SIX

All of the Swedes were physically large when they chose to inhabit flesh bodies, but Art Kan was bigger than most. He did nothing to moderate the effects of his size when striding about the ship. He took no pains to duck under doors or to avoid bumping into walls at the places where the narrow corridors converged. As a result his physical body was constantly bruised and scraped, giving it a primitive, rough-hewn look that Kan used to full advantage to motivate those under his command.

"I am not a scientist," he had said upon beginning the latest trip to the small planet. "We sent a scientist before and it did not work. Our job is to get there, get what we need, then get out, and we will do that with a minimum of difficulty."

The six Swede soldiers who were going on the trip had hissed in agreement, and Earth Reclamation Unit 17 had done so, too, although he was not sure it was required of him. Now he closed his eyes and listened; he could pick up a dull thudding sound, heading his way. He was the only one in this part of the ship, so that meant Art Kan was coming to see him. He opened his eyes and almost unconsciously checked his appearance in the reflection from the monitor. He was more stooped than he would have liked, but he was not sure how Kan would view him. Kan had largely ignored him thus far, but he knew he had been brought along for a purpose and now it seemed he would be put to use.

The thudding grew louder and came to be revealed as stomping. The stomping came right up to the door to the research room, and then the mountainous figure of Art Kan appeared. He gave his forehead a good whack on the metal frame at the top of the door, which then moved to accommodate him. Kan stomped his way into the room, not ducking one inch. Kan could have had the doorways and other entrances of the ship adjusted to fit his unusually large size before the mission began, but he had obviously not done so and genuinely did not seem to mind having to repeatedly knock his head into the metal to get it to move. Earth Reclamation Unit 17 noticed the gash the frame left on Kan’s forehead. It was not the only one there—Kan’s forehead looked like someone had used it to practice surgery—but it was the reddest one, for the time being. The red contrasted nicely with his golden hair which, unlike the hair of the crew, was cut short and stuck straight up from his enormous head.

Kan did not waste time on any fripperies or niceties. He did not ask Earth Reclamation Unit 17 what he was doing.

"Our prior understanding of this area led us to believe it was sparsely populated," Kan said. "It does not seem to be sparsely populated now. A good number of residents of this planet have appeared here in recent days. Some sort of event seems to be transpiring, and the number of people here will make continuing our work difficult. I am under orders to attract as little notice as possible."

He paused for breath, sucking in air in great gulps. Kan’s physical body was not only bigger than that of most Swedes, it required more of everything: food, water, air and space under doors.

"You have been prepared to go out and mix with the people," Kan said, not in the form of a question, and Earth Reclamation Unit 17 nodded. "I do not suppose you can use the name Earth Reclamation Unit 17 and expect to mix."

"It is true," Unit 17 said. Most Swedes gave off subtle vibrations that relaxed him, made him feel peaceful and at ease. Kan most certainly did the opposite. His body, right now, was giving off only sweat. "I have decided to use the name Eric. It is a condensation of my longer English name. I will be able to remember it."

Kan eyed Eric suspiciously.

"Are you certain that you have been properly prepared for this?"

Eric nodded.

"I believe my training has been adequate."

"Current president of the United States?" Kan asked quickly.

"Theodore Roosevelt," Eric answered.

Kan seemed satisfied. The rocky planes of his face contorted into something resembling a human smile.

"Good. Mr. Eric, go out there and find out what’s going on, and whether these people are going to be around while we’re trying to get our bones."

Kan stomped away without another word. Eric had been doing research on the soil characteristics around the current dig site. The work would make it easier to find the bones they knew were under the surface, but now that would have to wait. Eric touched his monitor and it disappeared into a cabinet in the wall, which closed until only a faint seam was visible.

Eric walked through the doorway and down the hall to the equipment room. The door frame did not need to perform any acrobatics to let him through; he was a good foot shorter than any of the Swedes on board. He walked into the room, which at first glance didn’t seem to contain any equipment at all. It was four walls, a floor and a ceiling, and now Eric.

"My clothing," he said, and a nearly invisible panel opened, producing a rough set of trousers, baggy underwear, a nicely pressed shirt and a straw hat with a floppy brim. Eric ran his fingers over the trousers. The fabric felt so abrasive he wasn’t sure he could stand to wear them, but then he couldn’t very well go out in his current outfit. He was wearing one of the simpler ship ensembles, a silver uniform that was very light yet not only resisted dirt and wrinkles but was impervious to any sort of penetration and had a built-in heater. Kan and the others wore more complicated gear. The Swedes did not particularly enjoy being in physical form, so their silver suits were designed to make the experience as enjoyable as possible. The spartan suit exteriors hid a series of tiny motors that constantly massaged their skin, so many of the Swedes’ moves were accompanied by a faint whine. Kan kept his motors whirring almost all the time, and the way he knocked himself around gave his suit plenty to do.

Eric had worn these clothes before, or at least the model he was based on had worn them. His fingers traced their crude outline but he had to admit they still meant nothing to him. He could remember how to put them on without difficulty, and knew that they had no built-in heaters or other advanced technology. He knew how to walk wearing the trousers, even though they tended to bind at the crotch. He knew how to wear them without the memory of having learned and that bothered him.

Eric shrugged. Art Kan did not want to hear a report about the memories that should have been in his head. He would want a report on what was happening outside, and there was only one way to find that out. Eric dropped his silver suit, pulled on the old clothes and checked his look in the reflection that suddenly appeared along one wall. He tugged at the brim of the hat and smiled. He looked just like everyone else outside. He turned his face this way and that, watching the soft room light play along his chin. No, correct that. He looked better.

Eric was tall, thin, and looked just slightly too grizzled to be the forty-year-old his body told him he should be. His brown hair was short and stubbly, matching the stubble on his chin that he had started to grow two days ago. His clothes were rough but hung on his body, accentuating his lankiness and keeping the rough fabric off his tender skin.

"Okay, hoss," Eric said, practicing the lingo to his reflection. "Let’s go get the lay of the land."

He walked to the escape hatch. The ship was buried under loose dirt about half a mile from the location of the latest planned excavation. It was not the best location. Kan would have liked to have put the ship underwater, but the nearest river was quite a ways off. The land immediately surrounding the desired bones was either threadbare or rock-strewn, neither of which would accommodate a Swede cargo ship. The landing site that was eventually agreed upon was located just behind a sizable patch of trees, which was good. The site was also apparently in a flash flood path, which left lots of loose dirt, which was also good. It had taken less than one Earth hour to get the ship safely hidden.

Eric stepped into the transport tube and checked the scanner. Temperature, 58 degrees. Wind, 8 miles per hour out of the southeast. Humidity, 20 percent. None of that was what he wanted to know. Bipedal life forms present, none. That was what he needed.

"Up," Eric said.

Transport tube was a fancy name for what was actually a small boring device that could carry him to the surface. It stopped automatically once he got to the top, issuing a beep to let him know he had arrived, but he still had to push open the exterior door. He stepped out onto the crusty surface of Montana and took his first breath on Earth.

It was beautiful. He stood blinking in the sunlight, listening as the transport tube wormed its way back down to the ship. When it was done he was left alone with the sights and sounds of the Earth. Mountains loomed in the distance, their tops as hazy and faint as clouds. The sky sprawled everywhere around him, its blue blanket thrown over the blackness that he knew lay beyond. The creatures called birds whipped by like feathered meteors, chirping once they reached their destinations on tree limbs or the summits of rocks.

After several deep inhalations, he had to admit that the sensation of breathing the air of Earth was not quite what he had expected. He thought the air would carry with it some evidence of all the living creatures that moved within it and the nonliving things that rested under it or floated above it; he thought it would smell like it looked. He was used to the sensory deprivation of life among the Swedes, who spent most of their time inside their metal and rubber world. Their air was unnoticeable; it took pains not to be disagreeable, it slid through the nostrils imperceptibly. They rarely needed to breathe it themselves, so they did not care. This air was not the riot of scent he had dreamed about all those nights, but neither was the polite gas of the Swedes. It was clear but sharp, and seemed to cut its way down his nose. The first breath very nearly made him sneeze. A slow smile spread across his face. So this world would have surprises.

He took a step and marveled at the crunch of gravel under the smooth sole of his boot. It shifted as he walked, but it didn’t throw him off balance. It was very different from walking on pads or smooth metal. It seemed to give a little, and with every step it left some sign that he had passed. He made his way through the copse of trees, rubbing his fingertips along the bark. If he forgot to duck now and then, he lost his hat and had to stumble around after it. The birds, now invisible in the branches overhead, seemed to laugh at him, and he laughed back.

He started noticing the people almost as soon as he cleared the trees. A few wagons were clustered a mile or so away, thin smoke rising from the fire that was heating the morning coffee. Many residents of this planet felt it necessary to drink this hot fluid every day, even on the hottest days, or their heads would begin to hurt. He knew that from his studies, which had been so complete that he had consumed some coffee himself. Its taste was not pleasant. It was mildly addictive, but much of its addictive properties seemed to stem from the behavior that went along with the actual consumption: the holding of the drinking utensil, called a mug, in both hands; the blowing on the hot surface to cool the drink. Truly, Eric thought, sometimes it did not take much to keep these people occupied.

Once he neared the first wagon, he could see further around the great rill of rocks and noticed other wagons spread out along the dusty road. The ground rose to dizzying heights on one side and then sunk to a flat plain on the other. The wagons were hunkered in the lowlands, as if pulled there by gravity. Thin ropes of smoke came from them all and ascended into heaven like vines.

Eric walked down the middle of the road that ran alongside the wall of rock. A group of more than half a dozen men were gathered about halfway up. He squinted to see what they were doing, but couldn’t quite tell. He shut his right eye and activated the camera that had been installed in his left eye and zoomed in, close enough so he could see that they were chipping away at the rock wall with small picks. He opened his right eye and turned the camera off. Picks. They were chipping at the rocks with picks, at a rate that would take them forever if they were trying to exhume anything from the rock. He wondered how they ever got anything done at this rate.

A brief flurry of fear overtook him. What if they were scientists? Alf Swenson had run afoul of Earth scientists on his mission here, and returned with very little; surely such an event could not happen again. He shook his head. No, these had to be gold diggers, and probably intoxicated ones. There was no gold in these rocks, and they would give up soon enough. Only one thing bothered him. One of the men had been wearing what looked like a hairy, luxurious coat to ward off the chill. That didn’t really look like his idea of something a gold digger should be wearing, but then again he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t appropriate. He felt the weight of his ignorance.

"What do you reckon they’re doing up there?" a voice asked him, and he turned to face a rather dirty individual.

It was a man, about thirty years old, whose knotty arms spoke of a life of hard work. He had impressive stubble on his rounded chin and dark teeth that betrayed years of neglect, but those attributes paled beside the look of genuine pleasantness on his face. He was one of those sorts of people who liked to just chew the fat, as the phrase went. Eric had studied this tendency.

"They’re digging for something. Gold, I guess," Eric said.

"Gold!" The man looked very interested. "I didn’t know there was any gold around here."

"There isn’t. Our mineral scan didn’t turn up any," Eric said, before remembering he shouldn’t say that. "I mean, I heard there isn’t any around here."

"Digging," the man said, appearing not to have heard. "I hope they got guns or they won’t keep the gold long if they find any."

They stood in silence for a moment, squinting in the sun.

"So that’s what that racket is. They woke me up, and I was sleeping good. Had a bit of a long night."

Now that he mentioned it, Eric could hear the chink chink of the picks striking the rock. That shouldn’t have been enough to wake anyone up, but perhaps the man was a light sleeper.

"Have a bit of a hangover," the man said. "I lost five dollars at cards and stayed up all night doing it, so I end up without sleep or money, either one."

Eric nodded politely. It sounded vaguely familiar, this activity, but he couldn’t place why. He wrinkled his nose slightly. The Earth air was certainly carrying a scent from this man. Now that the air was performing as he had expected, he found himself wishing it wouldn’t.

"So what are you hearing about him?" the man asked after a long silence, broken only by the faint ringing of the picks.

"Him?"

"Oh, you’re one of those, are you?" the man said, giving him a friendly nudge with an elbow. "One of these big secret men, like you just come here for the weather. The usual summer visit to Hell Creek, just taking the air."

Eric gave him a faint smile. Why was the man talking about the air? Was he enjoying breathing it, too? It seemed he would be used to it by now.

Confused, Eric offered a vague smile and said, "Uh, yes."

The man nodded and gave Eric a conspiratorial wink.

"Me, I don’t think he’s here yet. I think that was just a rumor."

Eric activated his camera long enough to get a clear image of the man, then shut it off again. All of that took the time of two blinks. If he left the camera on very long, it gave him fierce headaches. He could record audio tracks with no problem, so he let his microphone run.

"Why do you think that?"

The man laughed, a jarring bark that made Eric wince.

"Cause he ain’t shot nobody yet, mister!"

This response inspired the man to great hilarity. He wrinkled up his face until his eyes popped behind his lids, and then doubled over, hugging his sides. Eric thought he was having some kind of attack at first, and started to go to his aid, but then he recognized the bark.

"Whooo," the man said finally, his odiferous breath sounding around the ragged stubs of his teeth.

He looked up and caught the perplexed look on Eric’s face. For the first time, Eric caught a glimpse of meanness in the man’s eyes.

"Say, mister, you really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?"

Eric shook his head. The man straightened up slowly, never taking his eyes off Eric.

"You never heard of Luther Gumpson," the man said, taking a step forward. Eric reflexively took a step back. "Mister, did you come from another planet?"

Eric’s training surfaced. He recognized this as an exaggeration. The meaning did not exactly match the words.

"Of course not," Eric said, straining to put a smile on his face.

"But you never heard of Luther Gumpson, the only reason anyone is out in this godforsaken country. Except for them gold diggers."

"I guess I haven’t."

The man shook his head, as if Eric had just declared himself to be able to fly or breathe fire.

"Mister, I find that a little hard to believe."

"It’s true."

Eric put a bland expression on his face. He wanted to appear as stupid as possible, a task that he liked to think was difficult for him. The man studied him a minute longer.

"Then why are you out here?" he asked.

Oh, just here with an archeological team from outer space. Botched the job thirty-one years ago and had to come back, you know. Eric almost smiled. His training wouldn’t allow him to say anything like that.

"I’m looking for fossil bones."

"Fossil?" the man said, squinting his eyes in confusion. "Is that a French word? Is that some kind of animal?"

"No. Well, yes and no. Fossils are the bones of extinct—of long-dead animals. They turn to stone over time. I’m looking for them."

The man nodded his shaggy head.

"Oh, I getcha. Like what they call the bones of the dinysaurs."

"Yes."

"Well, with all these people rooting around here, maybe some will turn up. Listen, mister, I need to get on back and get me some hair of the dog. A little whiskey is good on a day like this."

A memory dug at his mind. The Swede doctors said he didn’t have those memories, the memories of when his parent lived here, but sometimes he felt he did. The grizzled man’s words had sent the vaguest flash through his mind. What he had said was familiar, somehow, and not just from his training. Hair of the dog? Should that mean something to him?

"Looks like you could use a snort yourself, mister. Care to join me?"

The man gestured toward one of the more disheveled-looking caravans that hunkered beside the narrow road.

"No, thank you," Eric said. "I need to do some walking around. Scouting."

"Okay." The man gave him a half wave. "Nice talking with you. Good luck with them dinysaurs."

"Say, you don’t happen to have a picture of this Gumpson, do you?"

The man paused and thought, and then sent a grimy hand searching through hidden pockets in his tatty shirt. It returned bearing a greasy, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it with great care, as if it contained gold.

"Here’s the ugly bastard now," the man said when a line drawing was revealed.

Eric tried to keep his face as bland as it was before. He had heard of this Gumpson after all. In fact, he knew where he was right this very second.

"Hold that paper steady just a second," Eric said.

"You ain’t run acrost him, have you?" the man asked.

Eric lifted his gaze from the paper.

"Never seen him before in my life."