Promised Land by Brian Stableford Page A

Titus Charlot at the port. If any. It also occurred to me to wonder whether Charlot and Johnny were being cut in to the local superabundance of real food, or whether they were forced to eat out of ship’s supplies. I would still have been happy to swap places with either one of them.

CHAPTER NINE
    The next day was a carbon copy of the first except that we were all very stiff. We’d walked for over eight hours on the first day (real hours, not local) with only a couple of short breaks for rest and food to tide us over to supper. None of us was fit enough not to feel that kind of exertion. The wind undoubtedly helped to take a lot of the bite out of my stiffness, but I was still aware of my limbs and their protests. I could well imagine that the others—especially Eve—were really feeling themselves. Eve wouldn’t complain, of course, and Max wouldn’t even admit it. But Linda, though she was probably fittest of the three, wasn’t ashamed to confess discomfort.
    We’d all been spending too much time in trains and hovercrafts. Not to mention cars, beds and spaceships.
    The Anacaona, however, were stepping just as sprightly as they had the previous day, and they seemed to be easily capable of coping with what was asked of them. But their limbs were naturally a good deal more flexible anyhow. They were probably equipped with far better natural shock and strain absorbers. The joys of a nomadic heritage.
    Danel still led the way, plugging on with such a fierce and determined tread that those of us with shorter legs—all of us—were forced to call him back occasionally or ask him to pause while we caught up. We could hardly break into a canter while we were wading through sticky vegetation all the time.
    I suspected that Danel was deliberately exploiting his own toughness to make us aware of our relative inadequacies. Showing off, in short.
    Danel was a strange person. As he was an alien, it stood to reason that I was going to find him strange, but he was an apparent oddity even when compared to his companions. There seemed to be something significant in his total withdrawal from us. The fact that he didn’t speak English wasn’t quite adequate to explain his lack of attempt to communicate. He never spoke to Linda, though she had a working knowledge of his tongue. Nor did he pass on remarks via Micheal or Mercede. His answers to relayed questions were always sharp and strictly to the point. He just didn’t want to know about us. And yet he was our guide—his brother and sister were just along for the ride. His attitude seemed to me to be one of dumb hostility—passive protest. But Linda evidently took it for granted that he was guiding us conscientiously and competently. I decided eventually that he was trying to make evident some kind of contempt for humanity, in his own chosen fashion.
    I didn’t like to talk about the Anacaona to Linda while they were in earshot, and I’d missed my opportunity to get comprehensive information about them while we were en route from the capital. The best immediately available source of information was obviously Micheal, so I dropped back in line to join him, letting Eve and Mercede bunch up in front of me while Linda walked with Max some distance behind the big-striding Danel.
    Micheal carried a larger pack than either Mercede or Danel. He seemed to be having no difficulty with it, but the distribution of labour seemed odd to me.
    â€˜You’ve got a lot of weight there to be carrying all day,’ I said, to open conversation.
    â€˜It’s no trouble,’ he said.
    â€˜Is this how you usually travel?’ I asked him. ‘When you come out here hunting, with Danel?’
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘Danel likes to be able to move very quickly.’
    â€˜The spiders are that dangerous, then?’ I probed.
    â€˜Not really,’ he said. ‘But we seek them out rather than avoiding