For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [90]
She kicked in the side of the one nearest her boots. “Footprints,” she said curtly.
“Hoof prints,” the man corrected her. His gaze went to the mist-shrouded woods that surrounded the camp. “I wish I knew more about this backwater world.”
“Don’t criticize yourself. We didn’t plan to spend so much time here. Besides, the urban center is pretty cosmopolitan.”
“Yeah, and civilization stops at its outskirts. The rest of the planet’s too primitive to rate a class. That’s what’s slowed us up from the beginning. Too many places to hide.”
Her gaze swept the ruins. “Doesn’t seem to have done them much good.”
“No,” he agreed. “I saw the bones on the way in, same as you did. I wonder if the poor monster died here, too?”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said uneasily. “You know how we’re supposed to refer to him. You don’t watch yourself, you’ll put that in an official communiqué sometime and find yourself up for a formal reprimand.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot,” he murmured. “The disadvantaged child. Pardon me, Rose, but this whole business has been a lousy job from the beginning. You’re right, though. I shouldn’t single him out. It’s not his fault. The contrary. He isn’t responsible for what the Meliorares did to him.”
“Right,” the woman said. “Well, he’ll soon he repaired.”
“If he got away,” her companion reminded her.
“Surely some of them did,” the woman said.
The man pointed toward several long walls of rubble that might once have been buildings. “Speak of the devil.”
A figure was headed toward them. It took longer than was necessary because it did not travel in a straight line. It attempted to, but every so often would stagger off to its right like a wheel with its bearings out. The man’s clothes were filthy, his boots caked with mud. They had not been changed in several days. He waved weakly at the newcomers. Save for the limp with which he walked, he seemed intact. His stringy hair was soaked and plastered like wire to his face and head. He made no effort to brush it from his eyes.
He seemed indifferent to the identity of the new arrivals. His concerns were more prosaic. “Have you any food?”
“What happened here?” the woman asked him as soon as he had limped to within earshot.
“Have you any food? God knows there’s plenty of water. That’s all this miserable place has to offer is plenty of water. All you want even when you don’t want it. I’ve been living on nuts and berries and what I’ve been able to salvage from the camp kitchen. Had to fight the scavengers for everything. Miserable, stinking hole.”
“What happened here?” the woman repeated calmly. The man appeared to be in his late twenties. Too young, she knew, for him to be a member of the Meliorare’s inner circle. Just an unlucky employee.
“Caster,” he mumbled. “Name’s Caster. Excuse me a minute.” He slid down his crude, handmade crutch until he was sprawled on the damp earth. “Broke my ankle, I think. It hasn’t healed too well. I need to have it set right.” He winced, then looked up at them.
“Damned if I know. What happened here, I mean. One minute I was replacing communications modules, and the next all hell opened up. You should’ve seen ’em. Goddamn big as the tower, every one of ’em. Seemed like it, anyhow. Worst thing was those dish-size bloody eyes with tiny little black specks lookin’ down at you like a machine. Not decent, them eyes. I don’t know what brought ’em down on us like they came, but it sure as hell wasn’t a kind providence.”
“Are you the only survivor?” the man asked.
“I haven’t seen anyone else, if that’s what you mean.” His voice turned pleading. “Hey, have you got any food?”
“We can feed you,” the woman said with a smile. “Listen, who were you working for here?”
“Bunch of scientists. Uppity bunch. Never talked to us ordinary folk.” He forced a weak laugh. “Paid well, though. Keep your mouth shut and do your job and see the countryside. Just never expected