in bogs, or burning vegetation, or even the farts of Moon-calves. Though some scientists remained sceptical – and though nobody could say for sure if the Red Moon harboured anything like bogs or bacteria or cows – most people seemed to concur that there was indeed life on the Red Moon, life of some sort.
But was there intelligence?
Nobody had detected any structured radio signals. There had been no response to various efforts to signal to the Red Moon using radio and TV and laser, not to mention a few wacko methods, like the cutting of a huge right-angled triangle of ditches into the Saharan desert filled with burning oil.
But what were the mysterious lights that flickered over the night lands? Most observers claimed they were forest fires caused by lightning or drought. Perhaps, perhaps not. Could the streaming ‘wakes’ sometimes visible on the great oceans be the wakes of ships, or were they simply peculiar meteorological features? And what about the geometrical traces – circles, rectangles, straight lines – that some observers claimed to have made out in clearings along the coasts and river valleys of the Red Moon’s single huge continent? What were they but evidence of intelligence?
And if any of these signs were artificial, what kind of being might live up there to make them?
Malenfant was willing to admit that one manned expedition could do little to probe the mysteries of a world with fully half the surface area of Earth. But there were mysteries that no amount of remote viewing could unravel. The fact was, the most powerful telescope could not resolve an individual human being up there.
Malenfant was never going to find Emma by staring up from Earth.
But at this time of crisis, nobody wanted to see Malenfant’s drawings of rocket boosters and gliding spaceships.
Of course there was the question of resources, of priorities. But Malenfant suspected that people were shying away from dealing with the most fundamental issue here: the existence of the Red Moon itself. It was just too big, too huge, impossible to rationalize or grasp or extrapolate. The Wheel was different. A blue circle in the air, a magic doorway? Yes, we can imagine ways we might do that, even if we can’t think why we should. Peculiar-looking human beings falling out of the air? Yes, we know about the plasticity of the genome; we can even imagine time travel, the retrieval of our flat-browed ancestors. But what kind of power hangs a new Moon in our sky?
He didn’t last long in the water; it was too cold. He took a few brisk strokes until the water was shallow enough for him to walk. He splashed out of the surf, shivering, briskly dried himself on his shirt, and began to pull on his pants.
There was somebody standing beside the beached berg fragment, just a slim shadow in the grey dawn light, watching him.
Fire:
Maxie is running around Fire’s feet. ‘Hide and seek. Hide and seek, Fire. Hide and seek.’
Fire stares at Maxie. To him the boy is a blur of movement and noise, unpredictable, incomprehensible, fascinating.
Maxie has leaves on his head. They flutter away as he runs. Sally puts them back on. ‘No, Maxie,’ she says. ‘Be careful of the sun.’
‘Hide and seek, hide and seek.’ He stands still. His hands cover his eyes. ‘Hands, Fire, eyes, Fire.’ His hands cover his eyes.
Fire puts his hands over his eyes. It is dark. The night is dark. He starts to feel sleepy.
Maxie calls, ‘Eight nine ten ready! Fire Fire Fire!’
Fire lowers his hands. It is not night. The sunlight is bright. The world is red and green and blue. He blinks.
Maxie has gone away.
Fire sees Sing on her bower of leaves. He walks towards her. He has forgotten Maxie.
Maxie is at his feet. ‘Here I am, here I am!’ Maxie stamps his foot. Red dust rises and sticks to Maxie’s white flesh. ‘You have to try, you silly. You have to play it right. Try again, try again. Eyes, Fire, hands, Fire.’ He covers his eyes.
As the sun climbs into the sky, the game goes on. Every time Maxie disappears Fire forgets about him. Every time he comes back Fire is surprised to see him.
Fire grows hungry. Fire thinks of himself in the forest, eating nuts and berries and leaves. Fire lopes towards the forest.
‘Come back, come back, you nasty!’ Maxie falls to the dirt and howls.
Emma comes running to Fire. ‘Fire, are you going to the forest? Can I come with you?’
Fire. Forest. That is what Fire hears.
‘Em-ma,’ he says.
Emma has blue hair. Fire frowns. He thinks of Emma with brown hair. Fire’s hand touches Emma’s hair. The blue hair is smooth like skin. It has bits of white vine stuck to it.
Emma says, ‘It’s just a hat, Fire. Just parachute silk.’ She puts the blue hair back on her head and pulls the vines under her chin. ‘Can I come to the forest?’
There is something on Emma’s chest. It is bright red. Berries are bright red. Fire touches the berry. It is hard. It is stuck to a vine. The vine is around Emma’s neck. His teeth bite the berry-thing. It is hard, like a nut. His teeth cannot break the shell.
Emma pulls it back from him. ‘It’s my knife, Fire. I showed you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Look.’ Emma touches her knife. When she shows him again, there is a red part, and a part like a raindrop. There is a spot of light behind the raindrop, on Emma’s hand. Emma is smiling. ‘See, Fire? The lens? Remember this?’
Fire sees the raindrop and the light. He hoots.
Emma steps away. ‘Emma hungry. Emma forest. Fire forest. Emma Fire forest.’
Fire thinks of Emma and Fire in the forest, gathering berries, eating berries. He smiles. ‘Emma Fire forest. Berries trees nuts.’
Emma smiles. ‘Good. Let’s go.’ She takes his hand.
The forest is a huge mouth. It is dark and green and cool.
He waits at the edge of the forest. His ears listen, his eyes see. The forest is still.
His legs walk into the wood. His feet explore the ground, finding soft bare earth. His arms and his torso and his head duck around branches. He is not thinking of how his body is moving.
His eyes learn to see the dark. His nose smells, his ears listen. He is not aware of time passing, of the sun climbing in the sky, of the dappled bits of light at his feet sliding over the forest-floor detritus.
He sees a pitcher plant. It is a big purple sac, high above his head. His hands pull it down. There is water in the pitcher plant. There are insects in the water. His hand scoops out water and insects. He drinks the water. It tastes sweet. His teeth crunch the insects.
Emma is here. He has forgotten she was here. He gives her the pitcher plant.
Her hand lifts
