TWENTY-FIVE

Blessed night, Cliff thought. The soothing qualities of pure deep darkness washed over them all. After months of relentless sun, they had all they wished of sweet shadow. It fell like a club upon their minds, sucking them into sleep.

He swam up to blurred consciousness after another long sleep, wrapped in a fuzzy warm blanket the Sil had found for them all. His team lay around like sacks of sand, feasting on the festival of dark that released their need, after so long in the field, for rest.

He was still groggy. Something had sent a twinge, awakened him. He got up, pulled on pants and boots, and left their little room carved from brown rock. His boots were getting worn down and he wondered how he could get something serviceable. As usual, the right answer was, ask the Sil.

Small soft sounds were coming from where they viewed the Ice Minds messages. He came in carefully, watching the two Sil speaking in their curious way. There was more eye and head movement than there was talk. And as usual, the most active one was Quert—who noticed Cliff and beckoned him over with an eye-shrug.

“Ask for wisdom of past,” Quert said. “This got now.”

On the screen were phrases that might have been answers to Sil questions.

Over long times there is no lack of energy or materials, only of imagination.

Not having resources makes species resourceful.

Anger dwells long only in the bosom of fools.

“Thanks for having them do this in Anglish.”

“Did not ask. They spoke first to us. Now to you.”

“What is this all about?”

“Want to deal with Folk. You can help. Ice Minds care not for us. Care for you.”

“Why?”

“New Invaders know new things.”

“So they brush you off with ‘Anger dwells long only in the bosom of fools.’ And you are supposed to forget how the Folk killed so many of you?”

Quert gave only a tightening around the eyes, and his words were in a cool whisper. “Ice Minds say we are unquiet in soul.”

“You’re handling those deaths better than I have done with my friend Howard.”

“There is more worry to come.”

Quert beckoned him toward the large portal that gave a view of the sprawling icefields. To the side the stars wheeled and on the dim icy outer crust of the Bowl the vacuum flowers slowly tracked the brightest stars in the moving sky. This was for Cliff still a magical vision. He watched it with Quert, who after a moment made a simple hand gesture and the portal flickered. The view jerked and though the stars still swept across the jet-black sky, now there was a bright object moving counter to the Bowl’s rotation, skating across the blackness. When it was nearly overhead, a sudden beam flashed into view and Cliff realized the craft was using a spotlight. A powerful green laser beam fanned out to a ten-meter circle, sweeping. The beam flared briefly as it shone directly into the portal and then moved on. The bright point of the surveying ship tracked on, away and over the horizon. The stars wheeled on.

“That was a recording?”

An assent-rachet of Quert’s eyes. “They not see your kind. Saw us.”

“Some Sil? If they were looking for us, then we’re safe—”

“Folk say Sil not come here.”

“I thought—” He stopped, realizing that he had not thought at all whether the Sil were trespassing here. Apparently they were. Once the thought occurred, it seemed reasonable. You don’t want riffraff intruding into the provinces of beings who dwell in deep cold. Their mere body heat could cause damage.

“No one is to come talk to the Ice Minds?”

“Not allowed by Folk.”

“So they’ll come after you?”

“Soon. We move.”

Cliff realized he had thought of this cool dark refuge in rock as a resting place. They were all tired of moving across strange landscapes. But now they would lose that, too.

“Where to?”

“Warm and hot.”