Dee’s deepsight found the barrel-sized packet of embryos buried beneath a big pile of shingle and debris that now blocked the doors of Daddy’s new boatshed cum warehouse. But it didn’t matter. By springtime, when the building was in use again, the fierce babies would have hatched and crawled back into the sea.
The waters of Loch Tuath were black, lapping as turgidly as oil against the beach and the snow-bonneted rocks. Soon the north wind would blow small icebergs into the fjord and it would freeze into slush for nearly half its length.
A single rhamphorhynchus flew overhead, trailing its long bony tail with the feathered tip and uttering melancholy shrieks.
“I will not cry,” Dee said firmly.
She got back into the tractor and headed south at top speed. After returning the equipment to its place, she trudged around the stock barn and across the white-blanketed truck garden to the schoolhouse. Gavin was flat on his stomach in the snow at the edge of the road, connecting the new section of melting grid to the subterranean power main. A small dragline, a composite mixer, bags of sealing compound, and an open kit of tools were scattered around him.
“For chrissake stay off my sidewalk,” he growled at her. “It’s taking forever to set in this cold.”
She decided not to remind him that the freshly poured sealant mix would harden instantly once the melting grid was turned on. Entering the school, she took off her suit and boots and padded to her study carrel in stocking feet. Today was Di-sathuirne, when satellite school was not ordinarily in session; but the Education Ministry in New Glasgow was expecting Dee to log on and obtain her transcript data. It was much more economical for Gran Masha to carry the data-fleck to the new school on Earth than for the Caledonian school system to transmit it via subspace.
Dee took up the command microphone and summoned the office of her form. To her surprise, the round, smiling face that appeared on her monitor was that of Tutor Una MacDuffie, her favorite teacher.
“There you are at last, Dorothea! I arranged to come in so I could say a very special goodbye. You must never say a word about this to the other children in your school … but I’ve always thought of you as a very special pupil. So creative and bright! I’m not at all surprised that you’ve gone operant.”
Dee could not help showing her surprise and uneasiness. “Nobody was supposed to know.”
The tutor laughed merrily. “Not know? Oh, lass, it’s been the talk of Tutorial House ever since your metapsychic assay was done last month. Even Dirigent Hamilton got word of it and called us. Didn’t your father tell you that your quotient is the highest that’s ever been recorded on Caledonia?”
“No, ma’am,” Dee whispered, stricken with dread.
“Well, don’t go getting a swelled head over it. Just do your best at the Preceptor’s on Earth and make us Caledonians proud of you.”
“I’ll try, ma’am.”
“Bless you, dear. Be sure you keep on with your clothes-designing and jewelry-making, too. It’s good to work with the hands when one has to spend overmuch time cudgeling the brain.”
Dee nodded. “I think you’re right, Tutor MacDuffie. And I will.”
“Now I’d better transmit your fleck data. You’ve more important things to do this last day on Callie than chunnering with me.”
Dee asked the tutor to send Ken’s data as well. When the two flecks—transparent squares no wider than thumbnails with a microscopic data-carrier sandwiched in the center—popped out of her computer, she put them into a boîte, said a final goodbye to the tutor, and shut her computer down.
She left her carrel and wandered around the schoolroom for the last time. The half-finished projects of the other children—the printouts, the science experiments, the artwork, and the other hands-on assignments that were part of satellite school—were still strewn about the worktables. None of her things or Kenny’s remained. No one would ever know they had studied here.
Outside, the sky had darkened again and a few snowflakes were falling. Gavin was still working on the power connection. Looking out the window, Dee let her ultrasense flick over him and learned a few new obscenities. Why should she walk past him again and endure more insults? She decided to use the burrows.
Retrieving her suit and putting on her boots, she descended in the lift to the tunnel system that connected all of the farmstead buildings. The burrows were brightly lit and warm, with smooth gray cerametal walls. A mole-car came trundling along a few minutes after she tapped the call-pad.
Her father was already seated in it.
“Get in, Dorrie. Your grandparents just arrived. I was on my way to meet them. Livestock all in good fettle?”
“Yes, Dad. They’re fine. I went down to the loch shore after I finished with them. A teuthis buried its egg-case right in front of the warehouse door! I’m sure of it. The track was just like ones I’ve seen on the Tri-D.”
Ian Macdonald laughed. “Well, the nerve of the brute! That hasn’t happened around here for years. Not since before you came.”
Dee found that she couldn’t reply. She turned her head toward the tunnel wall and once again willed that tears not spill from her eyes. A moment later the car slowed and stopped at the farmhouse.
Ian climbed out and extended his hand to her. After she had disembarked he stood there, silent, looking down at her. As always now, she permitted herself to know only the outermost thoughts in his mind. They were puzzling. She had expected the fear mixed with love, the deep disappointment, even the suppressed anger. But why was his mental image of her superimposed upon the image of her mother?
“Dorrie, I’m going to ask a strange thing of you.” He hesitated.
It’s all right Dad. I’ll do anything! Anything! Ask! …
“Your mother. Find out why it happened. I can’t believe she and the others died only by chance, as they say, just picked at random by those anonymous murderers. There was some reason. Find it! You mustn’t say anything to the other operant adults, though. Don’t let anyone know that you’re prying around. You could get into serious trouble …”
He broke off, as if suddenly aware of the burden he was placing on an eleven-year-old child. “Och, God, no! What am I saying?” He was shaking his head, his face twisted with emotion, moving away from her toward the lift. “I’ve no right to ask this of a wee lass! Forget what I said, Dorrie. I’m a glaiket loon.”
Daddy. Wait.
He halted and turned back to face her, startled and then suddenly terrified at the realization that he had been coerced. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “But you’re not just a child, are you? You’re not even like her. You’re more than she ever was. God only knows what you are.”
“I’m your daughter,” she said. “I love you and I’ll do as you asked. Find out about Mum and the others. I was going to do it anyway.”
He stared at her.
“Please, Daddy,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I’m the same as I always was.” The same.
“Yes.” There was despair in his eyes. “I know that … now. Go ahead then and see what you can find out. It’s driven me half-daft, you see, thinking it was a stupid casual killing. That God let Viola be snuffed out for no reason, like some ant getting stepped on …”
“I don’t think it was like that. I can’t tell you why, but that’s what I think. I’ll find out, Dad, and I’ll tell you.” And if it’s possible, I’ll do even more.
He nodded, seeming to understand.
The lift car was waiting. The two of them got into it without speaking further. She handed him the little plass box with the school transcript flecks and he simply nodded. At the first floor, Ian Macdonald got off. Dee continued up to the third floor, to her own room.
Quickly, she washed and put on the pleated Macdonald tartan skirt she had made herself, a white silk blouse, and a hunter-green blazer with silver buttons. They were her best clothes. Grandad’s pearls went around her neck and she put the rhinestone mask pin in her skirt pocket. It took only a few more minutes to pack a s
eat-bag with pajamas and personal things, and to tuck a clean handkerchief into the new leather purse that had been a farewell gift from Janet.
Her other things were already in the small, tightly packed trunk standing near the bedroom door. Had she forgotten anything? She looked in the bath, checked the dresser drawers, opened the tall wardrobe.
Her handsome silver flight suit hung there, with the helmet and boots on the wardrobe floor. She had intended to leave it behind, but now …
“Kenny!” She grabbed the outfit, dashed out of her room, and went into her brother’s, across the hall. “You’ve got to help me! I don’t have any more room in my trunk.”
He looked up with a startled expression, his arms filled with folded shirts and jerseys. “You want to take that? What the hell good will it do you on Earth?”
“Please,” she begged. “I just have to take it.”
Muttering good-naturedly, he made room in his trunk. “Good thing for you I’m not a clotheshorse.”
They went downstairs together after sending the baggage to the pad on the goods conveyor. Masha, looking more gorgeous than ever, and Kyle, seeming to be younger than his own son, were having tea in the front parlor with Ian. Janet came in from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a basket.
“Well, better late than never,” drawled the domestic manager. “You kids got all your stuff together?”
“Yes’m,” said Ken. “Down at pad level ready to be put in the egg.”
“Good. Your Grampaw and Gramma don’t fancy sitting down to eat. They want to get started for Clyde right away. Seems the both of ’em are going back to Earth with you, and Gramps has to rush through some business if he’s to make it. I packed a picnic lunch for you to eat aloft. Ken, you can carry it.” She shook hands with the boy, then handed him the covered basket. “Hasta luego, muchacho. And good luck. I think you’re gonna need it.”
Janet turned to Dee and pumped her hand. “So long, Doro. Sorry we didn’t get along better. My fault, I think. Come back when you’re older and maybe we’ll give it another shot.” She grinned at Masha and Kyle. “Lots of things to get done around here. Be seeing you.” And she was gone.
“What an amazing woman,” murmured the professor, setting down her teacup.
Kyle snorted. “You could almost suspect there was a heart under that barbed-wire brassiere.”
“There is,” said Ian shortly. “Ken, Dorrie, get your coats and things.”
They obeyed. Then they all made their way down to the pad exit. Kyle and Ian loaded the baggage into the egg. It was snowing harder. The pad was wet but clear, with the melting grid now programmed for automatic winter mode.
After Ian said goodbye to his parents, he turned to the children. Ken, who was thirteen, was relieved to be offered a handshake. But Ian kissed his daughter on the forehead. His eyes were wet as he said, “I’ll take care of the oak tree while you’re gone.” Then he put both children into the egg and slammed the door.
The Porsche took off in free flight.
With her farsight, Dee saw her father go back into the hillside door. He took a mole-car to the house lift and ascended to the second level, where his bedroom was. Janet was waiting for him there with some of the little greenish-pink popspheres that held airplant essence, and so Dee stopped watching.
17
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD
I FIRST MET HER IN THE MARCH OF 2069, WHEN SHE WAS TWELVE. It was late afternoon on a dark, blustery day in New Hampshire that had the Dartmouth College students and Hanover townsfolk scuttling anxiously about, bundled to the eyeballs in anticipation of one of our notorious spring blizzards. The little bell mounted on the door of my bookshop jingled and in came a solemn-faced waif wearing a scarlet enviro parka and a knitted white cloche. The place was understandably empty. I had been sitting with my feet up before the working antique woodstove I had recently installed in the readers’ nook, perusing a classic issue of Unknown Worlds. My cat, Marcel LaPlume VI, was asleep on the rag rug under the footstool.
“Good afternoon,” the child said, looking around at the shelves of paged books somewhat apprehensively. From her small stature, I had judged her to be nine or ten, but the mature inflection of her voice suggested she might be three or four years older. I was half asleep and didn’t immediately notice that she was an operant. “I’m looking for something special. For a gift.”
I was not going to disturb my carefully arranged old bones for a mere slip of a girl who might have mistaken my specialty bookshop for the local plaque dispensary. “I sell mostly rare science fiction and fantasy books dating from the twentieth century. Collector’s items.”
“I know. I’d like to find a birthday present for my brother. He’s turning into a rather keen bibliophile. You may remember his coming into your shop a few times. Kenneth Macdonald.”
I woke up at that, and so did my cat. Marcel lifted his graymaned head, stared at the girl with interest, and decided she was ripe for his scam. He began broadcasting strong telepathic requests for food.
She was a meta, and a powerful one from what little I could discern of her “social” aspect. Her reference to her brother and her slight Scottish accent let me place her: Dorothea Macdonald, the prodigy from the planet Caledonia who’d entered Catherine Remillard’s Preceptorial Institute last fall.
There had been a brief flutter in the operant community about her at the time, but the little girl had stayed out of the limelight since then. Naturally the Remillard Dynasty was extremely interested in the newcomer, and all of them found excuses to visit Cat’s place from time to time to check out the wiz-kid and keep abreast of her progress. Only Denis, Lucille, and Jack had exercised decent restraint and respected the poor child’s privacy. Marc, hard at work on the other side of the continent when he wasn’t off among the stars, ignored her completely. I had gleaned from family scuttlebutt that the girl was a potential paramount, if she could only manage to overcome some serious inhibitions that still kept portions of her creativity, redactive power, and coercivity latent.
“Any book in particular you’re interested in?” I asked.
The enfant formidable had an unassuming and winsome manner and she obviously liked cats. She pulled off her gloves and took a packet of potato chips out of her pocket. “These crisps are barbecue-flavored. Do you think Marcel would like some?”
Yes! said my furbearing gourmand, cantering over to her with slavering chops. I love you!
She hunkered down and opened the snack-pack. Marcel’s first eager chomp nearly took her fingers and she wisely decided to scatter the chips on the floor for him.
I lurched upright, cracked a few joints that had developed mild rheumatiz, and restored the valuable old magazine to its protective envelope. The long-haired lunchbucket gobbled away, uttering telepathic sighs of appreciation. The only thing he loved better than potato chips was canned sweet corn.
“You’ve made a friend for life there, young lady,” I said, “and you’ll probably regret it. That beast is the worst food cadger in northern New England.”
She looked up at me. Her hazel eyes were a bit too closely set but fringed with attractive dark lashes. No one would have called her pretty, and yet she had a gamine charm that had nothing to do with the coercive power she almost, but not quite, managed to conceal behind her mind-screen.
“The only pets I ever had were larger, outdoor animals—a horse and a bull.” She stroked the cat’s head and emptied out the last of the chips. Marcel was scarfing them down like a starving thing in spite of the fact that he’d eaten most of the nuked macaroni and cheese that had been my midday meal. “Cats are wonderful creatures, aren’t they? So telepathically responsive.”
I reallyreallyreally love you, Marcel said to her. More food in pocket?
Gently, she removed his huge furry paws from her lap and got to her feet. “Sorry, boy. You’ve eaten it all.”
“He hogs the blankets in cold weather and sheds like a molting bison when it’s warm,” said I.
“But I keep him around to control the mice and spider population.” Thrusting forth my hand, I introduced myself. “Everyone in town calls me Uncle Rogi, so you might as well, too.”
“My name is Dorothea Macdonald.” She gave a tiny shrug. “People have given me all kinds of nicknames, but I don’t much care for any of them.”
“H’mm.” I cogitated for a moment. “May I call you Dorothée? It’s the Franco equivalent of your name. Comes off the tongue more trippingly, n’est-ce pas?”
She brightened. “Yes. I like it.”
“Well. Now that’s settled, let’s talk about books. How much do you want to spend? Not all antiquarian books are priced sky-high, but some are. I hope your brother’s not a collector of early Stephen King firsts.”
“Oh, no. He likes older fantasy and horror. The fifties and before. I can’t spend more than about twenty-five dollars.”
I went striding into the M section, plucked a shrink-wrapped volume from the shelf, and handed it to her. “How about this? The Rival Monster by Sir Compton MacKenzie, in the Clarke Irwin Canadian edition. It’s a humorous piece about the Loch Ness monster being hit by a flying saucer.”
She burst out laughing. “Kenny should love it.”
“Only fifteen bux. A steal for a Very Good copy. I’ll throw in a plass bibilope your brother can keep it in. Prevents the old high-sulfur-content paper from deteriorating any further. Tell him to turn the pages carefully.”