"Don't ask me. It's your idea, with talk of stage plays and phoney
accidents. You made me feel it. I come down to find out. You've been
the victim of something ... I don't know what. Are you comforted?"
"No. If only we had more time!"
"We've got a few days," Spliid reassured him. "You've got a good idea
in that stage play simile. But the actors aren't very good, and the
directing is abominable. It takes a lot of rehearsal to make a good
play, Cliff."
For a long time after the pilot boat drifted down from the upper air
and whispered away toward the stars with Commander Spliid, Rowley stood
brooding, looking down into the pool of shadows hiding the village.
Stage play. Actors. What happens to the scenery when the audience goes
home? Rowley shrugged and went to bed.
* * * * *
In the morning, Rowley stirred together an unpalatable breakfast, then
went down into the village. The natives were already stirring. Children
ran in the grassy streets. The solid stone of the houses gleamed white
and gray, streaked and spotted with brown, crumbling at the corners.
The thatched roofs were ochre, glistening blue-grey with dew.
Painted scenery? The slender, racing children--hired extras? And
Tsu--the leading lady?
He felt miserable about disturbing Tsu and Smarin today. It was
intrusion on their period of mourning. Did they mourn on Hume?
There was nothing of mournful bereavement about the little stone house,
gay in the sunshine, with its clustering border of purple, rose and
yellow flowers. The inside was dark-brown dim, but he caught a glimpse
of movement. He stepped to the door, leaned with his hand on the jamb,
waiting to be noticed.
"_Sintaha_ Rowley! Good morning. Here is Tsu."
Rowley dug his nails into the door post. Tsu came out skipping, but he
was unaware of her. Torl ... Torl who was dead yesterday ... smiled at
him and retreated into the interior.
Tsu took his hand, brushing against him with her usual easy
familiarity. He realized that his fingers trembled in her grip.