Up the Walls of the World

Chapter 8

Tivonel planes discreetly sidewind of Giadoc and the Hearers, watching for the party coming up from Deep. She is her merry self again. The frightful cry of the dying world, the emotional experience of merging with Giadoc and his dire predictions, all have been integrated to her memory-matrix while her attention turned to the practical task of hunting food. As Giadoc said, the Hearers weren’t feeding properly; she was shocked to see the frailty of some of his colleagues. One of them, an old male named Virmet, had been doing some ineffective food-supply in the intervals of his work. Tivonel had swept him with her straight up to the high layers behind the Wall, where the great rafts of food-plants stream. They soon found some—and a disturbing oddity as well.

“Not those,” she signals to Virmet. “Can’t you tell they’re dead?”

The old male hesitates as the lifeless clumps go by. “Is this usual, young Tivonel?”

“No. But look—there’s good fat lively ones in that eddy over there. Keep them circling. I’ll go herd in another lot, those Deepers are going to be hungry.”

In the end they’d driven down a lavish supply. Virmet secured most of it in plant-thickets while Tivonel herded some out to the line of Hearers stationed around the great Wall. They accept her offerings with preoccupied thanks; she gathers they are maintaining some sort of contact with a distant world. Weird.

By the time she completes the long circuit even her strong body is tired. But she’s pleased with herself; obviously she’s needed here.

“I will be your little Father, Giadoc!” she flashes mischievously as she passes him. His deep affectionate gleam answers her.

Now everyone is awaiting the Deepers, who are about to arrive. The bright compacted life-signals of the pods they came up in have halted at the inner zone of the Wall and are now spreading out to individual emanations as they disembark. How many they are! A great crowd must be coming up from Deep.

Lomax and other senior Hearers have gone in to guide them out to a calm broad updraft which will be the meeting-place. As the procession comes closer, Tivonel is amused to notice life-fields wavering all over the path. Probably Fathers who haven’t been out of Deep for years, having trouble jetting even through these calm breezes.

But the big male beside Lomax is navigating sturdily. His field is huge and intricate, his mantle-lights are a beautiful Fatherly rose tuned deep violet by age. Why, it’s old Heagran himself, Eldest-Father of all!

Things must be really serious, Tivonel realizes, blushing herself to suitable reverence as they pass.

Behind Heagran comes an unsteady group of elder males of impressive life-strength, long past actual Fatherhood of course but representing the wisdom and leadership of Deep. With them is Kinto, chief Memory-Keeper, his corporeal body blurred by the enormously energic and complex structuring of his engram lattices. A grave occasion, to bring Kinto up! For an instant Tivonel’s control slips, and she shudders. Is Tyree really in danger? Could their beautiful world be extinguished like that nameless one?

But she dismisses the fear, and is soon trying to hide bright gleams of amusement as a crowd of younger Fathers go wobbling by, striving to keep their dignity in the wild winds. Some have pouched children—and there among them, to her delight, is Tiavan, Giadoc’s son and hers. She’s glad to see he’s jetting strong and straight. I gave him that, she thinks; no matter what anyone says, female heredity counts. Tiavan flashes a quiet greeting to Giadoc as he passes the group of Hearers. Tivonel can guess how much the two of them would love a male-to-male talk about that child.

Behind the males comes a single small figure with work-worn vanes: Old Janskelen, Eldest-Female. Tivonel sends her a warm transmission of appreciation. Janskelen was a great adventurer in her day, and she’s still so hardy and vigorous, still eager for projects. And a known defender of the Hearers in their unFatherly pursuit of knowledge, too.

Jetting nonchalantly after Janskelen come a dozen or so females, their small fields bright and dense. Tivonel recognizes several of them as leaders of the radical Paradomin faction. What are they up to here? But she forgets them as the field-form of her friend Marockee appears among the last-comers.

“Marockee! Companion of many food hunts!”

Her friend’s mantle flashes in surprise. “Tivonel! Well met. What are you doing here?”

“Later, later,” Tivonel tells her. “I have to supply these biglives. Can you leave them and help me?”

“Done.”

Old Virmet is struggling to control the food-raft in the eddies. Tivonel is glad of Marockee’s help in conveying the food out to the hungry and tired crowd.

They make an effort to separate it and present it in semicivilized style, but the big males are rigid and pale blue with embarrassment at the prospect of eating like this. Lomax apologizes for the primitive conditions. Finally old Heagran says, “Nonsense!” and begins to scoop in fat-plants with unabashed gusto. Janskelen follows suit, and soon everyone is eating, more or less skilfully. The taste of the rich wild food is restorative. In the silence of the everlasting day one young Father actually proposes sleep, but is quickly voted down.

“Our business here cannot wait,” Heagran announces. “We will commence as soon as I have, ah, completed this.”

“Come and watch with me, Marockee,” Tivonel suggests. “We have much to exchange.”

Marockee assents with a mock-erotic snap of polarization, and they jet into a plant-filled eddy Tivonel has already selected as her viewing site.

“It’s hard to show real ahura out here.”

Marockee assents; with these eddies coming every which way, it would be easy for a female to get into an upwind position, thereby indicating blatant flirtatiousness. Or, even sillier, to usurp the downwind position proper for males.

As they settle into the edge of the lattice-plant, Tivonel notices that the Paradomin are brazenly hovering downwind of the group in a small current. Well, really! Then she sees something more amazing. One of them has a small double field!

“What’s she doing, Marockee? She can’t—be carrying a child?”

“That’s Avanil,” Marockee’s mantle lights with giggles. “Only she’s shortened it to Avan, like a male. She’s practicing Fathering with a young plenya. She wants to prove that females can care for children too.”

“Great winds.” Tivonel scans hard. Yes—Avanil’s small extra nucleus is not that of a real infant, but one of the semi-intelligent pet animals that were becoming popular in Deep. Of course many female children mimic their brothers by “playing Father” with a baby animal until their Fathers put a stop to it. But here is a grown female openly carrying an imitation infant in her rudimentary pouch. Crazy!

“She says it strengthens your field. She says if females did Fathering our fields would grow just as big too.”

“Wild.” Tivonel idly blows away in inquisitive plant-root. A lot seems to have been going on in Deep while she’d been away.

“I don’t know,” Marockee pumps air reflectively, “her field does look different now. And listen, she says the Fathers should exercise more, too. She believes we should all share each other’s work.”

“I can just imagine Kinto on a hunt.” Tivonel laughs. “Marockee, I’ve had a real idea. Suppose we set up a barter relay station to exchange food from the Wild with some of the new plant-stuffs they’re bringing up from above the Abyss, and the things the kids make in Deep.”

“What’s no new about that?”

“Wait. My idea is, instead of always exchanging the stuff itself, we could have a system of counters. Small things we could carry in our pouches. The stations would give you so many counters for each kind of thing. Then you wouldn’t have to lug the stuff around looking for someone to swap with, or you could save up and get something else later, or whatever.”

“Hey,” says Marockee, and they fall to typical female small-talk.

Presently the commotion outside quiets.

“Sssh. It’s starting.”

Heagran and the Deepers are ceremoniously deployed facing Lomax and the group of Hearers. Among them Giadoc’s mind-field seems to stand out in beauty to Tivonel’s scan.

“We offer our memory,” Lomax signs ritually. Orva, the Recorder of the Hearers, moves toward Memory-Keeper Kinto.

“Thank you, Chief Hearer,” Heagran’s deep violet tones reply. “We too have brought grave news, which you may consult at your convenience. However, we are many and time is short. Let our two good Recorders share in fullness while we confer in speech. First, what have you learned since your last message?”

Orva and Kinto jet away to a polite distance, and the life-bands momentarily resonate as they merge.

“More worlds have died in our area of the skies,” Lomax replies gravely. “A lone Destroyer is active out beyond us too. Perhaps the last death touched you?”

“Yes, we felt it as we traveled. Tragic.” Heagran’s mantle pales ritually. “But you should be aware that at Near Pole these death-cries are now so frequent and intense that some are felt even in Deep. The Hearers there tell us that there are now only four living worlds between Tyree and what they call the Zone of Death. The time-eddies too are increasing. People are frightened.” He pauses, his mantle murmurous with deep-hued thought. “As you know, I did not formerly believe that these reports meant any danger to Tyree. I have changed my mind. But there are many still in Deep who do not believe this peril is real. Have you had any success in mind-touch with this lone Destroyer of yours?”

“None whatever,” Lomax signs. “The attempt has been a complete failure and injured those who tried. It is utterly alien. There seems no hope of influencing it or even understanding it.”

“What else have you learned of value?”

At these words Tivonel notices a peculiar stir among the Deepers, as though the question has some unspoken significance. A very large old male whom she recognizes as Father Scomber has drifted closer to Heagran, his mantle courteously dark.

“For pure knowledge, much,” signs Lomax. His field too has taken on an odd tension. “For example, we are now sure that other worlds have each their own Sound or energy-source. And we have just now confirmed something we have suspected from common observation here on Tyree. Have we not all noticed that when a person is at a great distance, a signal he transmits on the life-bands appears to come instantaneously, while the audible flash of his words lags behind?”

Heagran signs assent. Around him the other Elders stir impatiently.

“Well, it appears that life-signals even from very distant worlds are indeed instantaneous while the physical energy, that is, the audible light, travels quite slowly, taking sometimes years. We have just heard the silencing of two Sounds identified with worlds whose death-cries were received years ago. And we now believe we understand the manner of their deaths; one was a slow, agonizing transmission suggesting burning and explosion. In each case, the energies of their Sounds were observed to rise violently just before extinction.”

The Deepers have been flickering restlessly during Lomax’ speech. Heagran signs, “If I understand your somewhat prolix point, Chief Hearer, you mean that the attack, if it comes, will not be on Tyree but on our Sound?”

“We believe so. Apparently the Destroyer can cause it to explode, throwing off terrible blasts of all-band energy which will kill all life on our world, as people are killed who venture into the ultrahigh Wild today.”

“But surely, Lomax, in the deeps of those worlds, even in their abyssal layers, some life survives?”

“No.” Lomax’ voice is deep azure with grief. “We have monitored continually and found nothing. The energy is so fierce that it will penetrate even to the Abyss. The very fabric of Tyree itself may be shattered.”

Silence follows his words, broken only by the faint chiming of the Companions of Day. Is it possible, Tivonel wonders, could these beautiful little Sounds be the devourers of their worlds? Could Tyree’s own Sound explode and destroy her? A memory of the dead food-plants flicks through her mind.

Father Scomber is signing formally to Heagran.

“Eldest Heagran, now we know the nature of the doom which may be nearing our world. But as you know, I and many others would like to inquire further on other matters these Hearers may have learned.”

To Tivonel’s surprise, Heagran’s mantle darkens and his field contracts in a mode approaching disdain. But he only signs neutrally, “Very well, Elder Scomber. Proceed.”

“Hearer Lomax,” Scomber flashes, “will you tell us more about these strange life-forms you have touched on other worlds? What are they like? Is there any possibility of help there?”

Lomax seems to hesitate, and again Tivonel is aware of tension in the massed fields of the crowd.

“Help, Father Scomber? I do not believe so. You will of course find all details in the transmitted memory. However, you may question our Hearer Giadoc, who has done most of this work.”

Appreciatively, Tivonel watches Giadoc plane forward, his beautiful field so alive with love of knowledge.

“That’s my friend,” she signs to Marockee.

“A male?” Marockee sparkles with amusement.

“Not what you think. Wait.”

“Briefly, Father Scomber,” signs Giadoc, “we have touched many life-forms without true intelligence. Most living worlds carry only lower animals and plants. Only on seven have we found intelligent beings, and on four of those I was able to merge long enough to understand something of their life. They are all unimaginably different from us. For example, those I touched lived in the depths of their worlds, and their worlds had no Wind.”

“No Wind!” Astonished flickers race across the Deepers’ mantles. “They live in the Abyss?”

“Yes.” Giadoc mind-field is radiant with the intensity of his interest. “And they live among and employ a huge variety of solid matter! They—” With visible effort he checks himself. “But, as to their individual lives, those we know are brutish and short. Their minds are chaotic, resembling animals. They seem unable to communicate normally. Yet despite all this, we came on two worlds whose beings have actually developed the power to transport themselves physically to another nearby world! We are holding contact with one now. But—” He checks himself again. “This cannot possibly help us.”

“I agree.” Scomber’s tone is deep and deliberate, his large field is dense as if with some unknown intent. Behind him several Fathers are holding themselves very rigidly. Even the Paradomin are silent and tense. Tivonel’s own field tingles with their transmitted tension. What is going on here? She finds herself suddenly afraid to guess, afraid for Giadoc.

“Tell us more, Giadoc,” signs Scomber. “When you merged with the intelligent beings, were you, yourself in control? Did others of the race attack you? How long could you remain there?”

“Enough!” Heagran flashes loudly. “Scomber, enough!”

“No, Heagran. It is my Father-right to know. Let Giadoc answer.”

“I condemn this.” Heagran enfurls himself in a gesture of solemn negation. Tivonel sees that all the Deepers’ fields are aroused and pulsing, some eddying near Scomber, some toward Heagran. She doesn’t want to let herself think of what this is leading to.

“Marockee, this is bad.” Her friend flickers assent.

“Well, young Giadoc, tell us what occurred,” Scomber signs firmly.

Slowly, abstractedly, Giadoc replies. “In my last two contacts I found myself in control of the body, the physical habits of the alien being. The nearby aliens did not seem to notice me. I was able to remain as long as the Hearers here held the Beam. You understand, Father Scomber, that by placing ourselves around the circle of the Wall and uniting our efforts, we have created a great amplification of our single efforts? We call this the Beam. It seems to be sensitive to life-energy on other worlds. Perhaps it draws on the Great Field of Tyree itself.”

As he signs, his field and mantle have expanded into a rich, strange play of energies, as if he was dreaming. Tivonel understands; he is so carried away by his love of far knowledge that he is only half-conscious of Scomber and the import of his words. At the mention of the mythical Great Field, several Fathers have darkened their mantles respectfully.

“The Great Field?” whispers Marockee. “Tivonel, is it real?”

“Ssh. I don’t know.” Tivonel is fixed on the menacing figure of Scomber, who has shown only perfunctory reverence.

“I asked you what occurred, not theory,” Scomber flashes. “On this alien world, did you remain yourself? Were you in full control of the body of the being?”

“Yes indeed, Father. It was… extraordinary,” Giadoc signs dreamily. “I could move, in one case I could speak. The mind uses the speech-habits of the body, you see. Of course I knew nothing of the individual’s thoughts or memories—”

“While you were so merged, where did the alien mind-field go? Was it still present around you?”

Giadoc hesitates, his mind-field abruptly changing structure. The dismayed flow of pattern on his mantle tells Tivonel that he has at last grasped Scomber’s thrust.

“It was not… present,” he replies slowly.

“Then where was it? Answer me, young Giadoc!”

“I am not sure, since my own life-mind was there.” Giadoc pauses, and then signs in the grey tones of reluctance, “I am told that another being’s life-field, or traces of it, appeared around my body here.”

“Aha!” Scomber’s mantle flares sharply. His exclamation is echoed by other fathers, and, to Tivonel’s surprise, on the smaller forms of the Paradomin.

“That’s it! We have it!” Scomber turns to the crowd behind him. “Here is our means of escape from the death of Tyree!”

Excitement such as Tivonel has never seen sweeps through the massed crowd. She herself can only think in numbed horror, life-crime. Life-crime.

“Silence!” Old Heagran blazes in commanding light. “This cannot be! Young Giadoc, you have gone too far in your unFatherly pursuit of knowledge. And you, Scomber—your thoughts are criminal! What you propose is vile. In the name of the Winds, are you mad? Are we to listen to a Father openly propose life-crime? Be silent or return to Deep!”

“No, Heagran. Hear me!” Scomber spreads his great mantle in formal, proud appeal, deliberately displaying the margin of his Father-pouch. “It is for our children, Heagran! We face the death of our world, our race, our young. The children! When our children are burning, must we not face the unthinkable if it will save them?”

Several Fathers behind him echo in deep tones, “Our children.” But old Janskelen suddenly speaks out.

“Father Scomber! What about the beings we would bring here to die in our place?”

“You have heard Giadoc,” Scomber answers scornfully. “These beings are little more than animals. Shall we cherish the lives of animals while condemning our own children to die, as you have heard these near worlds die?”

At that instant, as if in echo of Scomber’s words, a far faint transmission comes from the sky, striking them with the now-familiar wave of pain. Somewhere another world is dying. Tivonel and Marockee mind-fold each other, trembling. But this death-cry is faint, occluded by the horizon of Tyree. The pangs pass, leaving them shaken.

As she disengages from Marockee, Tivonel sees the huge forms of Scomber and Heagran still implacably confronting each other. The Deepers behind them have separated into two groups. The larger group is behind Scomber and among them Tivonel sees Avanil and her Paradomin. Low red flickers of unmistakable anger are muttering through the crowd.

Tivonel is aghast; she has seen fits of rage among the Lost Ones, but never anything like this: anger among the civilized Fathers of Tyree!

“Father Heagran! Father Scomber!” Lomax jets forward between them, his mantle brilliant in neutral white.

“Allow me to remind you that we are forgetting vital facts! Perhaps we may solve this problem without loss of ahum. Father Scomber’s Plan, though it is repugnant to me personally, is totally premature. We don’t yet know if it is possible.”

“What do you mean?” growls Scomber.

“Three problems,” signs Lomax determinedly. “First, only highly trained Hearers like Giadoc have so far attempted mind-touch. We don’t know if an untrained person, not to mention a child, could do it. Even if you wish to escape by such abhorrent means, can a child travel the Beam and merge with alien life? Second, it is possible that our alien minds would be detected and regarded as criminal. What good would it do to send our people away only to have them killed as life-stealers? And thirdly, most importantly, we do not know whether our minds can stay on an alien world without the support of the Beam. Will you be drawn back here when the Beam collapses, as it must? All these things must be tested before you can think of such a deed.”

“Then test! Let us test at once!” Scomber flares.

Old Heagran extends himself to his full majesty, the sag of his venerable body exposed. Despite their differences, even the Fathers behind Scomber dim their mantles; he appears so truly the Father of them all.

“I see that many of you are prepared to contemplate this crime,” he signs somberly. “But have you considered what Giadoc has told us, that these alien lives are brutish and short? Surely you do not expect to engender Tyrenni children from the flesh of alien bodies? Your children, if they live, will die without issue. Their children will be animals. Of what use to commit this dreadful deed, only to condemn them to die alone upon an alien, perhaps horrible, world?”

His words visibly affect the Fathers; some of those near Scomber draw away. But suddenly a small, bright form jets forward—Avanil, leader of the Paradomin. She hovers before the three huge males, a proud, pathetic figure with her grotesque double field.

“Fathers! Have we not all our lives learned that Fathering is all? That only a Father’s field can shape a fully formed person? Is this not why you claim our reverence and obedience? Now I ask, do you or do you not have this power? If you do, surely your Fathering can shape children into true Tyrenni, no matter how alien their form. Or are we to know that your Fathering is a mere pretext for status? Have we been made to believe a lie?”

Commotion, angry outbursts among the Deepers. Scomber, Heagran and Lomax are all flushed with wordless indignation. But before they can express their wrath, a young male behind Scomber pushes forward.

“The female has spoken enough,” he signs in tones sparkling with disdain. “But what she says is not pointless. Do we doubt our Fatherly powers? Even in strange bodies, among strange winds, I for one believe that our sons could rear children of their spirit, true Tyrenni! I believe that Tyree can live on!”

“Well spoken, Terenc!” To Tivonel’s dismay, it is Tiavan’s voice-lights. How bitter for Giadoc must be his son’s willingness to steal lives. Other young Fathers flash strongly in agreement above the shrill lights of the Paradomin.

“Test, then!” signs Scomber. “Lomax, your tests must begin.”

“I pray to the Great Wind you may fail.” Heagran’s tone is deep blue with spiritual pain, his field close-drawn. “I cannot fight against the Fathers of children. Lomax, proceed.”

“Why not test all three points at once?” asks Terenc. “Giadoc can carry another with him and discover whether or not they are detected and attacked. Then they can also test their ability to remain when you Hearers withdraw the Beam.”

“Impractical, Father.” Lomax replies. “We can indeed test the first two together, but if we withdraw the Beam and fail to reconnect again, we will lose the answers as well as our most experienced Beam traveler, Giadoc. If you will accept my warning, let us—”

Tivonel attends only distantly; she is still thinking of what Avanil, or Avan has said.

“Do you believe that, Marockee? Could a Father shape an alien mind into a Tyrenni?”

“I’ll tell you something even wilder,” Marockee murmurs. “Avan’s been thinking about this a long time. She and the others were at Near Pole asking if there are any worlds where the females raise the children. Can you imagine, where the females are Fathers? That’s what she wants to find, that’s why she wants to do this.”

“But, but how could that be?” Tivonel laughs. “Males are bigger and stronger, they’d obviously keep the babies. Just the way they would here if some female was crazy enough to try to steal one.”

“No, listen. She says that if you have a race where the females raise the young, they’d obviously be bigger and stronger, just like the males are here. We’d be like Fathers!”

“Whew!” Tivonel is attending absently, half her attention on Giadoc, who is waiting on the outer edges of the crowd around Scomber and Lomax. She notices that his field is pointedly structured away from the direction of Tiavan. How sad.

At this moment the life-bands resonate with a message signal, and a young female comes jetting through the Wall from the direction of the pods.

“Father!” she flashes. “A message-relay from Deep. All the Hearers have left Near Pole and are coming here. They say that another of the last worlds between us and the Destroyer has died and the Sound is getting very loud. Dead burned plants and animals are increasing in the layers near Deep. Many Fathers are carrying their young to the lower depths. Other people are making their way up here, without pods or guides, to get as far as possible from the Sound. We’re sending scouts down to help them.”

“The tests,” exclaims Scomber. “Lomax, begin. We have no time to waste.”

“The additional Hearers would help us,” Lomax objects. “Can we not await their coming?”

“No!” Scomber roars in crimson fury. “Are you trying to delay until death takes us all? You say your Beam is already in contact with a suitable world. Now get this young Giadoc up there with an untrained person to carry. Let him merge only long enough to find whether he is undetected and if we will be safe on that world!”

“Very well.” Lomax furls himself gravely before old Heagran, who has remained sternly dark, and turns to the Hearers. “Broxo, Rava, take your helpers out to the stations around the Wall and raise the Beam to strength. Giadoc, you will go up to your usual position, ready to enter the focus, when the Beam-signal comes.”

The Hearers jet off along the Wall. Tivonel watches Giadoc start for his station high above them, his field taking on strange, vivid configurations as he goes. Even the defection of his son has not damped his love of the far reaches.

“Now, who will mind-travel with him, Father Scomber?” Lomax demands. “Remember, the test is dangerous; the person must extend his life over unimaginable distances, and touch an alien mind. It is possible that he will suffer severe damage, even lose his life. Who will volunteer?”

“I shall, of course,” returns Scomber. “If this be a crime, let me be the first to suffer the consequences. My children are grown.”

“No, Scomber. With all respect to your courage, you are a Father of great field-strength and your success would prove nothing. We need a person of ordinary powers, to show that our children could escape in this way.”

Scomber flushes, but admits reluctantly, “True. Very well; who then will volunteer?”

Tivonel has been wistfully watching Giadoc. But now her attention is drawn by a stir among the Deepers. Avanil and two of her followers are pushing forward.

Without stopping to think, she bursts out through the plant lattice and brakes to a halt between Scomber and Lomax.

“I volunteer! I am Tivonel, a hunter of the Wild and an ordinary female. Take me!”

The two big males contemplate her for a moment in surprise.

“True, and suitable,” signs Lomax finally. “Very well, Tivonel, you shall go. May the Great Wind bear you. Go up, take your place beside Giadoc and prepare to follow his commands.”