Big Planet

2 Forty-thousand-mile Trek

Glystra sat up against Nancy’s restraining hand, felt the base of his skull. He tried to rise to his feet. Cloyville jumped up. “For Heaven’s sake, Claude, take it easy,” he admonished.

Glystra shook his head. “We’ve got to get out of here. Fast. Think. Where’s Abbigens? He’s gone to report to Charley Lysidder, the Bajarnum.” He stood swaying. Nancy came to cajole him back to the cot, but instead, leaning on her shoulder, he went to the door and stood in the wash of golden-white sunlight, the Big Planet panorama before him. Pianza brought a chair, Glystra sank into it.

The cottage, the forest, the village were situated halfway up the face of a slope, vast beyond Earthly conception. Above, Glystra could see no sharp termination or ridge; the land melted into pale blue distance. Below was a vista so grand and airy that after the first few miles the eye could sense only the spread of territory, meadows and forests becoming a green, blue, beige blur.

Cloyville stretched his heavy arms out into the warmth. “Here’s where I’m coming in my old age.” He yawned. “We never should have wasted Big Planet on the freaks.”

Nancy slipped into the house with a stiff back.

Cloyville chuckled. “I guess she thought I was calling her a freak.”

“You’ll never have an old age,” said Glystra, “if we don’t clear out of here.” He looked up and down the slope. “Where’s the ship?”

“Up in the forest a little bit.”

“And how far are we from Beaujolais?”

Cloyville looked southwest diagonally up the slope. “The borders of Beaujolais are vague. Over the top of the slope is a deep valley, apparently volcanic. Full of hot springs, fumaroles, geysers, so they tell me—the valley of the Glass-Blowers. Last year the Bajarnum moved in with his troops, and now the valley is part of Beaujolais. To date he hasn’t sent officials or tax-collectors to Jubilith, but they’re expected every day, together with a garrison.”

“Why a garrison? To keep order?”

Cloyville gestured down the slope. “Protection against the nomads—gypsies, they call ’em.”

“Mmmph.” Glystra looked up at the village. “They don’t seem to have suffered too much… How far is Grosgarth?”

“As near as I can make it, two hundred miles south. There’s a garrison town—Montmarchy, they call it— about fifty miles southeast along the slope.”

“Fifty miles.” Glystra considered. “That’s probably where Abbigens headed for…” A heavy metallic crash sounded from the forest. Glystra looked questioningly at Pianza.

“They’re cutting up the ship. It’s the most metal they’ve seen in their lives. We’ve made them all millionaires.”

“Until the Bajarnum confiscates the whole thing,” said Cloyville.

“We’ve got to get out,” Glystra muttered, twisting in his chair. “We’ve got to get to the Enclave— somehow…”

Pianza pursed his lips doubtfully. “It’s around the planet, forty thousand miles.”

Glystra struggled up to his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here. We’re sitting ducks. If we’re caught, it’s our lives. Charley Lysidder will make an example of us…Where’s the rest of the ship’s company?”

Pianza nodded toward the village. “We’ve been given a big house. Hidders has gone.”

“Gone? Where to?”

“Grosgarth.” He added hastily, “He says hell take a barge to Marwan Gulf and join one of the beach caravans to Wale.”

“Hmmm. The stewards dead, the captain and mate dead, the nun dead, Abbigens gone, Hidders gone—” he counted on his fingers “—that leaves eight. The commission and two engine room officers. You’d better bring them all down here and we’ll have a council of war.”

Eyes troubled, Glystra watched Pianza and Cloyville climbing to the village, then turned his attention down the slope. Beaujolain soldiers approaching during the daylight would be visible for many miles. Glystra gave thanks for the non-metallic crust of Big Planet. No metal, no machinery, no electricity, no long distance communication.

Nancy appeared from the cottage. She had changed her puffed blue skirt for a parti-colored coverall, a harlequin suit of red and orange motley. Over her hair she wore a close fitting cap, set with two-inch spines of hair waxed to golden points.

Glystra stared a moment. Nancy whirled before him, pirouetted on one toe, with the other leg bent at the knee.

Glystra said, “Are all the girls at Jubilith as lovely as you are?”

She smiled, tilted her face to the sun. “I’m not from Jubilith… I’m an outlander.”

“So? From where?”

She gestured to the north. “From Veillevaux Forest. My father had the gift, and for many miles people came to ask the future—even some who might have made the pilgrimage to Myrtlesee Fountain.”

“Myrtlesee Fountain?” Glystra opened his mouth to inquire, then reflected that any explanation would be couched in the intricacies of a strange culture, and closed his mouth. Best to listen, to observe, let knowledge come in manageable doses.

“My father grew rich,” continued Nancy. “He trained me in the crafts. I travelled to Grosgarth and Calliope and Wale and through the Stemvelt Canals, and I went outland as a troubadour, with fine companies, and we saw many towns and castles and beautiful sights.” She shuddered. “And evil also. Much evil, at Glaythree…” Tears welled into her eyes, her shoulders sagged. She said forlornly, “When I returned to Veillevaux Forest I found ruin and desolation. The gypsies from North Heath had raided the village and burnt the house of my father with all my family inside. And I wandered here to Jubilith to learn to dance, that I might dance away my grief…”

Glystra studied her closely. Marvelous mobility of feature—sparkle of eye, lilt of voice when she spoke of joy— a mouth that was never quite in repose. And when she dwelt on her grief her eyes became large and wistful, and the nervous beauty of her face and body seemed to become less explicit, glowing from some wonderful region inside her mind, as light shines from the inner part of a star.

“And how is it that you were selected to nurse me?”

She shrugged, studied the backs of her hands. “I’m an outlander; I know the methods of Grosgarth—some of which have been learned from Earth books. Naisuka.”

Glystra looked up in puzzlement, repeated the word. “What is that?”

“It’s a Beajolais word.” She settled herself to the ground at his feet, leaned back against the wall, stretched with the easy looseness of a kitten. “It means—well, it’s what makes a person decide to do things for no reason whatever.”

He pointed down the slope. “What country is that nestled down there?”

She turned half on her side, propped herself on one elbow. “The Jubilith claiming ends at the Tsalombar Woods.” She indicated a far line of forest. “The Tree-people live there, above the tritchsod.”

Another idiom unfamiliar to Glystra.

Up by the village the Earthmen appeared. Glystra watched their approach. Guilt in any one of them seemed as remote as guilt in Nancy. But someone had helped Abbigens, someone had burnt out the motors. Of course it might have been Arthur Hidders, and he was gone.

“Sit down,” said Glystra. They took seats on the turf. Glystra looked doubtfully at Nancy. She smiled up cheerfully, made no move to rise; indeed, settled herself more comfortably, stretching her legs, pointing her toes—exotic as a rare bird.

Glystra hesitated, then turned back to the men. “We’re in a tough spot, although I suppose I don’t need to belabor the point.”

No one spoke.

“We’re shipwrecked with no possibility of getting help from Earth. As far as technical superiority goes, we’re no better off than the people of the village. Maybe worse. They understand their tools, their materials; we don’t. If we had unlimited time, we might be able to patch up some kind of radio and call the Enclave. We don’t have that time. Any minute we can expect soldiers to take us to Grosgarth… In Grosgarth the Bajarnum will make an example of us. He doesn’t want interference, he’ll make sure we’re aware of it. We’ve got one chance, that’s to get out of Beaujolais, put miles behind us.”

He paused, looked from face to face. Pianza was mild, non-committal, Cloyville’s big forehead was creased in a heavy frown, Ketch was petulantly digging at the ground with a bit of sharp gravel. Bishop’s face was faintly troubled, with little puckers like inverted V’s over his eyes. Darrot ran a hand through his sparse red hair, muttered something to Ketch, who nodded. Corbus the chief engineer sat quietly, as if unconcerned. Vallusser the second engineer glared, as if Glystra were the cause of his difficulties. He said in a thick voice, “What happens when we escape. Where do we escape to? There’s nothing out there—” he waved his hand down the slope “—but wild men. They’ll kill us. Some of them are cannibals.”

Glystra shrugged. “You’re free to do whatever you like, save your skin the best way you can. Personally I see one way out. It’s hard, it’s long, it’s dangerous. Maybe it’s impossible. It’s close to certain not all of us will make it. But we want to escape with our lives, we want to go home. That means—” he accented his words heavily “—one place on Big Planet. The Enclave. We’ve got to get to the Enclave.”

“Sounds good,” said Cloyville. “I’m all for it. How do we do it?”

Glystra grinned. “The only means of locomotion we’ve got—our feet.”

“Feet?” Cloyville’s voice rose.

“Sounds like a pretty stiff hike,” said Darrot.

Glystra shrugged. “There’s no use fooling ourselves. We’ve got one chance to get back to Earth—that’s make Earth Enclave. The only way to get there is to start.”

“But forty thousand miles?” Cloyville protested plaintively. “I’m a big man, hard on my feet.”

“We’ll pick up pack-animals,” said Glystra. “Buy them, steal them, we’ll get them somehow.”

“But forty thousand miles,” muttered Cloyville.

Glystra nodded. “It’s a long way. But if we find the right kind of river, we’ll float. Or maybe, find a ship, sail around the coast.”

“Can’t be done,” said Bishop. “The Australian Peninsula reaches down, curves back east. We’d have to wait till we reached Henderland, then cut down, around the Blackstone Cordillera, to the Parmarbo. And, according to the Big Planet Almanac, the Parmarbo is virtually unnavigable due to reefs, pirates, carnivorous sea anemones and weekly hurricanes.”

Cloyville groaned again. Glystra heard a sound from Nancy, and looked down, saw her mouth quivering in efforts to restrain a giggle. He rose to his feet, and Pianza watched him doubtfully. “How do you feel, Claude?”

“I’m weak. But tomorrow I’ll be as good as new. Nothing wrong with me a little exercise won’t cure. One thing we can be thankful for—”

“What’s that?” asked Cloyville.

Glystra motioned to his feet. “Good boots. Water-proof, wear-proof. We’ll need them.”

Cloyville ruefully inspected his big torso. “I suppose the paunch will work off.”

Glystra glanced around the circle. “Any other ideas? You, Vallusser?”

Vallusser shook his head. “I’ll stay with the crowd.”

“Good. Now here’s the program. We’ve got to make up packs. We want all the metal we can conveniently carry; it’s precious on Big Planet. Each of us ought to be able to manage fifteen pounds. Tools and knives would be best, but I suppose we’ll have to take what we can salvage… Then we’ll want clothes, a change apiece. Ship’s chart of Big Planet, if available. A compass. Everyone had better find himself a good knife, a blanket, and most important— handweapons. Has anyone checked the ship?”

Corbus put his hand in his blouse, displayed the black barrel of an ion-discharge pistol. “This belonged to the Captain. I helped myself.”

“I’ve got my two,” said Cloyville.

“There should be one in my cabin aboard ship,” said Pianza. “There was no way in yesterday, but maybe I can squeeze in somehow.”

“There’s another in mine,” said Glystra. He put his hands on the arm of the chair, rose to his feet. “We’d better get started.”

“You’d better rest,” said Darrot gruffly. “You’ll need all your strength. I’ll see that your pack is made up.”

Glystra relaxed without embarrassment. “Thanks. Maybe we’ll make better time.”

The seven men filed uphill, into the forest of silky blue-green trees. Glystra watched them from the doorway.

Nancy rose to her feet. “Best now that you should sleep.”

He went inside, lowered himself to the cot, put his hands under his head, lay staring at the beams.

Nancy stood looking down at him. “Claude Glystra.”

“What?”

“May I come with you?”

He turned his head, stared up in astonishment. “Come where?”

“Wherever you’re going.”

“Around the planet? Forty thousand miles?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head decisively. “You’d be killed with the rest of us. This is a thousand to one chance.”

“I don’t care… I die only once. And I’d like to see Earth. I’ve wandered far and I know many things…” She hesitated.

Glystra put the spur to his brain. It was tired and failed to react. Something was out of place. Would a girl choose such a precarious life from pure wanderlust? Of course, Big Planet was not Earth; human psychology was unpredictable. And yet—he searched her face, was it a personal matter? Infatuation? She colored.

“You blush easily,” Glystra observed.

“I’m strong,” said Nancy. “I can do as much work as either Ketch or Bishop.”

“A pretty girl can cause a lot of trouble.”

She shrugged. “There are women everywhere on Big Planet. No one need be alone.”

Glystra sank back on the couch, shaking his head. “You can’t come with us, Nancy.”

She bent over; he felt her breath on his face, warm, moist. “Tell them I’m a guide. Can’t I come as far as the forest?”

“Very well. As far as the forest.”

She ran outside, into the golden radiance of the day.

Glystra watched her run up the flowered slope. “There goes trouble.” He turned his face to the wall.