white and black rainforest stood like islands on a sea of saw grass. As they traveled south the jungles grew darker and denser, the saw grass showed patches of rot, and presently gave way to banks of blue-white fleshmolt. Ahead gleamed the Brunai River; the road swung somewhat away and to the west, up and across a volcanic flow of rotten gray rocks, then detoured a vast field of overgrown ruins: the city Matrice, besieged and destroyed by the Palasedrans two thousand years before, now inhabited by the huge, blue-black ahulphs of South Glaiy, who conducted their lives in a half-comic, half-horrifying travesty of human urbanity. The ruins of Matrice overlooked a peneplain of a thousand ponds and marshes; here grew the tallest osiers of Shant, in clumps thirty and forty feet tall. The workers of Camp Three cut, peeled, cured, and bundled the withe, barged it down the Brunai to Port Palas, whence coastal schooners conveyed it to the balloon factories of Purple Fan.
Far ahead appeared a dark blot, which through the binoculars became Camp Three. Within a twenty-foot high stockade Etzwane discerned a central compound, a line of work sheds, a long two-story dormitory. To the left stood a complex of small cottages and administration offices.
The road forked; the pacer team swung toward the administration offices. A group of men came forward and, after a word with the driver, tugged the balloon guys down to sheaves anchored to concrete posts; the pacers, moving forward, drew the Iridixn to the ground.
Etzwane stepped from the gondola into a world of humidity and heat. Above him Etta, Sassetta, and Zael whirled through zones of color; the air over the wasteland quivered; mirages could not be differentiated from the myriad sloughs and ponds.
Three men came slowly forward; one tall, full-fleshed, with bitter gray eyes; the second stocky, bald, with an enormous chin and jaw; the third somewhat younger, lithe and supple as a lizard, with inappropriate black ringlets and flint-black eyes. They were part with the landscape: harsh humorless men without ease or trust. They wore wide-brimmed hats of bleached saw-grass cord, white tunics, gray trousers, ankleboots of chumpa [8] -hide; at their belts hung small crossbows, shooting gandlewood splints. Each stared coldly at Etzwane, who could not understand the near-palpable hostility and so for a moment was taken aback. More than ever he felt his youth, his inexperience, and, above all, the precariousness of his position. He must assume control. In a neutral voice he said: "I am Gastel Etzwane, Executive Aide to the Anome. I speak with the Anome's voice."
The first man gave a slow ambiguous nod, as if at the confirmation of a suspicion. "What brings
you here to Camp Three? We are balloon-way people, responsible to balloon-way control."
Etzwane, when he sensed hostility, had developed a habit of pausing to inspect the face of his adversary; a tactic which sometimes upset the other's psychological rhythm and sometimes gave Etzwane time to choose among options. He paused now to consider the face of the man before him, and then chose to ignore the question altogether. "Who are you?"
"I am Chief Custodian of Camp Three, Shirge Hillen."
"How many men work at Camp Three?"
"Counting all personnel: two hundred and three."Hillen's tone was surly, at the very edge of truculence. He wore a torc with the balloon-way code; the balloon-way had been his life.
"How many indentured men?"
"One hundred and ninety."
"I want to inspect the camp."
The corners of Hillen's gray lips pulled back. "It is inadvisable. We have hard cases here; this is a camp for recalcitrants. Had you notified us of your coming, we would have taken proper precautions. At this moment I cannot recommend that you make your inspection. I will give you all relevant information in my office. This way, if you please."
"I must obey the Anome's instructions," said Etzwane in a matter-of-fact voice. "By the same token you must obey me or
Far ahead appeared a dark blot, which through the binoculars became Camp Three. Within a twenty-foot high stockade Etzwane discerned a central compound, a line of work sheds, a long two-story dormitory. To the left stood a complex of small cottages and administration offices.
The road forked; the pacer team swung toward the administration offices. A group of men came forward and, after a word with the driver, tugged the balloon guys down to sheaves anchored to concrete posts; the pacers, moving forward, drew the Iridixn to the ground.
Etzwane stepped from the gondola into a world of humidity and heat. Above him Etta, Sassetta, and Zael whirled through zones of color; the air over the wasteland quivered; mirages could not be differentiated from the myriad sloughs and ponds.
Three men came slowly forward; one tall, full-fleshed, with bitter gray eyes; the second stocky, bald, with an enormous chin and jaw; the third somewhat younger, lithe and supple as a lizard, with inappropriate black ringlets and flint-black eyes. They were part with the landscape: harsh humorless men without ease or trust. They wore wide-brimmed hats of bleached saw-grass cord, white tunics, gray trousers, ankleboots of chumpa [8] -hide; at their belts hung small crossbows, shooting gandlewood splints. Each stared coldly at Etzwane, who could not understand the near-palpable hostility and so for a moment was taken aback. More than ever he felt his youth, his inexperience, and, above all, the precariousness of his position. He must assume control. In a neutral voice he said: "I am Gastel Etzwane, Executive Aide to the Anome. I speak with the Anome's voice."
The first man gave a slow ambiguous nod, as if at the confirmation of a suspicion. "What brings
you here to Camp Three? We are balloon-way people, responsible to balloon-way control."
Etzwane, when he sensed hostility, had developed a habit of pausing to inspect the face of his adversary; a tactic which sometimes upset the other's psychological rhythm and sometimes gave Etzwane time to choose among options. He paused now to consider the face of the man before him, and then chose to ignore the question altogether. "Who are you?"
"I am Chief Custodian of Camp Three, Shirge Hillen."
"How many men work at Camp Three?"
"Counting all personnel: two hundred and three."Hillen's tone was surly, at the very edge of truculence. He wore a torc with the balloon-way code; the balloon-way had been his life.
"How many indentured men?"
"One hundred and ninety."
"I want to inspect the camp."
The corners of Hillen's gray lips pulled back. "It is inadvisable. We have hard cases here; this is a camp for recalcitrants. Had you notified us of your coming, we would have taken proper precautions. At this moment I cannot recommend that you make your inspection. I will give you all relevant information in my office. This way, if you please."
"I must obey the Anome's instructions," said Etzwane in a matter-of-fact voice. "By the same token you must obey me or
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