第48节

Now that he was no longer being fed Dream Cap, Steve began to think

more clearly and was quick to realise that his conversations with Mr

Snow and Cadillac could be his lifeline. He had been told about

wordsmiths in the Field Intelligence briefing the crew had attended

before their departure from Nixon-Fort Worth. In a race of idiots, the

wordsmiths were the bright guys. Rare, gifted individuals who acted as

the communal brains for the Mute clans which harboured them. It was

known that Mutes could not read or write and since most were dum-dums

who didn't know what day it was they were totally reliant on the

memories of their wordsmiths. According to the three-man FINTEL team

who gave the briefing, the cleverest of these guys carried up to nine

hundred years of history around in their heads. They also possessed

the ability to put chunks of it to music - what were known as 'fire

songs' - plus a mental compendium of general knowledge that enabled

Mutes to survive!

In the decimation of the Southern Mutes in the centuries after the

Break-Out many wordsmiths were believed to have perished. Those who

escaped death during pacification and resettlement of the New

Territories had either moved north or were keeping an extremely low

profile. Figures were not available but it was believed that

wordsmiths were more numerous among the Plainfolk but not every clan

had one and those that did guarded them well. Apart from the obvious

advantages of owning a walking encylopaedia, it had become apparent

that possession of a wordsmith gave a clan a vital edge over their

rivals in other ways; ways which were still not fully understood. One

thing, however, was clear: a definite correlation had been established:

the more gifted the wordsmith, the more powerful the clan.

Having been told repeatedly from the age of three that Mutes did not

take prisoners, Steve could not understand why his life had been

spared. He longed to know the answer but it was theone question he

studiously avoided asking his captors. At the back of his mind was a

lurking fear he might learn that their calendar might include some

bizarre festival at which the entire M'Call clan solemnly dined off

roast cloud warrior. If that was what was waiting at the end of the

road he preferred not to know about it. Steve contented himself with

expressing his appreciation to all the Mutes who helped nurse him back

to health and congratulated himself on his luck at being shot down by

Cadillac. Apart from being intelligent and good-humoured, he and Mr

Snow were insatiably curious. Great. Couldn't be better.

Steve was prepared to assuage their thirst for learning. He would feed

them the entire Tracker vocabulary one word at a time, plus everything

they wanted to know about the Federation in the minutest detail. And

what he didn't know, he would make up. He would spin out the material

by getting them to tell him everything they knew. As long as they felt

they were onto a good deal they would keep him alive. After all - who

else did they have to talk to?

In the long periods when he was left alone, Steve dwelt on the

possibility of escape. He wondered if the wreckage of his Skyhawk had

been abandoned or whether any bits of the airframe or equipment had

been kept as trophies. It had not escaped his notice that one of the

female lumpheads assigned to bring him food had blue and red electric

cable threaded through her plaited hair. Maybe someone had ripped out

the radio. Although normally powered by the motor, it carried its own

battery pack for use in an emergency. There was also the survival

equipment he had been carrying: air pistol, combat knife, map, food

concentrates, flares, and a portable pocket-sized emergency radio

beacon that enabled the wagon train to home in on a downed wingman.

Steve had been stripped of everything except his underpants but he had

seen Cadillac wearing the top half of his flight fatigues. The pockets

had been empty.

That meant the goodies they held were probably stashed away

somewhere.

If so ...

Steve spent many happy hours devising elaborately detailed escape

scenarios - all of which ended in triumph with a suitably thunderous

welcome at Grand Central. It was an agreeable fantasy. No Tracker

who had fallen into the hands of the Mutes had ever lived to tell the

tale. As the days passed and the strength gradually returned to his

body, Steve became convinced that he wis going to make it. He would be

the first. His skill and daring would more than make up for his

failure to gain top marks and the coveted Minuteman Trophy. His master

plan would be back on course.

Set down outside Cadillac's hut for the first time in daylight