“The Nathians are mostly women,” Orne said. “Your women-folk are among them.”
The Admiral looked like a man who’d been kicked in the stomach. “What ... evidence?” he whispered.
“I have the evidence,” Orne said. “I’ll come to it in a moment.”
“Nonsense,” the Admiral blustered. “You can’t possibly carry out …”
“You’d better listen to him, Admiral,” Stetson said. “One thing you have to say about Orne, he’s worth listening to.”
“Then he’d better make sense!” Spencer growled.
“Here’s the way it goes,” Orne said. “The Nathians are mostly women. There were only a few accidental males and a few planned ones like me. That’s why there were no family names to trace—just a tight little female society, all working to positions of power through their men.”
Spencer cleared his throat, swallowed. He appeared powerless to take his attention from Orne’s mouth.
“My analysis,” Orne said, “Says that about thirty or forty years ago the conspirators first began breeding a few males, grooming them for really choice top positions. Other Nathian males—the accidents where sex-determination failed—didn’t learn about the conspiracy. The new ones, however, became full-fledged members when they reached maturity. That’s the course they had planned for me, I believe.”
Polly glared at him, looked back at her hands.
Diana looked away when Orne tried to catch her eye.
Orne said: “That part of their plan was scheduled to come to a head with this election. If they pulled this one off, they could move in more boldly.”
“You’re in this way over your head, boy,” Polly growled. “You’re too late to do anything about us. Anything!”
“We’ll see about that!” Spencer snapped. He seemed to have regained his self-control. “Some key arrests, the full glare of publicity on your …”
“No,” Orne said. “You’re not thinking clearly, Admiral. She’s right. It’s too late for that approach. It probably was too late a hundred years ago. These women were too firmly entrenched even then.”
Spencer stiffened, glared at Orne. “Young man, if I give the word, this place will be a shambles.”
“I know,” Orne said. “Another Hamal, another Sheleb.”
“We can’t just ignore this!” Spencer snarled.
“Perhaps not ignore it,” Orne said. “But we’ll do something close to that. We have no choice. It’s time we learned about the hoe and the handle.”
“The what?” Spencer blared.
“It’s right there in the I-A curriculum,” Orne said. “Primitive societies discovered this way out of the constant temptation toward lethal violence. One village would make the head of the hoe, the next village down the line would make only the handles. Neither would think of invading the other’s special area of manufacture.”
Polly looked up, studied Orne’s face. Diana appeared confused.
“You know what I think?” Spencer asked. “In your attempt to confuse this issue you’ve just proved that once a Nathian, you’re always a Nathian.”
“There’s no such thing,” Orne said. “Five hundred years of crossbreeding with other peoples saw to that. Now, there’s merely a secret society of extremely astute political scientists.” He smiled wryly at Polly, glanced back to Spencer. “Think of your own wife, sir. In all honesty, would you be ComGo today if she hadn’t guided your career?”
Spencer’s face darkened. He drew in his chin, tried to stare Orne down, failed. Presently, he chuckled wryly.
“Sobie is beginning to come to his senses as I knew he would,” Polly said. “You’re just about through, Lewis. We’ll deal with the ones we have to deal with, and you’re not one of them.”
“Don’t underestimate your future son-in-law,” Orne said.
“Ha!” Diana barked. “I hate you, Lewis Orne!”
“You’ll get over that,” Orne said, his voice mild.
“Ohhhhhh!” Diana quivered with fury.
“I think I hold most of the trumps,” Spencer said, his attention on Polly.
“You hold very little if you don’t understand the situation fully,” Orne said.
Spencer turned a speculative stare on Orne. “Explain.”
“Government’s a dubious glory,” Orne said. “You pay for your power and wealth by balancing on the sharp edge of the blade. That great amorphous thing out there—the people—has turned and swallowed many governments. They can do it in the flash of an angry uprising. The way you prevent that is by giving good government, not perfect government—but good. Otherwise, sooner or later, your turn comes. It’s a point the political genius, my mother, made frequently. It stuck with me.” He frowned. “My objection to politics was the compromises you make to get elected ... and I never liked women running my life.”
Stetson moved out from the wall. “It’s pretty clear,” he said. Heads turned toward him. “To stay in power, the Nathians had to give us fairly good government. Admit it. The fact is obvious. On the other hand, if we expose them, we give a bunch of political amateurs, every fanatic and power-hungry demagogue in the universe, just the weapons they need to sweep them into office.”
“After that, chaos,” Orne said. “So we let the Nathians continue—with two minor alterations.”
“We alter nothing,” Polly said.
“You haven’t learned the lesson of the hoe and the handle,” Orne said.
“And you haven’t learned the lesson of real political power,” Polly countered. “It occurs to me, Lewis, that you don’t have a leg to stand on. You have me, but you’ll get nothing out of me. The rest of the organization can go on without me. You don’t dare expose us. You’d discredit too many important people. We hold the whip hand.”
“We have the hoe and the handle,” Orne said. “The I-A could have ninety percent of your organization in protective custody within ten days.”
“You couldn’t find them!” Polly snapped.
“How, Lew?” Stetson asked.
“Nomads,” Orne said. “This house is a glorified tent. Men on the outside, women on the inside. Look for inner courtyard construction. It may be instinctive with Nathian blood.”
“Is that enough?” Spencer asked.
“Add an inclination for odd musical instruments,” Orne said. “The kaithra, the tambour, the oboe—all nomad instruments. Add female dominance of the family, an odd twist on the nomad heritage, but not unique. Dig into political backgrounds where women have guided their men to power. We’ll miss damn few of them.”
Polly stared at him with open mouth.
Spencer said: “Things are moving too fast for me. I know just one thing for sure. I’m dedicated to preventing another Rim War. That’s my oath. If I have to jail every last one of …”
“An hour after this conspiracy became known, you wouldn’t be in a position to jail anyone,” Orne said. “The husband of a Nathian! You’d be in jail yourself or more likely dead at the hands of a mob.”
Spencer paled.
Stetson nodded his agreement with Orne.
“Tell us about the hoe and the handle,” Polly said. “What’s your suggestion for compromise?”
“Number one: veto power on any candidate you put up,” Orne said. “Number two: You can never hold more than half of the top offices.”
“Who vetoes our candidates?” Polly asked.
“Admiral Spencer, Stet, myself ... anyone else we deem trustworthy,” Orne said.
“You think you’re God or something?” Polly demanded.
“No more than you do,” Orne said. “I remember my mother’s lessons well. This is a check and balance system. You cut the pie, we get first choice on which pieces to take. One group makes the head of the hoe, another makes the handle. We assemble it together.”
There was a protracted silence broken when Spencer said: “It doesn’t seem right just to …”
“No political compromise is ever totally right,” Orne said.
> “You keep patching things that always have flaws in them,” Polly said. “That’s how government is.” She chuckled, glanced at Orne. “All right, Lewis, we accept.” She looked at Spencer, who shrugged glumly.
Polly returned her attention to Orne, said: “Just answer me one question, Lewis: How’d you know I was boss lady?”
“Easy,” Orne said. “Those records we found said the ... Nathian”—he’d almost said traitor—“family on Marak carried the code name ‘The Head.’ Your name, Polly, contains the ancient word Poll which means ‘head.’”
Polly shot a demanding look at Stetson. “Is he always that sharp?”
“Every time,” Stetson said.
“If you want to go into politics, Lewis,” Polly said, “I’d be delighted to …”
“I’m already in politics,” Orne growled. “What I want now is to settle down with Di and catch up on some of the living I’ve missed.”
Diana stiffened, addressed the wall beyond Orne: “I never want to see, hear from or hear of Lewis Orne ever again! That is final, emphatically final!”
Orne’s shoulders drooped. He turned away, stumbled and abruptly collapsed full length on the thick carpets. A collective gasp came from behind him.
Stetson shouted: “Call a doctor! They warned me at the hospital that he was still very weak.”
There was the sound of Polly’s heavy footsteps running toward the communications alcove in the hall.
“Lew!” It was Diana’s voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, soft hands fumbling at his neck, his head.
“Turn him over and loosen his collar,” Spencer said. “Give him air.”
Gently, they turned Orne onto his back. He looked pale.
Diana loosened his collar, buried her face in his neck. “Oh, Lew, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean it. Please, Lew ... please don’t die. Please!”
Orne opened his eyes, looked up through the red-gold haze of Diana’s hair at Spencer and Stetson. There was the sound of Polly’s voice giving rapid instructions at the communications center. Orne felt Diana’s cheek warm against his neck, the dampness of her tears. Slowly, deliberately, Orne winked at the two men.
Diana shook convulsively against his neck. Her movement activated the transceiver stud. Orne heard the carrier wave hiss in his ears. The sound filled him with anger and he thought: That damn thing has to go! I wish it were at the bottom of the deepest sea on Marak!
As he thought this, Orne felt an abrupt vacuum in his flesh where the transceiver had been. The hissing carrier wave cut off sharply. With an abrupt feeling of blank shock, Orne realized the tiny instrument was gone.
A slow sensation of awareness flooded through him. He thought: Psi! For the love of all that’s holy, I’m a Psi!
Gently, he disengaged himself from Diana, allowed her to help him to a sitting position.
“Oh, Lew,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.
Polly appeared behind them. “Doctor’s on his way. He said to keep the patient warm and inactive. Why’s he sitting up?”
Orne only half-heard them. He thought: I’ll have to go to Amel. No helping that. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he knew it would happen.
To Amel.
***
Chapter Seventeen
Death has many aspects: Nirvana, the endless wheel of Life, the balance between organism and thinking as a pure activity, tension/relaxation, pain and pleasure, goal seeking and abnegation. The list is inexhaustible.
—NOAH ARKWRIGHT,
Aspects of Religion
The instant he stepped out of the transport’s shields into the warmth of Amel’s sunlight on the exit ramp, Orne felt the Psi forces at play in this place. It was like being caught in competing magnetic fields. He caught the ramp’s handrail as dizziness held him. The sensation passed and he stared down some two hundred meters at the glassy tricrete of the spaceport. Heat waves shimmered off the glistening surface, baking the air even at his height. No wind stirred the air, but hidden gusts of psi force howled against his recently awakened senses.
When he had broached the subject of Amel, his affairs had moved abruptly and with a mysterious fluidity in that direction. Psi detection and amplification equipment had been brought to him and concealed within his flesh. No one had remarked on the disappearance of the transceiver from his neck, and he had not asked to have it replaced.
A technician from the Psi Branch of I-A had been found to train Orne in the use of the new equipment, how to select out the first sharp signals of primary psi detection, how to focus on discrete elements of this new spectrum.
Orders had been cut, signed by Stetson and Spencer—even by Scottie Bullone—although Orne had been made aware that such orders were a mere formality.
It had been a busy time—meeting his new responsibilities of political selection, preparing for his wedding to Diana, learning the inner workings of the I-A which he had known before only through their surface currents, coming to grips with a new and peculiar kind of fear which arose from his psi awareness.
As he stood on the landing ramp above Amel’s spaceport, Orne recalled that fear clearly. He shuddered. Amel crawled with skin-creeping sensations. Weird urges flickered through his mind like flashes of heat lightning. One second, he wanted to grunt like a wallowing kiriffa; the next instant he felt laughter welling in him while simultaneously a sob tore at his throat.
He thought: They warned me it would be bad at first.
Psi training did not ease the fear; it only made him more aware. Without the training, his mind might have confused the discrete sensations, combined them into a blend of awe-fear—perfectly logical emotions for an acolyte disembarking on the priest planet.
All around him now was holy ground, sanctuary for all the religions of the known universe (and, some said, for all of the religions in the unknown universe).
Orne forced his attention onto the inner focus as he had been taught to do. Slowly, the crushing awareness dimmed to background annoyance. He drew in a deep breath of the hot, dry air. It was vaguely unsatisfying as though lacking an essential element to which his lungs were accustomed.
Still holding tightly to the rail, he waited to make certain the ghost urges had been subdued. Who knew what one of those compelling sensations might thrust upon him? The glistening inner surface of the opened port beside him reflected his image, distorting it slightly in a way that accepted his differences from the slender norm. The reflected image gave him the appearance of a demigod reincarnated from Amel’s ancient past: square and solid with corded neck muscles. A faint scar marked the brow line of his closely cropped red hair. Other tiny scars on his bulldog face were visible because he knew where to look. His memory told him of more scars on his heavy body, but he felt completely recovered from Sheleb—although he knew Sheleb had not recovered from him. There was a humorous observation in the I-A that senior field agents could be detected by the number of scars and medical patches they carried. No one had ever made a similar observation about the numerous worlds where the I-A had interceded.
He wondered if Amel would require that treatment, or if the I-A could intercede here. Neither question had a certain answer.
Orne studied the scene around him, still waiting out the psi control. The transport’s ramp commanded a sweeping view—a patchwork of towers, belfries, steeples, monoliths, domes, ziggurats, pagodas, stupas, minarets, dagobas ... They cluttered a flat plain that stretched to a horizon dancing in the heat waves. Golden sunlight danced off bright primary colors and weathered pastels: buildings in tile and stone, tricrete and plasteel and the synthetics of a thousand thousand civilizations.
The yellow sun, Dubhe, stood at the meridian in a cloudless blue sky. It hammered through Orne’s toga with oppressive warmth. The toga was a pale aqua and he resented the fact that he could wear no other garment here. The color marked him as a student and he did not feel that he was here to study in the classic sense. But that had been a requirement of admission to Amel. T
he weight of the garment held perspiration to his body.
One step away along the ramp the escalfield hummed softly, ready to drop him into the bustle at the foot of the transport. Priests and passengers were engaged in a ceremony down there—initiation of new students. Orne didn’t know if he would have to undergo such a rite. The portmaster’s agent had told him to take his own time in disembarking.
What were they doing down there? He could hear a throbbing drumchant and a singsong keening almost hidden under the machinery clatter of the port.
As he listened, Orne experienced an abrupt sensation of dread at the unknown which awaited him in the narrow, twisted streets and jumbled buildings of the religious warren. Stories that leaked out of Amel carried such hints of forbidden mystery and power that Orne knew his emotions were tainted. This dread, however, he knew well. It had begun on Marak.
He had been seated in ordinary surroundings at his desk in his bachelor officer quarters. His eyes had been directed without focus at the parklike landscape outside his window—the I-A university grounds. Marak’s green sun, low in the afternoon quadrant, had seemed distant and cold. Amel had seemed just as distant—a place to go after his wedding and honeymoon. He had a permanent assignment to the I-A’s antiwar college as a lecturer on “Exotic Clues to War.”
Abruptly, he had turned away from his desk to frown at the stiffly regulation room. Something in it had gone awry and he couldn’t focus on quite what it was. Everything seemed so much in the expected pattern: the gray walls, the sharp angles of the bunk, the white bedcover with its blue I-A monogram of crossed sword and stylus, the hard chair backed against the foot of the bunk leaving a three centimeter clearance for the gray flatness of a closet door. Everything regulation and in its place.
But he could not put down the premonition that something here had changed ... and dangerously.
Into that probing awareness, the hall door had banged open and Stetson had entered. The section chief wore his usual patched blue fatigues. His only badge of rank, golden I-A emblems on collar and uniform cap, appeared faintly corroded. Orne, wondering when the emblems had last seen polish, pushed that thought out of his mind. Stetson reserved all of his polish for his mind.
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