Power Lines (10 page)

When she was finally able to retire from the elaborate welcoming dinner Torkel Fiske had arranged, Marmion asked Faber to arrange transport for her the next morning to see Kilcoole from ground level.

“Ask Sally and Millard to see what they can hear round and about, too, would you, dear Faber?” she added, allowing herself the luxury of a yawn she didn’t have to stifle.

“Shall I pull rank if I run into obstruction?” Faber asked. He was a bird colonel, currently detached to her service on a long loan basis.

“Hmmm, I’d rather you saved that for later, if at all possible. Torkel did mention somewhere in the gabble at dinner that we could make use of any facilities we needed in our investigations. So we will.”

She was up and out at what would have been considered by many of her peers an obscenely early hour. She wasn’t as surprised to see Whittaker Fiske as he was to see her emerging from her apartment.

“Why, Whit, what on earth are you doing up at this hour?”

He chortled. “The question applies more to you than me, Marmie.” He bowed gracefully over her hand with a real skin-touching kiss. “Early birding?”

She smiled, and the arrival of Faber driving the antiquated rattletrap 4x4 vehicle spared her the necessity of replying to the obvious.

“Can we give you a lift?” she asked.

“Depends on where you’re bound.”

“Kilcoole. Didn’t see very much from the air yesterday, and it seems the best place to start.”

Whit cocked his head at her, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his amused eyes.

“It’s safe today,” he said, handing her up the first high step to the passenger seat.

“Oh, your leg!” Marmion said, starting to get down.

“Don’t mind me.” Opening the rear door, he agilely swung himself into the back.

“What’d you mean by ‘it’s safe today,’ Whit, dear?” Marmion asked as she snapped on her seat belt and Faber pulled the vehicle away.

The ride was going to be bumpy over the mangled plascrete, but later she would have exchanged that for the slip and slide of the mud-track to Kilcoole.

“Ah, well, Matt had his boys up before breakfast, scurrying about the place, accessing all kinds of records and reports so he’d ‘have the overall picture and the demographic levels’ and stuff like that.” Whittaker snorted. “No chance of your running into him today out at Kilcoole.”

Marmion smiled. She had hoped to do
her
research first without stumbling over those physically fit types. As the vehicle hit a particularly large bump, she clung to the handle above her head. She could feel Whittaker taking a firm grip on the back of her seat.

“Should still be able to use snockles this time of year,” Faber said. “Thaw caught everyone off guard.”

“So much so,” Whit said with a chuckle, “that no one came close to winning the Pool.”

“The Pool?” Marmion asked, clinging tightly to her handle.

“The betting pool the locals have on when the river breaks up. The thaw was so early this year it took everyone by surprise. See?” he said, pointing to the river at their left, where soldiers were working at the water’s edge. “Still retrieving sunk snockles from their watery grave.”

From what Marmion could see as they drove by, the soldiers were having trouble: the tires of the tow truck were slipping on the muddy bank, unable to find enough traction to pull the vehicle on the end of its cable out of the fast-running river.

“Faber,” Whit said, leaning forward to point over the driver’s shoulder to the woods, “see that opening? I’d take that route were I you. Make much better time. I usually walk.”

Both Marmion and Faber were happy they’d taken his advice, for the narrow track gave a much smoother ride than the churned mud by the river.

“Oh, it is pretty here,” Marmion said, breathing in the rich damp-earth smells. “Trees are budding out!” she added in exclamation. “Almost overnight it seems.”

“I don’t think Petaybee’s keeping to schedule this year,” Whittaker said, sounding enormously pleased with himself. “I’d advise you to do the same, Marmie. You’ll get where you’re going faster.”

“Then where do you advise I go first, Whit?”

“Where I am,” he said, sitting back. “Just keep on this track, Faber, and when you reach the town, hang a right.”

Kilcoole, despite its mountains of once-snow-covered paraphernalia, had an air of desertion. Marmion remarked on it, nobly refraining from commenting on its appearance.

“Oh, a lot of folks have taken advantage of the thaw to visit relatives and exchange garden plants.”

“How wise. They’re ahead of schedule, too?”

“They did get the hint. And don’t be misled by all the stuff you see outside, Marmie. No one throws anything away that might be useful.” He pointed to several lads who were carefully moving machinery parts in the side yard of one house, obviously looking for a particular one.

Marmie caught their running commentary as the vehicle rolled by: “I know it was here ‘fore the first snow. And I know it was at this end.” “Well, my father was looking for stuff, and he might have just pulled the pile to pieces looking. You know how he is.” “Then try
underneath
.”

Faber braked suddenly as a trio of orange-striped cats jumped out in the middle of the road just ahead of them.

“My word, do they often commit suicide that way?”

“My fault,” Whit said sheepishly. “Shoulda told you to stop at that house on the left. That’s where I’m working and where you should start.”

“But if you’re working there, Whit, I don’t want to intrude . . .”

“I’m working
outside,
Marmie,” Whittaker said, opening the door of the vehicle. The cats emerged from under the ancient 4x4,
prrrow
ing to him; two of them propped front paws up on his knees to be petted. The third spoke to him, then turned to wait at the passenger door. “You’re invited inside,” he added. “That’s good, believe me.”

“I’m always agreeable to invitations,” Marmion replied, signaling for Faber to descend, as well. “What a marvelous shade of orange,” she said directly to the cat. When it turned, tail tip idly swaying high above its body, she followed. “Mirandabelle Turvey-West would give her eyeteeth for a hair dye that shade, just wouldn’t she!” she murmured under her breath.

The cat shot up the muddy steps. Marmion, eschewing Faber’s outheld hand, managed to place her booted feet carefully in the drier spots.

The door opened as they reached the porch and one of the largest, most impressive-looking women Marmion had ever seen, with a complexion to die for and a smile that was the most beautiful thing so far about Kilcoole, stood in the opening.

“Sláinte, Whittaker, Miz Algemeine, Colonel Nike, grand morning for a ride, is it not? I’m Clodagh Senungatuk. I’m that pleased to meet you. Come in. I’ve fresh coffee and some decent baking just out of the oven.”

Warmed by the welcome, Marmion held out her hand, to have it briefly but kindly shaken and given back, slightly floured. Then Faber was met with the same cordial treatment.

“The new shingles got here first light, Whit,” Clodagh said, “but you’ve time for a bite and a sup first.”

“Hey, that’s good,” Whit said with more enthusiasm than Marmion remembered him showing. “I can probably finish the roof today. Maybe I’ll just get started, Clodagh, and grab a bite later.”

With a nod to the other two, he tramped to the edge of the porch and hopped off. A brief explosive exhalation reached the others.

“Leg’s not good enough yet to be jarred by leaping as if he was young again,” Clodagh said, tsking-tsking as she shooed her bemused guests inside.

Marmion’s first shock at the interior dissolved with the scent of spicy warm bread and her instant realization that this small home—and
home
it definitely was—was actually highly organized and astonishingly neat if you looked past what might be cursorily dismissed as “clutter.” There were, however, more cats inside who, one after the other, strolled over to make personal evaluations of the newcomers.

“Did we pass?” Marmion asked as Clodagh gestured her to the rocking chair and motioned Faber to a sturdy bench.

Clodagh delayed answering until she had served her guests coffee and freshly baked hot cinnamon rolls, and placed a pitcher of milk and a huge bowl of sweetener before them. Refilling her own cup, she sat across from Marmion, her elbows on the table, placidly smiling.

“I’ve always had a lot of cats around,” she began.

“All of them orange?” Marmion asked. “Or are they a singularly unique Petaybean breed?”

“You could definitely say that.”

“I just did. My, these rolls are delicious,” Marmion said, lightly changing topics. “And thank goodness you know how to make proper coffee. Doesn’t she, Faber?”

“Yes, indeed, you do, Miz Senungatuk,” Faber said, smiling in that unexpectedly charming fashion that had disarmed many folk more worldly than Clodagh. Clodagh grinned and winked at him for his accurate pronunciation of her last name. That was another trait Marmion admired in Faber Nike. “Are you able to get regular supplies?”

Clodagh grunted. “Whit got this batch. Said it was a bleeding shame what SpaceBase did to unprotected coffee beans.” She nodded to a corner of her crowded workspace. “I grind them myself when I need them, and keep them frozen till I do.”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit difficult to do right now?” Marmion asked delicately.

“Nah. Even the thaw doesn’t affect the permafrost cache much.”

“Ah, yes!” Marmion said. “I have read, of course, of the permafrost layer that is so like frozen rock, but I had not appreciated until now its practical applications.”

“Well, usually we only use it in summer,” Clodagh said.

“So then good coffee is as much a treat for you as it is for us,” Marmion said and took another grateful sip. The milk in the pitcher had been fresh, too, cream rising to the top. Judging by various-sized lumps, the sweetener had also been home-ground.

“That it is,” Clodagh said.

Marmion felt something press against her lower leg and dropped one hand to touch a furry skull, which she obediently scratched.

“Your cats survive the extremes of Petaybee’s temperatures?”

“Bred for it. A course, they’re smart to begin with, and they use their instincts, too.”

“As do most of you living here on Petaybee, I’d say,” Marmion remarked, getting closer to the purpose of her visit.

Clodagh folded her arms in front of her and said emphatically, “We’ve learned to live here. I wouldn’t much want to live anywhere else.”

As shrewd a woman as she’d ever encountered, Marmion decided approvingly.

“I shouldn’t like to see you anywhere else but here in your home, dispensing superb hospitality to those lucky enough to find their way here, Miz Senungatuk,” Marmion went on. “It’s so rare these days to find people content with what they are and where they are.”

Clodagh regarded her for one long moment, taking in Marmion’s practical but elegant outfit, as well as her expressive face.

“Not knowing who you are or where you belong can cause a person a lot of problems. This planet’s not an easy place to live, but it’s what we’re all used to and we manage fine.”

Hovering in the air were the unspoken words:
when we’re left alone to get on with our lives as we want to live them.

“Would you have enough coffee left in the pot for me to have another half cup, Miz Senungatuk?” Marmion asked, fingers laced about her cup so she wouldn’t appear to
expect
the extra indulgence.

Clodagh’s face lost the tension it had been displaying and suddenly softened into a smile. “Please call me Clodagh. I’m more used to it.”

“Marmion is what my friends call me. Even Marmie’s allowed.” And the very wealthy, very clever Dame Algemeine held her cup out as unassumingly as any supplicant.

“You, too, Faber Nike?” Clodagh asked when she had filled Marmion more than halfway.

“Don’t mind if I do . . . Clodagh.”

Clodagh poured him some more coffee, then passed the rolls around again.

“I had hoped to meet more of the people of Kilcoole, Clodagh,” Marmion said, her tone brisker now. “I’m here, as I believe Whit will have told you, to investigate the unusual events which the planet seems to be taking the blame for.”

“Planet’s not taking any blame, Marmion,” Clodagh said with a grin and a dismissive wave of her hand. “Planet’s doing what’s needful, too. Showing folks what it will and will not allow done to it. Same’s you wouldn’t want a lot of holes dug in your front yard or pieces of your garden blown up. Whittaker got that message loud and clear, but that son of his didn’t. Nor some others—but the ones who did understood real well.”

“You
know
the planet did this on its own cognizance?” Faber asked, his voice gentle, the way he spoke when he didn’t want to scare misinformation out of people.

“If you mean did the planet do it without us helping it, yes. Not that anybody could
help
a planet if it’s got its own mind made up and is perfectly capable of making
that
known.”

“The problem we face,” Faber went on, “is establishing that the
planet
is the source of the unusual occurrences.”

Clodagh gave him a momentary blank stare. “And what else could be doing such amazing things? Do you know how long it takes to melt a pail of ice over a fire? Do you think
we
”—her unusually graceful hand circled an area over the table that signified Kilcoole—”could have caused the melt so early? Or pushed up a volcano? Or shaken the land as I would crumbs from this table?” Her tone was not argumentative; it sounded slightly surprised at such thick-wittedness from an apparently intelligent man. She shook her head. “No, the planet decided all by itself that there had been too many diggings of holes and plantings of explosives and such, and it wants those stopped.”

“The planet is, in your opinion, sentient?” Marmion asked.

“The planet is itself, alive, and,” Clodagh said, turning to Faber with mischief in her eyes, “totally cognizant of what it’s doing.”

Marmion rested her head against her propped arm and, with her free hand, turned the coffee cup around and around by its handle, absorbing this message. Frankly, she was now far more worried for Clodagh’s sake than the planet’s. The woman truly believed it—Marmion was halfway to believing it herself—and Matthew Luzon would make mincemeat of her.