The cynthian looked around slowly. "Hhh-no," he said.
"Well, what do you want to do?" said Carlyle. He was trying to be patient, but why was Cephean so sullen? Because he was alone on a human planet? "Do you want to keep flying with me, then?"
"Hhh-no," hissed Cephean.
Carlyle felt relief, but also guilt. Had Cephean said no because he felt unwanted? Did he want to feel wanted?
"Cephean—" he said. He wanted to say something soothing—or probing. "Are you all right? I mean, being away from your own people, being here with us, is that . . . hard?" He felt angry with himself for fumbling so, for being so awkward.
Cephean sat, staring at him with his copper-and-obsidian eyes. The riffmar were stirring about in the clutter behind Cephean, and one of them traipsed forward, dragging a syrup stalk. The stalk was wilted, but Cephean took it in his jaws and chewed it slowly.
Carlyle walked to the back of the room and peered into Cephean's wood-crate cache of food. "Hell," he said, "you're almost out of food." The Guild room steward had offered them provisions, but Cephean had refused; he probably was afraid of human food. But if his own supply was drying up, he might be suffering physically. Who knew what a cynthian's nutritional needs were? "Cephean, you're running out of food!"
Cephean's eyes dimmed with despair.
"Well, look. We can fix that; we can get you food. I know you don't trust our food, but if we do some shopping, we can probably come up with something like . . . odomilk . . . or your syrup stalk and whatever else you have. Do you want to go out with me and see what we can find?"
The cynthian blinked nervously. He inhaled and exhaled with a hiss, then fell silent. He started chewing his stalk again.
Carlyle looked around the room. The place was a mess, and despite good ventilation, it smelled. The cynthian did not use the human toilet but kept his wastes, rather sloppily at present, in a box which fed into the riffmar nutrient tray and the riff-bud culture tank. The floor was covered with little clots of black hair, and there were a few broken riffmar leaves lying about, suggesting that Cephean might have taken a few swipes at Idi and Odi. Obviously he was depressed, and possibly he was again becoming suicidal.
"Cephean," Carlyle said gently, "why don't we have this place cleaned up, and go out and see if we can find some food you'll like. All right?"
Again there was silence. Cephean seemed immobilized by fear. Is that it? Carlyle wondered. Fear? I can understand that—any rigger can. Some of us never go out into the outside world at all.
He reached out sympathetically to touch the cynthian—and stopped. How would that kind of gesture be taken by a cynthian? His hand trembled, and he felt ridiculous holding it out. Then he thought, go ahead—he's just a big, smart telepathic cat.
(Irritation, he sensed.)
Finally he reached all the way and touched Cephean's forehead and pushed his fingers into the long, black fur between the cynthian's ears. Cephean's eyes widened, and his copper irises dilated to bright, skinny rings of fire around black pupils. (Carlyle felt ripples of . . . what? . . . consolation . . . affection . . . condescension? He couldn't be sure.)
"We have to help each other out, Cephean. We'll just go out in the city to some food shops. No koryfs. No trouble. All right?" He was tempted to suggest that they work out their problems together in the RiggerGuild dreampool, but he quashed that thought immediately: He patted Cephean's smooth, muscular shoulder. "All right?"
Cephean bared his teeth and worked his tongue around inside his mouth. Finally he dipped his head. "H-all righ-ss. Yiss."
Carlyle sighed gratefully. His heart was pounding. "Do you want to bring Idi and Odi?"
Cephean tossed his head in the direction of the riffmar, mulling. "H-no. Thake khair hriff-ffudss," he hissed.
Carlyle peered at the two riffmar. They were fidgeting near the riff-bud cultures, taking care of the new "baby riffmar." Apparently they could manage without supervision. "Okay," he said.
They left by the main spaceport exit. Carlyle wore a magenta rigger tunic, which provided him with a measure of physical security but also made him feel self-conscious—wearing his rank, and implicitly demanding privilege. Cephean padded alongside, sniffing and staring about. He hissed in approval at the sight of ships arrayed on the spaceport field; but once they were in the general traffic, he began to mutter. Carlyle tried not to imagine that he was walking with a long-haired, panther-sized housecat.
The weather was sunny but cool, and Carlyle puffed up his windbreaker for greater insulation. They got on a shuttle which carried them two kilometers or so into the first shopping district of Plateau, where they got off and began prowling. There were no open markets with products visible from the street; here there were only small, closed-in shops. Carlyle went into the first one alone, since Cephean refused to cross the threshold. The store sold only synthetics, anyway, so he went back out. "Don't think so." he said. Cephean snuffled and hissed, and padded on.
The next shop looked more promising. "Hyou ssee," said Cephean indifferently, when Carlyle gestured toward the door. Again, Carlyle went to look.
The place was darker, cooler, and full of odors. He went back out. "Cephean, they have fresh-grown fruit and vegetables," he said. "Why don't you come in with me? There may be some things you'll like here."
Cephean sniffed.
"There are hardly any people in here now. It'll be all right."
Finally the cynthian followed him in. The air held dozens of smells, and Cephean sniffed and snorted suspiciously. "Come on toward the back," said Carlyle. The shopkeeper, at the rear, noticed them suddenly and came forward disapprovingly. "My friend is a sentient and a cynthian," Carlyle blurted defensively, trying to forestall any comment. He would have added that they were both under Rigger protection, but the shopkeeper had already noticed Carlyle's tunic and waved an unenthusiastic acknowledgment.
Carlyle looked over several open counters of produce and picked out a milk-bearing melon. He held it up for Cephean's examination. "How about this?" The cynthian's eyes glinted suspiciously. "Hmm." He put the melon back and picked up a yellow fruit. "How about this?" Cephean sniffed it, then took it in his jaws and bit deeply. "Yach!" he cried, spitting it out with a spray of saliva. "Whass sss iss?"
Carlyle picked it up from the floor where it had rolled and put it back in the bin where he had gotten it. He shrugged.
It occurred to him then that the thing to do was to have a whole assortment of foods sent to the spaceport and analyzed, and have a sample of Cephean's food analyzed, and see what came closest to matching. But they might as well try a few more items here. He showed Cephean the melon again, but the cynthian refused another trial bite. They went down the line, Carlyle holding each item for Cephean's inspection and the cynthian sniffing with disinterest. The floor creaked quietly as they moved, shuffling, toward the back. Finally Carlyle went to the counter and said, "I'd like two of everything, sent to us at the RiggerGuild Haven." The keeper looked at him skeptically but filled out the order and had Carlyle thumbprint it.
When they were back on the street, Carlyle said, "Do you want to go down into the valley, see the mountains?"
Cephean looked at him gravely. (Alarm.) "H-no. Noss wanss ssee k-k-horiff. Noss!"
"No koryfs," Carlyle promised. "They're all in the wild country, anyway—not near the city." At least that was how he remembered it.
"H-no," the cynthian insisted. "Muss gho vvack," (Urgency. Urgency.)
"Are you worried about the riffmar and the riff-buds?"
Cephean did not answer.
They returned to the spaceport.
* * *
Reluctantly, Cephean yielded samples of his dwindling food stock for analysis.
The answers from the specialists came back the next day. Carlyle studied the report in Cephean's room. The cynthian looked unkempt and ratty, with his fur matted to his body. "Hey," said Carlyle, "I think we can keep you from starving. All you have to do is eat the things on this list. Hope you
like some of them." The closest substitute for odomilk, as it turned out, was the melon which Cephean had disdained yesterday. Or condensed valley-goat milk with nectar. There were a number of promising substitutes for syrup stalk, in particular celery soaked in Velan molasses, with vitamin and mineral supplements. For bramleaf, he would have to be happy with cereal grain products—perhaps thin flatcakes.
The cynthian's reaction was not enthusiastic, but at least he did not refuse outright to try the food. Maybe he's starting to understand that he has to adapt, Carlyle thought.
Cephean looked down at the crate of food which had been delivered by the shop. His eyes contracted, and the riffmar sprang into action. They scavenged through the box until they found the one remaining melon and, struggling, lifted it to the edge of the box. It fell from their hands and thumped to the floor and rolled away. They scurried to catch it, then rolled it toward Cephean, hissing softly with the effort. Cephean eyed the melon doubtfully, then mouthed it.
"Wait," said Carlyle. "I'd better cut that open for you." He went back to his own quarters and returned with a sharp knife and a platter. Taking the melon from Cephean, he placed it on the platter and carefully sliced it open. A yellowish milk spilled out, filling the platter. "You can try the milk, and you might like the inside of the melon, too," he said, quartering the fruit and placing the pieces to one side.
Cephean sniffed. "Iss noss ffoisson?" he asked cautiously.
"No, I'm sure it's safe."
The cynthian took a tentative lick, then jerked back and worried his tongue about inside his mouth. "Yach! Whass iss iss?" He hunched forward and took another taste. He shook his head jerkily. "Noss . . . noss . . . vvaddss," he sputtered. But he backed away and to one side and sat stiffly, glancing down at the platter and back up at Carlyle. "Fferhaffs, Caharleel, fferhaffs." He looked perplexed, and swiped nervously with one black paw at his unkempt fur. He looked thoughtful for a moment. Suddenly the riffmar shuffled forward and climbed up his fur and onto his shoulders, one on each side. They began to comb the fur on his head and neck, plucking out tufts that had been shed, and cleaning bits of dirt from his scalp. Their fern tops waved and fluttered as they worked. Cephean bent and licked at the milk again.
Carlyle left them and went for his final meeting with the Guild med and psych experts, and, after that, the hearing panel. The meetings went smoothly, though he never got over his feeling that somehow they were going to find fault with him before the inquest was finished. In fact, he failed to hear the concluding commendation the first time it was read, because he was too absorbed in his thoughts. Would he be blamed for the flux-pile adjustments he had made just prior to the accident? Would he be judged unstable? Would he be blamed for bringing the ship to Garsoom's Haven instead of Gammon's Annex and putting the Spacing Authority here to so much trouble? "Skan?"
"What's wrong now, Gev? You're completely in the clear."
And Janofer: "You don't have to worry, Gev. You really don't."
"Will I be able to join you when I get back?"
"Get back, first, dear."
He glanced up and saw that every holo-figure was watching him. He cleared his throat.
Fortunately, Wellen stepped in for him. "Gev, the Board has found that you handled your station with more than the requisite care and skill, and it has granted you high commendation, with reward."
Carlyle turned, startled, to Dial Jade. She smiled. He began to feel giddy with relief.
Wellen continued, "When you decide what you want to do next, the Board will help you any way it can. You may remain with Sedora after she's been refitted, if you like, or you can take on a different ship."
"I want to go back to Chaening's World," Carlyle said, impelled by a rush of homesickness—for Jarvis, for Lady Brillig.
Pierce, the deputy administrator, said, "I'm sure we can arrange that."
Wellen glanced at Carlyle, then said to Pierce, "Fine. Perhaps we can work out a way to combine that with the monetary settlement for the riggers."
Hearing that, Carlyle wondered. A monetary settlement? Just for saving himself and the ship? Of course this was all standard procedure, as specified by agreement between the RiggerGuild and the Interstellar Consortium of Spacing Authorities. Skan was right; he should have expected all this. But he still felt peculiar about it.
"And your companion, the cynthian," Pierce said. "Can you tell us what his choice for the future might be?"
Carlyle frowned. "I think he'd like to return home, too, but I don't think he knows the way back from here. I don't think we can take him home."
"You will try to learn for us what we can do for him, then?" Pierce asked.
"Of course. I'll try."
The hearing was adjourned, and Carlyle went to be alone to think. He felt responsible to Cephean, but what did that mean he should do if he left Garsoom's Haven for Chaening's World? Should he just do his best for Cephean here, and then trust Wellen and the Guild to help the cynthian? Should he invite Cephean along to Chaening's World? How would that benefit him? Cephean was so damned stubborn about not talking; he probably wouldn't be such bad company if he would just open up.
Dial Jade met him as he was walking back to his quarters. "Holly asked me to tell you that there's a light courier ship available, with a cargo already cleared for Elacia V. If you'd like to fly that, the Spacing Authority will set up a floating command arrangement, and you can take the ship on through to Chaening's World or any other destination you can get minimum carryage for. That's probably the quickest way home for you, and it would serve as a long-term monetary settlement, since you would have command and a share of shipping profits. It can be flown as a one- or two-rigger ship. Would you be interested?"
Blood pounded in his head, and it was a moment before he could even think. Chaening's World! The images: bright, busy spaceport at Jarvis with flashing ships of all designs, the city of Jarvis to one side, and beyond it the gleaming sea. And . . . Lady Brillig poised to lift, and three long-awaiting friends.
Dial was watching him curiously, as he brought his mind back. "Yes," he said. "It sounds like exactly what I want."
"Good," said Dial. "Holly is down in the spaceport now, if you want to go look over the ship with him."
Carlyle grinned and bounded down toward the main lobby. Holly was there with Deputy Administrator Pierce. "The ship can carry a co-rigger, too, if you like," said Pierce.
"You mean Cephean?"
"Do you think he'd like to go with you?" Pierce clearly hoped so; it would discharge their obligation to Cephean with the least trouble to them. "We could modify the second rigger-station for him."
Carlyle hesitated. "I haven't had a chance to talk with him yet, but—"
Pierce waited.
Before Carlyle could conclude his thought, Wellen suggested quietly, "Why don't we go look over the ship?" Carlyle agreed at once.
Later, after they had inspected the vessel, Wellen and Carlyle talked privately. "What do you think of her?" Wellen asked.
Carlyle gestured affirmatively. The ship seemed respectable enough. Its name was Spillix, and it was shaped like a long, thin seed. It seemed appropriate for its mission, which was carrying mail and valuable light cargo. "It's fine. It's what I need to get back home, and after that it won't matter, since I'll be rejoining my old friends on another ship." He had already told Wellen his plans for getting together with Skan and Janofer and Legroeder.
Wellen gazed at him with clear eyes. He tapped his cheekbone with one finger; he traced the line of his wide sideburn. "I hope that your expectations work out," he said. "But please don't become too hopeful. There are many uncertainties in the way things happen, and time goes by. I'd hate for you to become too attached to what is, after all, only a hope."
Carlyle looked at him. Confusion buzzed in his mind. Anger.
"Do you understand why I'm saying this, Gev?" The lines in Wellen's face deepened.
Carlyle felt dizzy, and his vision blurred. Yes, of course he knew what Wellen was
talking about. Uncertainty. The uncertainty of the rigger. A part of his way of life—that time could play strange tricks, that in a journey completed something might be lost.
Nothing he didn't already know in theory. But to have it flung at him in a moment of hope, of vulnerability—and by the Guild counsel, a friend—was unkind. "I understand," he said tightly.
He understood. The fact was that for all the established dangers of rigging, there were others that were only speculation, rumor, or legend. The legend that a crew once sundered could never be rejoined. The legend that a rigger-ship and its crew lost something in passing through the Flux, a trace of substance, an unmeasurable bit of mass.
Legend only. There had never been established any loss of mass not attributable to pile or fusor conversion, or simple gas loss from the ship. But rumors and legends persisted. It was said that a rigger who plied the Flux long enough lost something of his body and of his soul and even became, in a ghostly sort of fashion, translucent. And that ships themselves, with their crews, became ghost ships. Legend only. No one Carlyle knew had ever seen a translucent rigger or a ghost ship. But . . . there was the so-called Dutchman legend, the legend of the ship called Impris, with her ghostly, immortal crew which had wandered the seas of the Flux for centuries and would continue wandering for all of eternity, doomed. Legend only.
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