's going to say when she does."

By evening, they had traveled nearly thirty miles; the river had become a little more narrow, but not so much that it hindered navigation. Carlos waited until the shadows grew long across the brown waters, then he asked Barry to pull over at a dry bank on the east side of the creek, a likely looking spot for a campsite. Will and Jud lowered the sails, then picked up long-handled oars and began maneuvering the keelboat over to the bank. After watching them for a minute or so, Pacino picked up another oar and came to their assistance; Carlos had taught him how to use the plumb-line earlier that afternoon, and he seemed to enjoy learning to do things in such an old-fashioned way.

On the other hand, the expedition wasn't going to rough it as much as Carlos had eleven years ago. No need to build lean-to shelters or erect tarps; the Orion II carried four two-man dome tents, each with its own heat-cells. Nor would they have to go fishing for their evening meal; coolers stowed below deck contained enough fresh food to last them a week, and a portable stove to cook it on. There were folding chairs, and although they had battery-powered lamps to supply light for the campsite, Jud took it upon himself to gather wood for a fire. All things considered, they'd come equipped with all the comforts of home . . . even rolls of toilet paper, to be conveniently placed next to the latrine Will had dug a short distance away.

There were also a couple of tripod-mounted automatic guns, rigged to a motion-detector system, which they could set up to guard the perimeter. Yet Carlos decided not to do so. "Not necessary," he said, kneeling next to the stove as he stirred the pot of curried chicken he'd prepared. "I can tell you for a fact that there're no boids on this island."

"How can you be so sure?" Standing close to the fire, Tereshkova nervously eyed the sandy grasslands surrounding them. "You said yourself that you never went farther inland than the beach."

"Because I didn't hear them at night, that's why." Carlos raised the ladle to his lips, took a taste. A little bland, perhaps, but he doubted the others would like their curry as spicy as he did. "And since the last expedition didn't report any, I think it's a safe bet that they're not indigenous. Probably not enough game to support them."

"Too bad." Sitting in a chair nearby, Whittaker warmed his feet by the fire, a glass of waterfruit wine in hand. One more luxury item they'd brought with them. "I'd sure like to see one up close."

Barry laughed out loud, but the metal plateware in Jud's hands rattled as he unpacked them from the kitchen box. Carlos stared intently at the pot. "No, you don't," he said softly. "If you're close enough to see a boid, then that's too close."

Too late, Whittaker realized the faux pas he'd just committed. "Sorry," he said. "I forgot. Your folks . . ."

"Don't worry about it. Happened a long time ago." Carlos used the ladle to lift up a small piece of chicken; he nibbled it and decided that it was cooked well enough to be edible. The rice in the other pot was already done, so he gestured for Jud to hand him a plate. "Even if boids once inhabited this island, our guess is that the chirreep probably took care of them long ago. So far as we've seen, they don't coexist in the same place at the same time. Probably because the chirreep locate their nests and destroy their eggs, denying them the ability to reproduce. After a while, the boids get the message and move on."

"Like we did on New Florida." Barry took a plate from Jud, put some rice on it, let Carlos spoon some curry on top of that, then passed it to Will. "Once we learned how to control their population around Liberty, they migrated south and stayed there."

"And good riddance." Carlos caught a questioning look from Tereshkova. "My parents were killed by boids," he added. "Two days after we landed. So I . . . well, I'm not a big fan of them, if you know what I mean."

"I understand. And I'm sorry." Ana accepted the plate handed her, then sat down in the empty chair by the fire. "But these chirreep . . . if they're here on the island, and they're capable of killing boids . . ."

"I'm not going to worry about sandthieves . . . chirreep, I mean . . . too much." Carlos continued to serve dinner. "Not enough to set up the guns, at least. Before we go to bed, though, everything either goes back on the boat or into the tents with us. They'll steal anything they can carry away if you give 'em half a chance."

"So you're not threatened by them." This from Pacino, and not as a question.

"No. They're just a nuisance. They don't go after humans."

"I've heard different." Pacino accepted the plate Barry handed to him. "The timber operations on Great Dakota . . . haven't they had problems lately? Chirreep sabotaging the log flume, attempting to break a dam."

"We're still looking into this." It was something Carlos was reluctant to talk about. His daughter Susan was the naturalist the university had sent into the Black Mountains to investigate the reports, and she'd returned adamant in her belief that the chirreep had to be protected at all costs, even if it meant shutting down the logging camps. As her father, Carlos believed her without reservation, yet as president he had to weigh preservation of the chirreep's natural habitat against the necessity of allowing timber to be harvested in the Black Mountains. This had led to more than a little friction between father and daughter lately. "That's an exceptional situation," he went on, carefully picking his words. "The chirreep aren't dangerous. They're just . . . something we didn't expect."

"So what did you expect?" Tereshkova asked.

"Not this," he replied.

No one said anything for a while after that. They sat around the fire, dining on curried chicken and washing it down with glasses of wine. It was a clear evening, cool but not uncomfortable; Bear was beginning to rise above the eastern horizon, the leading edge of its ring-plane a silver spear thrust into the autumn constellations. Preceding it, though, was a new object; a tiny spot of light, so small that it could easily be covered by an outstretched thumb, yet brighter than either Fox or Raven, Bear's closest satellites.

"There's your namesake," Jud said, prodding Jonas with his elbow as he craned his neck to stare up at the sky. "Whittaker Station . . . almost finished, isn't it?"

Jonas coughed as if something had just gone down the wrong way; he nodded as he hastily took a sip of water from the flask next to his chair. "I wish . . . harrumph,'cuse me . . . I'd just as soon they don't call it that."

"False modesty," Tereshkova said.

"No, ma'am . . . not at all. I'm rather honored, actually. But if the long-term objective is to construct a network of starbridges, then wouldn't it be better to name them after the places where they're built? Starbridge Earth, Starbridge Coyote, Starbridge Kuiper . . ."

"Starbridge Kuiper?" Carlos gave him a sharp look. "You didn't tell me that a starbridge had been built in the Kuiper Belt."

For an instant it seemed as if Tereshkova and Pacino exchanged knowing looks. "Well . . . um, yes, there is," Ana said. "K-1X. But it was a test facility, built mainly to see if starbridge technology actually worked. It did, but it hasn't been used since then."

"So you've sent a ship through a starbridge to the Kuiper Belt." Intrigued by this revelation, Jud leaned forward in his chair. "Fantastic! What did you find there?"

Tereshkova shrugged. "Nothing, really. A lot of asteroids, but none of any great interest."

"So you've been there." Carlos gazed at her from across the fire. "Even if you didn't find anything, that's something we haven't heard before now. What did you—?"

"Actually, we haven't been there personally," Pacino said quickly. "K- 1X was constructed by a different vessel. Once it was complete, our sister ship, the Galileo, undertook the initial mission. So none of us were aboard."

"Oh . . . well, that's too bad." Jud was disappointed. "So what did the Galileo report?"

Uncomfortable silence. "As I said, nothing of consequence." Ana rose from her chair. "If you'll excuse me . . ."

"Certainly." Carlos watched as the Columbus's captain walked away from the fire, her flashlight winking on as she made her way through the tall grass toward the latrine. Pacino paid a small compliment about the excellence of tonight's dinner, and Carlos commented that it was his wife's favorite recipe, yet it was obvious that he and Jud had just hit a sore spot.

They're hiding something, he thought. What aren't they telling us?

They awoke early, shortly after sunrise, and after a quick breakfast of cereal and dried fruit they broke down the tents and boarded the Orion II again. By midmorning, they came to a bend in the river, where Valentina Creek turned due south; consulting the map, Barry estimated that they would reach the confluence of the longer, as-yet-unnamed river by day's end.

Although the creek remained deep enough to permit them easy passage, it was also becoming narrower, sometimes less than thirty feet across; the banks became higher as well, often making it difficult for them to see very far ashore. The topography had changed, too; where there had once been only trackless landscapes of sand and high grass, they now caught glimpses of low mesas and dry arroyos, patched here and there by swatches of brush and small, scruffy-looking trees. Jud remarked that it resembled parts of the American Southwest, or perhaps the badlands of Alberta, Canada, where dinosaurs had once roamed. The others scoffed at this, with Tereshkova in particular chiding him for being just a little too imaginative, yet Carlos could see what Jud meant; although reptiles had never evolved on Coyote, it wasn't hard to visualize the fossilized bones of ancient monsters lying somewhere out there in this wasteland.

As it turned out, though, it wasn't dinosaurs they had to worry about. Late that afternoon, as Uma was beginning to hang low to the west, Carlos and Barry were studying the map and discussing whether they should make camp here or wait until after they reached the confluence, when Jonas let out a shout from the bow.

"Smoke!" he yelled, pointing to the east. "Over there! I just saw smoke!"

Stepping out from under the awning, Carlos peered in the direction he indicated. Just as he said, a slender tendril of brown smoke was rising from the other side of a high riverbank. He couldn't see exactly where it was coming from, but he had little doubt what was causing it. "Pull over!" he called back to Barry. "Anywhere you can!"

Ana had been dozing in the cabin. Now she came out to join him and Jonas. "I don't understand," she said. "What's so significant about a wildfire?"

"Grass doesn't catch fire all by itself." Carlos turned to help Will lower the sails; Jud and Jonas had already picked up oars and dropped their blades over the port gunnel. "Takes a lightning storm to do that, and we haven't had one in the last two days." Glancing back at her, he saw that she didn't get it. "You wanted to see chirreep, didn't you? Well, here's your chance."

Barry managed to locate a spot on the east side of the creek where the riverbank fell to a small, muddy beach. Once they dropped anchor, Jonas hopped over the side; landing in thigh-deep water, he slogged through the shallows, carrying the bow-line over his shoulder. Once he was ashore, he looped the rope around the base of a bush and knotted it tight, but when Jud tried to lower the gangway, they found that the plank wasn't quite long enough to reach dry ground.

"Sorry, Captain," Carlos said to Tereshkova, "but I'm afraid you're going to have to get your feet wet." She scowled, but said nothing as he picked up a pair of binoculars and slid over the keelboat's starboard side. All the same, though, she hesitated as he gallantly offered a hand to help her off the boat. "It's just water and mud," he added. "Nothing to worry about."

"I can see that," she said stiffly, insulted by his belaboring of the obvious. "But shouldn't we arm ourselves?"

Behind her, Pacino was already pulling a weapon from his bag: an EA particle beam pistol, sleek and silver in the waning light of the day. "Put that back," Carlos said. "We don't need it." Pacino hesitated; then, ignoring Carlos's request, he tucked the gun in his waistband of his trousers, staring back at him in defiance. Tereshkova stayed where she was, not making a move to get off the boat. Carlos sighed, "All right then, suit yourself . . . but leave it where it is."

The water was warm, but the mud below it was deep; it slopped around their calves and sucked at the soles of their boots. Ana didn't let go of Carlos's hand until they'd come ashore. Then, with Pacino and Jonas on either side of them, they scurried up the riverbank on hands and knees, clinging to crumbling red soil and half-buried roots until they reached the top.

From here, they saw more of the same sort of broken landscape they'd been seeing all day: narrow canyons, tabletop hills, dry creek beds. The smoke spiraled up from the other side of a small mesa a few hundred yards away. "Over there," Carlos said to the others. "When we get closer, stay low. And whatever else you do, be quiet. They've got a very sharp sense of hearing."

They nodded, and then he led them toward the mesa, careful to avoid stepping on any sticks or brush. Fortunately the air was still, so there wasn't any wind to carry their scent. Once they reached the mesa, he bent low, motioning for the others to do the same. It was only a couple hundred feet high; once they reached the top, Carlos dropped to his hands and knees, and in this way they crawled until they could see the source of the smoke.

On the other side of the mesa, within a gulley surrounded by low hillocks, were eight dome-like mounds, each about fifteen feet tall, nearly indistinguishable from the natural formations around them except for entrances and windows burrowed into their sides. The smoke they'd spotted emerged from a hole bored into the top of the central one; here and there were small piles of wood, and what looked like racks with pieces of woven grass draped across them.

And amid all this, dozens of small dark-furred creatures, none larger than a small ape, each going about their daily business: carrying wood from the stacks in the domes, squatting together in circles and chipping at small rocks, weaving cloth. A couple of children chased each other around the domes; a few older ones sat by themselves, observing their antics with sublime disinterest.

Even from the distance, they could hear the voices of the chirreep: a babble of hoots, clicks, and chirps, with the occasional whistle for emphasis. They might have been mistaken for random animal sounds, as Carlos had when he'd first heard them, but when he listened closer he found that it was possible to make out a distinct pattern; consonants mainly, with few vowels. A protean form of language. Susan had taught him a few words, yet just how she'd come by such knowledge, she'd refused to tell him.

"Fantastic." Tereshkova's voice was a faint whisper; she lay on her belly next to him, watching them with wide-eyed astonishment. "Absolutely incredible."

"You'd almost think they're intelligent." Pacino was less impressed; apparently he thought he was watching a group of trained monkeys. "Wonder how they got that fire going."

Carlos ignored him. He pushed his binoculars across the ground to Ana. "Each dome belongs to a family," he murmured, "and the central dome belongs to the tribal leader. It's his job to stoke the fire and keep it going all day, and when evening comes he lets the others carry embers back to their own mounds so they can make their own. Or at least that's how we think they work it out."

Tereshkova studied the village through the binoculars. "An alien civilization."

"A native civilization," Jonas corrected. "We're the aliens."

Pacino smirked. "I'd hardly call this . . ."

Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched shrill: a chirreep standing on top of a mesa on the other side of the gulley, screaming at the top of his lungs. The chirreep in the village below stopped whatever they were doing to stare up at him. Another warbling cry, then the chirreep raised a staff and pointed it straight toward the mesa where they lay.

"Aw, crap," Carlos murmured. "We've been spotted."

"What?" Ana was just as surprised as he was. "How did they—?"

"Like I said, they've got great hearing." Within seconds, the village had gone into a panic. Alerted by the sentry, the chirreep rushed to their domes, dropping their belongings as they gathered their children. Carlos had no doubt that the sentry had heard them; damn it, he should have obeyed his own advice and kept his mouth shut. "No sense in pretending," he added, pushing himself up from his prone position. "Let's go before we . . ."

A beep, then a high whine from somewhere beside him. He looked around, saw Pacino standing erect, his pistol clasped between his hands. He was taking aim at the nearest chirreep, an adult who'd frozen in his tracks to stare at the intruders. Pacino's finger was curled within the trigger guard, and he was squinting down the barrel. In another instant . . .

"Stand down!" Tereshkova yelled. "That's an order!"

For a moment, it didn't seem as if her first officer would obey. Then she shouted something else in Russian, and he relaxed his grip on the gun. The chirreep at whom he'd been aiming sprinted for the nearest dome; he was among the last to disappear.

Suddenly, the village was deserted. Save for a few items scattered here and there across the ground and the smoke wafting upward from the central dome, there was no sign of life. Carlos rose to his feet, let out his breath. "Well, now you've seen some chirreep," he muttered, offering a hand to Tereshkova. "Hope you enjoyed the experience."

At first, it seemed as if Ana was going to ignore his offer to help her to her feet. Upon catching her first officer's eye, though, she glared at him, then took Carlos's hand. "I did, yes," she said. "Thank you very much. And my most profound apologies . . ."

"Sorry, Captain." Pacino put away his gun. "I thought they were going to . . ." Tereshkova said something else in Russian. It sounded like an insult, and his face went red before he turned to look at Carlos. "My apologies, Mr. President. My actions were rash and unwarranted."

"Yeah, well . . ." Carlos wanted to chew him out as well, but it looked as if his commanding officer had just done that. "No harm done," he finished, and let the matter drop. "Let's head back to the boat."

The hike to the chirreep village cost them an hour of daylight; it was dusk by the time they reached the confluence. Barry was leery about entering strange waters at night, so they pulled a half mile up from where the rivers came together. As a further precaution, they set up camp on the west bank of the Valentina, across from the side where the chirreep lived; no sense in tempting the locals to pay them a late-night visit.

Dinner that evening was lamb stew, which Will served up along with sourdough bread and another jug of wine. They ate sitting around the fire; high clouds were moving in from the west, obscuring the stars and causing a thin, luminescent ring to form around Bear. Carlos used the satphone to call Liberty and check the weather forecast; as he anticipated, it was already raining in New Florida, so they could expect to receive much the same sort of weather in their part of the world, beginning either late tonight or early tomorrow. Hearing this, Jud took a few minutes to go back to the boat and make sure that it was firmly tied down.

The topic of conversation turned to the chirreep. "I can see why you think they're a native civilization," Pacino said, leaning forward to turn his waterlogged boots so that the fire would dry their toes. "They build shelters, they tend fires, they care for their young, and so forth. Fine . . . but I wouldn't exactly call them civilized."

Carlos nearly choked on a mouthful of stew. "What do you want? Malls? Netcasts? I can't see what more proof you need to show that they're an intelligent race."

"I said civilized, not intelligent." Pacino favored him with an indulgent smile. "They're not necessarily one and the same. Birds build shelters and care for their young."

"Do birds make fires? Do they have their own language?" No longer hungry, Carlos laid his plate aside. "My daughter showed me photos of cave paintings she found in the Black Mountains a few weeks ago. Pictographs of what look like starships, at least as much as the chirreep understood them. Also boats, which the chirreep don't know how to build, and humans coming ashore to—"

"I don't quite understand," Tereshkova interrupted. "If the chirreep don't know how to build boats, then how did they get from here to Midland and Great Dakota? And why aren't there any on New Florida?"

"I don't know." Carlos shrugged. "We think that the islands of the northern hemisphere may have been closer together at one time, perhaps even forming one great landmass. Sort of like Pangaea back on Earth, before it was separated by the movement of continental plates. If that's the case here, then the chirreep might have evolved in one place, then migrated to other parts of Coyote before channels divided the major landmasses. As for the other, we can only guess that the chirreep tribes on New Florida lost out to the boids and were wiped out."

"That's quite a bit of conjecture, don't you think?" Ana wasn't being snide; she was simply unconvinced of his theory.

"Perhaps . . . but that's not the point I'm trying to make." Suddenly restless, Carlos stood up from his chair. "If a race is capable of recording its own history, doesn't that make them civilized? Granted, the chirreep we've found on Great Dakota may be more advanced than the chirreep you saw today, but still they belong to the same species."

"It might," Pacino conceded. "But still . . ."

"Look, we can't judge an alien race . . . I mean, a native race . . . by our own standards. Perhaps they can't build boats, let alone starships. So what? From what you've told me, even after three hundred years, there's been no indication that intelligent life exists elsewhere . . . or at least intelligent life as you define it, on a par with human civilization. Right?"

Pacino uneasily shifted in his chair, absently turning his boots once more. "That may be the case," Tereshkova said. "We still don't know for sure."

"Exactly. So far as we know, humankind may be the most advanced race in the galaxy. Compared to the chirreep, we're like gods."

"If we are like gods, then we'd better get good at it." Jonas had said little since they'd left the chirreep village; now he sat in a folding chair, nursing a glass of wine. "Someone said that once. I forget who . . . never mind. Look, until about the seventeenth century or so, everyone believed Earth was the center of the universe, and all the stars and planets revolved around it. That was Ptolemy's model, and the church held to it because it proved that Earth was God's chosen place and all that. Fit right in with their doctrine. But then Galileo came along, and he built a telescope to study the movements of the planets, and he discovered that, no sir, the planets revolved around the sun, and there were even tiny moons revolving around Jupiter."

"Are you making a point?" Pacino was becoming impatient with him.

"Let me finish, okay?" Jonas was mildly drunk; he drank some more wine, went on. "So Galileo . . . good ol' Galileo Galilei . . . took it upon himself to publish his findings. Only he knew that, if he went outright and said it, then the church would put him on trial for heresy. So instead he wrote it up as sort of a story, just a chat between two guys, and he called it . . ." He shut his eyes for a moment, seeking to remember. "A Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems . . . and, y'know, the rest is history."

"Galileo was eventually put on trial by the Vatican, anyway." Barry's voice was quiet. Will sat on the ground beside him, and he fondly stroked his shoulder. "He recanted his statements, if only to avoid being put to the stake, and after that he spent the rest of his life under house arrest."

"Right." Jonas raised a finger. "But enough people paid attention to his theories that he overturned the idea that Earth is the center of creation, and that's what I'm trying to get at. The more we learn, the more we have to change the way we look at things. Ever since Galileo, we've searched for life on other worlds . . . intelligent life, I mean. All well and good, but somewhere along the line we managed to persuade ourselves that, when we finally met these aliens, they'd be just as smart as we are, maybe even more. But Carlos is right. It may be possible that we're the most intelligent race, the most advanced, the only ones capable of building starships."

"God help us," Will murmured.

"Then help yourself . . . because if we've become like gods, that means we should recognize the responsibility that puts upon us." He looked straight at Pacino. "Keep that in mind, the next time you get trigger-happy."

Pacino's face turned red. "I only intended to . . ."

"All right, that's enough." Carlos didn't like the way the conversation was headed; they still had a few more days to spend together, and he didn't want everyone at each other's throats. He stretched his back, then bent over to pick up his plate. "It's getting late, and we've got a long day ahead of us. My turn to wash the dishes. Will, if you'd help me gather everything, I'd appreciate it. Everyone, make sure your tents are properly staked and there's no leaks . . . we'll probably get rain later tonight."

And that was the end of the discussion. Yet, as Will collected the cookware and Jud folded the chairs, Carlos observed that Tereshkova and Pacino had walked away from the others. Although they seemed to be having a quiet discussion between themselves, Ana kept glancing in his direction. Carlos pretended not to notice, but it seemed as if they were talking about him.

Another mystery. Or maybe just the same one as before.

Just as the forecast predicted, the next day was wet and miserable, with heavy rain coming down from an overcast sky and a bitter wind from the northwest. They broke down the tents and stowed the gear; a breakfast of hot oatmeal was served in the Orion's cabin, with Jud brewing a pot of coffee on the portable stove, but that was their only source of warmth. No one was dry, and everyone was cranky, and for five dollars Carlos would have gladly used the satphone to summon a gyro to pick them up. But he reminded himself that he'd been through much worse; besides, it was time that his VIPs got a taste of what frontier exploration was really like.

So they pulled up anchor and, with the men handling the oars, they let the current carry the keelboat the rest of the way to the confluence. As it turned out, the passage was easier than expected; the new creek was wider than the Valentina, and once Orion rounded the point, it was easily swept along by the current.

And so it remained for the rest of the day. The rainstorm continued, lightening up for a while now and then before returning with a vengeance. Barry had Jud and Will raise the sail, but he became concerned about the wind ripping the sheet, so after an hour he asked them to lower it once more. They could see little of the countryside around them; all they could make out through the downpour were low hills and the occasional mesa. When evening came, they rowed the boat close to shore, then dropped anchor and tied up against a couple of small trees. A cold dinner of ham and beans was served in the cabin, and there was little conversation before they unrolled their sleeping bags and slept, side by side, in the cramped confines of the keelboat.

The sky was clear again the following morning, with a light but steady breeze from the west. The one benefit of the storm was that it raised the water level by a few inches; Pacino dropped the plumb-line from the bow, counted the knots, and announced that it was fourteen feet to the bottom. Smooth, swift water, with little chance of them running aground. The river still hadn't been named, though, so Carlos extended the privilege to Jonas; he thought about it for a moment, then quietly suggested that it be called Ellen Creek, in honor of his late daughter.

Once they got under way, they made good time. Now that the storm was over, they could see that the landscape had changed. Although it was still desert, it was even more chaotic than before, with steep buttes on either side of them separated by twisting canyons; now and then they spotted sharp pinnacles rising high above the sands, around which swoops soared upon thermal updrafts. At one point, they observed a sandstone arch, forty feet tall and nearly twice as long, joining two mesas as a natural bridge. Strange and beautiful country, silent save for the lonesome wind that moaned through the canyons, the eerie cries of the birds; no one said anything, but simply stood on the deck and watched as it rolled past, like a scene from a weird dream.

Early in the afternoon, a few miles after the creek made a bend to the south, once again they saw a slender tendril of smoke, this time to the west. Another chirreep village, but farther away. They briefly discussed going ashore to look at it, but decided that it probably lay several miles from Ellen Creek, and so instead Carlos marked its approximate location on the map for future reference. Secretly, he was relieved that no one had insisted upon visiting it; he was in no mood to have a repeat of what had happened a couple of days ago.

They pitched their tents that night on a riverbank. Although it was the first time in two days that they were able to enjoy a cooked meal and a night on dry land, the atmosphere was oddly subdued. Even when Barry brought out his guitar and played a few songs by firelight, it did little to break the somber mood. No one wanted to talk. It was as if Ellen Creek haunted everyone's private thoughts.

The next morning, while the others were loading the gear aboard the Orion, Carlos and Barry met together in the cabin to study the map. They were approaching the confluence of another creek, a minor tributary that flowed down from northwest and, after briefly merging with Ellen Creek for a short distance, would branch off again to the southeast. If Orion continued traveling due south, though, Ellen Creek would carry it straight to the island's southern coast.

"The current's strong," Barry said, "and we've got the wind at our back. At this rate, we may be able to reach the coast by the end of the day." He looked up from the map. "Unless, of course, you want to spend another night here."

Carlos considered the question. It had already been decided that, once the journey was over, he and his guests would fly back to Liberty aboard a gyro while Barry, Will, and Jud would sail back along the Great Equatorial River to New Florida. Yet, despite the fact that they'd run into some bad weather, they were slightly ahead of schedule; there was more than enough food to last them for a couple more days on the island, and they hadn't even exhausted the reserves of wine that had been stocked aboard.

He was tempted to stay longer. Once back in Liberty, he had only his duties as president to look forward to: paperwork, committee meetings, reports from one department chief or another. At best, a courtesy visit to a greenhouse farm, or a brief inspection of the silos to make sure that enough corn had been put away to feed the livestock through the long winter ahead. Yet here, at least for a few days, he'd been able to recall his youth. True, perhaps now he traveled in greater comfort, without any of the risks he'd faced when he was seventeen, but still . . .

Something crashed on the deck outside. Gazing through the cabin's open door, he saw that Pacino had dropped the crate containing the cookware. Pots and pans lay scattered across the mid-deck, yet instead of picking them up, Pacino had turned to swear at Jonas, who apparently had bumped into him on the gangway. The older man glared back at him, then said something that Carlos didn't catch but which only made Pacino even angrier. They were on the verge of yelling into each other's face when Jud stepped between them.

"No," Carlos said quietly. "Perhaps we ought to head home." He looked at Barry. "These people have had enough. Two more days out here, and they'll be ready to kill each other."

Barry nodded, yet there was a sad look in his eyes. "Well, we tried. But they don't get it, do they?"

Carlos sighed. He was almost ready to agree when he glanced through the door again. Sitting on a barrel near the bow, ignoring the quarrel behind her, Ana Tereshkova gazed at the river. Her hands were folded together in her lap, and the morning breeze caught her hair and pulled it back from her brow, and in that instant Carlos realized that she was seeing the same thing that everyone who'd fallen in love with this world had ever seen.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Maybe they do." He tapped his finger on the map. "Take your time. No need to rush."

By midday, they reached the new creek, and this time Pacino was allowed to christen it. In keeping with tradition, he gave it a woman's name: Bettina Creek, after his mother. Yet it was narrower than either the Valentina or the Ellen, and after a couple of miles it branched off once more, flowing to the southeast. Leaving Bettina Creek behind, they continued following Ellen Creek as it meandered south.

Although the creek was now much wider and a bit more shallow, the terrain had gradually become less interesting. Gone were the mesas and pinnacles farther north; now there were only low hills and shallow gulleys, windswept and barren, like ancient floodplains. Swoops followed the keelboat for a time, and Carlos noted that they were now the broad-winged subspecies that nested in the Meridian Archipelago southeast of the island. Another indication that they were approaching the coast.

Barry checked the compass bearings against the map and confirmed this; they'd reach the coast shortly before sundown. By then, however, it would be too late in the day for a gyro to pick them up; the expedition would have to spend one more night on the island. No one complained, although it didn't seem as if anyone was pleased by the news. It had been a long trip; everyone aboard was ready for a hot bath and a bed that wasn't on bare ground.

Late that afternoon, Carlos was sitting alone in the bow, watching Uma as it began to sink to the west. The sun had been out all day, and the heat made everyone lazy and sluggish. Will had taken over the rudder for Barry while he dozed on the upper deck; Jud was minding the sails, but Pacino and Jonas were napping in the cabin. So he was mildly surprised when Tereshkova suddenly appeared at his side.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked.

"Not at all." He moved to one side, making room on the sail cabinet for her to sit down. "Thought you were catching a few winks yourself."

"I was, but . . ." She left it unfinished as she took a seat next to him. "Such a pretty sunset. Thought I'd come up and enjoy it with you."

It was beautiful: a pale orange disk, painting the western sky in hues of magenta and gold, with the moons of Dog and Eagle already appearing as bright stars above the eastern horizon. For a long while they were quiet, content with simply watching twilight settle in, until abruptly Tereshkova spoke up.

"I envy you," she said softly.

That startled him. "Why?"

"To be able to have all this." She cocked her head toward the river. "An entire world, all to yourself. Fresh air, clean water. No war, no crime, no poverty."

"It hasn't always been this way," Carlos reminded her. "During the Union occupation . . ."

"That's in the past. Now you and your people . . ." She shrugged. "You have paradise. Or at least as close to paradise as anyone back on Earth could possibly imagine."

Carlos frowned. "Is it really that bad back there?"

Tereshkova said nothing for a moment. She glanced over her shoulder, as if to make sure that they were still alone, then she leaned forward, resting her elbows upon her knees and clasping her hands together.

"Listen to me." Her voice had become very quiet, almost a whisper. "There's something you need to know . . . something I shouldn't be telling you, but that you should hear."

Carlos felt a chill that didn't come from the afternoon breeze. He leaned forward, mimicking her posture. Another glance behind her, then Ana went on. "There's forces back home . . . very powerful forces, including my own government . . . who'll want this world for their own, once they learn what's here. After the starbridge is finished, it'll be only a matter of time before they'll come here to claim it."

"They won't get it," Carlos murmured. "We fought the Union and won. If we have to, we'll fight the European Alliance, too."

"I'm sure you will." Then she shook her head. "But you have no idea how terrible things have become. And once they discover what's here, nothing will stop them."

He opened his mouth to object, but then she reached out to clasp his hand. "Please, just hear me out," she went on. "This may be my last chance to talk to you in private. Whatever I can do to help you, I promise you that I will. If you need an ally, you've got it in me. This I swear to you."

Carlos didn't know what to say. One look at her dark eyes, and he knew that she was sincere. It occurred to him that this was the reason why Tereshkova had insisted upon making this trip; she'd wanted to see Coyote for herself, perhaps to make up her own mind how she'd cast her allegiance. One person on her crew had already gone native: Jonathan Parson, who'd jumped ship almost as soon as they arrived, never to be seen again. Now it appeared as if she was considering doing the same, in her own way.

"Thank you. I appreciate that." He hesitated. "Mr. Pacino . . . does he—?"

"Support this?" She shook her head. "No. I've tried to discuss this with him . . . we were once much closer than we are now . . . but he sees his first duty as being to the European Alliance." She hesitated. "Don't let him know. He could make life very difficult for me, once we return home, and it could jeopardize anything that we may do."

"I understand. This is just between you and me."

"Thank you." Again, a long pause as Tereshkova gazed at the river. It was very wide now; the land was nearly flat, and the air held the faint scent of salt. It wouldn't be long before they came within sight of the Great Equatorial River. "There's one more thing you should know," she went on, her voice even lower than before. "The Galileo . . . the Columbus's sister ship, remember?"

"The one that went to the Kuiper Belt, sure. What about it?"

She hesitated. "It never returned."

Carlos stared at her. "But you said—"

"There's nothing there, yes, that's true. But that's not the real reason why it went there. They . . ."

Behind them, the cabin door opened. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Pacino come out. "Am I missing something?" he asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

Releasing Carlos's hand, Tereshkova sat up straight. "Only a gorgeous sunset," she said, her voice once again without subterfuge. "Please, join us. It's worth seeing."

"Hmm . . . yes, maybe I will." There was a faint suspicion in the first officer's eyes as he stepped around the mast. Carlos wondered how much he'd overheard, if anything. "It is rather pretty, isn't it?"

"Makes the day worth living." Then she looked at Carlos and smiled. "There, you see? Just as I was saying . . . we're not alone."

And in that brief instant, she gave him a wink, as if to hint at a secret still left unshared.

One last night on Barren Isle, on a narrow beach where Ellen Creek emptied into the Great Equatorial River. So far as Carlos could tell, they weren't far from a place where he'd made camp many years ago. If so, though, time and tide had long since erased all indications of his earlier visit; once more, he was on an alien shore, without so much as footprint or a piece of charred wood to show the presence of humankind.

They tied up the Orion II just offshore, then pitched their tents on the beach. There was plenty of driftwood for Jud to gather to build a fire; Will barbecued a chicken and pan-roasted potatoes above the coals. They had dinner while Bear came into view above the black expanse of the river, and after they finished Barry pulled out his guitar again. No earnest dialogues about the nature of intelligent life in the universe this evening; tomorrow morning, the gyro would come to pick up Carlos and the Columbus crew, and the rest would sail home, so tonight they celebrated the end of a long journey. No one was sober as they danced barefoot on the sand to the tunes of old songs from Earth, Ana taking turns with each of the men, while sparks rose from the fire to meet the stars far above.

The night finally wore down, and one by one everyone lurched away to their tents, until suddenly Carlos found himself alone on the beach, standing at the edge of the waterline. He was drunk, more drunk than he'd been in many years, a half-empty bottle of wine in his right hand. The fire waned low, little more than a smoky collection of embers; the surf washed up around his bare feet, massaging his toes, and he'd forgotten why or how he'd wandered out here, yet it no longer seemed to matter.

Tilting his head back, he stared up into space. The galaxy filled the sky, billions of tiny lights, a river in the sky . . . and somewhere out there, an island called Earth. So small, so insignificant: invisible from Coyote, undetectable for the slightest of gravitational perturbations it caused upon a wan and distant star. So far away, and yet, very soon now, all too close.

Carlos took another swig of wine, found that the taste had gone sour. On sudden impulse, he hurled the bottle into the river, heard it splash somewhere on the black waters. Cursing himself for his thoughtlessness, he turned to head for his tent . . .

Then he stopped. At the edge of the beach, from within the tall grass just outside the campsite, tiny eyes that reflected the glow of the dying fire peered at him from the darkness. They watched him for a few moments, as if studying him with curiosity, but when he stepped closer they vanished into the night.

Ana was right. They were not alone.