The Howling Stones

  He helped the pilot position the heavy plastic box on the sand. It contained everything of a personal and pro­fessional nature that he expected to need for the next six months. If anything had arrived damaged, it would take at least that long to replace it.

  The one thing he wasn't concerned about was cloth­ing. You didn't need much on Senisran. Though he'd been outside the air‑conditioned cockpit for only a few minutes, he was already beginning to sweat. After weeks on a climate‑controlled KK‑drive ship in space‑plus, it would take him a while to get acclimated anew to tropical surroundings. As soon as they arrived at Parramat station he intended to shed as much of his attire as possible.

  From a small pool in the sand he splashed a little water on his face. Warm on contact, it cooled him as it evapo­rated. What slipped into his mouth, while not drinkable, was mild to the taste, Senisran's world ocean having a lower salt content than those of Earth. There were no continents here to erode and replenish the seas with rivers of dissolved minerals.

  Once the travel case was placed to Pulickel's satisfac­tion, the pilot looked longingly toward the lounge and its single occupant, who showed no inclination to leave her shady spot and come to greet them. Obviously disap­pointed, he bade his ex‑passenger farewell and goad luck before returning to his craft.

  Pulickel stood just above the water's edge and watched as the stubby transport's engine whined back to life. Back­ing out of the shallows, the compact craft pivoted until it was facing southward. The jets roared, water rooster ­tailed, and in a moment it was lifting clear of the glassy surface, climbing steadily into a cloudless sky. It circled once over the islet and, like a fleeing dragonfly, vanished into the distance.

  Pulickel stared at the place where it had disappeared until he could no longer hear the fading rumble. As his eyes dropped, a dozen shafts of dark blue erupted from the water some thirty meters out in the lagoon. Averaging two meters in length, they looked like Olym­pic javelins equipped with multiple exhaust pipes. They were followed by something that resembled a flattened disk of barbed wire. It landed just short of where the javelins had reentered the water. In this hopscotching fashion, prey and predator made their way across the lagoon.

  Only when all was quiet again did he kneel to inspect the lower half of his case. It was wet, but only on the out­side. The unit was air‑ as well as watertight.

  Straightening, he turned his attention to the three trees and the lounge beneath. Since his support seemed less than eager to make his acquaintance, he started up the gentle slope to introduce himself. She ought to come down to meet him, he thought. This wasn't the best way to begin a long‑term working relationship. Mindful of his self‑assured boast to the pilot, he resolved not to make an issue of this minor breach of protocol. At least, not right away.

  He halted beneath the shade of the first tree and stud­ied the portable flex‑lounge. Fashioned of an aerogel composite, it looked as if its occupant was lying on an illusion. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that she was some­thing of an illusion herself. Having worked with hun­dreds of specialists and contact personnel on a dozen alien worlds, he was prepared for almost anything.

  He was not prepared for Fawn Seaforth.

  But then, no one ever was.

  Putting aside the chill‑cup she'd, been holding, she swung her legs off the side of the lounge and rose to greet him, hand extended. As she turned from the sun, her wraparound eyeshades lightened from dark to neutral so that he could see her eyes. They were bright blue.

  "Hi! I'm Fawn Seaforth. And unless Dispatch has fouled up again, you're Pulickel Tomochelor."

  He swallowed. "Pleasure to meet you, Seaforth. You­ you're out of uniform."

  She laughed, a wonderful, melodious sound that the breeze caught and cast out over the lagoon, as if she were trolling for poets. For an instant, the air in the immediate vicinity was as full of life as the sea below.

  "Actually, as you can see, I'm just about out of every­thing." She spread her arms wide to reveal what he could already see: that the bathing costume she was wearing would fit comfortably in any pocket of his shorts.

  "When I'm by myself, which is all of the time except when I'm making a supply pickup, I rarely wear any­thing. It's just too damn hot. Of course, I wouldn't think of wearing anything remotely like this in Ophhlia, but this isn't Ophhlia. This is Parramat. The natives, natu­rally, could care less." She paused, waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, she added, "Don't worry. I'm not going to drive the skimmer like this. I have a wraparound."

  "That's good." He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help himself. Doubtless she was used to it, and too po­lite to point it, out. But what else was he to do? A full head taller than himself, well over the ancient six feet in height, she was a physical amalgam of Hera, several vit heroines, and the female bull dancers of ancient Crete. Her face re­minded him of the famous bust of Nefertiti in the Berlin Museum archive. In addition to the sapphire blue eyes, she had shoulder‑length blond hair wrapped in four tails. Her skin was the color of new‑forged bronze. She was ut­terly and completely overpowering.

  No wonder the pilot had been amused. Where "local support" was concerned, his unknowing passenger had been displaying ignorance on a global scale.

  It wasn't Pulickel's fault. No one had informed him, no one had warned him that he was going to be working with a goddess. What was someone like Seaforth doing running a xenological contact station in the wilds of a frontier world, even as comparatively benign a frontier world as Senisran? Socioanthropology being what it was, he expected he would find out.

  It would be exceedingly rude to ask her, having just been introduced. Meanwhile he would treat her ex­actly as he would any other colleague, except that he would have to watch where he let his eyes linger rather more than was usual. No doubt she was used to that, as well.

  She laughed again. "Well, I'm glad `that's good.' Bet you're tired. We're a long way from Ophhlia." Stepping past him, she headed for his travel case. "What do I call you? Senior officer on site, Pulickel. Mr. Tomochelor, or just Pu, as in Winnie the?"

  Following her, he discovered, was no less distracting than talking with her face to face. He made an effort. "Pulickel will do fine, since we'll be working together for the foreseeable future." He glanced to his left. "I'm sure there's plenty of room for my stuff in your skimmer."

  "You travel light." Her tone was approving, which shouldn't have mattered to him but inexplicably did.

  "Experience. The controls for the built‑in hoist are lo­cated in a recess on the other end."

  "Glad to hear it. I'm not in a lifting mood." She held out the chill‑cup as they reached the case. "Want a sip?"

  He eyed the protruding siphon. Mindful of her admo­nition to relax, he tried to make himself sound less offi­cious. "What's in it?"

  "Fructosoid specimen number one twenty‑six. Suaswana in the local lingo. There are about a thousand regional varieties of fruit and juice, some with conflicting names depending on the maturity or location of the relevant tree or bush. I'm still cataloging." She thrust the con­tainer at him.

  He shrugged internally. So long as it was cold and wet...

  The frosty liquid detonated against his palate, blasting out reminiscences of lime, pomegranate, and something almost intolerably sweet. Another exotic trade item, he thought as he passed the cup back. No wonder the big trading houses were salivating over development permits for Senisran.

  "Very nice," he admitted readily.

  She downed a swallow. "There's plenty more, some of it even better. You'll taste for yourself. Come on."

  Using the case's integral hoist, they maneuvered his gear up and into the open cargo bay of the skimmer. It had no canopy, only an adjustable windscreen forward.

  "Don't use the top much," she replied in response to his query. "It's back in the shed. I can reattach it when necessary." Vaulting up into the open cockpit, she turned and reached down. "Need a hand?"

  Shaking his head, he put both
hands on the gunwale and pulled himself up and in. Nodding approvingly, she slipped a dirty, stained mechanic's shirt on over her suit, settled into the pilot's seat, and flicked contact pads. Humming with restrained power, the skimmer lifted off, leveled itself, and hovered a meter above the crimson sands.

  He eyed his precious case. "What about clampdowns?"

  She looked back over her shoulder and shook her head. "Shouldn't need 'em. It's heavy, enough that it won't blow out. You, on the other hand, might want to hang onto something." She indicated the seat next to her own.

  Moving forward, he gripped an available handbar and braced himself. "I've been sitting down most of the way from Earth and all the way from Ophhha. I'll stand, if you don't mind."

  "Just hang on. Over open water this baby can fly."

  With a rising whine they rose to a height of three me­ters. Seaforth pivoted the craft until they were facing the lagoon and gunned the engine. Sand flew and Pulickel nearly stumbled as the skimmer shot out over the water, accelerating rapidly. Beneath their shadow the placid sur­face of the lagoon rippled slightly.

  Seeing him squinting into the wind, she helpfully raised the transparent windscreen to a height sufficient to shield his face. The gesture went unremarked upon and she shrugged inwardly. Prim sort of chap, she thought. If that was the way he wanted it, it was fine with her. Deity knew there was plenty to be done.

  She was mistaking his indecision for stiffness. An at­tractive woman he could have dealt with, but Fawn Sea­forth was as much beyond attractive as a diamond was beyond coal. She was representative of the type one saw on the vit, a human being who existed only in virtual reality and not in real life. Yet then, she was, sitting in the pilot's seat not an arm's length from where he stood and doing her best to relax him by making small talk. At which he was failing miserably.

  He was only being realistic. He was not the sort, physi­cally or personality‑wise, who appealed to goddesses. It was a law of nature. Better that she see him as a tool sent to facilitate her work. His worst fear was that she would prove even friendlier than she seemed. In that case he was terrified he would freeze completely.

  This is ridiculous, he told himself firmly. She was a contact xenologist, just like himself only with less expe­rience and a shorter resume. If he was going to let her mere appearances‑though there was little mere about it bother him, he wasn't going to get any serious work done and his journey all this way would be accounted a failure. In his whole career he'd never had a failure, and he wasn't about to start now. Exhorting himself thus made him feel better.

  The wind was brisk and cooling against his face as they crossed over the reef. Glancing down as they made the transition, he saw a waterscape alive with jewels. Once beyond the protective barrier, she angled north and pushed the skimmer's speed up another notch.

  The reigning silence was becoming painful. "Interest­ing hairstyle," he ventured lamely. "What's that you've woven into the braids?"

  She glanced over at him. "Kiswaa and socolo fibers. The plants are natural gold concentrators. As opposed to food, gardening Parramati grow them for decorative pur­poses like this, though they have no hair."

  He blinked. "Gardening?"

  "Wait till you see a Parramati garden. They're genu­ine works of art. Growing food is almost secondary to appearance."

  "I look forward to seeing in person everything I've only had the opportunity to study." He turned to face back into the wind.

  They'd long since left the huge atoll behind and were speeding along above open water. Islands sizable and small were visible in all directions, but Seaforth main­tained their northerly heading, changing course only to avoid those islets that protruded a meter or more above the water. In the open passages between landmasses, strong ocean swells occasionally reached for the speed­ing skimmer, but none dampened its underside. High, chiseled, and overwhelmed by green, a cluster of larger islands loomed ahead.

  "I didn't expect full field uniform, but do you always meet the supply shuttle from Ophhlia that way?"

  Seaforth glanced down at herself. "Something wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

  "I didn't say that. I just wondered."

  "Sure you did." She kept her gaze forward and her at­tention on their course.

  He struggled to recover. "It's just that it's been my ex­perience that indifference to casual detail leads to sloppy work."

  "Does it, now?"

  He gave up. "If you're going to respond to everything I say with another question, we're going to have trouble communicating."

  "You mean we're not already?" Her gaze narrowed. "Tell you what, Pulickel. Wait till you've been here for a few weeks. Then talk to me about protocol, okay?"

  "Fair enough." He returned his attention to the view forward, blinking repeatedly. The tropical sun reflecting off the water was harsh against his pupils, and his eye­shades were still packed inside his travel case.

  She was silent for several minutes, then sighed and reached into a side storage compartment. The goggles she handed him were similar to his own.

  He accepted them gratefully. "I have several pair, but they're packed away. I didn't expect so long a ride from the pickup point to base."

  "So they didn't tell you everything back on Earth."

  "There wasn't much time. Normally I'm given more advance notice. I had to complete basic preparatory stud­ies on the journey out from Earth."

  "Yeah, well, everyone's in a hurry to get the situation here resolved."

  He nodded knowingly. "The mineral rights."

  "Among other things." She swerved to avoid a coral pinnacle that rose high above the water. "Smell that air, Pulickel! Everything's unspoiled here. Fresh, unpolluted, natural."

  He eyed her thoughtfully. "Is that why you're here?

  I'd think someone like yourself would miss the excite­ment of a developed world, or at least the comforts of Ophhlia."

  She turned to him so quickly that he started. "Someone like me? For a guy I met less than an hour ago, you pre­sume a lot." Her darkened eyescreens prevented him from seeing her eyes. "For a supposed specialist with a fancy reputation, you show a disappointing tendency to fall back on unsupported assumptions."

  He hastened to make amends. "I'm sorry. Let's start over, okay? I'm Pulickel Tomochelor. It's nice to meet you."

  "Pardon me if I don't shake hands. I've got to steer this air skate." But she smiled, and he was relieved.

  "It's not that I dislike parties and civilization," she went on, "but you can get used to peace and quiet. Even," she added coolly, "someone like me." After a moment she added, "Leastwise, it's peaceful and quiet most of the time.

  "Trouble with the locals?"

  "More frustration than trouble. You'll see." Reaching down, she pulled the hem of her overshirt out in front of her and eyed the stains. "I guess you're right. This could use a wash. Especially now that I have company."

  If she was waiting for him to demur, she'd have a long wait. It was unfortunate if his attitude put her off, but he felt it necessary to establish from the start who was in charge and whose work philosophy was to pre­vail. She might be the one with on‑site experience, but within the Department he easily ranked her. Convincing her to do some personal laundry was a relatively pain­less way of reminding her of their respective positions. Once she accepted that, their working relationship would improve.

  Maybe she enjoyed going native, or playing beach­comber, or whatever it was that had happened to affect her attitudes but relaxation and indifference weren't go­ing to solve the problems at hand. She might be in love with Parramat, but all he wanted was to fix what he'd been sent out to fix, receive his commendation, and get out. Goddess or no, he wasn't about to let her stand in the way of that goal.

  About then she took a deep breath and stretched, caus­ing him to temporarily forget everything related to his admirable work ethic.

  Ten minutes on found them weaving between the larger, heavily vegetated islands. The southernmost reaches
of the Parramat archipelago, Fawn informed him. There­after they were never out of sight of high peaks and their cosseting clouds. The sheer sides of many of the islands and the. heavy waves breaking on their fringing reefs showed why she had traveled to the sandy cay in the la­goon to pick him up. There was no protected touchdown site here for the aerial transport.

  One especially striking crag was. several hundred me­ters high, a jungled spire rising sheer from the ocean floor. Flocks of unidentifiable flying things roosted in its hollows and ledges. Showing no inclination to reduce their speed, Seaforth guided the skimmer skillfully past.

  As they entered an area of open water between two smaller islands, he found out why the spectacular beauty through which they were traveling needed to be taken with a grain of sea salt.

  Something beeped on the instrument panel. Moving faster than he'd yet seen, Seaforth sat up straight and be­gan checking her readouts.

  “What…?”

  Before he could finish the query, she slammed the steering guide hard aport and yelled out, "Hang on!" Wa­ter rooster‑tailed to starboard, an artificial geyser.

  Following which she shouted something so unexpect­edly obscene that he found himself rocked from two quarters. If nothing else, it permanently killed the god­dess image he'd assigned to her.

  "Damn! There's a whole school of the slimy bastards. They've come in from the deep ocean. Passing between islands." The skimmer lurched heavily to starboard as she threw it in the opposite direction.

  "A whole school of what?" Making sure of his grip on the hang bar, he turned and leaned over the side to have a look at the sea.

  "Hey, are you crazy? Don't do that!" A hand reached out and grabbed the waistband of his shorts, yanking him backward.

  As he stumbled awkwardly in her grasp, a narrow stream of water shot skyward, passing through the space where he'd been leaning over the side. The fountain glit­tered in the bright sunshine, intense enough to suggest the presence of something more than just water.