[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There had to be a way for Sub-Archivist
Clarey to get up in the world--but this
way was right out of the tri-di dramas.
Clarey had checked in at Classification Center so many times that he
came now more out of habit than hope. He didn't even look at the card
that the test machine dropped into his hand until he was almost to the
portway. And then he stopped. "Report to Room 33 for reclassification,"
it said.
Ten years before, Clarey would have been ecstatic, sure that
reclassification could be only in one direction. The machine had
not originally given him a job commensurate with his talents; why
should it suddenly recognize them? He'd known of people who had been
reclassified--always downward. I'm a perfectly competent Sub-Archivist,
he told himself; I'll fight.
But he knew fighting wouldn't help. All he had was the right to refuse
any job he could claim was not in his line; the government would then
be obligated to continue his existence. There were many people who did
subsist on the government dole: the aged and the deficient and the
defective--and creative artists who refused to trammel their spirits
and chose to be ranked as Unemployables. Clarey didn't fit into those
categories.
Dispiritedly, he passed along innumerable winding corridors and up
and down ramps that twisted and turned to lead into other ramps and
corridors. That was the way all public buildings were designed. It
was forbidden for the government to make any law-abiding individual
think the way it wanted him to think. But it could move him in any
direction it chose, and sometimes that served its purpose as well as
the reorientation machines.
So the corridors he passed through were in constant eddying movement,
with a variety of individuals bent on a variety of objectives. For the
most part, they were of Low Echelon status, though occasionally an
Upper Echelon flashed his peremptory way past. Even though most L-Es
attempted to ape the U-E dress and manner, you could always tell the
difference. You could tell the difference among the different levels of
L-E, too--and there was no mistaking the Unemployables in their sober
gray habits, devoid of ornament. It was, Clarey sometimes thought when
guilt feelings bothered him, the most esthetic of costumes.
* * * * *
The machine in Room 33 extracted whatever information it was set to
receive, then spewed Clarey out and sent him on his way to Rooms 34,
35, and 36, where other machines repeated the same process. Room 37
proved to be that rare thing in the hierarchy of rooms--a destination.
There was a human Employment Commissioner in it, splendidly garbed in
crimson silvet and alexandrites--very Upper Echelon, indeed. He wore a
gold mask, a common practice with celebrities who were afraid of being
overwhelmed by their admirers, an even more common practice with U-E
non-celebrities who enjoyed the thrill of distinguished anonymity.
Then Clarey stopped looking at the Commissioner. There was a girl
sitting next to him, on a high-backed chair like his. Clarey had never
seen a U-E girl so close before. Only the Greater Archivists had
direct contact with the public, and Clarey wasn't likely to meet a U-E
socially, even if he'd had a social life. The girl was too fabulous
for him to think of her as a woman, a female; but he would have liked
to have her in his archives, in the glass case with the rare editions.
"Good morning, Sub-Archivist Clarey," the man said mellowly. "Good
of you to come in. There's rather an unusual position open and the
machines tell us you're the one man who can fill it. Please sit down."
He indicated a small, hard stool.
Clarey remained standing. "I've been a perfectly competent
Sub-Archivist," he declared. "If MacFingal has--if there have been any
complaints, I should have been told first."
"There have been no complaints. The reclassification is upward."
"You mean I've made it as a Musician!" Clarey cried, sinking to the
hard little stool in joyful atony.
"Well, no, not exactly a Musician. But it's a highly artistic type of
job with possible musical overtones."
Clarey became a hollow man once more. No matter what it was, if it
wasn't as duly accredited Musician, it didn't matter. The machine could
keep him from putting his symphonies down on tape, but it couldn't keep
them from coursing in his head. That it could never take away from
him. Or the resultant headache, either.
"What is the job, then?" he asked dully.
"A very important position, Sub-Archivist. In fact, the future welfare
of this planet may depend on it."
"It's a trick to make me take a job nobody else wants," Clarey sneered.
"And it must be a pretty rotten job for you to go to so much trouble."
The girl, whom he'd almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he
noticed, were hazel. There were L-E girls, he supposed, who also had
hazel eyes--but a different hazel.
* * * * *
"Perhaps this will convince you of the job's significance," the
interviewer said huffily. He took off his mask and looked at Clarey
with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged-to-elderly
face.
There was an awkward interval. "Don't you recognize me?" he demanded.
Clarey shook his head. The girl laughed again.
"A blow to my ego, but proof that you're the right man for this job.
I'm General Spano. And this is my Mistress, Secretary Han Vollard."
The girl inclined her head.
"At least you must know my name?" Spano said querulously.
"I've heard it," Clarey admitted. "'The Fiend of Fomalhaut,' they call
you," he went on before he could catch himself and stop the words.
The girl clapped her hand over her mouth, but the laughter spilled out
over and around it, pretty U-E laughter.
Spano finally laughed, too. "It's a phrase that might be used about
any military man. One carries out one's orders to the best of one's
ability."
"Besides," Clarey observed in a non-Archivistic manner, "what concern
have I with your military morality?"
"He's absolutely perfect for the job, Steff!" she cried. "I didn't
think the machines were that good!"
"We mustn't underestimate the machines, Han," Spano said. "They're
efficient, very efficient. Someday they'll take over from us."
"There're some things they'll never be able to do," she said. Her hazel
eyes lingered on Clarey's. "Aren't you glad, Archivist?"
"Sub-Archivist," he corrected her frostily. "And I hadn't really
thought about it."
"That's not what the machines say, Sub-Archivist," she told him, her
voice candy-sweet. "They deep-probed your mind. You don't do anything,
but you've thought about it a lot, haven't you?"
Clarey felt the blood surge up. "My thoughts are my own concern. You
haven't the right to use them to taunt me."
"But I think you're attractive," she protested. "Honestly I do. In a
different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little weight, dye
your hair, and--"
"And I wouldn't be different any more," Clarey finished. That wasn't
true; he would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just
unappealing. He was below average height and his eyes and hair and skin
were too light. In the past, he knew, there had been pale races and
dark races on Earth. With the discovery of other intelligent life-forms
to discriminate against together, the different races had fused into
a swarthy unity. Of course he could hide his etiolation with dye and
cosmetics, but those of really good quality cost more than he could
afford, and cheap maquillage was worse than none. Besides, why should
his appearance mean anything to anybody but himself? He'd had enough
beating around the bush! "Would you mind telling me exactly what the
job is?"
"Intelligence agent," said Spano.
"Isn't it exciting?" she put in. "Aren't you thrilled?"
* * * * *
Clarey bounced angrily from his chair. "I won't sit here and be
ridiculed!"
"Why ridiculed?" Spano asked. "Don't you consider yourself an
intelligent man?"
"Being an intelligence agent has nothing to do with intelligence!"
Clarey said furiously. "The whole thing's silly, straight out of the
tri-dis."
"What do you have against the tri-dis, Sub-Archivist?" Spano's voice
was very quiet.
"Don't you like any of them?" the girl said. "I just adore _Sentries of
the Sky_!" Her enthusiasm was tinged, obscurely, with warning.
"Well, I enjoy it, too," Clarey said, sinking back to the stool. "It's
very entertaining, but I'm sure it isn't meant to be taken seriously."
"Oh, but it is, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Spano said. "_Sentries of the
Sky_ happens to be produced by my bureau. We want the public to know
all about our operations--or as much as it's good for them to know--and
they find it more palatable in fictionalized form."
"Documentaries always get low ratings," the girl said. "And you can't
really blame the public--documentaries are dull. Myself, I like a love
interest." Her eyes rested lingeringly on Clarey's.
They must think I'm a fool, Clarey thought; yet why would they bother
to fool me? "But I am given to understand," he said to Spano, "even by
the tri-dis, that an intelligence agent needs special training, special
qualifications."
"In this case, the special qualifications outweigh the training. And
you have the qualifications we need for Damorlan."
"According to the machines, all I'm qualified for is human filing
cabinet. Is that what you want?"
Spano was growing impatient. "Look, Clarey, the machines have decided
that you are not a Musician. Do you want to remain a Sub-Archivist for
the rest of your days or will you take this other road? Once you're on
a U-E level, you can fight the machines; tape your own music if you
like."
Clarey said nothing, but his initial hostility was ebbing slowly away.
"I wanted to be a writer," Spano said. "The machines said no. So
I became a soldier, rose to the top. Now--this is in strictest
confidence--I write most of the episodes of _Sentries of the Sky_
myself. There's always another route for the man with guts and vision,
and, above all, faith. Why don't we continue the discussion over
lunch?"
* * * * *
It was almost unthinkable for L-E and U-E to eat together. For Clarey
this was an honor--too great an honor--and there was no way out of it.
Spano and the girl put on their masks; the general touched a section of
the wall and it slid back. There was a car waiting for them outside.
It skimmed over the delicately wrought, immensely strong bridges that,
together with the tunnels, linked the great glittering metropolis into
a vast efficient whole.
Spano was not really broadminded. Although they went to the _Aurora
Borealis_, it was through a side door, and they were served in a
private dining room. Clarey was glad and nettled at the same time.
The first few mouthfuls of the food tasted ambrosial; then it cloyed
and Clarey had to force it down with a thin, almost astringent pale
blue liquid. In itself, the liquor had only a mild, slightly pungent
taste, but it made everything else increasingly delightful--the
warm, luxurious little room, the perfume that wafted from the
air-conditioning ducts, Han Vollard.
"Martian mountain wine," she warned him. "Rather overwhelming if you're
not used to it, and sometimes even if you are...." Her eyes rested on
the general.
"But there are no mountains on Mars," Clarey said, startled.
"That's it!" Spano chortled. "When you've drunk it, you see mountains!"
And he filled his glass again.
While they ate, he told Clarey about Damorlan--its beautiful climate,
light gravity, intelligent and civilized natives. Though the planet
had been known for two decades, no one from Earth had ever been there
except a few selected government officials, and, of course, the regular
staff posted there.
"You mean it hasn't been colonized yet?" Clarey was relieved, because
he felt he should, as an Archivist, have known more about the planet
than its name and coordinates. "Why? It sounds like a splendid place
for a colony."
"The natives," Spano said.
"There were natives on a lot of the planets we colonized. You disposed
of them somehow."
"By co-existence in most cases, Sub-Archivist," Spano said drily.
"We've found it best for Terrans and natives to live side by side
in harmony. We dispose of a race only when it's necessary for the
greatest good. And we would especially dislike having to dispose of the
Damorlanti."
"What's wrong with them?" Clarey asked, pushing away his half-finished
crême brulée a la Betelgeuse with a sigh. "Are they excessively
belligerent, then?"
"No more belligerent than any intelligent life-form which has pulled
itself up by its bootstraps."
"Rigid?" Clarey suggested. "Unadaptable? Intolerant? Indolent?
Personally offensive?"
* * * * *
Spano smiled. He leaned back with half-shut eyes, as if this were a
guessing game. "None of those."
"Then why consider disposing of them?" Clarey asked. "They sound pretty
decent for natives. Don't wipe them out; even an ilf has a right to
live."
"Clarey," the girl said, "you're drunk."
"I'm in full command of my faculties," he assured her. "My wits are
all about me, moving me to ask how you could possibly expect to use
a secret agent on Damorlan if there are no colonists. What would he
disguise himself as--a touring Earth official?" He laughed with modest
triumph.
Spano smiled. "He could disguise himself as one of them. They're
humanoid."
"_That_ humanoid?"
"That humanoid. So there you have the problem in a nutshell."
But Clarey still couldn't see that there was a problem. "I thought
we--the human race, that is--were supposed to be the very apotheosis
of life species."
"So we are. And that's the impression we've conveyed to such other
intelligent life-forms as we've taken under our aegis. What we're
afraid of is that the other ilfs might become ... confused when they
see the Damorlanti, think they're the ruling race." Leaning forward,
he pounded so loudly on the table both the others jumped. "This is our
galaxy and we don't intend that anyone, humanoid or otherwise, is going
to forget it!"
"You're drunk, too, Steff," the girl said. She had changed completely;
her coquetry had dropped as if it were another mask. And it had been,
Clarey thought--an advertising mask. An offer had been made, and, if
he accepted it, he would get probably not Han herself but a reasonable
facsimile.
He tried to sort things out in his whizzing brain. "But why should the
other ilfs ever see a Damorlant?" he asked, enunciating very precisely.
"I've never seen another life-form to speak of. I thought the others
weren't allowed off-planet--except the Baluts, and there's no mistaking
them, is there?" For the Baluts, although charming, were unmistakably
non-human, being purplish, amiable, and octopoid.
"We don't forbid the ilfs to go off-planet," Spano proclaimed.
"That would be tyrannical. We simply don't allow them passage in our
spaceships. Since they don't have any of their own, they can't leave."
"Then you're afraid the Damorlanti will develop space travel on their
own," Clarey cried. "Superior race--seeking after knowledge--spread
their wings and soar to the stars." He flapped his arms and fell off
the stool.
"Really, Steff," Han said, motioning for the servo-mechanism to pick
Clarey up, "this is no way to conduct an interview."
"I am a creative artist," the general said thickly. "I believe in
suiting the interview to the occasion. Clarey understands, for he,
too, is an artist." The general sneezed and rubbed his nose with
his silver sleeve. "Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine,
creative, productive race. It isn't generally known, but they
developed the op fastener for evening wear, two of the new scents on
the roster come from Damorlan, and the snettis is an adaptation of a
Damorlant original. Would you want a species as artistic as that to be
annihilated by an epidemic?"
"Do our germs work on them?" Clarey wanted to know.
"That hasn't been established yet. But their germs certainly work
on us." The general sneezed again. "That's where I got this sinus
trouble, last voyage to Damorlan. But you'll be inoculated, of course.
Now we know what to watch out for, so you'll be perfectly safe. That
is, as far as disease is concerned."
* * * * *
His face assumed a stern, noble aspect. "Naturally, if you're
discovered as a spy, we'll have to repudiate you. You must know that
from the tri-dis."
"But I haven't said I would go!" Clarey howled. "And I can't see why
you'd want _me_, anyway!"
"Modest," the general said, lighting a smoke-stick. "An admirable
trait in a young intelligence operative--or, indeed, anyone. Have a
smoke-stick?"
Clarey hesitated. He had never tried one; he had always wanted to.
"Don't, Clarey," the girl advised. "You'll be sick."
She spoke with authority and reason. Clarey shook his head.
The general inhaled and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the shape of a
bunnit. "The Damorlanti look like us, but because they look like us,
that doesn't mean they think like us. They may not have the least idea
of developing space travel, simply be interested in developing thought,
art, ideals, splendid cultural things like that. We don't know enough
about them; we may be making mountains out of molehills."
"Martian molehills," Clarey snickered.
"Precisely," the general agreed. "Except that there are no moles on
Mars either."
"But I still can't understand. Why _me_?"
The general leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, "We want
to understand the true Damorlan. Our observations have been too
superficial; couldn't help being. There we come, blasting out of the
skies with the devil of a noise, running all over the planet as if we
owned it. You know how those skyboys throw their gravity around."
Clarey nodded. _Sentries of the Sky_ had kept him well informed on such
matters.
"So what we want is a man who can go to Damorlan for five or ten years
and become a Damorlant in everything but basic loyalties. A man who
will absorb the very spirit of the culture, but in terms our machines
can understand and interpret." Spano stood erect. "You, Clarey, are
that man!"
The girl applauded. "Well done, Steff! You finally got it right side
up!"
"But I've lived twenty-eight years on this planet and I'm not a part
of its culture," Clarey protested. "I'm a lonely, friendless man--you
must know that if you've deep-probed me--so why should I put up a front
and be brave and proud about it?"
* * * * *
Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. "I see. That's the reason you want
me. I have no roots, no ties; I belong nowhere. Nobody loves me. Who
else, you think, but a man like me would spend ten years on an alien
planet as an alien?"
"A patriot, Sub-Archivist," the general said sternly. "By God, sir, a
patriot!"
"There's nothing I'd like better than to see Terra and all its colonies
go up in smoke. Mind you," Clarey added quickly, for he was not as
drunk as all that, "I've nothing against the government. It's a purely
personal grievance."
The general unsteadily patted his arm. "You're detached, m'boy. You can
examine an alien planet objectively, without trying to project your own
cultural identity upon it, because you have no cultural identity."
"How about physical identity?" Clarey asked. "They can't be ex-exactly
like us. Against the laws of nature."
"The laws of man are higher than the laws of nature," the general said,
waving his arm. A gout of smoke curled around his head and became a
halo. "Very slight matter of plastic surgery. And we'll change you
back as soon as you return." Then he sat down heavily. "How many young
men in your position get an opportunity like this? Permanent U-E
status, a hundred thousand credits a year and, of course, on Damorlan
you'd be on an expense account; our money's no good there. By the time
you got back, there'd be about a million and a half waiting for you,
with interest. You could buy all the instruments and tape all the music
you wanted. And, if the Musicians' Guild puts up a fuss, you could buy
it, too. Don't let anybody kid you about the wheel, son; money was
mankind's first significant invention."
"But ten years. That's a long time away from home."
"Home is where the heart is, and you wanting to see your own planet
go up in a puff of smoke--why, even an ilf wouldn't say a thing like
that!" Spano shook his head. "That's too detached for me to understand.
You'll find the years will pass quickly on Damorlan. You'll have
stimulating work to do; every moment will be a challenge. When it's
all over, you'll be only thirty-eight--the very prime of life. You
won't have aged even that much, because you'll be entitled to longevity
treatments at regular intervals.
"So think it over, m'boy." He rose waveringly and clapped Clarey on
the shoulder. "And take the rest of the afternoon off; I'll fix it
with Archives. We wouldn't want you coming back from Classification
intoxicated." He winked. "Make a very bad impression on your
co-workers."
Han masked herself and escorted Clarey to the restaurant portway.
"Don't believe everything he says. But I think you'd better accept the
offer."
"I don't have to," Clarey said.
"No," she agreed, "you don't. But you'd better."
* * * * *
Clarey took the cheap underground route home. His antiseptic little
two-room apartment seemed even bleaker than usual. He dialed a dyspep
pill from the auto-spensor; the lunch was beginning to tell on him.
And that evening he couldn't even take an interest in _Sentries of
the Sky_, which, though he'd never have admitted it, was his favorite
program. He had no friends; nobody would miss him if he left Earth or
died or anything. The general's right, he thought; I might as well
be an alien on an alien planet. At least I'll be paid better. And he
wondered whether, in lighter gravity, his spirits might not get a lift.
He dragged himself to work the next day. He found someone did care
after all. "Well, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Chief Section Archivist
MacFingal snarled, "I would have expected to see more sparkle in your
eye, more pep in your step, after a whole day of nothing but sweet
rest."
"But--but General Spano said it would be all right if I didn't report
back in the afternoon."
"Oh, it is all right, Sub-Archivist, no question of that. How could I
dare to complain about a man who has such powerful friends? I suppose
if I gave you the Sagittarius files to reorganize, you'd go running to
your friend General Spano, sniveling about cruel and unfair treatment."
So Clarey started reorganizing the Sagittarius files--a sickeningly
dull task which should by rights have gone to a junior archivist. All
morning he couldn't help thinking about Damorlan--its invigorating
atmosphere, its pleasant climate, its presumed absence of archives and
archivists. During his lunchstop he looked up the planet in the files.
There was only a small part of a tape on it. There might be more in
the Classified Files. It was, of course, forbidden to view secretapes
without a direct order from the Chief Archivist, but the tapes were
locked by the same code as the rare editions. After all, he told
himself, I have a legitimate need for the information.
So he punched for Damorlan in the secret files. He put the tape in the
viewer. He saw the natives. Cold shock filled him, and then hot fury.
They were humanoid all right--pallid, pale-haired creatures. Objective
viewpoint, he thought furiously; detachment be damned! I was picked
_because I look like one of them_!
He was wrenched away from the viewer. "Sub-Archivist Clarey, what is
the meaning of this?" Chief Section Archivist MacFingal demanded. "You
know what taking a secretape out without permission means?"
Clarey knew. The reorientation machine. "Ask General Spano," he said in
a constricted voice. "He'll tell you it's all right."
* * * * *
General Spano said that it was, indeed, all right. "I'm so glad to hear
you've decided to join us. Splendid career for an enterprising young
man. Smoke-stick?"
Clarey refused; he no longer had any interest in trying one.
"Don't look so grim," Spano said jovially. "You'll like the Damorlanti
once you get to know them. Very affectionate people. Haven't had any
major wars for several generations. Currently there are just a few
skirmishes at the poles and you ought to be able to keep away from
those easily. And they'll simply love you."
"But I don't like anyone," Clarey said. "And I don't see why the
Damorlanti should like me," he added fairly.
"I'll tell you why! Because it'll be your job to _make_ them like you.
You've got to be friendly and outgoing if it kills you. Anyone can
develop a winning personality if he sets his mind to it. I though you
said you watched the tri-dis!"
"I--I don't always watch the commercials," Clarey admitted.
"Oh, well, we all have our little failings." Spano leaned forward,
his voice now pitched to persuasive decibels. "Normally, of course,
you wouldn't stoop to hypocrisy to gain friends, and quite right,
too--people should accept you as you are or they wouldn't be worthy
of becoming your friends. But this is different. You have to be what
they want, because you want something from them. You'll have to suffer
rebuffs and humiliations and never show resentment."
"In other words," Clarey said, "a secret agent is supposed to forget
all about such concepts as self-respect."
"If necessary, yes. But here self-respect doesn't enter into it. These
aren't people and they don't really matter. You wouldn't be humiliated,
would you, if you tried to pat a dog and it snarled at you?"
"Steff, he's got to think of them as people until he's definitely given
them a clean bill of health," Han Vollard protested. "Otherwise, the
whole thing won't work."
"Well," the general temporized, "think of them as people, then, but as
inferior people. Let them snoop and pry and sneer. Always, at the back
of your mind, you'll have the knowledge that this is all a sham, that
someday they'll get whatever it is they deserve. You might even think
of it as a game, Clarey--no more personal than when you fail to get the
gardip ball into the loop."
"I don't happen to play gardip, General," Clarey reminded him coldly.
Gardip was strictly a U-E pastime. And, in any case, Clarey was not a
gamesman.
He was put through intensive indoctrination, given accelerated courses
in the total secret agent curriculum: Self-Defense and Electronics,
Decoding and Resourcefulness, Xenopsychology and Acting.
"There are eight cardinal rules of acting," the robocoach told him.
"The first is: Never Identify. You'll never be able to become the
character you're playing, because you aren't that character--the
playwright gave birth to him, not your mother. Therefore--"
"But I'm only going to play one role," Clarey broke in. "All I need to
know is how to play that role well and convincingly. My life may depend
on it."
"I teach acting," the robocoach said loftily. "I don't run a charm
school. If you come to me, you learn--or, at least, are exposed to--all
I have to offer. I refuse to tailor my art to any occasional need. Now,
the second cardinal rule...."
* * * * *
Clarey was glad he could absorb the languages and social structure
of the planet through the impersonal hypno-tapes. He had to learn
more than one language because the planet was divided into several
national units, each speaking a different tongue. Inefficient as far as
planetary operation went, but advantageous to him, Han Vollard pointed
out, because, though he'd work in Vangtor, he would be supposed to have
originated in Ventimor; hence his accent.
"Work?" Clarey asked. "I thought I was going to be an undercover agent."
"You'll have a cover job," she explained wearily. "You can't just
wander around with no visible source of income, unless you're a member
of the nobility, and it would be risky to elevate you to the peerage."
"What kind of a job will I have?" Clarey asked, brightening a little at
the idea of possibly having something interesting to do.
"They call it _librarian_. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but
Colonel Blynn--he's our chief officer on the planet--says that after
indoctrination you ought to be able to handle it."
Clarey already knew that jobs on Damorlan weren't officially assigned,
but that employer and employee somehow managed to find each other
and work out arrangements themselves. Sometimes, Han now explained,
employers would advertise for employees. Colonel Blynn had answered
such a job in Vangtor on his behalf from an accommodation address in
Ventimor. "You were hired sight unseen, because you came cheap. So they
probably won't check your references. Let's hope not, anyway."
* * * * *
The trip to Damorlan was one long aching agony. Since luxury liners
naturally didn't touch on Damorlan, he was sent out on a service
freighter, built for maximum stowage rather than comfort. Most of the
time he was spacesick. The only thing that comforted him was that it
would be ten years before he'd have to go back.
They landed on the Earthmen's spaceport--the only spaceport, of
course--at Barshwat, and he was hustled off to Earth Headquarters in
an animal-drawn cart that made him realize there were other ailments
besides spacesickness.
"Afraid you're going to have to hole up in my suite while you're with
us," Colonel Blynn apologized when Clarey was safely inside. "The
rest of the establishment is crawling with native servants--daytimes,
anyway; they sleep out--but they have orders never to come near my
quarters."
He looked interestedly at Clarey. "Amazing how the plastosurgeons got
you to look exactly like a native. Those boys really know their stuff.
Maybe I _will_ have my nose fixed next time I go Earthside."
Clarey glared venomously at the tall, handsome, dark young officer.
"Don't worry," Blynn soothed him. "I'm sure when you go back they'll be
able to make you look exactly the way you were before."
He gave Clarey a general briefing and explained to him that the
additional allowance he'd be receiving--since he couldn't be expected
to live on a Damorlant salary--would come from an alleged rich aunt in
Barshwat.
"Where'll you get the native currency?" Clarey asked.
"We do some restricted trading with the natives, bring materials
that're in short supply; salt, breakfast cereals, pigments,
thread--stuff like that. Nothing strategic, nothing they could possibly
use against us ... unless they decide to strangle us with our own
string." He guffawed ear-splittingly.
* * * * *
One rainy evening a couple of Earth officers hustled Clarey into a
hax-cart. A little later, equipped with a native kit, an itinerary, and
a ticket purchased in Ventimor, he was left a short distance from a
large track-car station.
He was so numb with fright he had to force himself to move in the right
direction leg by leg. He gained a little confidence when he was able to
find the terminus without needing to ask directions; he even managed
to find the right chain of cars and a place to sit in one of them.
He didn't realize that this was something of an achievement until he
discovered that certain later arrivals had to stand. He wondered why
more tickets were issued than there were seats available, then realized
the answer was simple--primitives couldn't count very accurately.
Creakily and slowly, the chain got under way. Clarey's terror mounted.
Here he was, wearing strange clothes, on a strange world, surrounded by
strange creatures. They aren't really repulsive, he told himself; they
look like people; they look like me.
Some of the natives seemed to be staring at him. His heart began to
beat loudly. Could they hear it? Did their hearts beat the same way?
Was their hearing more acute than his? The tapes had seemed so full of
information; now he saw how full of holes they'd been. Then he noticed
that the natives were staring at each other. His heart quieted. Only
a local custom. After a while, little conversational groups formed.
No one spoke to him, for he spoke to no one. He was not yet ready to
thrust himself upon them; he had enough to do to reach his destination
successfully.
He tried to follow the conversations for practice and to keep his mind
off his fears. The male next to him was talking to the male opposite
about the weather and its effect on the sirtles. The three females on
his other side were telling each other how their respective offspring
were doing in school. Some voices he couldn't identify with owners were
complaining how much sagor and titulwirt cost these days. I don't know
why the government is so worried, he thought; they're not really very
human at all.
The chain had been scheduled to reach the end of its run in three
hours. It took closer to five. He got off at what would have been
around midnight on Earth, and the terminus where he was supposed to
take the next chain was almost empty of people, completely empty of
cars. Although it was still a few minutes before his car was due, he
was worried. Finally, he approached a native.
"Is this--is this not where the 39:12 to Zrig is destined to appear?"
he asked, conscious as he uttered Vangtort aloud for the first time
that his phrasing was not entirely colloquial.
The native stared at him with small pale eyes and bit his middle
finger. "Stranger, eh?" he asked in a small pale voice.
"Yes." The native waited. "I come from Ventimor," Clarey told him. Nosy
native, he thought furiously; prying primitive.
"You don't hafta shout," the native said. "I'm not deef."
Clarey realized what he hadn't noted consciously before--the natives
spoke much more softly than Earthmen. Local custom two.
"You'll be finding things a lot different here in Vangtor," the native
told him. "Livelier, more up to date. F'rinstance, do the cars always
run on time in Ventimor?"
"Yes," Clarey said firmly.
"Well, they don't here. Know why? That's because we've got more'n one
chain of 'em." He made a noise like a wounded turshi. He was laughing.
* * * * *
Clarey smiled until his gums ached. "About the 39:12? It is rather
important to me, as I understand the next chain does not leave for
several days."
The native lifted a chronometer hanging around his neck. "Ought to get
in around 40 or so," he said. "Whyn't you get yourself a female or a
bite to eat?" He waved his hand toward the two trade booths that were
still open for business.
Clarey was very hungry. But, as he got near the food booth, the stench
and the sight of the utensils were too much for him. He went back to
the carways and sat huddled on a banquette until his chain came in at
40:91.
The car he picked was empty, so he stretched out on the seat and slept
until it got to Zrig, very early in the morning. When he got out,
day was dawning and a food booth hadn't had time to accumulate odors
so he climbed to one of the perches and pointed to something that
looked like a lopsided pie and something else that looked like coffee.
Neither was what it appeared to be, but the pseudo-pie was edible and
the pseudo-coffee was good. Somehow, the food seemed to diminish his
fright; it made the world less strange.
"Where you going, stranger?" the native asked, resting his arms on the
top of the booth.
"Katund," Clarey said. The other looked puzzled. "It is a village near
Zrig."
"That a fact?" The native bit his little finger. "You look like a city
feller to me."
"That is correct," Clarey said patiently. "I come from Qytet. It is a
place of some size." He waited a decent interval before collapsing his
smile.
"Now, why would a smart-looking young fellow like you want to go to a
place like this Katund, eh?"
Clarey started to shrug, then remembered that was not a Damorlant
gesture. "I have received employment there."
"I should think you'd be able to do better'n that." The native nibbled
at his thumb. "What did you say you worked at?"
"I didn't. I am a librarian."
The native turned away and began to rinse his utensils. "In that case,
I guess Katund's as good a place as any."
Surely, Clarey thought, even a Damorlant would at this point rise up
and smite the food merchant with one of his own platters. Then he
forgot his anger in apprehension. What in the name of whatever gods
they worshipped on this planet could a librarian possibly be?
He got up and was about to go. Then he remembered to be friendly and
outgoing. "I have never tasted better food," he told the native. "Not
even in Barshwat."
The native picked up the coin Clarey had left by way of tip and bit it.
Apparently it passed the test. "Stop here next time you're passing this
way," he advised, "and I'll really serve you something to write home
about!"
* * * * *
The omnibus for Katund proved to be nothing but a large cart drawn by a
team of hax. Clarey waited for internal manifestations as he rode. None
came. I've found my land legs, he thought, or, rather, my land stomach.
And with the hax jogging along the quiet lanes of Vangtor, he found
himself almost at peace.
Earth was completely urbanized: there were the great metropolises;
there were the parks; there were the oceans. That was all. So to him
the Vangtort countryside looked like a huge park, with grass and trees
and flowers that were slightly unrealistic in color, but beautiful just
the same--even more, perhaps. It was idyllic. There's bound to be some
catch, he thought.
The other passengers, who'd been talking together in low tones, turned
toward Clarey. "You'll be the new librarian, I take it?" the tallest
observed. He was a bulky creature, wearing a rich but sober cloak that
came down to his ankles.
For a moment Clarey couldn't understand him; the local dialect seemed
to thicken the words. "Why, yes. How did you know that?"
The native wiggled his ears. "Not many folks come to Katund and a new
librarian's expected, so it wasn't hard to figure. Except you don't
look my idea of a librarian."
Clarey nervously smoothed the dark red cloak that covered him from
shoulder to mid-calf. Was it too loud? Too quiet? Too short?
"What give you the idea of comin' to Katund?" the oldest and smallest
of the three asked in a whistling voice. "It's no place anybody who
wasn't born here'd choose."
"Most young fellers favor the city," the third--a barrel-shaped
individual--agreed. "I'd of gone there myself when I was a lad, if Dad
hadn't needed somebody to take over the Purple Furbush when he was
gone."
"Maybe he's runnin' away," the ancient sibilated. "When I was a boy,
there was a feller from the city came here; turned out to be a thief."
All three stared at Clarey.
"I--I replied to an advertisement in the Dordonec District Bulletin,"
he said carefully. "I wished for a position that was peaceful and
quiet. I am recovering from an overset of the nervous system."