The blinding flash was the last thing he clearly remembered for a long time to come.

VII. THE BOOK OF THE SEA

Alvin’s Tale

So there we were, just arrived at the top-end tram platform after a long ride from Wuphon Port, and no sooner do Huck, Pincer, and me step off the tram car (with little Huphu riding Pincer’s shell for luck) than our urrish pal, Ur-ronn, gallops up all flushed and bothered. Without offering so much as a greeting-preamble, she commences to prancing, snaking her narrow head back and forth, and hissing at us in that awful version of GalTwo she must’ve picked up back when she was grub-sized, foraging in the grass out on the Warril Plain. You know the dialect I mean — the one that drops every other double-click phrase stop, so at first all I could make out was a bunch of basso tone pulses conveying frenzied excitement.

Worse, a moment later she starts nipping at us, like we were a bunch of pack donkeys to be herded down the hall!

“Hrrrrm! Now hold it right there,” I insisted. “Nothing ever gets done right by letting yourself get so igsee frantic. Whatever you’ve got to say can surely wait for a proper hello to friends you haven’t seen in weeks. After all — yi-houongwa!”

Yes, that was a hoonish throat-blat of pain. Huck had rolled one of her main-wheels over my left foot.

“Varnish it, Alvin. You sound just like your father!”

My father? I thought. How utterly ungloss.

“Haven’t you been listening to Ur-ronn?” Huck went on.

My sac panted a few times as I ran back over the last few duras, piecing together some of what Ur-ronn was nattering about.

It was a wild tale all right, and we’ve told each other some whoppers.

“Hr-r-r — a starship?” I stared at our urrish pal. “You mean it this time? It’s not just a comet, like you tried fooling us with a year ago?”

Ur-ronn stamped a forefoot, knowing I had her nailed. Switching to Anglic, she swore. “This tine for real! Ve-lieve ne! I heard Uriel and Gyfz talking. They caught it on flates!”

On plates, I translated from the way her cleft upper lip mangles some Anglic consonants. Photographic plates. Maybe Ur-ronn wasn’t having us on, after all. “Can we see?” I asked.

An urrish moan of frustration. “You jeekee file of scales and fur! That’s where I veen trying to take you guys since the tran stoffed!”

“Oh.” I bowed with a sweep of one arm. “Well then, what are we waiting around here for? Let’s go!”

Years ago, Uriel the Smith inherited the Mount Guenn works from Ur-tanna, who was liege-heir to Ulennku, who got the sprawling underground mill from her own dying master, the great Urnunu, who rebuilt those mighty halls after quakes shook the Slope like a wet noor during the Year of the Egg. Before that, the tale goes back to a misty time before humans brought paper memory to Jijo, when wisdom had to fit in someone’s living head or else be lost. Back to days when urrish settlers had to fight and prove themselves more than mere galloping savages, roaming the grassy plains, beholden to high-caste qheuens for everything they owned.

Ur-ronn used to recite the legend during our adventure trips. Even allowing for exaggeration, those must’ve been brave urs who climbed fuming volcano heights to build the first crude forges near fiery lava springs, toiling through cinders and constant danger to learn the secret of reworking Buyur metal and break the Gray Queens’ tool-monopoly forever.

It kind of makes you glad humans didn’t come any sooner, ’cause the answers would’ve been right there in some book — how to make knives and lenses and windows and such. Sure, it would’ve made it easier for the other exile races to free themselves from dominion by qheuenish woodcarvers. On the other hand, all you have to do is hear Ur-ronn’s lisping tale to know what pride her folk won from all that work and sacrifice.

They did it themselves, you see, earning liberty and self-respect. Ask any hoon how we’d feel without our swaying ships. Earthling lore has made improvements, but no one gave us the sea! Not our far-off Guthatsa patrons, or the Great Galactic Library, or our selfish ancestors who dumped us on Jijo, naive and unready. It’s a proud thing to have done it for ourselves.

Pride can be important, when you don’t have much else.

Before entering the forge-inferno, Pincer-Tip draped a water-soaked mantle over his soft red carapace. I gathered my cloak around me while Huck checked her goggles and axle-guards. Then Ur-ronn led us past overlapping leather curtains into the Works.

We hurried along a walkway of treated boo, hung between bubbling pools that glowed white with Jijo’s blood heat. Cleverly diverted updrafts guided smoldering vapors into stone baffles, venting them outside to look no different than any other smoker on Mount Guenn’s flank.

Huge buckets dangled overhead — one filled with reclaimed Buyur scrap and the other with a sandy mix — each waiting to be dipped in that blazing heat, then poured into clay molds. Urrish workers hauled pulleys and ladles. Another twirled a big glob of liquid glass at the end of a tube, spinning it round and round to form a flat whirling disk that turned solid as it thinned and cooled, a window destined for homes far away from here.

They were assisted by several gray qheuens who, in one of Jijo’s ironies, turned out to be the other sept well suited to these conditions. The grays may even be happier than when their queens used to dominate the Commons. But I never could read much expression on their stony cupolas. I often wonder how our wild, emotional Pincer could be related to them.

Farther from the heat, half a dozen g’Keks skittered across the smooth floor, handling account ledgers, while a traeki specialist with throbbing synthi rings tasted each mix to certify the mill’s products would rust or decay in less than two hundred years, as required by the sages.

Some orthodox scroll-pounders say we shouldn’t have smithies at all — that they’re vanities, distracting us from salvation through forgetfulness. But I think the place is gloss, even if the smoke frets my throat sac and sets my spine-scales itching.

Ur-ronn led us through more curtains into the Laboratory Grotto, where Uriel studies the secrets of her art —  both those hard-won by her ancestors and others delved from human texts. Clever breezes freshened the air, allowing us to loosen our protections. Pincer gratefully doffed his heavy mantle and doused his red carapace at a shower-alcove. Huphu splashed eagerly while I sponged my sac. Ur-ronn kept her distance from the water, preferring a brief roll in some clean dry sand.

Huck skittered down a hallway lined with many doors, peering into various laboratory chambers. “Hsst! Alvin!” she whispered urgently, waving me over with one arm and two eyestalks. “Come look. Care to guess who’s here again?”

“Who is it?” Pincer whistled, leaving five wet trails of prints behind him. Ur-ronn daintily avoided the moist tracks with her rattling hooves.

I already had a pretty good idea who Huck was talking about, since no ship passenger enters Wuphon without being known to the harbor master — my mother. She hadn’t announced anything, but I knew from overheard snatches that the latest dross ship had brought an important human visitor, one who debarked at night, heading straight to the Mount Guenn tram.

“Hrrrm. I’ll bet you a sweetboo cane it’s that sage again,” I ventured before arriving at the door. “The one from Biblos.”