For the first time, Fortis noticed insects. The polar island had been devoid of anything except grass. Though George had mentioned the possibility of predators, they had seen no sign of life other than themselves and the coursers. He had spotted a few sea birds while sailing, and there were just a few more randomly wheeling over the harbor. He wondered if any of flying insects would bite, but no one else seemed concerned, not even having to wave them off. They were simply there.
The man called Francis led Fortis and George through the large open doorway of the shipping warehouse. Through the gloom of the windowless open space, Fortis spied another opening on the opposite side, a rather solid gate over a doorway too wide for simple human traffic. The other side must have been somewhat open, because in the light he could see wisps of dried grass scattered on the stone floor, rather like the fodder they had given the coursers during the voyage north from the polar island. The three of them mounted an airy but solid wooden stairway up, Fortis trailing. He heard the sound of the coursers planting their heavy feet on the pavement, then watched them being led in the wide doorway as one of the young workers trotted ahead to open the gate. From this angle, over the backs of the animals he could also see the warehouse was filled ceiling to floor with racks and shelves, and broad aisles. His last glimpse was of long, thin curved planks, and what appeared to be the tip of a pontoon.
They entered the upper story almost dead center in the long building. A row of chairs backed on the railing, similar to the chairs George left packed in the wagon, but with heavier frames. The fabric was more carefully tailored to accommodate the human form, and there were armrests. The chairs faced an unpolished, but very finely crafted wooden counter, separated by a wide space of what looked like seamless ceramic flooring, buffed in the center where traffic was the heaviest, semi-reflective elsewhere. After arranging the baggage on the counter, Francis ducked behind a curtained opening into a back room.
Fortis glanced out the back window over the stairs and saw a tent awning over what he took to be the corral. To his left was on open doorway and what appeared to be offices of some sort. In the other direction was a partially enclosed dining area, with an open buffet of some sort, as steam was rising from parts of the counter. Brightly colored serving handles stood at various angles just barely in line of sight. Smells of cooked food teased him. Three large tables with stools scattered about them were currently empty. Fortis estimated the evening meal was not so far off, and wondered what combination of workers or guests ate here. There was a window on the far wall. In the distance were several tents, some over frames he guessed were permanent.
His attention returned to the counter as Francis brought out first two very slender pack frames, which Fortis recognized by the curvature. There were a number of quick release straps of various widths. An assistant brought out another frame with small wheels, and a folded handle. He placed it on the floor at the end of the counter, disappeared inside the curtain only to pop back out with two slender bags, colored bright orange.
George turned to him, with one hand on the counter. Pointing to the rig where Francis was fastening the folded tent over the long orange bags, “Those are hammocks. In the forest the insects and other creatures like to climb into your warm bed if you are on the ground, or even on a raised cot. Forest rangers maintain camping spots where there are pairs of large trees spaced for tents and hammocks. The bright color is to prevent them getting lost in the half light of morning when we pack up.”
Fortis fingered the padding on one of the pack frames on which now a bedroll and a near empty pack was attached. Fortis had never been an athlete, nor had he been particularly lazy. But the extent of his physical exertions until now had been the automated training devices which stimulated the muscles while he lay quiescent, spooling yet more anthropological studies into his brain. Once or twice he had visited planets where walking was more common, but nothing like several days of hiking. He had already discovered muscles on the journey so far, and his body seemed to respond, but he was past his prime. Still, he was determined to face what ever was ahead, seeing George was obviously quite a bit older.
George responded to the unspoken question on Francis’ face, “Lance.” He turned to Fortis. “I take it you have nothing which resembles military training?”
Both is eyebrows shot up as Fortis shook his head. “Only the typical rough and tumble of boys and their wild imaginations of improbable combat skill.”
George chuckled. “In my experience, people with virtually no skill can still make reasonable use of these.” Francis laid along the length of the counter a pole made of that marvelous light wood. The center half was textured for gripping, and the diameter was a comfortable grip, indeed. One end slightly tapered, with an abrupt point. The other end smoothly tapered to a pale off-white tip. Rising back from this sharp point was a wicked trio of blades, long as an extended hand, each a half-finger width at the back, and barbed.
Fortis touched an edge lightly with his finger. It was sharp, but not like a razor. “What is this material?”
“Specialized ceramic. Only in the desert region can we produce enough heat to fuse the ingredients together, but it’s as hard as almost any metal, without being brittle.”
Fortis grasped it below the tip, leaned a little weight on it. Tilting his head toward it, “And just why is it so important I carry a weapon?”
George looked falsely pained by the implication he was hiding something from him. “Why, Fortis — there are predators in the forest.” Then he smiled slyly. “More than one kind.”
