10000 Light Years From Home Part 12

"Never mind-take me there! That's Earth, it has to be. You can find it again, can't you? You said you could," he implored, pawing at them. "Please!"

The Lovepile rocked. He was frightening everybody.

"Oh, please." He forced his voice smooth.

"But I only heard it for an instant," Bushbaby protested. "It would be terribly hard, that far back.

My poor head!"

He was on his knees begging. "You'd love it," he pleaded. "We have fantastic food. Culinary poems you never heard of. Cordon bleu! Escoffier!" he babbled, "Talk about combinations, the Chinese do it four ways! Or is it the j.a.panese? Rijsttafel! Bubble-and-squeak! Baked Alaska, hot crust outside, inside co-o-old ice cream!"

Bushbaby's pink tongue flicked. Was he getting through?

He clawed his memory for foods he'd never heard of.

"Maguay worms in chocolate! Haggis and bagpipes, crystallized violets, rabbit Mephisto! Octopus in resin wine. Four-and-twenty blackbird pie! Cakes with girls in them. Kids seethed in their mothers'

milk-wait, that's taboo. Ever hear of taboo foods? Long pig!"

Where was he getting all this? A vague presence drifted in his mind-his hands, the ridges, long ago.

"Amanda," he breathed, racing on.

"Cormorants aged in manure! Ratatouille! Peaches iced in champagne!" Project, he thought. "Pate of fatted goose liver studded with earth-drenched truffles, clothed in purest white lard!" He snuffled l.u.s.tfully. "Hot b.u.t.tered scones sluiced in whortleberry syrup!" He salivated. "Finnan haddie souffle, oh, yes! Unborn baby veal pounded to a membrane and delicately scorched in black herb b.u.t.ter-"

Bushbaby and Ragglebomb were clutching each other, eyes closed. Muscle was mesmerized.

"Find Earth! Grape leaves piled with poignantly sweet wild fraises, clotted with Devon cream!"

Bushbaby moaned, rocking to and fro.

"Earth! Bitter endives wilted in chicken steam and crumbled bacon! Black gazpacho! Fruit of the Tree of Heaven!"

Bushbaby rocked harder, the b.u.t.terfly clamped to its breast.

Earth, Earth, he willed with all his might, croaking "Bahklava! Gossamer puff paste and pistachio nuts dripping with mountain honey!"

Bushbaby pushed at Ragglebomb's head, and the pod seemed to twirl.

"Ripe Cornice pears," he whispered. "Earth?"

"That's it." Bushbaby fell over panting. "Oh, those foods, I want every single one. Let's land!"

"Deep-dish steak and kidney pie," he breathed. "Pearled with crusty onion dumplings-"

"Land!" Ragglebomb squealed. "Eat, eat!"

The pod jarred. Solidity. Earth.

Home.

"LET ME OUT!".

He saw a pucker opening daylight in the wall and dived for it. His legs pumped, struck. Earth! Feet thudding, face uplifted, lungs gulping air. "Home!" he yelled.

-And went headlong on the gravel, arms and legs out of control. A cataclysm smote his inside."Help!"

His body arched, spewed vomit, he was flailing, screaming.

"Help, Help! What's wrong?"

Through his noise he heard an uproar behind him in the pod. He managed to roll, saw gold and black bodies writhing inside the open port. They were in convulsions too.

"Stop it! Don't move!" Bushbaby shrieked. "You're killing us!"

"Get us out," he gasped. "This isn't Earth."

His throat garroted itself on his breath, and the aliens moaned in empathy.

"Don't! We can't move," Bushbaby gasped. "Don't breathe, close your eyes quick!"

He shut his eyes. The awfulness lessened slightly.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"PAIN, YOU FOOL," thundered Muscle.

"This is your wretched Earth," Bushbaby wailed. "Now we know what they tied your pain nerves to. Get back in so we can go-carefully!"

He opened his eyes, got a glimpse of pale sky and scrubby bushes before his eyeb.a.l.l.s skewered.

The empaths screamed.

"Stop! Ragglebomb die!"

"My own home," he whimpered, clawing at his eyes. His whole body was being devoured by invisible flames, crushed, impaled, flayed. The pattern of Earth, he realized. Her unique air, her exact gestalt of solar spectrum, gravity, magnetic field, her every sight and sould and touch-that was what they'd tuned his pain-circuits for.

"Evidently they did not want you back," said Muscle's silent voice. "Get in."

"They can fix me, they've got to fix me-"

"They aren't here," Bushbaby shouted. "Temporal error. No snap-crackle-pop. You and your baked Alaska-" Its voice broke pitifully. "Come back in so we can go!"

"Wait," he croaked. "When?"

He opened one eye, managed to see a rocky hillside before his forehead detonated. No roads, no buildings. Nothing to tell whether it was past or future. Not beautiful.

Behind him the aliens were crying out. He began to crawl blindly toward the pod, teeth clenching over salty gushes. He had bitten his tongue. Every move seared him; the air burned his guts when he had to breathe. The gravel seemed to be slicing his hands open, although no wounds appeared. Only pain, pain, pain from every nerve end.

"Amanda," he moaned, but she was not here. He crawled, writhed, kicked like a pinned bug toward the pod that held sweet comfort, the bliss of no-pain. Somewhere a bird called, stabbing his eardrums.

His friends screamed.

"Hurry!"

Had it been a bird? He risked one look back.

A brown figure was sidling round the rocks.

Before he could see whether it was ape or human, female or male, the worst pain yet almost tore his brain out. He groveled helpless, hearing himself shriek. The pattern of his own kind. Of course, the central thing-it would hurt most of all. No hope of staying here.

"Don't! Don't! Hurry!"

He sobbed, scrabbling toward the Lovepile. The scent of the weeds that his chest crushed raked his throat. Marigolds, he thought. Behind the agony, lost sweetness.

He touched the wall of the pod, gasping knives. The torturing air was real air, his terrible Earth wasreal.

"GET IN QUICK!".

"Please, plea-" he babbled wordlessly, hauling himself up with lids clenched, fumbling for the port.

The real sun of Earth rained acid on his flesh.

The port! Inside lay relief, would be No-Pain forever. Caress-joy-why had he wanted to leave them? His hand found the port.

Standing, he turned, opened both eyes.

The form of a dead limb printed a whiplash on his eyeb.a.l.l.s. Jagged, ugly. Unendurable. But real- To hurt forever?

"We can't wait!" Bushbaby wailed. He thought of its golden body flying down the lightyears, savoring delight. His arms shook violently.

"Then go!" he bellowed and thrust himself violently away from the Lovepile.

There was an implosion behind him.

He was alone.

He managed to stagger a few steps forward before he went down.

FAITHFUL TO THEE, TERRA, IN OUR FASHION.

"KEEB'Y VAAAAL YA! HE-E-E-ERE THEY COME!".

The best-known cry in Galactica floated up through Peter Christmas's office window. The big brown man let his eyes stray from the tridi to the scene below.

A gaggle of little dinosaurs were streaking by the stands, their jeweled hides flashing in the light of Raceworld's morning. Raceworld! Christmas's jaw softened briefly before he turned back to his visitor, who was furling and unfurling himself irritably on the courtesy perch.

"But is not flying! On Xemos we do not call this flying!"

"Mr. Porridan," Christmas said, "it's not a question of being able to fly well, to fly over mountains and so on. If you wish to enter your animals in the Non-Flying Avian cla.s.ses, they must not fly at all. No flapping, no gliding even for a few steps. Look at that fellow there!"

He pointed to the tridi where an ostrich-sized fowl was brandishing his pinions and lofting himself easily as he pranced about. Porridan's vaguely human face took on an insulted air, like a dog rejecting inferior biscuits.

"Mr. Porridan, do you realize what would happen if your entry did that during a race? First, it would be disqualified, and you would lose your entry fee and costs, not to mention what Raceworld would lose in compensating the mutuels. Second, you would undoubtedly get a judgment for fouling and damages by some of the other contestants, which would come out of your planetary, bond. Thirdly, somebody might get hurt, which means really expensive reparations, and of course I, as Chief Steward, would be responsible for an improper ruling. That happened once a long while back when we weren't so careful.

An entry with hidden inflatable vanes got into the NFA sulky cla.s.s and the cursed thing took off over the finish line-with the sulky-and not only injured three other drivers but crashed in the stands. Nearly five million credits to settle that one.... Excuse me a moment."

He turned to his chiming intercom.

"Yes, Hal? Fine, I'll lift the quarantine right away. No, for Solsake, Hal, I've told you a jillion tunes better ten false alarms than one epizootic. You call 'em as you see 'em, I'll back you if I have to isolate every animal on the planet. Wait, Hal-I have a problem with an NFA entry that's going to need belly straps. The planet rep claims it'll upset his birds, they won't run with straps. His birds are coming in on MT today about second period. Can you meet the rep there and work something out? Porridan-no, Pas in problem. From Xemos Three, right? Thanks, Hal.

"That was our chief veterinarian, Mr. Porridan-Doctor Lament. La-mont. He will meet you when your birds come through and I know he will find a solution"-Porridan was glaring through his dewlaps-"which will permit your splendid animals to display their magnificent running ability before the eyes of the whole galaxy," Christmas added hopefully. "They're great birds, Mr. Porridan. Believe me, Raceworld wants to show them at their best as much as you do."

"We of the poor backward worlds meet with humiliations from the so-called fair play of the Galactic Imperialists!" Porridan wailed. "Because we are poor you insult our culture!"

He flung his shoulder membranes over his head, dislodging several diamond ear-clips which rolled on the floor. Christmas helped retrieve them.

After Porridan had counted them, Christmas said, "There's one other little matter, sir. The bursar is rather puzzled over an entry in your cost sheet. Could you give us some clarification on the, ah, auxiliary animals item?"

"But we were guaranteed free transport," Porridan shrilled. "Are we now to be cheated here, too?"

"Not at all, Mr. Porridan, please calm yourself. As you said, Gal Q offers free matter transport and lodging to any planet wishing to send an entry to Raceworld, up to a certain ma.s.s. That includes the competing annuals, plus trainers, jockeys or drivers, veterinary and so on, plus food and supplies as appropriate. The auxiliary animals category is intended to cover certain cases where the racers require other animals, such as their young, or biological symbiotes, or even mascots or imprinted animals, for their well-being. But we do require a word of explanation when the shipment runs as high as yours-that is, two hundred auxiliaries. Just what are these extra animals, Mr. Porridan?"

Porridan had furled himself so that only his large aggrieved eyes were visible.

"Female animals," he said coldy.

"Oh, but I see some of your racing birds are female... what species are these other females?"

Porridan shrugged. "Just females."

"You mean female Zemosians? Like you?"

"Females are not people!"

"In other words, these females are not for the animals but for the training staff, right? But you have only twenty male personnel. Do these females perform any service in connection with the racing animals?"

"Of course not. What could they do?"

"I see. Mr. Porridan, I deplore having to pry like this, but you must see this is a fantastic expense to Gal Q. Transporting ma.s.s from your position at the rim is-"

"Ah! Again you insult us because we are far away and backward!"

"Mr. Porridan, no one is insulting you. It's a question of fair play. What would all the other planetary teams say if we let you bring in ten females for every trainer and driver?"

"Ten females are not for trainers and drivers!" Porridan squealed. Refurling himself furiously, he started for the door. "You insult even our inmost life! Xemosian females are not for discussion. The Treaty of Xemos can be reopened! Poor as we are, we can still die for our honor!"

"Mr. Porridan, wait!"