《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》21

Interesting ideas but also dangerous ones.  He would have to observe
his principle captors more carefully; more clinically.  It would not
enhance his career prospects to peddle such half-baked notions on his
return to the Federation.  Facts, Brickman.  That's what they need back
home.  That's all that counts.  Stay alive, note everything you see,
score a few points for the guys that powered down, then hit the road.

But only after you've found that blue-eyed Mute...

In the middle of all this, Steve woke one night to find that Cadillac's
sleeping furs were empty.  The next night, the young wordsmith again
slept elsewhere but joined him for breakfast in the morning as usual.

Steve waited for Cadillac to say something but the young Mute made no
reference to the change in his sleeping habits.  His silence on the
subject merely served to arouse Steve's curiosity.

On the third evening Steve received his second invitation to smoke some
grass with the two wordsmiths.  Later, after his mind had roamed the
rainbow world, and he had heard the same distant voices yet again and
understood many things, Cadillac helped him stagger back to the hut
they shared.

Steve mumbled his thanks as the young wordsmith rolled him into bed
then opened his eyes just in time to see Cadillac slipping out of the
hut.  Pushing aside his furs, Steve shuffled quickly on his hands and
knees over to the doorway and pushed his head out of the flap.  He saw
Cadillac lit briefly by the glow from the dying fire, walking in the
opposite direction to that in which Mr Snow's hut lay.

Summoning up his powers of concentration, Steve willed his brain back
into one piece, rose unsteadily to his feet and headed after Cadillac
as he was swallowed up by the night.

There was no moon.  Beyond the last of the dying camp fires the
darkness became impenetrable.  Steve stopped, made an effort to listen,
thought he heard Cadillac moving down a leaf-covered trail, followed,
tripped over a tree root, crashed to the ground and lay there
wondering with increasing detachment why he was so concerned by
Cadillac's night games.  Whatever curiosity he had started out with was
gently wafted away on a roseate cloud of indifference.  He fell asleep
to wake, some hours later, beneath a drifting blanket of ground mist in
the deep purple greyness that preceded the dawn.

Chilled to the marrow, his face wet with dew, Steve stumbled back to
the hut, frantically beating his arms and body.  Sucking in breath
through trembling jaws, Steve slipped gratefully between his furs.

They were warm.  His brain must have iced up because it took him a few
seconds to figure out why.  As the answer came, a bare arm snaked over
his chest and a body that was hard in some places and soft in others
eased its length against his.  The owner's chin nestled against his
shoulder, their breath warmed his ear.  Steve lay there not daring to
look round, not daring to move in case he woke the intruder.

Filled with foreboding, Steve inched his right hand over and ran it
lightly along the forearm that pinned him down, reading the distinctive
pattern of crinkled patches with his fingers.  He'd seen that arm
enough times when she brought him his food.  His bed-mate was
Night-Fever.

Christopher Columbus!

The skin on the back of his neck crawled at the thought of lying in bed
with a naked female Mute.  Luckily he was fully clothed.  Moving an
inch at a time, his ears straining to catch any change in her deep,
slow breathing, Steve edged round so that his back was towards her.  He
held his breath as Night-Fever stirred sleepily, covering him with her
body.

Her mouth lay half-open against his jugular vein.  Not a good scene.

Night-Fever had fang-like lower canines set in a heavy jaw just like
the claw-toothed bucket of an excavator.

If she woke up and got excited and he said 'no' he could end up with a
permanently engraved windpipe.  Ahh, what the hell ... Steve sighed
resignedly.  He had long since caught whatever he was due to catch and
die of.  Provided he stayed zipped up inside his flight fatigues and
kept his back to her he couldn't come to much more harm.  Our hero was,
above all, a practical young man: the fact of the matter was that,
despite the genius of the First Family, nobody had yet come up with a
better way of keeping warm.

In addition to his exercise periods with the quarterstaff, Steve
continued his self-imposed programme of physical training.  He was now
able to sprint effortlessly, and could do fifty push-ups without
feeling a twinge of pain in his right arm.  He was back at the level of
fitness he had reached on graduation from the Academy.

Striking off down a new trail on an afternoon run, Steve descended
towards the plain.  He wanted to test his stamina against that of the
Bears by emulating their uninterrupted run back up the slope to the
settlement.  Reaching the plain, he ran out to one of the poles marking
the edge of the M'Calls turf then looped back to the foot of the slope
about a mile north of the settlement.  So far so good but, as is always
the case, the bluff he now had to run up looked a great deal higher
than the one he had run down.  Steve's resolve faltered momentarily
then, without breaking his stride, he began to rig-zag back up the
slope.  His intention had been to angle southwards across the slope to
pick up the trail down which he had descended but some rocky outcrops
which he had failed to pinpoint on the way down barred the way.  To
clamber round them would have meant losing valuable momentum so he
turned north again, lost sight of the trail and was forced to pick out
a new route as he went along.  The going got harder, and he wasted
precious breath in a string of curses as he slipped and missed his
footing, scraping his ankles painfully whilst crossing a sharp-edged
patch of scree.

Two-thirds of the way up the slope, Steve realised that he was running
out of steam and wasn't going to make it.  Once again his formidable
self-discipline came into play, driving him on.  Looking up, he saw, to
his right, a feathery plume of water cascading over a ledge of rock.

The idea of running through it, letting it splash over his burning
face, catching some of it in his mouth to relieve the raw dryness in
his throat became irresistible.  He altered his rig-zag path towards
the water course, his earlier nimble step becoming more leaden with
each stride.  His thigh and calf muscles were shot through with rods of
pain - as if every vein was on fire.  Every ounce of his willpower was
now concentrated on reaching the pencil-slim waterfall.  His heart
slammed itself against his ribs like an angry caged animal, the
pounding inside his head blotted out the thud of his feet against the
rocky path; the air he gulped down burned and ripped through his gullet
like red hot sand.  With a desperate weariness, Steve realised that
even if he reached the plume of falling water, the top of the slope was
another hundred yards away.  It might as well have been a hundred
miles.

Stumbling across the rocks, he sank to his knees under the spray, fell
forward onto his hands then rolled over and gave up, content to let the
cool mountain water cascade over him.

Twenty to thirty minutes later, when his heartbeat had slowed and the
band of fever heat had been washed from his brow, Steve crawled
stiff-legged out of the waterfall and peeled off his sodden clothes:
red, black and brown camouflaged trousers, combat boots and flight blue
T-shirt and underpants.  He twisted the garments into tight rolls to
wring out the bulk of the water then beat them, Mute-fashion, against a
flat rock to get rid of the remainder.  The afte.rnoon sun had sunk
towards the western hills, throwing the slope into shadow.  Steve
rubbed himself vigorously with his damp T-shirt then gathered up the
rest of his clothes and clambered barefoot up the steep rockface that
flanked the slim waterfall.  Not the easiest way to the top of the
slope but certainly the shortest.

Stepping into the warm autumn sunshine he spread out his clothes to dry
then sat down in a nearby patch of long yellow-pink grass.  Behind him,
the ground rose in a series of undulating rocky ledges, carpeted with a
profusion of grasses, ferns and moss, until it met a wide bank of tall
red trees.  Concealed within it was the head of the stream that
trickled past the spot where he lay before plunging over the smooth
tongue of rock onto the slope some fifty feet below.

Lulled by the murmuring passage of the stream and the warm earth at his
back, Steve fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun was setting behind the mountain, its last rays
turning the edges of the gathering clouds into liquid gold.  The Mutes
had a quaint idea that the sun went through a door in the sky which,
when closed, left the world in darkness until it entered again through
a similar door set below the eastern horizon.  Seized by a sudden
chill, Steve hauled on his blue underpants, reached for his T-shirt and
stopped, hand outstretched.  Eight small black-skinned ovoid fruit that
Steve now knew to be wild plums were piled neatly on a red leaf that
someone had placed on the chest of his T-shirt.

Steve scanned the high ground quickly, then walked over to the edge of
the slope.  Nothing.  No sign of movement.  No dust trail.  Nobody.  He
walked back, laid the leaf and its gift of-plums carefully aside and
finished dressing.  His clothes were still clammy but would soon dry
offwith his body heat.

He tightened the laces in his combat boots, strapped the knife scabbard
Cadillac had given him through the trouser loops around his right calf,
picked up the plums then - on a sudden impulse - set off cautiously
along the line of the stream, eating them as he went.

As he bit into the juicy flesh, he speculated on the identity and
motive of the donor.  He felt sure he knew who it was but why had she
not woken him?  Was the gift inspired by the simple concern of
providing food for an exhausted runner, or was it something more - a
sign of her presence?  A message saying 'I am here.  I care.  Keep
looking."?

Confirmation that she, too, was consumed by the same ardent
curiosity?

Or had he totally misread the fleeting glances they had exchanged?  Was
it all in his imagination or, worse still, was it some kind of trap?  A
wry smile crossed Steve's face.  With his luck, it would be Night-Fever
he would discover lurking behind the first tree.  Or Motor-Head.

Steve smiled inwardly.  If that mean mother had found him exhausted and
asleep he would not have made him a present of eight wild plums; he
would have left eight rocks piled on his chest.  No, this was nothing
to do with him, but the thought of Motor-Head ser'ied to remind Steve
that he ought to temper his curiosity with caution.  Although Cadillac
told him he could go wherever he liked, it might not prove too healthy
to be caught prowling around in an area the clan regarded as being
off-limits.  But, on the other hand, without being told how was he to
know?  Deciding that his momentary apprehension was primarily inspired
by feelings of guilt, Steve shrugged it off and pressed on.  In some
perverse way, the inherent danger of the situation added spice to the
strange, but by no means unwelcome, emotions that had assailed him ever
since he had first seen her face in the firelight.

Working his way slowly through the tangle of ferns bordering the
stream, Steve scaled the series of ledges towards the first line of
trees.  Every twenty-five paces, he squatted down and carefully checked
his front, flanks and rear.  Holding his breath, he listened intently,
hoping to pick up the sound of some human activity.  Only the shrill
chatter of an occasional bird cut across the constant background murmur
of the stream trickling between the brown lichen-covered rocks.

A hundred yards inside the tree line, the pines closed in on one
another, creating a wall of loosely interwoven branches that began at
knee height.  Several, wrenched from their tenuous hold on the slope by
the downward rush of water from melting winter snow, had fallen at
awkward angles across the stream blocking his path along its banks.

He had to make a detour, but to go forward on foot meant cutting or
crashing his way through the branches, making it impossible to proceed
with stealth.  The only other alternatives were to crawl under them or
find a way round.

Since he was unsure of what kind of a situation he was getting into,
Steve did not want to risk being trapped in a tangle of branches with
his nose in the dirt.  He was just about to give up and turn back when
he caught sight of a broken yellow line up ahead.  Cadillac had told
him about the seasons of the overground year - the New Earth, the
Middle Earth, The Gathering, The Yellowing and The White Death.  It was
too soon for the leaves to turn yellow and fall from the trees.  Steve
suddenly realised that it was dead foliage that had been cut and
arranged as a screen, and his uncanny sixth sense told him that behind
it was what he was looking for.

Taking care to move as silently as possible, Steve circled away from
the stream and crawled between the densely packed pines towards the
suspect yellow foliage.  As he drew nearer, he saw what appeared to be
a long clump of bushes about eight feet high lying to one side of a
grassy oasis; an irregular patch of grass, ferns and chest-high
undergrowth surrounded by the almost impenetrable wall of trees.

Wriggling out from under the last branches, Steve cautiously stuck his
nose above the undergrowth, checked what he could see of the clearing
then tunnelled his way between the stems of a tall bank of fern until
he reached the yellowing leaves.  The 'bush' in front of him was made
of cut branches, loosely woven together.

Steve took another deep breath and lay there for a good ninute, ears
cocked, straining to catch the slightest sound of movement.  All he
could hear was his own heartbeat.

Reaching forward, Steve carefully pulled out one of the branches that
had been stuck in the ground.  The end had been cut at an angle by a
machete.  Pushing it gently aside, he peered through.  A Mute hut stood
in a small clearing enclosed by a circular screen of leaves.  The
doorway to the hut faced a gap in the screen on the opposite side to
where Steve lay, making it impossible to see if the hut was occupied.

There was no sign of smoke coming from the ring plate in the roof and
none of the usual living debris scattered around.  Even so, Steve's
sixth sense told him that someone was inside.  Wait a minute!  He could
hear something.  Was that somebody, humming a - tune?  She was there!

It had to be her.  There was no one else it could be.

With rising excitement, Steve crawled round through the ferns towards
the gap in the surrounding screen and stopped a yard from the
opening.

Moving with the stealth of a praying mantis, he eased another cut
branch out of the ground and gingerly poked his head and shoulders in
under a curtain of withered leaves.  Steve found himself confronted not
by the hoped-for view of matchless beauty, but by the decomposing heads
of Naylor and Fazetti spiked on poles on either side of the doorway.  A
large, dark bird of prey was perched on Fazetti's head, tearing a
sinewy strand of flesh out of one of the gaping eye-sockets.  Steve
recoiled in horror.  The bird, startled by the sudden movement,
flapped

away with a harsh cry of alarm.

Steve swallowed hard and collected his thoughts.

According to Mute tradition, the heads of his fellow-wingmen were the
battle trophies of whoever occupied the hut.  But didn't Fazetti go
bananas in mid-air?  How could she, if indeed it was she who... ?

Another more pressing thought struck Steve.  If whoever owned the hut
had downed the two wingmen maybe they had taken more than their
heads.

Maybe some of their gear was inside.  Like a map, air pistol, flame
grenade, con-food pack.  Useful things that someone planning to escape
would need.  Nerving himself to face his two spiked friends, Steve
pushed his head back through the curtain of leaves.  As he did so, the
flap over the doorway, framed by the two headpoles, was pushed aside
and the owner of the face that had haunted his dreams emerged, stood
up, and stretched with the grace of a waking cat.

It was Clearwater.  Steve, of course, did not yet know her name but, in
the few seconds that she stood there in full view, Steve's eyes roved
over every detail of her naked body; the long, straight-boned, supple
limbs, the slim-hipped torso with its firm, rounded breasts, strong
shoulders and small waist, the smooth skin free of the disfiguring
tree-bark patches and the tumour-like bone growths that afflicted other
Mutes; her whole body unflawed - apart from the swirling pattern of
pigments - from head to toe.  Since art, in the generally accepted
sense of the word, did not exist within the Federation, Trackers were
not overly susceptible to its attendant qualities such as the harmony
of form and colour, the gracefulness of line and proportion.  But
something deep within Steve responded; made him aware that the Mute
female in front of him was-an object of great beauty even though he
could not express himself in those words.  He was seized simultaneously
by two totally conflicting emotions; an irrational desire to possess
her and a sense of shock, disgust even, at feeling thus.  In 20th
century terms, his reaction was akin to a founder member of the
ultra-right wing Afrikaaner Broederbond - that bastion of white
supremacy - discovering within himself a secret prediliction for 'dark
meat'.  What passed through Steve's mind in those few seconds was
unthinkable.  Allowing Night-Fever to serve as a bed-warmer was bad
enough but to actively contemplate ... Come on!  he urged himself.

Snap out of it!

Clearwater re-entered the hut.  Steve heard a peal of laughter, another
voice, muffled but deeper, then more laughter as the door flap was
brushed aside and Clearwater tumbled out backwards struggling playfully
in Cadillac's arms.  The young wordsmith was naked too.

Not daring to move in case he betrayed his presence, Steve watched them
with mixed feelings; disappointment, irritation, toe-curling
embarrassment - and a dash of envy.

They horsed around for a minute or so, kissed briefly, got up, moved
outside the circular screen and began to gather big five-pointed pink
leaves from some kind of plant.  In her search for more, Clearwater
moved nearer to where Steve lay concealed.  Looking up, Steve saw that
the tangle of ferns under which he lay contained several plants with
the same pink leaf.  He had to move before either of them came over.

There was only one way he could go - through the hole he had made in
the screen of leaves into the clearing containing the hut.  But
supposing the leaves were to make soup with?

Where would he hide if they came back in?  Steve resolved to work his
way round behind the hut.  From there he could slip out through the
first hole he had made.  He wriggled under the screen just as the Mute
girl walked over, leaned in and began picking the leaves.  Steve froze
on the other side of the screen.  Close!  A couple of seconds more and
she'd have tripped over him.  Ooops!  Surprise, surprise.  Hey, fancy
running into you guys!  Steve ran through the dialogue of discovery in
his head.  Don't get the wrong idea, folks.

WaLking around on my elbows is part of my physical fitness programme
...

The Mute girl went on picking leaves until she had an armful, then, as
soon as she turned her back, Steve began to wriggle round towards the
rear of the hut.  Luckily the grass inside the clearing was not too
short.  On the other hand it would not serve to hide him if they walked
back in.  Steve worked his way backwards, pressing in under the fringe
of leaves, conscious that his blue T-shirt stood out like a sore thumb
against the orange grass and the yellow foliage.  To his relief,
Cadillac and the girl turned their backs on him and sauntered away from
the hut hand in hand.

As-the two Mutes went out of sight, Steve got up, tiptoed over to the
gap in the screen and peeked through the leaves at the edge.  His
previous worm's-eye view of the area had been limited.  From where he
now stood, he could see a waist-deep rock pool which fed the stream
he'd followed.

Cadillac and the Mute girl were in the pool and, in between fooling
around, she was scrubbing his back with a handful of the pink leaves
they'd picked.  Dipped in water and rubbed on his back, the leaves
produced a thin soapy foam.  Bath night.  Oh, well .  .. Steve, who
would happily have swapped places with Cadillac, sensed that they would
probably be busy for some time.  Now was the moment to search the
hut.

The entrance to the hut, the gap in the leaf screen and the rock pool
were almost directly in line but on crouching down, Steve saw that a
slight rise in the ground blocked the bottom third of the hut from the
view of someone in the water.  Hugging the ground, he crawled through
the grass, circling behind Fazetti's headpole and then in under the
door flap.  He had been with the Mutes so long, he no longer noticed
the attendant smells.  Steve got to his knees, peeked through the flap
to check that Cadillac and the girl were still in the pool then sat
back on his haunches and surveyed the interior.

The hut was not as messy, or as crammed full of junk as Mr Snow's but
there was not a lot of room to move.  Several bundles of clothing along
with various-sized baskets with pot lids, woven from dried orange
grass, were stowed round the buffalo hide walls; bunches of fruit,
dried meat twists, and sweet-smelling flowers hung from the curved
poles that gave the hut its squat beehive shape.  The furs on which
Cadillac and the girl had no doubt been thrashing around lay in
disarray.  To his surprise, Steve saw two other sets of furs, rolled up
- as was usual during the day.  That meant the girl shared the hut
probably with a couple of She-Wolves.

Now that he thought about it, it was obvious.  If, for whatever reason,
the girl was regarded by the M'Calls as a hot property she would not be
left unprotected.  Her two hutmates .had obviously pulled out to avoid
crowding Cadillac.  Steve had discovered that Mutes accorded each other
a greater degree of privacy in these matters.  Which meant that the
Mute's clan-sisters would probably not return until she and Cadillac
had humped each other dry.

But they might not be far away - and the area around the hut was bound
to be regularly patrolled.  Zip!  Steve swore under his breath.  He had
totally ignored that angle when, on a sudden impulse, he'd set off
up-stream in the hope of finding her.  Well, you've found her, Brickman
- and she belongs to the guy you've been planning to get very friendly
with.  So forget the daydreams.  All that was sheer insanity anyway.

Start looking for those hidden goodies and get the hell out of here.

Steve checked out the bathing party again then started rummaging
through the lidded baskets.  If he had to leave in a hurry, whoever
came in after him would not immediately spot there had been an
intruder.  He found the pack of survival rations in the second basket
and the water purifier pack at the bottom of the fifth.  Steve kissed
both items happily then slid them into the pockets provided on his
trousers.  Air pistol... Steve hurriedly ransacked the other baskets.

Nope.  Maybe that was too much to hope for...

Map... that was the thing he really wanted.  Where the hell was that?

He reached for the nearest bundle of clothing, and stuck his hand into
the loosely coiled layers of leather and fur to see if anything had
been hidden inside.  Nothing.  He tossed it roughly back into place and
grabbed another.  A chill warning ripple ran up his spine.  He threw
himself forward towards the door flap, opened it a fraction - and saw
the naked Mute girl walking towards the hut, pushing her wet hair away
from her face and twisting it round on the nape of her neck.

For a split second, Steve lay open-mouthed, spellbound.

Her skin was ...

Tearing his eyes away, he looked past her to see Cadillac climbing out
of the pool.  Christopher!  He was trapped!

Steve looked over his shoulder and considered cutting his way out of
the back of the hut by opening up one of the bound seams.  But that
would give the game away and besides, he might not get out in time.

Steve's mind went into overdrive.  He looked desperately around the
hut.  Hide...

but where?  Under the furs?  No - that's pathetic, Brickman.

Not enough cover.  Try and remember, you're a warrior now.  Let's have
a little dignity.  It would not do to be discovered hiding under the
bed - especially in the middle of some heavy action.  The answer
came.

Brazen it out.  But wait!  Get rid of the stuff!  You don't want to be
caught thieving.  Steve hurriedly pulled the ration pack and the
purifier kit out of his pockets, crammed them into the nearest basket,
threw on the lid, reached up, grabbed a wild plum from a bunch hanging
from a hut pole and dived onto the bearskins.

The door flap was pushed aside and the Mute girl entered.  She went
down on one knee and froze as she caught sight of Steve lying there
nonchalantly, legs crossed, and one hand behind his neck.

Heart pounding, Steve slowly extended his other hand towards the Mute
girl and offered her the plum.  'I saved one for you."

She didn't say anything.  She just moved inside far enough to let the
door flap close behind her.

'Go on, eat it,' continued Steve, trying to hide the slight tremor in
his voice.  'The others tasted real good."

The Mute just looked at him steadily.  Now she was this close, Steve
could see that she was not just a pretty face.  This lump was no soft
touch.  The strong, clear, ice-blue eyes set in the firm, well-boned
face had a surprising depth.  They radiated not only an unnerving
intelligence but also a hint of danger - the kind of shadowy menace you
felt when looking down the three barrels of a loaded rifle.

And her skin was now...

I don't believe it, thought Steve.

They gazed at each other for what seemed a long time but which, in
reality, was only two or three seconds, then the Mute took the plum
from Steve's hand, ate half of it, pulled the stone out with her white,
even teeth and gave the other half back to Steve.

I'm winning, thought Steve.  'Thank you.  Listen - your ' As the words
left his mouth, the basket he'd hidden the gear in toppled off a roll
of clothing, and spilled its contents onto a mat beside the Mute.  She
didn't need to say anything.