jobs—and be very conscientious,” and went into the building behind the throne.
With his engineers he went over the drawings of the city. He pointed to the map of the Cave of Tombs, the cave where the honored dead of Eden lay at rest. It was higher than the rest of the complex. “Finish the shaft for the surface probe here.” He jabbed at the map . . . They nodded.
They trooped off to the work Stafford had assigned.
Stafford retired to his study, where he tried to watch a video tape. He soon drifted of to sleep, smiling. He was dreaming of firing the Factor Q canister up the shaft in the Hall of Tombs, forever ending the fractious demands of some Edenites to go up to the surface.
If the surface isn’t totally unlivable now, he smiled, it will soon be.
Twelve
R ockson and his companions had reached the approximate area of Yumak City. As a matter of fact, the sextant readings on the smeary sun low in the southwest indicated that they couldn’t be more than a mile from the city of five thousand. Where the hell was it? The coordinates that Rock had been given back in Century City were the coordinates the Yumak people themselves had given Rath. Was this some kind of sick joke? Bringing the Freefighters into the middle of nowhere?
There were some scraggly bushes around. Rockson saw nothing else. “Let’s take a break,” Rock said, down in the dumps. “Maybe when I have some tea I can find out what is going on here.”
They made a small fire with some twigs and McCaughlin brewed some tea in a bent metal pot. The dogs hunkered down to get some rest on the inch or so of snow. To them the just-above-freezing weather was a heat wave, and they liked to sleep through heat waves.
Rockson sat on a small boulder and sipped his mug of hot tea slowly. And then he heard Detroit exclaim, “Rockson, those bushes are—moving.”
As Rockson looked up, the bushes were thrown aside by laughing Indians of the Yumak tribe. The tallest of the bunch of camouflage experts walked toward Rockson, hand extended.
By their odd outfits, Rockson realized that these villagers must be related to the Crazy Alligator tribe he’d spent an uncomfortable visit with years ago. The Yumak were wearing moccasins—that’s how they’d sneaked up quietly. But that was about the only strictly Indian gear they wore.
The tall Indian, a hook-nosed man about seven one in height, shoot Rockson’s hand. “How,” he articulated, “are you?”
“Fine,” Rockson answered. “I’m glad to see you—I presume you’re Chief Smokestone?”
“Yes.”
The man was deep tan, bare-armed, ten or twelve red feathers in a headband. He wore a rawhide tasseled jacket, and a like pair of pants. All the material was covered with beadwork of blue and red, intricate scenes of fantastic birds and animals. He had a metal breastplate that seemed to be from a twentieth-century car. A hubcap that was shined to perfection. Its barely visible insignia said OLDSMOBILE . The man’s face was rugged, with deep-set dark eyes and high cheekbones. His muscled arms looked as full of sinewy strength as Rockson’s.
“Where did you put your city, Smokestone? Aren’t we near it?”
Smokestone laughed heartily. “You are less than a hundred meters from it. Come, you will see. But first may I introduce my son and nephew. Steelring and Wild Horse.”
The two braves approached and shook Rockson’s hand. They too had what appeared to be polished up ancient car hubcaps tied together as breast and shoulder plates. They had no feathers. Both looked around twenty, and strong. The two braves wore their hair in two pigtails. They had pants made of some sort of multicolored cloth that shimmered like the rainbow, and were bare chested. Wild Horse wore an armband that had a little naked plastic doll of the dime-store variety tied to it.
“You have some very interesting-looking sled dogs there,” Steelring said, pointing to the team that McCaughlin had driven to the spot.
“They’re
With his engineers he went over the drawings of the city. He pointed to the map of the Cave of Tombs, the cave where the honored dead of Eden lay at rest. It was higher than the rest of the complex. “Finish the shaft for the surface probe here.” He jabbed at the map . . . They nodded.
They trooped off to the work Stafford had assigned.
Stafford retired to his study, where he tried to watch a video tape. He soon drifted of to sleep, smiling. He was dreaming of firing the Factor Q canister up the shaft in the Hall of Tombs, forever ending the fractious demands of some Edenites to go up to the surface.
If the surface isn’t totally unlivable now, he smiled, it will soon be.
Twelve
R ockson and his companions had reached the approximate area of Yumak City. As a matter of fact, the sextant readings on the smeary sun low in the southwest indicated that they couldn’t be more than a mile from the city of five thousand. Where the hell was it? The coordinates that Rock had been given back in Century City were the coordinates the Yumak people themselves had given Rath. Was this some kind of sick joke? Bringing the Freefighters into the middle of nowhere?
There were some scraggly bushes around. Rockson saw nothing else. “Let’s take a break,” Rock said, down in the dumps. “Maybe when I have some tea I can find out what is going on here.”
They made a small fire with some twigs and McCaughlin brewed some tea in a bent metal pot. The dogs hunkered down to get some rest on the inch or so of snow. To them the just-above-freezing weather was a heat wave, and they liked to sleep through heat waves.
Rockson sat on a small boulder and sipped his mug of hot tea slowly. And then he heard Detroit exclaim, “Rockson, those bushes are—moving.”
As Rockson looked up, the bushes were thrown aside by laughing Indians of the Yumak tribe. The tallest of the bunch of camouflage experts walked toward Rockson, hand extended.
By their odd outfits, Rockson realized that these villagers must be related to the Crazy Alligator tribe he’d spent an uncomfortable visit with years ago. The Yumak were wearing moccasins—that’s how they’d sneaked up quietly. But that was about the only strictly Indian gear they wore.
The tall Indian, a hook-nosed man about seven one in height, shoot Rockson’s hand. “How,” he articulated, “are you?”
“Fine,” Rockson answered. “I’m glad to see you—I presume you’re Chief Smokestone?”
“Yes.”
The man was deep tan, bare-armed, ten or twelve red feathers in a headband. He wore a rawhide tasseled jacket, and a like pair of pants. All the material was covered with beadwork of blue and red, intricate scenes of fantastic birds and animals. He had a metal breastplate that seemed to be from a twentieth-century car. A hubcap that was shined to perfection. Its barely visible insignia said OLDSMOBILE . The man’s face was rugged, with deep-set dark eyes and high cheekbones. His muscled arms looked as full of sinewy strength as Rockson’s.
“Where did you put your city, Smokestone? Aren’t we near it?”
Smokestone laughed heartily. “You are less than a hundred meters from it. Come, you will see. But first may I introduce my son and nephew. Steelring and Wild Horse.”
The two braves approached and shook Rockson’s hand. They too had what appeared to be polished up ancient car hubcaps tied together as breast and shoulder plates. They had no feathers. Both looked around twenty, and strong. The two braves wore their hair in two pigtails. They had pants made of some sort of multicolored cloth that shimmered like the rainbow, and were bare chested. Wild Horse wore an armband that had a little naked plastic doll of the dime-store variety tied to it.
“You have some very interesting-looking sled dogs there,” Steelring said, pointing to the team that McCaughlin had driven to the spot.
“They’re
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