THE WAYFARING STRANGER

The rain was coming down hard as the stranger rode into town, a midsummer monsoon that turned the streets to mud and filled potholes with tepid brown water. The weather had chased nearly everyone indoors, so few people saw the wagon, loaded with rolls of bamboo and pulled by a pair of shags, as it moved slowly past the wood-frame buildings of the town center, nor noticed the two men seated together on the buckboard, their shoulders slumped beneath the downpour.

The wagon made its way through Leeport until it arrived at the waterfront, where Boid Creek flowed into a shallow harbor upon the West Channel. A sullen grey mist hung low above the tugboats and barges tied up at the piers; the only thing moving was the revolving beam of the lighthouse. The drayman pulled back on the reins, clicking his tongue at the shags until they finally came to a halt. He glanced around once, making sure that they weren't being observed, then looked at the young man sitting beside him.

"All right, here you go," he said quietly. "From here out, you're on your own."

Water spilled from the brim of his catskin hat as the passenger slowly raised his head. Everything looked flat and monotonous, as if the rain had washed all color from the world; his poncho was drenched, and his clothes were soaked all the way to the skin. Yet he wasn't about to complain; despite his misery, he was relieved to have made it this far.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Reaching beneath the seat, he pulled out the backpack and rifle he'd carried with him since leaving Shuttlefield two days ago. "I told you I'd trade for a ride," he said, once the pack and gun were in his lap. "What can I give you?"

The old man absently rubbed his grizzled beard. "Naah, don't worry about it. Just glad to have the company for a change." He smiled. "Unless, of course, I can talk you out of that nice firearm."

"Afraid I'm going to need it. Sorry." Pulling the strap across his left shoulder, the hitchhiker climbed down off the wagon. "So where's this place you told me about?"

"Right over there." The wagon driver pointed behind him to a log cabin, elevated above the ground by thick blackwood stilts. "The Captain's Lady. Ask for Dana. Just mention my name . . . she'll set you up."

"Thanks again." Slinging his pack over his shoulder, the young man turned away, headed for the cantina. The drayman watched as he walked up the steps to the front porch, then he clicked his tongue again and shook the reins, and once more the shags began to move, hauling the wagon toward a side street leading away from the wharf.

The door made a loud creak as the young man pushed it open, causing everyone to look up as he came in. A single large room, with wood tables here and there and a few chairs in front of a stone hearth where a warm fire crackled. Embroidered wool carpets on the log walls, sawdust on the bare floor, a solid rough-bark bar at the opposite end of the room. A handful of men and women here and there, with a few seated around a nearby table, cards in hand and a small pile of chips between them. The place was quiet, more quiet than he liked; he tried not to notice the eyes upon him as he approached the bar, rain dripping off his clothes.

The man behind the bar was built like a mountain, not much older than himself, yet at least twice his size, his enormous girth pushing against the front of his apron. He studied the newcomer as he set down the beer mug he'd been washing. "Pardon me," the young man began, "but could you—?"

"That gun loaded?"

The young man nodded.

"Unload it and hand it over. House rules."

Silence, save for the rain lashing at the windows. The bartender's gaze never left him, yet his right hand traveled beneath the counter. The traveler hesitated, then reluctantly slipped the rifle off his shoulder, unclipped its cartridge, and laid the weapon on the bar. The big man gazed at the rifle with interest. "Haven't seen one like this before. Where'd you get it?"

"A long way from here." He spoke quietly, trying to subdue a British accent that, he'd come to realize, many people on this world had never heard before.

The bartender picked up the rifle, inspected it carefully. "Doesn't look like a Union piece," he murmured. "You wouldn't be interested in selling, would you?"

"Just put it away, will you?" The young man dropped his pack on the floor, but didn't take a seat. "I'm looking for . . . I've been told to ask for Dana. Is she around?"

The bartender was about to respond when a soft voice spoke from behind the stranger's left shoulder. "Relax, Hurricane, I'll take care of this."

Looking around, he saw that one of the women had risen and walked up behind him. An elderly, dark-skinned lady, with silvered hair pulled back into thick braids, her black eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I'm Dana," she said. "And who might you be?"

The young man groped for words. There were too many people listening, and he didn't want to come right out with the truth. "Jon," he said at last. "Paul Dwyer . . . a friend of yours, I believe . . . gave me a ride here from Shuttlefield. He said I could—"

"Of course." Before he could go on, Dana turned to Hurricane. "An ale for each of us, and some food for him . . . a bowl of chili and a grilled cheese sandwich." She glanced back at him. "Best we can do in a hurry. I imagine you're starved."

"Well, umm . . . sure, if you—"

"Good." She snapped her fingers at him. "Now give me that poncho and hat . . . wear 'em much longer, and you'll catch pneumonia." When he hesitated, she dropped her voice. "Don't worry. I've been waiting for you, Second Officer Parson."

Astonished, he stared back at her, and she smiled a little. "Word travels fast," she murmured, "and right now you need all the friends you can get. So sit down over there"— she nodded toward a small table away from everyone else—"and we're going to put a decent meal in your stomach and maybe give you a place to sleep tonight."

"I . . . I don't have any money."

Dana shook her head. "You don't need any. All I want to know is why the Columbus is here, and why you jumped ship."

The bowl of chili Hurricane brought him was unlike any he'd tasted before, made with chicken instead of beef. No cattle on Coyote, Parson reminded himself, although what they called "white chili" was just as good as the red variety, if different. In any case, he wolfed it down, swigging ale to cool his mouth.

Dana waited patiently until he polished off the grilled goat cheese sandwich. "More?" she asked. "That's Dave's recipe, by the way. It's supposed to be secret, but let him take a couple of practice shots out back with that gun of yours and he might let you in on it."

"Who's Dave?" he asked, and she nodded toward the bartender. "I thought his name was Hurricane."

"Hurricane Dave. That's his nickname." She smiled. "If you'd given him any trouble about surrendering your firearm, you would've found out why. Nice guy, but you don't want to get on his bad side." She signaled for the bartender to bring another round. "Okay, now, suppose you tell me why you're here, and why my old shipmate told you to look me up."

Parson wiped his mouth with a napkin. "You were on a ship together? Which one?"

"He didn't tell you?" Dana's eyes rolled upward. "Figures. Sometimes I think he's forgotten himself." She pointed to the fireplace. Mounted above it was a twisted piece of metal nearly as long as his arm, blackened as if it had endured an inferno. "See that? It came from the Alabama. There's a serial number on it that identifies it as belonging to Deck H2, the engineering section. Friend of mine recovered it from the wreckage on Hammerhead. Now, ask me why I'd display a hunk of junk like that in my place of business."

Parson's eyes widened. "You're one of the original settlers."

"Lieutenant Commander Dana Monroe, former chief engineer. Paul Dwyer used to be one of my officers, back before he took to driving a shag-wagon between here and Shuttlefield." She smiled again. "Don't look so surprised. Did you really think all of us live in Liberty?"

"Why don't you?"

"Maybe because we enjoy having elbow room." Dana reached up to take the fresh mugs of ale Hurricane Dave had just delivered to the table. "When Liberty and Shuttlefield started to get crowded, some of us decided to pack up and move out here. One nice thing about frontier life . . . if you don't like where you are now, there's plenty of places left to go."

"My feelings precisely. Paul told me that this is a good place to hide out for awhile. Lot of people come through, on their way to Great Dakota."

"Uh-huh. Once the mills got built in Clarksburg, they needed a place to ship their lumber. So the barges come upriver and offload their wood here, and then guys like Paul put it in their wagons and haul back across the island to Liberty and Shuttlefield, then bring stuff we need on the way back. So this is a port town, and since every port needs a watering hole . . ." She shrugged. "Well, there you have it."

"Odd place to find a former starship engineer." Parson smiled as he sipped his ale. "Judging from the name of this place, I take it you and Captain Lee enjoyed some sort of relationship."

"You can take it whichever way you want," Dana said, her voice taking on a certain edge, "but you're going to find yourself on the other side of that door if you don't wipe that grin off your face. And since I'm also the mayor, you'd do well not to make me mad."

"No offense intended." Parson felt his face go warm. "Many apologies."

"Apologies accepted. Besides, you still haven't answered my question."

Parson didn't reply at once. Instead, he gazed around the cantina. It was midafternoon by now, and although the rain continued to patter against the roof, most of the regulars had left, save for a couple of drunks passed out near the hearth. Hurricane Dave moved about, wiping down tables and carrying empty mugs back to the bar. The Captain's Lady was quiet, yet its namesake clearly wasn't.

"The Columbus is here to build a starbridge," he said. "That's a means of forming an artificial wormhole between here and Earth, so that—"

"Ships can travel instantly between here and there. I know that part already." Dana absently tapped a finger against her mug. "We may be out in the boonies, but we've got a satphone, and I still have friends back in Liberty. Same ones who told me about you. What I want to know is why."

"It's not complicated, really. Earth's resources are running low . . . in fact, they've pretty much been used up. The colonies on the Moon and Mars helped some, but not nearly enough. The human race needs to expand beyond the solar system if it's going to survive. Coyote's our best chance."

Dana peered at him. "You mean to say no one has found any other habitable worlds? Not even after all this time?"

"Oh, there might be more. I wouldn't be surprised if there were. There's a good likelihood that there may be a habitable planet around HD70642, but that's 90 light-years from Earth." He shrugged. "18 Scorpii is almost as close as 47 Uma, and it has Earth-size planets, but so far as we've been able to tell, they're dead as Mars. Like I said, this is the garden spot of the universe."

"And so you've come here? To take what little we have?"

" 'What little we have . . . ' " Parson gazed out the window. "If only you knew. A storm like this . . . just a minor inconvenience, right? Where I'm from, we've had to build seawalls around much of the southern coast of England, just to keep London from being flooded." He shook his head. "You have no idea what it's like back home."

"This is our home," Dana said defensively, then her tone softened. "That bad, huh?"

"I doubt you'd recognize the place." Parson took another sip of ale. "If you have a complaint, though, you're going to have to take it up with someone else. What the European Alliance wants is not my concern anymore. I resigned my commission two days ago. All I want now is a fresh start."

Dana said nothing. Her fingers gently drummed against the table as she regarded Parson thoughtfully, as if trying to make up her mind what to do with him. "Guess everyone is entitled to start over," she said after a while. "That's what we did. But you can't stay here. Not if people are looking for you . . . and they probably are, if you've jumped ship."

"I imagine my captain is rather put out with me just now, yes."

"Then it's only a matter of time before we'll have Proctors knocking on our door. Surprised they haven't already. But since it'd be bad for business if I tried to hide you—"

"I see." Parson drained his mug with one gulp, then stood up. "Well, thanks for the hospitality, but perhaps I'd better move along. If you can tell me—"

"Did I say I was kicking you out? Sit down and shut up." Leaning back in her chair, Dana turned toward the bar. "Hurricane? When's the next boat for Clarksburg?"

The bartender put down the plate he was polishing, walked over to a sheet of paper tacked to the wall at the end of the bar. "The Helen Waite leaves at seven in the morning, providing the weather lets up. Everything else is docked till then."

"Thanks." Dana looked back at Parson. "I'll put you up in a guest room tonight. In the morning, you need to find slip three and go to—"

"Helen Waite." Parson smiled. "That joke's rather old, you realize."

"Tell that to the skipper. His name's George Waite. Helen's his wife." Dana grinned. "George is an old friend, and he owes me a favor or two. He'll carry you down to Clarksburg. Don't worry about the fare. You should be able to work something out with him."

"Thank you." Parson hesitated. "But if Clarksburg is as big as I've heard, then it's only a matter of time before someone finds me there."

"If you stay long, sure." Dana prodded Parson's pack with her foot. "Looks like you took a lot of stuff with you when you deserted. I saw the rifle. You got everything you'll need?"

"Bedroll, some clothes, a lamp, and a knife. Everything I could pilfer from the skiff's survival kit, plus whatever else I could barter in Shuttlefield." He gestured to his poncho and hat, now drying on a hook near the fireplace. "Amazing how much you can get in trade, just for a spare datapad. Figured I was going to be living off the land for awhile."

"You'll need more than that if you're planning to homestead. Winter here is rough." Pushing aside the empty mugs, Dana leaned across the table. "Clarksburg's just your next stop. There's someone farther in-country you need to find. He lives up in the mountains, so it'll be hard to reach him, but I can provide some directions. And if and when you do find him, you'll have to make some sort of accord with him. Sometimes he's hard to get along with. All the same, he may be able to help you."

"Why's that?"

Dana favored him with a sly smile. "Because I said so. And because you're both looking for the same thing."

The Helen Waite was a stern-paddle tugboat, sixty feet long and built of wood and iron, its steam engine fired by a coal-burning furnace that belched acrid brown smoke from its top-hat. It looked like something that should be on display in a museum, yet according to its captain it'd been built only three Coyote years ago. Noting his interest, George Waite decided to let his new passenger get a closer look; he was put to work shoveling coal into the firebox, and it wasn't long before the traveler began to miss the sophistication of diametric warp drives.

The tug chugged out of the Leeport harbor shortly after sunrise, dragging behind it six flat-bottom barges, empty save for a load of bamboo and several bushels of corn being brought over from New Florida. The monsoon had passed during the night, and the new day was bright and clear, the white sails of fishing boats dotting the blue waters of the channel. When Parson got a chance to take a breather, he sat on a barrel on the aft deck and watched while the coast of Great Dakota slid past, the distant peaks of the Black Mountain Range growing larger with every passing mile. The captain stood within the pilot house, quietly humming to himself as he navigated the channel by memory, turning the wheel now and then to avoid shoals, his only landmarks the occasional bluff or tall tree upon the shore. Again, it was a far cry from everything Parson had ever known; he'd spent years learning how to control the helm of a starship, and only a few days earlier he'd brought the Columbus's skiff to a safe landing at Shuttlefield, yet compared to George Waite's sublime mastery of the channel he felt as innocent as a child.

It took the better part of the day for the Helen Waite to make its journey down the West Channel. Besides the captain, there were only two other crewmen aboard: Waite's teenage nephew, and a rather clumsy middle-aged man who, Parson realized after awhile, was borderline retarded. Neither were very curious about their passenger; Donny spent most of his time in the pilot house, learning the river from his uncle, and José was only too happy to let someone else shovel coal for a change. Yet late in the afternoon, while Donny was inspecting the tow-ropes and José took his turn stoking the engine, Parson went forward and spent a few minutes with the captain. George was an easygoing gentleman, with few questions about his passenger. He only knew that he was an acquaintance of his old friend Dana who was down on his luck; by the time the Clarksburg lighthouse appeared off their starboard bow, Parson had learned everything he needed to know.

The Helen Waite nudged the Clarksburg pier just as the five o'clock whistle on the millhouse roof blew, signaling the end of the workday. Parson helped José tie down the tug and barges, then he went aft to collect his belongings. He was about to step off when, much to his surprise, Captain Waite stopped him at the railing and put ten wood coins in his hand. Ten dollars, a day's wages for working on his boat, minus passage from Leeport to Clarksburg. It wasn't much, but it would get him room and board for the night at a wharfside inn George recommended. Again, a small act of kindness from someone whom he barely knew.

The Laughing Cat was little more than a flophouse for itinerant millers and down-on-their-luck fishermen, but it offered a single bed, a bath— so long as no one else on the second floor used up all the hot water— and two square meals a day. Parson got his first taste of creek crab stew that evening; it was the only thing on the menu he could afford, and even the fresh-baked corn bread and pint of sourgrass ale that went with it couldn't wash the taste from his mouth. He left the table while the local drunks were still coming in, and later that night he found himself standing in the alley, clutching his stomach and praying that the guy occupying the outhouse would hurry up and die so he could do the same.

He skipped breakfast the next morning, opting instead for a mug of hot coffee. After leaving his pack and rifle with the innkeeper, he walked around the harbor to the mill. Since Captain Waite had told him the foreman's name, it didn't take Parson very long to land a job, stacking lumber for two dollars an hour.

It was gut-busting, mindless labor that left his arms and back sore, his hands blistered, with splinters in his palms. He was still getting used to Coyote's lower atmospheric pressure, so often he had to sit down and catch his breath. It paid his rent at the Cat, though, and once he bought a pair of shag-hide gloves the job went much easier. While he worked, he remained quiet, picking up bits and pieces of local lore from the other guys on the line; it didn't take long for him to learn how to imitate the local drawl, which effectively masked his British accent. He'd taken the name John Carroll— a misspelling of his first name, along with his mother's maiden name— and whenever anyone asked him where he'd come from, he told them that he was originally from New Boston; he was young enough to pass for a second-generation Coyote native, and the northern Midland colony was far enough away that no one ever made any uncomfortable associations.

During his lunch hour, he ate redfish sandwiches on the wharf while gazing across the Mill River at the foothills of the Black Mountains. Every day, carts bearing cut timber came down Thunder Ridge; he knew where the roads were now, and how they led to the logging camps deep within the mountains. The wilderness beckoned to him, yet he went on collecting his daily pay, spending only as much as he needed to get by and hiding the rest inside a hole he'd cut inside the mattress of his bed. When the time was right, he'd buy the supplies he needed, then head for the high country.

Parson originally intended to stay in Clarksburg until the end of summer, but circumstances forced his hand. He'd been there almost four weeks, well into the month of Uriel, when one day he heard at the mill that a gyro had landed in town earlier that morning. Word had it that several proctors from Liberty were in town, along with the first officer from the starship that had arrived last month, and that they were searching for a crewman who'd gone missing.

Not wanting to attract attention to himself, Parson waited until the lunch whistle blew before he returned to the Laughing Cat. After gathering his belongings, he left what he owed the innkeeper on the dresser, then he made his exit through the window. He took the risk of stopping by a general store a few blocks away, where he spent his savings on various items he needed: woolen socks, dried fruit and jerked meat, a fire-starter kit, a small axe, and a couple of water bottles. He then made his way through the alleys and side streets until he reached the outskirts of town, where he managed to hitch a ride on a timber wagon heading back into the mountains.

The road led up the eastern slope of Thunder Ridge. Sitting in the back of the empty wagon, his feet dangling over the side, Parson gazed down upon Clarksburg for the last time in what would be many months to come. For a few moments, he almost regretted his decision; the town had been good to him, and more than once he'd been tempted to stay through winter. Yet he valued his freedom more than the comforts of civilization, and he knew that, if he remained here, it would only be a matter of time before he'd be arrested as a deserter.

The town vanished behind the trees, and before long he couldn't even see the smoke rising from the mills where, only a few hours earlier, he'd been stacking boards still warm from the saw blades. At the top of the ridge, a half mile past the high towers of the wind turbines, he spotted an abandoned logging road. He called to the drayman and asked him to stop, then he hopped off, taking his pack and rifle with him. The driver regarded him with curiosity, but didn't ask questions; he merely shrugged and shook the reins of his shag team, and the wagon slowly trundled up the road, leaving his passenger behind.

Parson took out his compass, checked his bearings against a hand-drawn map of the mountains. He pulled his pack and rifle across his shoulders, then he took a deep breath and started walking up the road, following directions Dana Monroe had given to him several weeks ago.

Somewhere up here was another person who sought the same thing as he did. The time had come to find him.

The old logging road led several miles northeast along the top of Thunder Ridge before it ended in a steep trail descending into a deep valley that lay between the ridge and Mt. Shapiro, the easternmost flank of the Black Mountain Range. It didn't take long for Parson to discover why the road wasn't being used any longer.

Making his way downhill, he came upon a broad expanse where every tree larger than a sapling had been felled. Acre upon acre, mile upon mile, of old-growth rough bark and blackwood, chopped down and carried away, leaving behind only a wasteland of stumps and brush. Deep furrows in the ground showed where shags had hauled logs to the ridgetop, to be loaded aboard wagons. From what he'd learned while working at the mill, he knew the loggers had abandoned this part of the mountains after it had become more trouble than it was worth to harvest wood from this particular area; by then, they'd found other sites closer to the Mill River, from which they could pump water to fill the flumes they'd built to carry logs most of the way down from the mountains.

Yet it was one thing to hear of such a thing, and another to see the results. A forest, ancient long before humankind had learned how to build starships, had disappeared. In its place were stumps large enough to serve as dinner tables for parties of eight, and heaps of decaying ashes where smaller limbs had been burned. A pair of swoops circled high upon him, screeching their dismay at his intrusion, but otherwise the mountainside was quiet and still. For the first time since he had begun his journey into the mountains, he didn't hear songbirds, or detect the furtive movements of small animals. The forest inhabitants had long since fled this side of the valley, seeking refuge in places which hadn't yet felt the hand of man.

And so you've come here, to take what little we have? Again, he heard Dana Monroe's voice; not accusatory, simply stating a bald fact. And to this he'd replied with some blithe remark about the rain.

How arrogant he'd been. How stupid he must have sounded.

It was late afternoon, and he hadn't eaten since early that morning, yet despite his hunger and fatigue, he couldn't bring himself to rest here. This place felt too much like a cemetery. Instead, he continued hiking down into the valley, hoping that he would escape this place before the time came for him to make camp for the evening.

Fortunately, the desolation ceased before he reached the bottom of the valley. Now the trail was much narrower, becoming little more than a footpath. Near a shallow brook that meandered across the valley floor, Parson came upon the remnants of a logging camp: rotting platforms where tents had once been erected, with a couple of abandoned outhouses standing nearby. Although Uma had disappeared behind Mt. Shapiro and dusk was beginning to settle upon the valley, he didn't want to camp here, so he searched the brook until he found a place where he could step across on dry rocks without getting his boots wet.

Within a small hollow surrounded by tall trees, he made camp for the night. It was more difficult than he'd imagined. Although he'd taken a course in wilderness survival while training for the Columbus mission, the fact remained that it had been little more than a weekend camping trip in what remained of the French Alps. This time, though, Parson didn't have the luxury of a heated tent or a bottle of wine to go with a dinner of processed rations. He struggled to tie a plastic tarp across a couple of trees, and once that was done he had to scrounge in the darkness before he found enough dry tinder to build a fire. Even then, the fire he made cast more smoke than heat; it went out twice before he learned that simply shoving more twigs and leaves upon the embers did more harm than good, and in the end he had little more than a weak blaze by which to warm his feet while he chewed some dried fruit.

Even as he huddled against the cool wind that drifted through the valley, though, he gazed up at the night sky. Bear had risen above Thunder Ridge, its rings casting a silver halo across the tree branches, the planet itself a giant blue eye that stared down upon him, not with malevolence, but with godlike curiosity. The high clouds disappeared, exposing stars so brilliant that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch them. He easily located some of Coyote's companions— Hawk, Snake, Eagle— but it took a while for him to find a wan white star, unremarkable from any of the lesser suns in the firmament.

Somewhere near Sol, invisible to the naked eye, lay Earth. Not for the first time, Parson found himself having second thoughts about what he'd done. It was one thing to desert the Columbus once it reached Coyote, yet now that he'd actually carried out his scheme, he'd come to realize that heading off into the wilderness to live off the land was far more difficult than he'd expected. It wouldn't be long before summer came to an end, and by then he'd have to learn how to survive by his own wits. Shelter, food, warmth: all the simple things he'd once taken for granted, he would now have to . . .

From somewhere to his left, a twig snapped.

He froze, remaining perfectly still as he listened to the darkness. For a few seconds, he heard only silence. Then there was a faint rustle, as if something was moving through the underbrush.

Careful not to make any sudden movements, Parson slid his hand across the ground, searching for his rifle. Locating it, he slowly pulled the gun into his lap and disengaged the safety. The rifle made a faint beep as he switched on the infrared sight; the sound apparently startled whatever lurked nearby, for there was another furtive sound among the leaves, this time a few yards closer.

Holding his breath, Parson silently counted to three. Then, in one swift movement, he leapt to his feet, bringing the rifle stock to his shoulder and aiming the barrel to his left. Squinting through the scope, for a half instant he caught an amber-filtered glimpse of a tiny face, almost monkey-like, peering at him with enormous eyes through the foliage. A high-pitched ka-cheep! and then the face vanished, leaving behind only a couple of branches that whisked back and forth where it had once been.

For an instant, Parson was tempted to fire. Then he took a deep breath, and his finger relaxed within the trigger guard. Still holding the rifle to his shoulder, he searched the perimeter through the scope. He saw nothing, though, save for trees and overgrowth. Whatever had come to visit him had been scared away.

Parson lowered his gun. At least it wasn't a boid. He'd heard stories about these giant avians, how they hunted by night and were capable of ripping a man apart with their beaks and claws. They were supposed to be indigenous mainly to the lowlands, though, and unlikely to be encountered up here in the mountains.

Yet the same people who'd told him about boids, at the mill or over drinks at the Laughing Cat, had also told tales about something else that infested the high country. Creatures that looked a little like monkeys, but were far more intelligent. Gremlins, treecrawlers, night-thieves . . . they had many names, and sometimes they visited the campsites of those who ventured into the mountains, and took whatever they could carry away.

Before he went to sleep, Parson took the precaution of closing his pack and placing it behind his head. Once he'd wrapped his blanket around himself, he rested his rifle next to him and put his hand over it; his hat and poncho, he laid against his side. Everything he had in the world was within hand's reach; if anything crept up on him, he'd know about it.

Nonetheless, it took a long time for him to fall asleep. He gazed at the dying campfire until his eyes finally closed of their own accord. His first night in the Black Mountains was uneasy, his dreams dark and disturbing.

Morning came cold and damp, with slick dew upon the ground. He woke up thirsty and craving a hot cup of coffee, and cursing himself for having neglected to buy any before he fled Clarksburg. Yet the first thing he noticed was that his tarp was missing. Sometime during the night, it had simply vanished; even the cords with which he'd tied it to the trees were gone.

The loss of the tarp was a nuisance, but worse was the realization that something managed to get so close to him without waking him. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he swore to himself that he'd be more careful in the future. His fire had long since gone cold, and there was little reason to start it again; he had a meager breakfast of jerked lamb, and wondered again how he'd feed himself once it and his supply of dried fruit was gone. Then he packed up his bedroll and headed out.

It didn't take long for him to find the trail he'd followed since he entered the valley; it led to the west, away from the abandoned logging camp he'd found yesterday. As it wove its way through the woodlands, once again taking him uphill toward Mt. Shapiro, it became apparent that the path hadn't been forged by loggers. It was much too narrow, nor were there any indications of anything having been cut down; no stumps, no signs of brushfires. It didn't look like a game trail, though; if animals had made it, they would have left scat, yet as hard as he looked, Parson didn't see anything that looked like turds.

This made him wary, so after a while he took his rifle from his shoulder and carried it in his hands, its safety cocked but never far from his right thumb.

By midday, the trail had led him up the lower slopes of Mt. Shapiro. Stopping to look back, he could see the way he'd come, the eastern side of the valley marked by the ragged scars of the logging operations. Again, he was blessed by dry weather; the day was bright and cloudless, with Uma casting its warmth upon him. He'd stopped to remove his poncho and rest his back against a granite outcropping when he heard a new sound.

From somewhere not far away, someone was singing.

He couldn't make out the words, yet it was definitely a voice, carried through the trees by the warm summer breeze. Not quite believing what he was hearing, Parson followed the sound, keeping his rifle at the ready.

The trail led uphill for another few hundred yards, then leveled out on a narrow plateau. Here he came upon a clearing where the trees had been taken down. About an acre in size, it had been cultivated as a small farm field; tall stalks of corn grew chest-high, and nearby were rows of other crops; soybeans and potatoes, from the looks of them, and also trellises upon which tomatoes ripened in the summer sun. At the far end of the clearing was a compact log cabin, with a cord of wood stacked against the stone chimney, and a porch out front upon which a large brown dog sunned himself.

A short distance away, a lone figure worked the field. At first Parson thought he was a scarecrow; hunched over, his back turned to Parson, he wore a long black robe, its cowl pulled up over his head. As the garden hoe in his gloved hands swung up and down, digging a long furrow in the soft ground, his song came to him:

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger,

A-traveling through this world of woe,

But there's no sickness nor toil nor danger,

In that bright world to which I go . . .

Coming closer, Parson's foot came down upon a discarded corn husk. It made a loud crunch beneath the sole of his boot. Aware that he was intruding, he halted. On the cabin porch, the dog raised his head; he searched the clearing until he spotted Parson, then jerked to his feet and bayed a warning.

The lonely farmer stopped singing. He gazed first at the dog, who'd come down off the porch and was now running across the field, then turned to look at Parson. He didn't straighten up, though, nor did he drop his hoe. He regarded his visitor for a moment with what seemed to be only passing curiosity, then he turned around and resumed his work. As the dog stopped at his master's side, once again Parson heard the farmer's voice:

I know dark clouds will gather round me,

I know my way is steep and rough,

But beauteous fields lie just beyond me,

Where souls redeemed their vigil keep.

Parson ventured closer. "That's a nice song," he said. "Did you . . . I mean, is that your own?"

"You could say that." Standing erect, the farmer rested his hands upon the handle of his hoe, but otherwise kept his back turned to him. "If you're asking if I wrote it . . . no, I didn't. I don't think anyone knows that anymore. It just belongs to anyone who sings it." He paused. "If you've got a reason for being here, tell me. Otherwise, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave. We don't like trespassers."

Parson stopped. "Sorry. I didn't know this was private property."

A queer buzzing sound, like static from a mistuned radio. "No, it's not private property. But it's my home, and I don't encourage visitors." He glanced down at the dog. "Oscar . . ."

The mutt growled deep in his throat, his ears flattening against his head as his mouth pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. "No need for that," Parson said, remaining as still as he could. "I'm just looking for someone. A friend of mine told me I might find him up here. His name's Manuel Castro . . . Manny Castro. Maybe he's a neighbor, or someone you know."

The farmer said nothing for a moment, yet his head turned ever so slightly within his cowl. "Depends. Who's your friend?"

"Dana Monroe. She owns a place in Leeport, a bar called—"

"The Captain's Lady. Yes, I know her. And you say she told you to find me?"

"You're Manny Castro?" No answer. "Look, I don't wish to bother you, but Dana told me that you might be able to help me. Or rather, she . . ."

The farmer turned around, and now Parson clearly saw his face. Within the shadows of the cowl was a metal skull, its plating like tarnished silver, with a grill where his mouth should be. A black patch covered his left eye; the right was a glass orb that caught the sunlight and reflected it with a multifaceted red hue.

Parson gaped at him. "Oh, hell," he whispered, "you're a Savant." Then he swung his rifle up. "Stay where you are, or . . ."

"Or you're going to do what?" Castro dropped his hoe, then opened his threadbare robe, revealing a mechanical body pitted with dozens of small dents. "I've been shot before, by better marksmen than you."

Oscar growled again, but now his tail was between his legs; he obviously knew what a rifle was, and despite his willingness to protect his master he was clearly frightened. "Easy, boy," the Savant murmured, and his right hand stole down to pat the mutt on the head. "Shoot him," he added, "and I swear my next chore will be digging a grave for you."

Parson weighed the situation. He had no desire to kill the dog; he was simply being loyal. And despite the fact that Manuel Castro was a savant, he was also the person whom Dana had sent him to find. Not only that, but Castro was right; this was his land, and Parson was a trespasser.

"Perhaps we ought to start all over again," he said.

"Perhaps we should." Castro pointed to his gun. "If you put that down, Oscar will understand. And I might be inclined to invite you in for a cup of coffee."

Parson didn't know which was more surprising; that Manuel Castro would be willing to forgive him, or that a savant would have coffee. "You'd do that?"

"Certainly." Again, the electronic buzz that Parson now recognized as a simulation of laugher. "If Dana has reason to send you my way, then perhaps you're a person I should meet."

Parson hesitated, then he bent down and carefully laid his rifle on the ground. He didn't take his eyes from the Savant, but Castro made no motion other than to reassure his dog with a gentle pat on the head. Oscar stopped growling, and his tail wagged a few times as he cautiously stepped out from behind his master.

"Very good," Castro said. "Now let's see about coffee, and you can tell me why you're here."

The cabin hadn't been built with human habitation in mind. Only one main room, with a small storeroom in the back; although it had a potbellied stove, there was no kitchen, only a small metal sink with water hand-pumped from an artesian well. A couple of coarse rugs on the floor, and two chairs and a table, but no bed save for a small mat where Oscar could curl up next to the stove. Four windows, one for each wall, and a few cabinets and shelves containing Castro's belongings: hand tools, some utensils, a handful of books and some writing materials, an old datapad attached to a solar recharger. No privy, although Manny told him he could use the compost heap out back if he needed to relieve himself.

"Every now and then I find myself receiving guests." Castro poured water he'd boiled in an old kettle through a paper sieve filled with ground coffee into a chipped ceramic cup. "That's why I have this stuff. But the only food I keep is the kibble I make for Oscar . . . sort of a mush of ground corn and soybeans."

"Never knew a dog that was vegetarian." Parson looked over at Oscar. Having tentatively accepted him as a visitor, the mutt had finally calmed down, yet Oscar still studied him warily from his nest beside the stove. "Where did you get him?"

"Took him in trade from the loggers for a couple of pounds of coffee beans . . . this is some of what I grow, by the way. He was the runt of the litter, and they weren't paying much attention to him." Castro brought over the coffee, set it down on the table in front of Parson. "A dog'll eat anything so long as you show him some kindness and respect. So he keeps me company, and we look out for each other. I think I got the better end of the deal."

"So that's what you do? Grow food for your dog and loggers?"

"Only for Oscar. Now that the loggers have moved on, I don't see much of them anymore. But I find use for what he doesn't eat." He watched as Parson took a sip. "How's that? Not too weak, I hope."

"It's fine." Truth was, the coffee was stronger than he usually liked, but Parson figured that Castro had long forgotten what it'd been like to taste anything. Savants were once human themselves, of course, but they'd had their minds downloaded into the quantum comps deep within their mechanical bodies. If he'd come here aboard one of the Union ships, it had probably been at least— what, seventy years? eighty? even more?— since the last time he had savored a good cup of coffee. "But if you're only feeding the dog, why—?"

"Because I like to." Castro continued to study him through his one good eye. "Dana didn't tell you I was a posthuman, did she? You reacted rather violently when you saw me."

The abrupt change of subject caught him off guard. "Sorry. I apologize for that. It just took me by surprise. Yeah, Dana kept that bit of information from me. She just told me your name, and told me that if I followed the old logging road to Mt. Shapiro I might be able to find you." He hesitated. "She said we had a lot in common."

"I sincerely doubt that. On the other hand, Dana is a good judge of character, so perhaps I should reserve my own judgment. Last month, I saw a starship arrive in orbit. My guess is that you're from it."

Parson hesitated, then nodded. "The EASS Columbus." He suddenly realized that he hadn't yet told Castro his name. "I'm Jonathan Parson. Former second officer."

"Well, well . . . now there's a tale in itself. But first things first. The registry of your ship . . . I take it that it's from the European Alliance?" Parson nodded, and once again Castro emitted that strange laughter-buzz. "Makes sense. The Savant Council estimated that it was only a matter of time before the EA would be able to construct its own starships."

Parson looked away. "Probably the last thing the Council was ever right about," he muttered under his breath.

"Explain your remark, please? No need to repeat it. My hearing is quite good. In fact, I heard you coming long before you saw me. I simply chose to ignore you. But, please, tell me more about the Savant Council."

"You've been out of touch, haven't you?" He was unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Oh, I forgot . . . a half century or so since you left Earth, plus another twenty-odd years. And meanwhile, you've been up here, growing corn and—"

"Mr. Parson, you're beginning to wear out your welcome." Manny took a step closer. Hearing the change in his master's voice, Oscar raised his head, a growl rumbling deep within his throat. Parson had left his rifle out in the field, but nonetheless he refused to be intimidated; he remained in his seat, staring back at the Savant.

"Very well," he said. "Back in 2270, the Council of Savants completed a long-range assessment of Earth's condition. After taking everything into consideration . . . environmental factors, remaining natural resources, census projections, so on and so forth . . . they reached the conclusion that, within the next century, Earth would not be able to support its current population of eight billion inhabitants."

"I'm not surprised. The Council was studying this even before I—"

Parson held up a hand. "Let me finish. The Council made several recommendations, one of which was that humankind had to develop interstellar resources . . . namely, this world. That part was made public, and that's why the Union sent ships here." He paused. "But they also reached another conclusion, one which they kept to themselves. In order to stabilize the global environment and use its remaining resources for as long as possible, Earth's population had to be reduced. Quite drastically, in fact . . . by as much as one-third."

Castro said nothing for a moment. "And how did they propose to do that?"

"Oh, they proposed nothing. Or at least not to us baseline humans." Parson stared at Castro. "The plan called for the eventual extermination of three billion people."

"No. This couldn't . . . they couldn't have—"

"Oh, yes. It was very precise, very logical. One out of every three persons on Earth were secretly marked for death, by whatever means necessary. Starvation of the poor and indigent, introduction of deadly diseases within major population areas, termination of life support for the critically ill, random shutdowns of vital energy systems leading in turn to—"

"I didn't know. I wasn't . . ." Although he was incapable of displaying facial emotion, Castro was visibly shaken. Turning away from Parson, he walked to the open door of his cabin, resting a hand against the frame as if to steady himself. "Did they succeed?"

"Fortunately, no." Parson picked up his mug, found that the coffee had gone cold and put it down again. "When people started dying in large numbers, a few individuals found out why, and they managed to put a stop to it. It's a long story, believe me." He paused. "But over thirty-five thousand people perished before the savants were stopped."

"I see." Castro continued to gaze out the door. "And the Savant Council . . ."

"Dissolved by emergency act of the Union Proletariat, its members rounded up and arrested. In the end the Proletariat decided that the savants . . . all savants, in fact . . . were too dangerous to be allowed to exist. The ones they managed to capture were . . . well, terminated, to put it in formal terms."

"Executed." Castro's head bowed slowly. "One form of genocide in exchange for another." A metallic rasp that might have been a sigh. "I suppose it was justified on grounds that posthuman life posed an imminent threat to baseline humans."

"Not all were terminated. A few managed to escape by stealing a Union Astronautica freighter and taking off for the outer solar system. Last I'd heard, they hadn't yet been captured." Parson hesitated. "So how many savants are here? On Coyote, I mean?"

"I'm the last." The Savant didn't look at him. "The rest returned aboard the Union ships. They're still on their way back to Earth. I expect they'll be . . . terminated . . . upon arrival."

"That's a likely assumption." Parson was quiet for a moment. "You weren't part of that, though. It happened after your time. You can't be held accountable."

"I rather doubt your kind will see it that way." Castro didn't look at him. "On the other hand, it may take a while for them to find me, so I suppose I'm safe, at least for the time being."

"Uh-huh." Parson said nothing for a moment. "So why are you here, anyway?"

"As you say, it's a long story. To make it short, after the others of my kind left, I didn't feel very comfortable among baseline humans." Castro turned away from the door. "I lived in Clarksburg for a few months, but eventually I got tired of being regarded with suspicion, so I packed up what little I needed and moved up here. I told Dana how to find me, just in case I might be needed, but other than a few loggers whom I've encountered now and then—"

"I'm the only one who knows."

"Yes." He looked back at Parson. "You're the first person Dana has sent here. I assume she must have had good reason for doing so."

"Maybe there is." He slowly let out his breath. "Truth is, I jumped ship. It was something I intended to do before I left Earth . . . even before I put in for this mission, in fact. I figured there had to be a better world somewhere out there, and if there was, it was worth trying to get there."

The Savant studied him for a long moment. "Is it? Is Coyote a better place than Earth?"

Parson didn't answer at once. "I think so," he said at last. "At least it has the potential. I don't know how much longer that's going to last, though. They've invented something called the starbridge . . . a means of opening a stable wormhole between here and Earth. Columbus has the equipment necessary to build one end of the tunnel. Once it's completed—"

"More ships, and more people." Castro picked up Parson's mug, peered inside. "I'm afraid my coffee wasn't very good. You've hardly touched it."

"It was a bit strong for my taste, to be honest."

"I appreciate honesty." The Savant carried the mug over to the sink and poured it out. "You may stay."

"Pardon me?"

"You may stay for as long as you wish." The Savant pumped some water into the sink, used it to rinse out the mug. "This house isn't big enough for both of us, of course, but we have enough time left in the summer for us to build a dwelling of your own. The crops I raise are more than sufficient to feed both you and Oscar, and still have enough left for . . . well, my own purposes, shall we say."

"I wasn't asking for—"

"No, you didn't. I'm offering it to you anyway. Believe me, you won't survive out here without my help. Winters on this world are quite long, and up here in the mountains they're particularly brutal. Even the loggers return to Clarksburg once the snow comes. If you tried to make do on your own, you'd almost certainly perish. And since I imagine that your captain is probably irate with you, if you went back into town it would only be a matter of time before you were arrested for desertion. Am I correct?"

"Well . . ."

"I thought so." Castro turned away from the sink. "Let me finish. In exchange for room and board, I expect you to help me with the chores. Most of it involves tending to the crops, but we also need to keep the cabin in good repair, and once we build another for you, twice as much effort will be required. It's hard work, and it keeps me occupied for most of the day, but with another person here this will give me more time to devote to my studies."

"What are you studying?"

"You'll find out eventually. Let's just say that it's something I've been doing on my own for the last three years. In time, I may decide to reveal my findings to others, but until then it's imperative that I conduct my research in secrecy." He paused. "Can you agree to those conditions?"

Parson considered the question for a few moments. When he left Clarksburg, his plan had been to find a place where he could live on his own. Even if he hadn't found Manny Castro, he would have eventually built his own homestead somewhere in the Black Mountains. Yet his first night alone had taught him that he didn't know nearly as much about living in the wild as he thought he did, and he had no desire to face starvation or freeze to death in the depths of a long, cold winter.

He had little reason to trust a member of a subspecies that had once plotted the annihilation of one-third of Earth's population. Nonetheless, the Savant had been open and honest with him; there was also little reason for Castro to murder him in his sleep. And he could do worse for companionship, if only none at all.

"Sure. I can live with that."

"I rather hoped you would." Castro gestured toward the field. "Perhaps you'd better fetch your rifle. It'll be dark soon, and it might disappear."

"I know. I lost my tarp last night."

"Really? Was it stolen from your campsite?"

Puzzled by this sudden insight, Parson nodded, and again Castro emitted his strange approximation of a laugh. "Then maybe I can get it back for you."

The sun had gone down, and once again Bear was beginning to rise to the east. With the coming of the night, grasshoarders cried softly as they settled in for the evening; a gentle breeze drifted in from over the mountains, cooling the sunbaked field and causing the cornstalks to sway gently back and forth.

"How much longer?" Sitting in a chair he'd carried out onto the porch, Parson peered into the darkness.

"Not long." Castro's voice came to him as a thin whisper. He stood next to Parson, a motionless black figure nearly invisible within the shadows of the porch. "Be quiet. They won't come out if they think they're being observed."

Now that Castro had extinguished the oil lamps inside the cabin, the only sign of their presence was the amber glow of the Savant's right eye, and even that was shrouded by the cowl of his robe. He'd wanted to use his rifle's scope, but Manny had cautioned him against it; he suspected that the creatures' eyes were infrared-sensitive, and the rifle's IR beam would frighten them away. The Savant had even taken the precaution of leaving Oscar inside the house; the dog had scratched and whined at the door for a while, before curling up on the floor in disgust.

They waited in silence for a long time, watching Bear as it ascended above the trees, its luminescence bathing the field with a pale blue light. Parson was starting to nod off when Castro tapped him on the shoulder; without a word, he pointed off to the right.

Sitting up a little straighter, Parson stared at rows of corn. For another minute or so, he saw nothing. Then there was a dry rustle among the stalks, and a moment later a small man-shaped form emerged from the cropland, less than thirty feet from the cabin.

Parson watched as the tiny figure hesitated at the edge of the corn. In the wan bearlight, it appeared to search the area, its small head turning first one way then another; it looked straight at them, and for an instant, he had a fleeting impression of a pair of oversized eyes meeting his own.

He thought the intruder would retreat, yet it didn't. Instead, it made a small sound—keecha quireep cheeka!— and then it darted forward, keeping low to the ground, its hands almost touching the soil. Once in the clear, it stopped and looked back. Cheeka! Hoo-reep keecha! And now two more figures came out of the corn behind it, the larger of the pair dragging something on the ground behind it.

The trio moved toward the wheelbarrow half-filled with green tomatoes that Castro had left out in front of the house. They gathered around it, picking and sniffing at the vegetables, making small chirps, hoots, and whistles. At first, Parson thought they might steal the barrow, but instead the first one overturned it, then played curiously with its wheel, while the other two gathered as many tomatoes as they could carry in their small arms.

The one who'd scouted the terrain watched them go, then it reluctantly abandoned its examination of the wheelbarrow, grabbed an armload of tomatoes, and hastened after them. A few more excited cries—cheeka! kaka-sheek! woo-weet cheeka!— and they'd vanished as quickly as they'd come, leaving behind only the wheelbarrow and the object they'd brought with them.

Once more, the field was silent.

"All right, they're gone." For the first time in nearly two hours, Castro moved. "Now let's see if they've reciprocated our generosity."

Parson followed the Savant down the porch steps and across the field to where the wheelbarrow lay upon its side. "Too big for them to steal," Castro said in reply to Parson's unasked question. "The big one continues to be intrigued by it, so I expect he may eventually try to take it away. But maybe not, if they don't have any immediate use for it."

"And you say you've been doing this . . . how long?"

"The last two summers. Intentionally, at least." Castro bent down to pick up the barrow and set it upright. "Before then, they just stole whatever they could get their hands on. After I figured out their system, I let them know I'd rather trade than sic Oscar on them. Since then it's worked out pretty well. Here, look . . ."

Bending down again, he picked up the object the creatures had brought with them. Parson saw that it was his tarp: torn in a couple of places, its cords missing, yet it had been returned, just as the Savant had predicted.

"They didn't want the tarp itself," Castro said. "Anything made of plastic doesn't interest them very much. But something they can use, like elastic cords . . ."

"And you knew they'd do this?"

"Not really. Just a guess based on a hypothesis. They're called the chirreep . . . or perhaps a mountain tribe called reep-chirreep, although I'm not certain of that yet. They've been spotted here and there all over Coyote. Carlos Montero found them first on Barren Isle northwest of the Meridian Sea. Later, another tribe was located on Midland, just south of Mt. Bonestell. They've been given a lot of different names. Sandthieves, treecrawlers . . ."

"So I've heard. And you've been studying them?"

"That's why I'm here." Castro waved a hand toward his crops. "In fact, that's the main reason why I took up farming. If you want to study a primitive species in the wild, start by offering them food. Once they learn to trust you, perhaps you can establish some sort of communication. Barter is usually the next step."

Parson examined the tarp in his hands. It could still be repaired, if he cared to use it again. "An interesting line of research. Think you could use an assistant?"

"Perhaps." The Savant started pushing the wheelbarrow away. "This world has enough settlers and soldiers and developers. What it needs is a few more students."

Parson watched him go, then turned to gaze at the woods around him. Perhaps life had a higher calling than mere survival. He'd found freedom; now he had something to do with it.

"Sounds like a bargain," he murmured, then he followed the Savant back to the cabin.