"Now we are old and withered, Meikl?"
He looked around at the garden-forests in the distance. A second
childhood? he wondered. Was there a fourth phase?--a final perpetual
youth that would never reach another puberty? He wondered. The coming of
the sky-fleet might be a cultural coitus, but could there be conception?
* * * * *
A pair of junior officers came wandering along the ridge, speaking in
low tones and gazing down toward the valley. There was a casual exchange
of salutes as they approached the girl and the analyst. The officers
wore police armbands, and they asked for Meikl's fraternization permit,
using the spacer's tongue.
"Deserter troubles?" he asked, as they returned his papers.
"Nineteen last week," said one of the officers. "We've lost about three
hundred men since we landed."
"Found any of them?"
"Justice Section got sixty-three. The rest are probably hopeless."
Another exchange of salutes. The officers left.
"What did they want, Meikl?" she asked.
"Just idle conversation. It's nearly time for the meeting with the
elders. Let's go."
They began walking along the ridge together in the late sunlight. The
meeting was to attempt to explain to the elders of the Geoark that the
men of the fleet were not free to depart from the occupied zone. The
attempt would be fruitless, but ven Klaeden had ordered it.
From the viewpoint of the high command, three hundred desertions out of
nineteen thousand men over a period of six months was not an important
loss of personnel. What _was_ important: the slow decay of discipline
under the "no force" interdict. A policy of "no arrest" had been
established for the ausland. If a man escaped from the occupied zone,
Justice Section could send a detail to demand his return, but if he
refused, no force would be used, because of the horrified reaction of
the natives. If he were located, a killer was dispatched, armed with a
tiny phial, a hollow needle, and a CO_{2} gun that could be concealed in
the palm of the hand. The killer stalked the deserter until he caught
him alone, fired from cover, and stole quietly away while the deserter
plucked the needle out of his hide to stare at it in horror. He had a
week in which to get back to the occupied zone to beg for immunization;
if he did not, the spot would become alive with fungus, and the fungus
would spread, and within months, he would die rather grimly.
The real danger, Meikl knew, was not to the fleet but to the natives.
The spacers were cultural poison, and each deserter was a source of
infection moving into the native society, a focal point of restimulation
for any recessive kult'laenger lines that still existed in a peaceful
people after twenty thousand years.
"I think Evon will be here," the girl said too casually as they entered
the forest and turned into a path that led to the glade where the elders
had assembled.
He took her arm suddenly, and stopped in the pathway.
"Letha--you have worked for me many months."
"Yes--"
"I love you, Letha."
She smiled very slowly, and lifted her hands to his face. He kissed her
quietly, hating himself.
"You'll take me with you," she said.
"No." It was impossible.
"Then you'll stay."
"It is ... _forbidden_ ... _verboten_...." There was no word in the
tongue.
"I can't understand.... If you love...."
He swallowed hard. For the girl, "love" automatically settled
everything, and consummation must follow. How could he explain.
"Letha--in your culture, 'life' is the highest value."
"How could it be otherwise? Love me, Meikl."
He took a deep breath and straightened. "You understand 'drama', Letha.
I have watched your people. Their lives are continuous conscious
play-acting. Your lives are a dance, but you know you are dancing, and
you dance as you will. Have you watched our people?"