They put it down to momentary snow blindness, and the climber who’d looked up at the singular moment didn’t press the point. He was a realist and knew he had no chance of convincing even the least skeptical of his friends. But to his dying day he would know in his heart that what he’d seen that frigid morning just east of Everest was not an accident of snow blindness, or a patrolling eagle, or a figment of his imagination.
The Special Place was filling up. Legendary nemesis of the subcontinent, Videprasa had the least distance to travel and arrived first. Old Kurenskaya the Terrible appeared next, making good time despite his age and the need to avoid the aging air-defense radar based in southern Kazakhstan.
O’mou’iroturotu showed up still damp from hours of flying through the biggest typhoon to hit the South China Sea in more than a decade, and Booloongatta the Night Stalker soon after. They were followed by Cracuti from central Europe, Al-Methzan ras-Shindar from out of the Empty Quarter, and Nhauantehotec from the green depths of Central America.
It grew crowded in the Special Place as more of the Kind arrived. They jostled for space, grumbling and rumbling until the vast ancient cavern resounded like the Infinite Drum itself. Though solitary by nature, all gathered eagerly at this special predetermined time.
Despite the incredible altitude and the winter storm that had begun to rage outside, conditions within the Special Place remained comfortable. Creatures that are capable of spontaneous internal combustion do not suffer from the cold.
As the Elder Dominant, Old Kurenskaya performed the invocation. This was concluded with a binding, concerted blast of flame the largest napalm ordnance in the American armory could not have matched, resulting in a massive avalanche outside the Special Place as a great sheet of ice and snow was loosened from beneath. The French climbing team far to the west heard but did not witness it.
“It is the time,” Kurenskaya announced. He was very old, and most of his back scales had faded from red to silver. But he could still ravage and destroy with the best of them. Only these days, like all the recent others, he was forced to be more circumspect in his doings.
He glanced around the crowded cavern, vertical yellow pupils narrowing. “I do not see As’ah’mi among us.”
There was a moment of confusion until Nhauantehotec spoke up. “He will not be joining us.”
Kurenskaya bared snaggle teeth. “Why not? What has happened?”
Nhauantehotec sighed, and black smoke crept from his nostrils. “He was not careful. As careful as we must all be these days. I think he forgot to soar in the stealthy manner and was picked up on U.S. Border Patrol radar. Not surprisingly, they mistook him for a drug runner’s plane and shot him down. I heard him curse his forgetfulness as he fell, and altered my flight path to see if I could help, but by the time I arrived he was nothing but fully combusted brimstone and sulfur on the ground.”
A smoky murmur filled the cavern. Old Kurenskaya raised both clawed forefeet for silence. “Such is the fate of those who let time master their minds. We sorrow for one of our own who forgot. But the rest are come, healthy and well.” He gestured to the one next to him with a clawed foot the size of a steam-shovel bucket. “As first to arrive it falls to you, Videprasa, to regale us with tales of your accomplishments.”
She nodded deferentially to the Elder Dominant and instinctively flexed vast, membranous wings. “I have since the last gathering kept myself properly hidden, emerging only to wreak appropriate havoc through the guises we have had to adopt since humans developed advanced technologies.” Raising a forefoot and looking thoughtful, she began ticking off disasters on her thick, clawed fingers.
“Eleven years ago there was the train wreck north of New Delhi. The devastating avalanche in Bhutan was one I instigated twenty years ago. There was the plastics plant explosion in Uttar Pradesh and the sinking of the small freighter during the typhoon that struck Bangladesh only a few years past.” She smiled, showing dentition that would have been the envy of a dozen crocodiles.
“I am particularly proud of the chemical plant damage in Bhopal that killed so many.”
Al-Methzan ras-Shindar snorted fire. “That was very subtlely done. You are to be commended.” He straightened proudly, thrusting out his scaly chest and glaring around the cavern. “You all know what I have been up to lately.”
Quong the Magnificent flicked back the tendrils that lined his head and jaws. “You were fortunate to find yourself in so efficacious a situation.”
Al-Methzan’s head whipped around snakelike. “I do not deny it, but it required skill to take advantage.” Eyes capable of striking terror into the bravest man glittered with the memory. “It was purest pleasure. I struck and ripped and tore and was not noticed. The humans were too busy amongst themselves. And around me, around me every day, were those wonderful burning wells to dance about and dart through and tickle my belly against.” Al-Methzan ras-Shindar stretched luxuriously, the tips of his great wings scraping the ceiling.
“I haven’t felt this scoured in centuries.”
There was a concerted murmur of envious delight from the others, and Old Kurenskaya nodded approvingly. “You did well. How else have you fulfilled the mandate?”
Al-Methzan ras-Shindar resumed the recitation of his personal tales of mayhem and destruction. He was followed by Booloongatta the Night Stalker, and then the rest of them. The hours and the days passed in pleasant companionship, reminiscence, and safety as the storm howled outside the gathering place. They were out of harm’s way here. The Roof of the World saw few humans in the best of times, and in the winter was invariably little visited.
There was more to the gathering than mere camaraderie, however. More to the boasting of accomplishments than a desire simply to impress others of one’s kind. For the gathering and the telling constituted also a competition. For approval, surely, and for admiration, truly. But there was more at stake than that.
There was the Chalice.
It hung round Old Kurenskaya’s neck, suspended from a rope thick as a man’s arm woven of pure asbestos fibers. It was large for a human drinking utensil, tiny by the standards of the Kind. The great Berserker Jaggskrolm had taken the prize from the human Gunnar Rakeiennen in 1029, in a battle atop Mount Svodmaggen that had lasted for four days and rent the air with fire and fury. When all had done and the killer Rakeiennen lay dead, his fortress razed, his golden hoard taken, his women ravished (the great Jaggskrolm having been ritually mindful of the traditions), practically nothing remained unburned save the jewel-studded, golden chalice with which the most beauteous of Rakeiennen’s women had bought her freedom (not to mention saving herself from an exceedingly uncomfortable time).
Ever since, it had been a symbol of dominance, of the most effective and best-applied skills of the Kind. Old Kurenskaya had won it during the last Tatar invasion of his homeland and had kept it ever since, having last been awarded it by acclamation (the only way it could be awarded) for his work among the humans during the purges and famines of the 1920s and ’30s. Admittedly, he’d had human help, but his fellows did not feel cheated. Such assistance was to be welcomed, and cleverly used. As Al-Methzan ras-Shindar had utilized recent events in the Middle East so effectively.
It seemed truly that because of his most recent accomplishments, ras-Shindar had the inside track on securing the Chalice. Nhauantehotec had been working particularly hard, and the devastating achievements of skillful Mad Sunabaya of the Deep impressed all the assembled with their breadth and thoroughness. Despite his years, Old Kurenskaya wasn’t about to give up the Chalice without a fight, and it had to be admitted that his brief but critical presence at Chernobyl would go down as a hallmark accomplishment of the Kind in modern times.
When at last all had concluded their recitative, and waited content and with satisfaction for the vote of acclamation, Old Kurenskaya was pleased. It had been a gathering free of discord, unlike some in the past, and had demonstrated conclusively that the Kind could not only survive but prosper in thei
r efforts despite the technical exploits of their old enemy, humankind. He was elated, and ready. All, in fact, were anxious for the choosing, so they could be on their way. Though all had enjoyed the gathering, they preferred to keep to themselves, and by now were growing irritable.
“If then each has stipulated and declaimed their deeds, and retold their tales, I will name names, and call for the choosing.” He raised a clawed forefoot to begin.
Only to be interrupted.
“Wait, please! I have not spoken.”
Dire reptilian heads swiveled in the direction of the voice. It was so slight as to be barely intelligible, and those of the Kind with smaller hearing organs than their more floridly eared brethren had to strain to make out individual words. But it was one of them, no doubt of that, for it spoke in the secret and ancient language known only to the Kind.
Something like a small, scaly hummingbird appeared in the air before Old Kurenskaya and hovered there almost noiselessly.
“What is this?” Videprasa emitted a smoky burst of flame and laughter. “A bird has slipped in among us, to find safety from the storm, no doubt!”
“No,” Cracuti roared, the sharp spines of her back flexing with amusement, “this is not a bird, but a bug!”
The minuscule speaker whirled angrily. “I am Nomote, of the Kind.” Laughter and smoke filled the gathering place. “I demand to be heard!”
Old Kurenskaya raised both clawed forefeet, and the ferocious, terrific laughter gradually died down. He scowled at the tiny visitor. “There are three recent-born among us. I did not know of a fourth.”
“Who would admit to birthing this?” Videprasa snorted, and another round of awesome laughter shook rock from the walls of the cavern.
Old Kurenskaya looked around reprovingly. “This Nomote is of the Kind, if . . . somewhat lesser than most of us. Give to him the deference he deserves, as befits the traditions.” At this stern admonishment, an abashed silence settled over the gathering.
The Elder Dominant nodded to the hovering mite. “Speak to us then of your exploits.” One of the assembled sniggered, but went quiet when Old Kurenskaya glared threateningly in his direction. “Tell of what you have done to fulfill the traditions of the Kind.” He sat back on his hindquarters, his leathery, age-battered wings rumpled elegantly about him.
“I am young and have not the experience or strength of others who have accomplished so much.” A few murmurs of grudging approval sounded among the assembled. “I have had to study our ancient adversaries and to learn. I have struggled to master the stealthy ways needed to carry out the work without being noticed by the humans and their clever new machines.” It hesitated, wee wings beating furiously to keep it aloft in one place.
“Alas, I have had not the skill, nor the strength, nor the prowess to do as so many of you have done. I have done but one thing, and it, like myself, is small.”
Nomote’s humbleness and modesty had by now won for him some sympathy among the assembled, for who among them could not, save for the intervention of fortuitous fate, imagine himself in such a poignant condition.
“Tell us of what you have done and what you do,” Old Kurenskaya said encouragingly. He glared warningly one more time, but by now the gathering was subdued. “None of the Kind will laugh, I promise it. Any offender will have to deal with me.” At that moment Old Kurenskaya did not look so old.
Nomote blinked bright, tiny eyes. A small puff of dark smoke emerged from the tip of his snout. “I go invisibly among those humans who are ready and those who are reluctant; I breathe the addiction into their nostrils and their mouths; and then when they weaken and are finally susceptible, I light their cigarettes.”
They gave him the Chalice, which was too large for him to carry, much less wear around his neck. But Nhauantehotec moved it to a convenient lair for him, and though he could not fly with it shining broadly against his chest as had his glorious predecessors, it made a most excellent bath in which to relax upon returning from a good day’s work among the execrable humans.
LAYING VENEER
In 1989 my wife and I took a couple of weeks and drove from Brisbane, Australia, all the way up to Port Douglas, eventually getting as far north as the Bloomfield River. The euphemistically named Bruce “Highway” was in actuality a narrow two-lane road, rarely flanked by the comforting shoulders common to American roads. For long stretches you’d drive for kilometers without seeing another vehicle. Then a road-train, consisting of an enormous diesel truck fronted with roo bars (to ward off wayward kangaroos, lest by colliding with them they somehow damage these moving mountains of steel) and towing three or more trailers would come hurtling toward you, taking up more than its narrow lane and forcing you off the side of the road where you hoped the wheels of your vehicle would find enough purchase to get back on the pavement.
Ah, the pavement. Shimmering with heat, undulating like a mild stomach upset, receding into the distance among the dreaming gum trees and grass, ever in need of upkeep and repair. We passed many road repair crews; sometimes wiry, sometimes large, always muscular men clad in light-gray shorts and white undershirts and floppy-brimmed hats, leaning on shovels or picks or in the seats of downsized backhoes and graders, cigarettes dangling from their mouths or beers from their hands. We rarely saw them working, and tut-tutted at their singular lack of energy.
Without wondering if there might be reasons for it beyond the obvious.
“Take it easy, mate. Have a beer.”
Harbison was not mollified. “National Highway, my ass! National disgrace is more like it.”
The foreman was not insulted. “You won’t get any argument from me. Maybe that’s why they decided to try bringing in some people from the States.” He proffered a cold can.
The engineer deliberately pushed it aside. “Frankly I’m not surprised. I’ve driven over a thousand miles this past week, and I didn’t see one road crew that wasn’t squatting on their butts guzzling that stuff. When they weren’t drinking beer, they were swilling wine for lunch and hard liquor for dinner and after. No wonder your so-called National Highway is falling apart.”
Kent glanced out the window. Moreton Bay was clear of clouds. That meant it would be calm out on the reef. Good fishing. With an effort he forced himself to turn back to the American engineer.
“Your first time Down Under, isn’t it?”
“So?”
Kent sipped brew. “Despite what you’ve seen and what you may think, we can build roads, Mr. Harbison. Look around Sydney or Melbourne.”
“I have. The roads there are fine. That’s not why I was sent for.” He stared unforgivingly at the foreman. “If you can build there, why not everyplace else?”
Kent looked away. “It’s this country. You get out away from the cities, there’s nothing. I mean, you’re talking five million people scattered over empty territory the size of the continental U.S. The Outback isn’t kind to men, machinery, or plans. It doesn’t matter who you put on a job; pretty soon things start to slow down. Work gets sloppy. Machinery starts to act up, break down. So do men, if they’re not careful. Why do you think most of our roads outside the cities are still dirt? Because we like it that way?”
“Because of lack of determination. Because somebody hasn’t been doing their job.”
“They do what they can,” Kent argued. “You don’t know what it’s like out there, what you have to deal with. But you’ll find out. The Outback gets to everyone. It’ll get to you, too.”
“Bullshit. I’ve built roads in the Amazon, in Africa, all over the world. There’s nothing special about the terrain here. I know. I’ve just driven a thousand miles of it. All I found was lousy work and excuses.” He smiled humorlessly. “That will change.”
Kent shrugged. “That’s what you’ve been hired for. Believe me, I wish you the best of luck. The best. I don’t like driving that road in the condition it’s in any more than you did. Neither does anyone else.”
“Then why haven’t you fixed it? Why go al
l the way to the States to find a supervisor?”
The foreman eyed him over his beer. “Mate, don’t you think we’ve tried?”
It was hot, but it had been hotter in Brazil. Harbison felt a stabbing pain in his leg, slapped fast, and saw the March fly tumble to the ground. He jammed it into the earth with the heel of his boot, looked up through his sunshades.
They were twenty kilometers north of Rockhampton, working on the middle of the highway. Not far to the east was the portion of the Pacific aptly named the Coral Sea. To the west lay the mountains of the coast range and beyond, nothing. Nothing all the way to the Indian Ocean save sand and dry plains and gravel.
It was bad enough here. Scattered gum trees (eucalyptus back home), a few bushes, desultory grasses, all bathed in sunlight that tinted everything beige.
Ahead the road stretched north to Townsville, the next community of any real size and the beginnings of the true tropics. Behind lay Rockhampton, an undistinguished, extraordinarily humid community built on cattle and commerce.
Harbison had three crews going: one south near Caboolture, one working down from Cairns, and this one, in the center. He’d chosen to spend most of his time here, where it would be easiest to deal with all three crews and any problems they might encounter. He watched the men work; good-natured, broad-shouldered, muscular. As competent as any road crew back home, but slow. It puzzled him. They seemed capable enough, but there was no enthusiasm, no desire. They shuffled through their work; the asphalt spreaders, the men on the heavy equipment, all of them.
The only time they showed any spirit was during their regular breaks, which were inevitably accompanied by the opening of coolers full of the ubiquitous, high-alcohol beer. He’d remonstrated with them personally about drinking so heavily on the job but to no avail. The breaks, and the beer, were sacrosanct.