Pietro thought he knew. Even sixty years ago, despite the centuries-old tradition of large families, the Plateau had been mostly uninhabited. Breeding must have seemed a duty to Haneth Castro, as it had to all his ancestors. Besides, how must the old man have felt, knowing that at last he could no longer sire children?
An older Jesus Pietro thought he knew.
His thoughts were wandering far, blurred with impending sleep. Jesus Pietro turned on his side, drowsily comfortable.
Rabbit?
Why not? From the woods.
Jesus Pietro turned on his other side.
What was a rabbit doing in the trapped woods?
What was anything bigger than a field mouse doing in the woods?
What was a rabbit doing on Alpha Plateau? What would it eat?
Jesus Pietro cursed and reached for the phone. To Master Sergeant Watts he said, "Take an order. Tomorrow I want the woods searched thoroughly and then deloused. If they find anything as big as a rat, I want to know about it."
"Yes, sir."
"That alarm tonight. What sector?"
"Let me see. Where the — ah. Sector six, sir."
"Six? That's nowhere near the woods."
"No, sir."
And that was that. "Good night, Master Sergeant," said Jesus Pietro, and hung up. Tomorrow they'd search the woods. Implementation was becoming decidedly slack, Jesus Pietro decided. He'd have to do something about it.
The wall slanted outward, twelve feet of concrete crosslaced with barbed wire. The gate slanted too, at the same angle, perhaps twelve degrees from vertical. Solid cast-iron it was, built to slide into the concrete wall, which was twelve feet thick. The gate was closed. Lights from inside lit the upper edges of wall and gate, and tinged the sky above.
Matt stood under the wall, looking up. He couldn't climb over. If they saw him, they'd open the gate for him ... but they mustn't see him.
They hadn't yet. The train of logic had worked. If something that glows in the dark stops glowing when it's been in the dark too long, hang it near a light. If a car goes up when it's rightside up, it'll go down fast when it's upside down. If the cops see you when you're hiding, but don't when you're not, they'll ignore you completely when you walk up the middle of a lighted road.
But logic ended here.
Whatever had helped him wasn't helping him now.
Matt turned his back on the wall. He stood beneath the overhanging iron gate, his eyes following the straight line of the road to where its lights ended. Most of the houses were dark now. The land was black all the way to the starry horizon. On his right the stars were blurred along that line, and Matt knew he was seeing the top of the void mist.
The impulse that came then was one he never managed to explain, even to himself.
He cleared his throat. "Something is helping me," he said in an almost normal voice. "I know that. I need help to get through this gate. I have to get into the Hospital."
Noises came from inside the wall, the faintest of sounds: regular footsteps, distant voices. They were the business of the Hospital and had nothing to do with Matt.
Outside the wall nothing changed.
"Get me in there," he pleaded, to himself or to something outside himself. He didn't know which. He knew nothing.
On the Plateau there was no religion.
But suddenly Matt knew that there was just one way to get inside. He stepped off the access road and began hunting. Presently he found a discarded chunk of concrete, dirty and uneven. He carried it back and began pounding it against the iron gate.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
A head appeared on the wall.
" Stop that, you half-witted excuse for a colonist bastard!"
"Let me in."
The head remained. "You are a colonist."
"Right."
"Don't move! Don't you move a muscle!" The man fumbled with something on the other side of the wall. Both hands appeared, one holding a gun, the other a telephone receiver. "Hello? Hello? Answer the phone, dammit! ... Watts? Hobart. A fool of a colonist just came walking up to the gate and started pounding on it. Yes, a real
An older Jesus Pietro thought he knew.
His thoughts were wandering far, blurred with impending sleep. Jesus Pietro turned on his side, drowsily comfortable.
Rabbit?
Why not? From the woods.
Jesus Pietro turned on his other side.
What was a rabbit doing in the trapped woods?
What was anything bigger than a field mouse doing in the woods?
What was a rabbit doing on Alpha Plateau? What would it eat?
Jesus Pietro cursed and reached for the phone. To Master Sergeant Watts he said, "Take an order. Tomorrow I want the woods searched thoroughly and then deloused. If they find anything as big as a rat, I want to know about it."
"Yes, sir."
"That alarm tonight. What sector?"
"Let me see. Where the — ah. Sector six, sir."
"Six? That's nowhere near the woods."
"No, sir."
And that was that. "Good night, Master Sergeant," said Jesus Pietro, and hung up. Tomorrow they'd search the woods. Implementation was becoming decidedly slack, Jesus Pietro decided. He'd have to do something about it.
The wall slanted outward, twelve feet of concrete crosslaced with barbed wire. The gate slanted too, at the same angle, perhaps twelve degrees from vertical. Solid cast-iron it was, built to slide into the concrete wall, which was twelve feet thick. The gate was closed. Lights from inside lit the upper edges of wall and gate, and tinged the sky above.
Matt stood under the wall, looking up. He couldn't climb over. If they saw him, they'd open the gate for him ... but they mustn't see him.
They hadn't yet. The train of logic had worked. If something that glows in the dark stops glowing when it's been in the dark too long, hang it near a light. If a car goes up when it's rightside up, it'll go down fast when it's upside down. If the cops see you when you're hiding, but don't when you're not, they'll ignore you completely when you walk up the middle of a lighted road.
But logic ended here.
Whatever had helped him wasn't helping him now.
Matt turned his back on the wall. He stood beneath the overhanging iron gate, his eyes following the straight line of the road to where its lights ended. Most of the houses were dark now. The land was black all the way to the starry horizon. On his right the stars were blurred along that line, and Matt knew he was seeing the top of the void mist.
The impulse that came then was one he never managed to explain, even to himself.
He cleared his throat. "Something is helping me," he said in an almost normal voice. "I know that. I need help to get through this gate. I have to get into the Hospital."
Noises came from inside the wall, the faintest of sounds: regular footsteps, distant voices. They were the business of the Hospital and had nothing to do with Matt.
Outside the wall nothing changed.
"Get me in there," he pleaded, to himself or to something outside himself. He didn't know which. He knew nothing.
On the Plateau there was no religion.
But suddenly Matt knew that there was just one way to get inside. He stepped off the access road and began hunting. Presently he found a discarded chunk of concrete, dirty and uneven. He carried it back and began pounding it against the iron gate.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
A head appeared on the wall.
" Stop that, you half-witted excuse for a colonist bastard!"
"Let me in."
The head remained. "You are a colonist."
"Right."
"Don't move! Don't you move a muscle!" The man fumbled with something on the other side of the wall. Both hands appeared, one holding a gun, the other a telephone receiver. "Hello? Hello? Answer the phone, dammit! ... Watts? Hobart. A fool of a colonist just came walking up to the gate and started pounding on it. Yes, a real
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