In the middle of town, on another hill, stood a building of dressed stone. It was rectangular, the main part roofless and colonnaded; but at the rear a tower equally wide thrust up and up, with a thick glass top just below the surface. If, as presumably was the case, it was similarly sealed further down, it should flood the interior with light. Though the architecture was altogether different, that whiteness reminded Flandry of Terra's Parthenon. He had seen the reconstruction once . . . . He was being taken thither.
A shape darkened the overhead luminance. Looking, he saw a fish team drawing a submarine. The escort was a troop of swimmers armed with Merseian-made guns. Suddenly he remembered he was among his enemies.
Chapter Eight
Once a dome was established outside town and equipped for the long-term living of men, Flandry expected to make rapid progress in Professor Abrams' Instant Philosophy of History Course. What else would there be to do, except practice the different varieties of thumbtwiddling, until HQ decided that sufficient of his prestige had rubbed off on Ridenour and ordered him back to Highport?
Instead, he found himself having the time of his life.
The sea people were every bit as interested in the Terrans as the Terrans in them. Perhaps more so; and after the horror stories the Merseians must have fed them, it was astonishing that they could make such an effort to get at the truth for themselves. But then, while bonny fighters at need and in some ways quite devoid of pity, they seemed less ferocious by nature than humans, Tigeries, or Merseians.
Ridenour and his colleagues were held to the Temple of Sky, where talk went on endlessly with the powers that were in the Davidstar. The xenologist groaned when his unoccupied followers were invited on a set of tours. "If you were trained, my God, what you could learn!—Well, we simply haven't got any more professionals to use here, so you amateurs go ahead, and if you don't observe in detail I'll personally operate on you with a butter knife."
Thus Flandry and one or another companion were often out for hours on end. Since none of them understood the native language or Eriau, their usual guide was Isinglass, who had some command of Kursovikian and had also been taught by the Merseians to operate a portable vocalizer. (The land tongue had been gotten gradually from prisoners. Flandry admired the ingenuity of the methods by which their technologically backward captors had kept them alive for weeks, but otherwise he shuddered and hoped with all his heart that the age-old strife could indeed be ended.) Others whom he got to know included Finbright, Byway, Zoomboy, and the weise Frau Allhealer. They had total individuality, you could no more characterize one of them in a sentence than you could a human.
"We are glad you make this overture," Isinglass said on first acquaintance. "So glad that, despite their helpfulness to us, we told the Merseians to keep away while you are here."
"I have suspected we and the landfolk were made pieces in a larger game," added Allhealer through him. "Fortunate that you wish to resign from it."
Flandry's cheeks burned inside his helmet. He knew too well how little altruism was involved. Scuttlebutt claimed Enriques had openly protested Hauksberg's proposal, and yielded only when the viscount threatened to get him reassigned to Pluto. Abrams approved because any chance at new facts was good, but he was not sanguine.
Nor was Byway. "Peace with the Hunters is a contradiction in terms. Shall the gilltooth swim beside the tail-on-head? And as long as the green strangers offer us assistance, we must take it. Such is our duty to the cities and our dependents."
"Yet evidently, while they support us, their adversaries are bound to support the Hunters," Finbright said. "Best might be that both sets of foreigners withdrew and let the ancient balance return."
"I know not," Byway argued. "Could we win a final victory—"
"Be not so tempted by that as to overlook the risk of a final defeat," Allhealer warned.
"To the Deeps with your bone-picking!" Zoomboy exclaimed. "We'll be late for the theater." He shot off in an exuberant curve.
Flandry did not follow the drama which was enacted in a faerie coraloid grotto. He gathered it was a recently composed tragedy in the classic mode. But the eldritch grace of movement, the solemn music of voices, strings, percussion, the utter balance of every element, touched his roots. And the audience reacted with cries, surges back and forth, at last a dance in honor of author and cast.
To him, the sculptures and oil paintings he was shown were abstract; but as such they were more pleasing than anything Terra had produced for centuries. He looked at fishskin scrolls covered with writing in grease-based ink and did not comprehend. Yet they were so many that they must hold a deal of accumulated wisdom.
Then he got off into mathematics and science, and went nearly delirious. He was still so close to the days when such things had been unfolded for him like a flower that he could appreciate what had been done here.
For the people (he didn't like using the Kursovikian name "Siravo" in their own home, and could certainly never again call them Seatrolls) lived in a different conceptual universe from his. And thought they were handicapped—fireless save for volcanic outlets where glass was made as a precious material, metalless, unable to develop more than a rudimentary astronomy, the laws of motion and gravity and light propagation obscured for them by the surrounding water—they had thought their way through to ideas which not only made sense but which drove directly toward insights man had not had before Planck and Einstein.
To them, vision was not the dominant sense that it was for him. No eyes could look far undersea. Hence they were nearsighted by his standards, and the optical centers of their brains appeared to have slightly lower information-processing capability. On the other hand, their perception of tactile, thermal, kinesthetic, olfactory, and less familiar nuances was unbelievably delicate. The upper air was hostile to them; like humans vis-a-vis water, they could control but not kill an instinctive dread.
So they experienced space as relation rather than extension. For them, as a fact of daily life, it was unbounded but finite. Expeditions which circumnavigated the globe had simply given more weight and subtlety to that apprehension.
Reflecting this primitive awareness, undersea mathematics rejected infinity. A philosopher with whom Flandry talked via Isinglass asserted that it was empirically meaningless to speak of a number above factorial N, where N was the total of distinguishable particles in the universe. What could a large number count? Likewise, he recognized zero as a useful notion, corresponding to the null class, but not as a number. The least possible amount must be the inverse of the greatest. You could count from there, on to N!, but if you proceeded beyond, you would get decreasing quantities. The number axis was not linear but circular.
Flandry wasn't mathematician enough to decide if the system was entirely self-consistent. As far as he could tell, it was. It even went on to curious versions of negatives, irrationals, imaginaries, approximational calculus, differential geometry, theory of equations, and much else of whose Terran equivalents he was ignorant.
Physical theory fitted in. Space was regarded as quantized. Discontinuities between kinds of space were accepted. That might only be an elaboration of the everyday—the sharp distinction between water, solid ground, and air—but the idea of layered space accounted well for experimental data and closely paralleled the relativistic concept of a metric varying from point to point, as well as the wave-mechanical basis of atomistics and the hyperdrive.
Nor could time, in the thought of the People, be infinite. Tides, seasons, the rhythm of life all suggested a universe which would eventually return to its initial state and resume a cycle which it would be semantically empty to call endless. But having no means of measuring time with any precision, the philosophers had concluded that it was essentially immeasurable. They denied simultaneity; how could you say a distant event happened simultaneously with a near one, when news of the former must be brought by a swimmer whose average speed was unpredictable? Again the likeness to relativity was startling.
&
nbsp; Biology was well developed in every macroscopic facet, including genetic laws. Physics proper, as opposed to its conceptual framework, was still early Newtonian, and chemistry little more than an embryo. But Judas on Jupiter, Flandry thought, give these fellows some equipment tailored for underwater use and watch them lift!
"Come along," Zoomboy said impatiently. "Wiggle a flipper. We're off to Reefcastle."
En route, Flandry did his unskilled best to get an outline of social structure. The fundamental Weltanschauung eluded him. You could say the People of the Davidstar were partly Apollonian and partly Dionysian, but those were mere metaphors which anthropology had long discarded and were worse than useless in dealing with nonhumans. Politics (if that word was applicable) looked simpler. Being more gregarious and ceremony-minded than most humans, and less impulsive, and finding travel easier than land animals do, the sea dwellers on Starkad tended to form large nations without strong rivalries.
The Zletovar culture was organized hieratically. Governors inherited their positions, as did People in most other walks (swims?) of life. On the individual level there existed a kind of serfdom, binding not to a piece of territory but to the person of the master. And females had that status with respect to their polygamous husbands.
Yet such expressions were misleading. The decision makers did not lord it over the rest. No formalities were used between classes. Merit brought promotion; so had Allhealer won her independence and considerable authority. Failure, especially the failure to meet one's obligation to dependents, brought demotion. For the system did nothing except apportion rights and duties.
Terra had known similar things, in theory. Practice had never worked out. Men were too greedy, too lazy. But it seemed to operate among the People. At least, Isinglass claimed it had been stable for many generations, and Flandry saw no evidence of discontent.
Reefcastle was nothing like Shellgleam. Here the houses were stone and coraloid, built into the skerries off a small island. The inhabitants were more brisk, less contemplative than their bottom-dwelling cousins; Isinglass scoffed at them as a bunch of wealth-grubbing traders. "But I must admit they have bravely borne an undue share of trouble from the Hunters," he added, "and they went in the van of our late attack, which took courage, when none knew about the Merseian boat."
"None?" asked Flandry in surprise.
"I daresay the governors were told beforehand. Otherwise we knew only that when the signal was given our leg-equipped troops were to go ashore and lay waste what they could while our swimmers sank the ships."
"Oh." Flandry did not describe his role in frustrating that. He felt an enormous relief. If Abrams had learned from Evenfall about the planned bombardment, Abrams ought to have arranged countermeasures. But since the information hadn't been there to obtain—Flandry was glad to stop finding excuses for a man who was rapidly becoming an idol.
The party went among the reefs beyond town to see their tide pools. Surf roared, long wrinkled azure-and-emerald billows which spouted white under a brilliant sky. The People frolicked, leaping out of the waves, plunging recklessly through channels where cross-currents ramped. Flandry discarded the staleness of his armor for a plain helmet and knew himself fully alive.
"We shall take you next to Outlier," Isinglass said on the way home to Shellgleam. "It is something unique. Below its foundations the abyss goes down into a night where fish and forests glow. The rocks are gnawed by time and lividly hued. The water tastes of volcano. But the silence—the silence!"
"I look forward," Flandry said.
"—?—. So. You scent a future perfume."
When he cycled through the airlock and entered the Terran dome, Flandry was almost repelled. This narrow, stinking, cheerless bubble, jammed with hairy bodies whose every motion was a jerk against weight! He started peeling off his undergarment to take a shower.
"How was your trip?" Ridenour asked.
"Wonderful," Flandry glowed.
"All right, I guess," said Ensign Quarles, who had been along. "Good to get back, though. How 'bout putting on a girlie tape for us?"
Ridenour flipped the switch of the recorder on his desk. "First things first," he said. "Let's have your report."
Flandry suppressed an obscenity. Adventures got spoiled by being reduced to data. Maybe he didn't really want to be a xenologist.
At the end, Ridenour grimaced. "Wish to blazes my part of the job were doing as well."
"Trouble?" Flandry asked, alarmed.
"Impasse. Problem is, the Kursovikians are too damned efficient. Their hunting, fishing, gathering do make serious inroads on resources, which are never as plentiful in the sea. The governors refuse any terms which don't involve the landfolk stopping exploitation. And of course the landfolk won't. They can't, without undermining their own economy and suffering famine. So I'm trying to persuade the Sixpoint to reject further Merseian aid. That way we might get the Zletovar out of the total-war mess. But they point out, very rightly, that what we've given the Kursovikians has upset the balance of power. And how can we take our presents back? We'd antagonize them—which I don't imagine Runei's agents would be slow to take advantage of." Ridenour sighed. "I still have some hopes of arranging for a two-sided phaseout, but they've grown pretty dim."
"We can't start killing the People again!" Flandry protested.
"Can't we just?" Quarles said.
"After what we've seen, what they've done for us—"
"Grow up. We belong to the Empire, not some barnacle-bitten gang of xenos."
"You may be out of the matter anyhow, Flandry," Ridenour said. "Your orders came through several hours ago."
"Orders?"
"You report to Commander Abrams at Highport. An amphibian will pick you up at 0730 tomorrow, Terran clock. Special duty, I don't know what."
Abrams leaned back, put one foot on his battered desk, and drew hard on his cigar. "You'd really rather've stayed underwater?"
"For a while, sir," Flandry said from the edge of his chair. "I mean, well, besides being interesting, I felt I was accomplishing something. Information—friendship—" His voice trailed off.
"Modest young chap, aren't you? Describing yourself as 'interestin'." Abrams blew a smoke ring. "Oh, sure, I see your point. Not a bad one. Were matters different, I wouldn't've hauled you topside. You might, though, ask what I have in mind for you,"
"Sir?"
"Lord Hauksberg is continuing to Merseia in another couple days. I'm going along in an advisory capacity, my orders claim. I rate an aide. Want the job?"
Flandry goggled. His heart somersaulted. After a minute he noticed that his mouth hung open.
"Plain to see," Abrams continued, "my hope is to collect some intelligence. Nothing melodramatic; I hope I'm more competent than that. I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Nose, too. But none of our diplomats, attachés, trade-talk representatives, none of our sources has ever been very helpful. Merseia's too distant from Terra. Almost the only contact has been on the level of brute, chip-on-your-shoulder power. This may be a chance to circulate under fewer restrictions.
"So I ought to bring an experienced, proven man. But we can't spare one. You've shown yourself pretty tough and resourceful for a younker. A bit of practical experience in Intelligence will give you a mighty long leg up, if I do succeed in making you transfer. From your standpoint, you get off this miserable planet, travel in a luxury ship, see exotic Merseia, maybe other spots as well, probably get taken back to Terra and then probably not reassigned to Starkad even if you remain a flyboy—and make some highly useable contacts. How about it?"
"Y-y-yes, sir!" Flandry stammered.
Abrams' eyes crinkled. "Don't get above yourself, son. This won't be any pleasure cruise. I'll expect you to forget about sleep and live on stimpills from now till departure, learning what an aide of mine has to know. You'll be saddled with everything from secretarial chores to keeping my uniforms neat. En route, you'll take an electrocram in the Eriau language and as much Merseiology as your brain'll
hold without exploding. I need hardly warn you that's no carnival. Once we're there, if you're lucky you'll grind through a drab list of duties. If you're unlucky—if things should go nova—you won't be a plumed knight of the skies any longer, you'll be a hunted animal, and if they take you alive their style of quizzing won't leave you any personality worth having. Think about that."
Flandry didn't. His one regret was that he'd likely never see Dragoika again, and it was a passing twinge. "Sir," he declaimed, "you've got yourself an aide."
Chapter Nine
The Dronning Margrete was not of a size to land safely on a planet. Her auxiliaries were small spaceships in their own right. Officially belonging to Ny Kalmar, in practice a yacht for whoever was the current viscount, she did sometimes travel in the Imperial service: a vast improvement with respect to comfort over any Navy vessel. Now she departed her orbit around Starkad and accelerated outward on gravitics. Before long she was into clear enough space that she could switch over to hyperdrive and outpace light. Despite her mass, with her engine power and phase frequency, top pseudospeed equalled that of a Planet class warcraft. The sun she left behind was soon dwindled to another star, and then to nothing. Had the viewscreens not compensated for aberration and Doppler effect, the universe would have looked distorted beyond recognition.
Yet the constellations changed but slowly. Days and nights passed while she fled through the marches. Only once was routine broken, when alarms sounded. They were followed immediately by the All Clear. Her force screens, warding off radiation and interstellar atoms, had for a microsecond brushed a larger piece of matter, a pebble estimated at five grams. Though contact with the hull would have been damaging, given the difference in kinetic velocities, and though such meteoroids occur in the galaxy to the total of perhaps 1050, the likelihood of collision was too small to worry about. Once, also, another vessel passed within a light-year and thus its "wake" was detected. The pattern indicated it was Ymirite, crewed by hydrogen breathers whose civilization was nearly irrelevant to man or Merseian. They trafficked quite heavily in these parts. Nonetheless this sign of life was the subject of excited conversation. So big is the cosmos.
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