A short while later—it is impossible to know whether an hour or two has passed—Marcind leaves the dwelling.
Tarem walks beside him, although Marcind suspects that his role is not limited to helping him stay on his feet. Outside, the sunlight is so intense that it forces him to squint. It is cold—very cold—and the wind blows hard. At times it seems to come from different directions. Marcind is not accustomed to such conditions, and folds his arms around himself in an attempt to lessen their constant impact.
The settlement is larger than he had been able to make out from Betty. Dozens of low structures are scattered irregularly around paths of dirt and rock. Some walls are made of stone; others, of hardened mud. Roofs are fashioned from interwoven fibers and reused metal plates. That catches his attention.
What surprises him even more, however, is the amount of metal—far more than he expected to see. Some pieces appear to have been worked; others clearly were not made for the purpose they now serve. A curved sheet forms a roof; a toothed piece has been fitted into a door; a rusted cylinder collects water beneath a gutter.
Marcind stops to look. Tarem stops too.
“Where did you get this?”
Tarem follows the direction of his gaze. He does not understand the question. They continue on.
There are people everywhere, and every one of them, without exception, watches Marcind as though trying to determine what exactly they are looking at. The children are the least discreet. Two of them follow him for several meters amid laughter, shouts, and incomprehensible words. Farther ahead, three more appear and join them. One girl comes too close, prompting a woman to seize her by the arm and pull her away without gentleness.
Marcind studies the woman’s dirty face and senses that her furrowed brow expresses not fear but perhaps caution and annoyance. It does not reassure him that they are not afraid of him when his mere presence provokes such a reaction.
“Where the hell am I?” he asks the man walking beside him.
Tarem points ahead. Betty appears behind several structures.
Marcind stops.
“Oh, no.”
The aircraft is in worse shape than he remembered.
The left wing is partially destroyed. The propeller is gone. The landing gear has collapsed, and the fuselage rests at an angle on an improvised structure of wood and stone. Several people are working around it.
Marcind hurries forward, but the pain in his side forces him to suppress a protest.
When they see him coming, some step aside; others do not. One of the men has opened a section of the fuselage.
“Don’t touch that!” Marcind shouts.
He pushes the man away as best he can despite the pain. The man reacts at once and moves a hand toward a knife. Tarem intervenes. He speaks a few firm words. The man looks at Marcind and, after a moment, walks away.
“You can’t open her up like that,” Marcind exclaims, as though anyone there could understand him.
He examines the compartment. They do not appear to have caused any damage yet. He runs a hand over the fuselage. BETTY is still written along the side, although several of the letters are scratched.
“They’ve made you beautiful.”
Tarem looks at the aircraft and says something.
“Yeah. I don’t think she’ll fly again either,” Marcind says with a nod.
He crouches and looks underneath. He confirms that the structural damage is severe—very severe. But something else concerns him more.
He straightens. He searches the rear compartment and notices that it is open.
“No.”
He looks inside. It is empty. He turns toward Tarem.
“There was a box here.”
Tarem does not understand. Marcind draws a rectangle with his hands.
“Box.”
Nothing. Marcind looks around.
“Container.”
Tarem continues to stare at him. Marcind points inside Betty, then spreads his hands apart.
“Here. There was something here.”
Tarem’s expression changes. Apparently, he has understood that. He looks toward the settlement.
Marcind follows his gaze.
“Who has it?”
Tarem begins to walk.
“Perfect.”
Marcind follows him.
END OF AVAILABLE CHAPTERS