The dark side of the sun - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,40

clouds over the continent. Here and there a larger one moped apart from the main herds, squatting on its bloated rump and staring at the sky with mournful eyes, with a skin the unhealthy pallor of a sundog soon to undergo puberty. Usually they smelt of fermenting sweet-grass.

When Dom passed one it gave a tired whine and staggered a few yards on its stumpy legs before taking up its yearning position once more.

82 Erandini rose quickly towards noon.

The robot station was on the far side of the lake, probably because the lake was one of the few marker points on Band. Dom had decided to try there. Chatogaster had to be somewhere.

He paused for a sip of water and the cold, cooked leg of some flightless bird, courtesy of the autochef. The air was warm and springlike. The eternal sound of chewing as the sunpups grazed their way relentlessly round the world made a pleasant background.

The air in front of Dom crackled. A small metal sphere whirred to a halt and hung on its antigravs. It eyed Dom and extruded a mouthpiece.

‘I perceive you are an ambulatory intelligence, type B,’ it said. ‘Crackdown in this area is forecast in ten minutes. Don your protective clothing or seek chthonic safety.’

It rose and hurtled northwards screaming, ‘Crackdown! Crackdown! Beware of the eggs!’

‘Oi!’ bellowed Dom. The sphere returned, fast.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t understand.’

The sphere considered this. ‘I am a Class One mind,’ it said finally. ‘I will seek reinstruction.’

It disappeared again. A distant cry of, ‘Beware of the eggs,’ marked its going.

Dom watched it and shrugged. He looked round warily, drawing the memory sword from his belt. Most of the sunpups, in fact all except the sky watchers, were lying down and peacefully chewing. It looked idyllic.

Half a world away, and above the glowing surf of the atmosphere, Crackdown was beginning. The sundogs were in orbit. They had laid their eggs. Now incubation began its final stage.

The leading egg roared through the superheated air, the forward heatshell leaving a searing trail. Finally it cracked at the pointed end and the first parachute burst open. Around the egg the sky filled with other blossoming white membranes.

The first egg for ten years hit the ground a hundred miles to the north of Dom. The overheated shell burst into a thousand fragments that scythed the grass for yards around …

The second landed to the west of the lake. The shell exploded violently and red-hot shards showered over a herd of puppies who, in response to an ancient instinct, were lying down safely with their padded forepaws over their heads.

From behind one came a Phnobic curseword.

8

Dom bounced across the grass. Shell was flying all around him. There was already a long burn across one shoulder where a shard had narrowly missed taking off his head.

The ground in front suddenly dipped, and the lake stretched out in front of him. It was big. It was also cold, and probably safe. He gunned his sandals and took a standing jump.

The dive was from a height, and ended a long way down. He turned in a shoal of bubbles and struck out for surface. His ears rang. He was still sinking.

Unbelieving, he felt his feet touch the lake bottom. Goggle-eyed, he felt the water round his feet warm up as his sandals tried uselessly to push him to the surface. Drowning, he breathed a chestful of water.

He was several fathoms down. He was breathing water. He took another breath, and tried not to think about it.

The water is saturated with oxygen. It will sustain you.

A large silver fish stared at him, and was away with a flick of its tail. Something like a ten-legged crab scuttled over his feet.

Do not be frightened.

It was a sound. Something was talking to him.

‘You are Chatogaster, then.’ He peered into the murky water. ‘They looked for an aquatic creature, but they looked in the seas. I can’t see you.’

I am here. You are thinking in the wrong terms.

The water shone with stars. They winked on above, around, below. He could still feel the water eddy around him, but all other senses told him that he was standing and breathing in interstellar space. Deep space. The centre of a star cluster.

No, the hub of the galaxy.

‘It’s an illusion.’

No, it’s a memory. Watch.

At the hub of the galaxy where the stars rubbed shoulders and interstellar distances were measured in light weeks a planet was bathed in the violent light of a hundred suns. It was made of water.

At