The Children of the Sky

“No. That used to happen, but nowadays we keep them in the visitor area. Heh. I’ve fobbed them off with junk like unconnected landline telephones.… Anyway, I had to go out and chat with their ‘Ambassador.’” Scrupilo jostled together. “I’ll bet that’s it! I was out of the room for almost fifteen minutes. I wish we didn’t have to be nice to that guy. Do we really need gallite that much? Never mind, I know the answer.

“Anyway, today they were louder and more numerous than usual, the whole gang painted up like the loose things they are.” Some of Scrupilo was already edging toward the door, outpacing the conscious stream of his surmise. “The scum. While they distracted my people, one of them must have swiped the cloaks!

“Damn! C’mon, milady!” And the rest of him was out the door, White Head bringing up the rear. The pack clattered down the outside stairs, shouting chords of alarm in all directions.

Ravna would have had a hard time keeping up with some packs, but White Head had arthritis, and Scrupilo was not running completely amok. The pack wouldn’t leave him behind.

Scrupilo was also shouting in Samnorsk, “Stop the Tropicals! Stop the Tropicals!” The guards at the top of the exit stairs had already lowered the gates.

As Ravna and Scrupilo ran across the quarry terrace, Scrupilo muttered a constant stream of Samnorsk. The profanity was a bizarre combination of translations of pack cursing and Samnorsk naughty words: “Get of bitches! I should have realized it was the fuckall Tropicals. I was just too damned pissed about the cameras. I thought you and Woodcarver were dumping on me again.”

Shouts came from ahead: “We got them!” The packs and humans in the quarry were not armed, but they had formed a barrier around … somebody.

Scrupilo wriggled through the crowd of mindsounds, Ravna close behind. Ambassador Godsgift and its gang were still in the quarry. They had been inspecting the most spectacular part of the laboratory, where much of the dull planning and experimentation finally led to miracles.

There was an open space between the crowd and the suspected thieves. Godsgift and his people were backed up against Scrupilo’s flying machine, the Eyes Above. This was not an antigravity craft, but something weirder, at least to Ravna’s mind: a propeller and basket hung from a pointy balloon.

Scrupilo spent a moment pacing back and forth in front of the crowd, gobbling in Tinish. Ravna couldn’t really understand, not without Oobii analysis. He seemed to be asking everybody to cut the high-sound screaming. In cold dry air—say, like here, today—such sounds could carry a number of meters, and if every pack went into a tizzy at the same time, things could get very confusing for them.

Ravna took a few steps in the direction of the Tropicals, then thought better of it. These Tines looked frightened and edgy, eyes wide. They stood close among themselves, pressed hard back against the airboat’s crew basket. The self-styled “Ambassador” was the only clearly-defined group, but there was sharp steel visible on more than one forepaw. These fellows might be loosely minded but they had been in the North long enough to pick up many Northern habits.

Scrupilo shouted in Samnorsk and Tinish. The Samnorsk was: “Anybody see what these scum were up to?” Part of him was looking at the airboat, and it suddenly occurred to Ravna that the Tropicals might actually have been moments from flying away!

A human fifteen-year-old, Del Ronsndot, stepped forward. “I—I was just showing them around the Eyes Above. I thought they were allowed.”

“It’s okay, Del,” said Ravna. Such tours were standard policy.

“Did they ask to see the airboat?” said Scrupilo.

“Oh, yes, sir. All the visitors like to see it. Once we get some practice, maybe we could even give them rides.” His eyes slid across to the Tropicals, and he seemed to realize that perhaps such generosity would be postponed.

“Did they ask to let any of their packs aboard?”

There was a loud chord or two from the Tropical side of the confrontation, and then a human voice: “Ah, Master Scrupilo, if you suspect evildoing you should talk to me directly.” The ambassador stepped forward. It had taken the name “Godsgift,” and today it was huge. Some of it dated from the founding of the Embassy, and it was often fluent. Just as often, it behaved more like a club for singletons who liked to swagger and pose. It wore mismatched jackets, some quite elegant. It was hard not to smile at the buffoon. Right now … well, there was something deadly in its gaze. Think back, Ravna. Remember the butterflies in jackboots? She’d seen enough aliens to know how misleading physical appearance could be.