greenery
a tale of the actinium era
from Uranian Gleams
by Robert gibsoN

1: The Welcome


Over the cork-textured plain, the crawler Uxtal was advancing at five miles per hour, with its hold full of cargo and its nomadic family crew.

The great vehicle inevitably wobbled as the fortified superstructure, ten yards above the ground, swayed in the winds which blow eternally across the expanses of the giant planet Ooranye.

The three figures standing on the top deck kept their balance with unconscious skill though the powerful gusts changed direction with frequent violence.  Father and son had been born on the plains, and the third figure, the new daughter-in-law, was likewise an experienced wayfarer. In their own eyes the Monray family were a component of the landscape.

Miokk Monray was in the prime of life, about 12,300 Uranian days old, while his son Gyan and Gyan’s wife Hevad were half his age. The black-bearded Miokk had the greyer skin, the more confident jaw, the slower, more decisive speech; Gyan, clean-shaven, had more the look of a poet or philosopher, combined with spurts of excited speech whenever his pent-up ideas gushed forth. He had the kind of courage which his father would never need: that of the lone revolutionary, perhaps the martyr.

Heedless of this ideological time-bomb Miokk overflowed with pride as he contemplated how well the youngsters had followed in his footsteps; or say, in Hevad’s case, the footsteps of tradition, which requires all young Uranians, whatever their station in life, to become adept at wilderness survival. At first he had feared that the girl might not fit into her new family’s mode of life.  She came from Linnt, and the big cities bred some stay-at-home types. Nevertheless he had trusted that every Uranian, even the most urban, must sometime in nen’s life feel duty-bound to become a Wayfarer, risking nen’s life to feed data into the statistical maws of the cartographers of Syoom. In the case of Hevad, his trust had turned out well-founded.

Out of the corner of his eye Miokk assessed her for the twentieth time. The family could feel safely proud at the addition of a regal beauty with pale gold hair and gentle manner, a little reserved yet friendly to all; calm, capable, without the creative demons of discontent and personal ambition. Miokk repressed a sigh, which sprang from no particular cause, a vague reaction to life’s inherent melancholy, because the world was so large and people so small… He brought back his attention to what he was saying to his son:

“Just as well you didn’t seek my opinion prior to that exploit, Gyan. I would have told you that you’d never do it. Yet here you are. Seems we have a navigational genius in the family.”

The younger man, delighted at having won such praise from his father, could not repress a grin, though he managed a modest reply, “I had to justify the time I’d spent studying the subject.”

“Well, you’re undeniably pleased with yourself – with reason, I admit.”

The facts were creditable. Gyan and Hevad had set out during refelc, the starry morning twilight. After skimming for over two thousand miles, they had sighted Uxtal almost on the stroke of ayshine, that is, when the air, at its brightest, conveniently revealed the Crawler from many miles away. Indeed, a remarkable feat of navigation and timing. All that Gyan had had to help him fix the position and direction of Uxtal was information ten days old, relayed from a passing merchant convoy. (The Crawler emitted no homing signal, lest it attract foe as well as friend. For similar reasons, ordinary radio was used sparingly out on the plains.)

In other words without any up-to-date communications link Gyan had achieved rendezvous with a moving target after a ten-hour journey by skimmer. Impressed by this, Miokk felt encouraged to involve his son more closely in the family business henceforth.

So he began to discuss the current state of his affairs, confident that this was a strategic move in life’s endless contest of gain versus loss. He summarised the items of cargo currently in Uxtal’s hold (dried meats, seeds and nuts, some rare weeds and some Tungsten Era glass books), and listed the towns and cities to which they were destined.

Finally he got round to a more immediate topic:

“I’m particularly glad to have you back on board, Gyan, not only because of the splendid recruit you have brought us” (with a bow to Hevad), “but also due to that,” and he jerked his head at the forward-left horizon.

A thin line stretched across that hazy limit. It was, they knew, a structure, towards which Uxtal was crawling; an embankment without visible end, receding in both directions till it vanished into apparent infinity.

Without any doubt it had to be part of the ancient monoline network of Syoom. “Must be the Vlamanor-Yoon,” remarked Hevad. No one disagreed.
Seemingly immune to the ravages of time, the mighty Zinc Era network had left Syoom criss-crossed with embankments on which the empty rails still ran. Every few thousand miles, wayfarers were bound to cross one of these artificial ridges. On well-frequented routes this did not matter at all; however, grim experience had taught that any stretch of embankment which had not been visited for a thousand days or so must be approached gingerly. Preferably the approacher, be it a dray-master, raft-pilot or Crawler captain, should send scouts ahead to peer cautiously over the rim, before any attempt to get over with the main vehicle. And the more lasers on one’s side the better.

“Yes,” decided Miokk, “it must be the Vlamanor-Yoon. But I see no ramp.” No ramp, therefore no crossing. There was no way in which Uxtal could scale a sixty-degree slope. Again he took a telescope from his cloak-pouch. “Still don’t see it… We’ll scout this evening. After supper we can choose whether to go left or right.”

Hevad then performed an inexplicable, astonishing act. With the index finger of her right hand she pointed straight up into the air and said, “Maybe his girlfriend,” and she tossed her head at Gyan, “will tell us which way to go.”

Miokk blinked. Had he heard right? Bafflement snuffed any immediate response; he postponed the question.

Dinner that evening was held in Uxtal’s “stateroom”, a grandiloquent term for the family’s little haven of luxury, six yards by eight, lined with wood and metal banding, and lit by spherical corner lamps. It was a snug cave of comfort within a structure forever on the move. The shutters had been thrown back from the windows. The vehicle’s side-mirrors, moreover, had been extended so that the view ahead, including the approaching embankment, remained constantly visible to the diners.

Miokk Monray did not seriously consider any option other than to accept the challenge of the crossing. Uranian culture and etiquette demanded the meeting of challenges; the good of Syoom, the very definition of civilization required that those on the spot should venture forward. You had to dare to become a statistic, just one more in the eternal compilation of losses and gains, of deaths and survivals, without which the cartographers of Syoom could not do their work. The experience of hundreds of millions of days had shown that no other outlook was viable in the perpetual haze of distance and mystery on the enormous world, home not only to Man but to rival intelligences equally formidable. In this open-ended environment none but the mindless, statistical approach – percentages of safe arrivals, draughted onto maps as safety contours – might give quantity and shape to the unknowable, allowing humanity a chance.

Miokk knew enough history to realize that, from time to time, a different way had been tried. This other way was the attempt to understand the world. Useless foolishness. Failure was almost certain, and success, even if attained, was too dearly bought. A man who understood Ooranye was made vulnerable by his understanding. As the old saying went: if you get wise to the world, the world will get wise to you.

So, untroubled by the danger they must face at close of day, the Monray family chatted happily over their bowls. Zamena, the wife and mother, presided while the two younger children, Plenndwa and Traru, who had helped set out the banquet with artistic care, now sat listening to their elders’ plans. The children had decided to adore Hevad; they were delighted with her willingness to share their nomadic life – she was a treat which enlarged their universe.

“Of course,” Miokk had said to the newlyweds, “you will wish to purchase your own vehicle as soon as you can, but meanwhile there’s room for you on Uxtal.”

“Certainly,” Gyan had replied, “we’ll be happy to stay on Uxtal until we get rich or until Hevad yearns for city life again –”

She demanded, “What makes you think I might do that?”

“It’s in your blood. And maybe a bit of it in my head, too, by now. I’ve talked to Father this way before. He’s heard me say, often enough, that some day I shall take service under Ierax’s Noad. Or maybe, Linnt’s Noad.”

“Or how about,” ventured Miokk Monray, “the Noad of Noads?”

It was said almost slyly. Gyan studied his father’s face to gauge the seriousness of this remark.

“Yes, in fact I did go to Skyyon some few hundred days ago. To tell the truth, I felt so small there –” He chuckled, deprecatingly.

The older man remarked to Hevad, “Your husband is not usually as humble as this. I hope he is not in need of medical attention.”

“Don’t worry,” said the girl, “I am sure he’s simply waiting for the chance to make the Skyyonians sit up and listen.”

The silent Zamena, who doubted the wisdom of the way Miokk teased their boy, was relieved at the general laugh which followed. One day (she feared) Gyan might really shoot off in some drastic manner to measure himself against the world.  Unless – and this was a hope – Hevad’s common sense could curb his restlessness. Thank goodness the girl seemed pleased with her new home.

Hevad was saying, “I like this slow, comfortable crawl… changes of scene but not too fast!  All the advantages of adventure plus those of a solid home. Five miles per hour is just right for me. And the engine’s so powerful, you could add rooms aplenty to the vehicle and it would still go… in fact you could attach more engines until you ended up with a moving city…”

“Don’t talk about living in cities – even moving ones – to Father,” advised Gyan.

“No, let her speculate,” Miokk intervened. “She’s the cement we need.”

“Cement!” marvelled Gyan. “Pile on the flattery!”

“The myxe has flowed too freely,” reproved Zamena. Actually, though, the bottle was still three-quarters full. They were being careful. All of them remembered the crossing which loomed mere hours ahead…

“‘Cement’ is maybe a lucky nickname,” Hevad reassured them, “since we are about to attack a wall.”

Nobody responded. Hevad looked around. “Do I hear silence?”

Miokk Monray said quietly, “Don’t worry. We approve your attitude. We were simply uncertain as to how much you understood.”

“City-dwellers know how to share risks, quite as well as you do, I can promise that.”

“Good.” Miokk slapped the table and formally ended the meal with a welcoming speech for the new family member. Then he remembered he had meant to ask her the meaning of her cryptic allusion to Gyan’s up-in-the-sky “girl-friend”. When he could, he would put the question privately.

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