The Children of the Sky

Chitiratifor did not seem encouraged by this show of local cooperation. “Now we’re trapped, are we? They could just pull us down.”

“Yup, but they don’t try that so much anymore. When they do, we just drop the rope and fly away home.”

“Oh. Of course.” Chitiratifor said nothing for a moment, but his mindsound was intense. “Well then, let’s proceed. We have a failure to observe, and I want some details for my devastating report to our employers.”

“As you say.” Remasritlfeer was at least as anxious as anyone to dump Tycoon’s Tropical fiasco, but he didn’t feel like agreeing with the likes of this rag-eared thug. “One moment while I prepare the trade.” Remasritlfeer ducked down to the bottom of the gondola, opened the drop door. Their cargo was in a bannerwood kettle hung just below. It didn’t look like any water had slopped over during the balloon’s ascent.

“Are you guys ready?” Remasritlfeer focused his words into the kettle.

“Yessir!” “Righto.” “Let’s go!” … The words coming back were all piled up, the response of dozens—perhaps all—of the creatures in the kettle.

Remasritlfeer ladled a dozen of the wriggling cuttlefish into a trade basket. Their huge eyes looked up at him. Their dozens of tentacles waved at him. In all the jabbering, he did not hear a particle of fear. He stuck a snout down to just above the rippling surface of the basket. The cuttlefish were very crowded in the small space, but that was the least of the problems they would soon face. “Okay, guys. You know the plan.” He ignored the tiny cries of enthusiastic agreement. “You talk to the folk below—”

“Y-ye-yes, yes, y-yes! We ask them for safe landing for you. More trade. Harbor rights. Yes, yes! Yes!” The chords piled up in a tinkling mass, the speech of a dozen little creatures, each with voracious memories, each smarter than any singleton—but so scatterbrained that Remasritlfeer could not decide how smart they really were.

“Okay then!” Remasritlfeer gave up on his attempt at guidance. “Good luck!” He latched the trade basket’s rope to the mooring line and paid out the cord.

“B-b-b-bye, g’bye!” The tinkling of chords came from both the basket and from the crowd in the bannerwood kettle, comrades calling to one another. Way beyond the tiny basket, the muddy space below was still empty of all but a few Tines. That was normally a good sign.

Chitiratifor’s voice came from above: “So why not send down the whole kettle of fish?”

“Tycoon wants to see how this goes, then maybe send down a few more with different instructions.”

Chitiratifor was silent for a moment, perhaps watching the trade basket as it swayed down and down along the mooring line. “Your boss is freaking insane. You know that, don’t you?”

Remasritlfeer made no reply, and Chitiratifor continued, “See, Tycoon is a self-made patchwork. Half of him is a skinflint accountant. But the other half is four mad puppies the accountant picked just for their crazy imaginations. That might be a good idea, if the miser was the dominant half. But this miser is driven by the lunatic four. So do you know the reason he’s mucking around here?”

Remasritlfeer couldn’t resist showing that he understood something of the matter. “Because he counted the snouts?”

“What?—Yes! The accountant in him estimated the number of Tines in the Tropics.”

“It could be more than one hundred million.”

“Right. Then his lunatic four realized that dwarfed any other market in the world!”

“Well,” said Remasritlfeer, “Tycoon is always on the lookout for new markets, the larger the better.” In fact, new markets were Tycoon’s greatest obsession, the driver of almost everything he did.

Two of Remasritlfeer continued to watch the descent of the cuttlefish. Their multiple monologues were still clearly audible. The basket would touch down in just a couple of minutes.

Angry talk continued to come from the passenger platform: “Tycoon has lots of stupid ideas, including the notion of getting power by selling things. But this time … so what if the Tropics has—what crazy number did you say? The point is, those millions are animals, a mob. Unless we could kill them all and exploit the land, the Tropics are worthless. I’m telling you, in confidence of course, my boss is getting tired of this tropical adventure. It’s bleeding from our essential strengths, the technological advances that Vendacious is providing, the factory base at East Home. This foolishness has to stop, now!”

“Hmm, I hope your boss has not been this emphatic with my boss. Tycoon doesn’t react … favorably … to being ordered around.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Vendacious is much more the diplomat than I am. I’m just an honest worker, much like yourself, um, sharing my doubts and irritations about our betters.” Remasritlfeer himself was far from being a diplomat, but he could tell when someone was feeling him out. He almost blasted back, telling the six assholes above him where he could stuff Vendacious and his treacherous plans. No. Be cool.