“Why did you do it?” she demanded more moderately.
“To force an admission of your origin from you,” he said. “That was successful, though I admit I didn’t quite pinpoint your Sphere. And I had to prevent you from trying to kill me or otherwise balk me from the performance of my mission. With a child to care for, you can’t go chasing after me, can you? Not to other Spheres.”
“Schl—” she started, then caught herself, glancing at the innocent infant. Flint was amazed at how readily he was able to accept this new reality: in just a few minutes by Sol time he had mated and become a father, and here was his child—by a completely alien mother. “There will be another time.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’d really like to repeat this performance—in my own body, with you in human form. You’re quite a female.”
She was silent for a moment. “And you are quite a male,” she agreed at last. “I have not before encountered an aura to match my own. I underestimated you, assuming you to be a primitive of your kind.”
“I am,” Flint agreed. “I’m a Stone Age man. But that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“That is true.” Then she hardened. “But I shall not make that error again. Twice I have failed; that suffices.”
And twice he had let her live, when perhaps he should have killed her. If only it weren’t for the fascination of her aura, and his curiosity about her Sphere of origin. “Meanwhile, take good care of our baby,” he said cheerfully. “I believe it takes about six months, my time, to raise a neuter to independence. If my interpretation of the nature of transfer is correct, you do possess the maternal instinct and will not permit your baby to suffer—because your Spican host would not have done so. You can’t go home before it is old enough to be weaned, or it will die, and you can’t take it with you because its Kirlian aura is native to this planet and would quickly fade in another host. I hope your own aura will last sufficiently long?”
“You know my aura is as strong as yours!” she flashed.
“Good. Then you will have a full month’s clearance, and then you can go home and recuperate for a similar period, while I complete my missions at other Spheres. After that, there will be no point in your seeking me out to kill me. The job will have been done. Are you sure you don’t want me to send a message to your home Sphere to let them know you’re busy?”
“You have nullified me!” she cried angrily.
“This is music to my auditory perception,” he said, realizing that he didn’t have ears. His whole surface picked up the sound waves. “Well, I would have hated to kill so lovely a creature as you. Maybe after all this is over, we can get together again. It was a lot of fun this time.”
This time even the presence of the child did not restrain her. “Schlish!”
But now Impacts were closing in, their fringes bubbling a bit in reaction to the foul language they had just picked up. Flint knew he could not escape arrest. And he realized there was a hole in his plan: he remained an outlaw. They might refuse to listen to him.
“Now I’ll make you a deal,” he said quickly. “You do not press charges against me for involuntary mergence, and I will not tell them of your alien origin.”
“Fush!” she said. “I’ll not cover for you! I can make them hold you here until your aura vanishes.”
“All right—I’ll tell them all about it,” he said brightly, though he was worried. “And I’ll call in the Sibilant as witness.” He turned to the nearest Impact. “I am an alien sapience in possession of this Impact body,” he announced. “Your cultural rules do not apply to me. This Undulant is—”
“I agree!” Llyana throbbed.
“…is an involuntary victim of my ignorance of local custom. Please take me to the Council of Impacts for interrogation.”
“That we shall,” the Impact said a bit grimly. “Do you, the victim, prefer charges against this entity?”
“No,” she said grudgingly. “It was an accident. I am pleased with my offspring. Only give me safe conduct to my zone.”
“As you wish,” the Impact said. “These things do happen.”
And so she departed with the little one, and Flint was conducted to the ruling council of his sex. He knew from data within his host’s memory that the council entities possessed the acumen to comprehend and verify his message, and the self-interest to cooperate. After all, this tri-sexed species could not have formed a stellar empire without knowledge of space and a high technology. Their achievement in doing it from a water base was phenomenal; it spoke well of their potential and drive. He would soon be back in his home sphere, mission accomplished.
He hoped the two Impacts he had fushed would not come forward to testify against him. But probably they would hide that embarrassing secret, as a human man might hide the fact of a homosexual attack on him. Justice was not worth the notoriety.
He rather hated to leave Llyana behind. He doubted he would ever again encounter a Kirlian aura that intense. And she had spirit and intelligence. She was in many respects his ideal mate.
But then he thought of Honeybloom, and remembered that he could never marry a nonhuman entity. How could they stay together any length of time, with fading auras? No, he belonged with his own kind.
6. Eye of the Charioteer
*notice agent mired in sphere spica cannot remove for some time*
—we know! what of the target kirlian?—
*retransferred to sphere sol no subsequent transfer*
—well check the mattermission indications, idiot!—
*target kirlian mattermitted to system capella within own sphere*
—detail on system—
*renaissance culture despotic center of internal resistance to domination of earth planet some infiltration by agents of anti-coalition spheres dominated by scheming queen*
—excellent that system may take care of our problem for us!—
*POWER*
—CIVILIZATION—
Capella was forty-five light-years from Sol, in the general direction of Sphere Nath but only a sixth as far. Its closest colonized neighbor was Castor, about as far away from it as Sirius was from Sol. What were eight or ten light-years between friends? Nothing like the hundred and some light-years to Etamin. Some day Flint meant to stop in at his home planet—but alas, Capella was not on that route.
He arrived in his own body in the afternoon, unannounced. Sol controlled the mattermitter, so that could be arranged. The station attendant, another pale-whitish specimen in an Imperial black tunic, introduced himself as Ambassador Jones of Earth. Flint identified himself. The man looked him up in the Orders of the Day and became more affable. “I’ve never met a genuine Outworlder before,” he remarked. “I had understood that planet was—”
“Stone Age,” Flint finished for him. “Right. And I really am a jolly green giant. And I chipped stone for a living, until the Imps snatched me. I’m here to—” he hesitated.
“Do not be concerned; I am cleared for such information. It’s in your dossier. You are our chief transfer agent, on temporary leave to recover your aura. I gather it fades somewhat during transfer.”
“Yes. They did not trust me to visit my home world. Afraid I might skip back to the better life.”
“Ha ha,” the man laughed dutifully, though Flint had been serious. “Well, we shall take good care of you. Tonight is a very special occasion, locally. Good Queen Bess is having a birthday party. Capella is in the midrange of regression, culturally and technologically, you know. Post-medieval, early Renaissance, though of course that isn’t exact. You’d think that in the three hundred years it’s been settled they’d have advanced further, but there have been complicating factors. A number of the parallels to Earth history are contrived; the Queen is a student of history, and you can guess who her idol is.”
“I’d have to,” Flint remarked. “I’m more of a student of Paleolithic events myself. I’m not much on contemporary Earth.”
But he did remember that the Shaman had called Ca
pella “Victorian.” Evidently it was further regressed than that Maybe its population had been too thin to sustain the Victorian level.
The Ambassador chuckled again. “Well I have made arrangements for you to attend as the representative from System Etamin. Should make quite a splash. Do you have any idea what it costs to mattermit a man your size a hundred light-years?”
“Two trillion dollars,” Flint said immediately.
The Ambassador looked startled; evidently he had expected ignorance. “Ah, yes. Queen Bess will be flattered to think that a system over thirty parsecs distant has sent a man to honor her. I would imagine you’ll be feted. You should enjoy it. These are a lusty people, for all their mannerisms, much given to feasting and, er, wenching.”
Flint thought of Honeybloom, back on Outworld. When would he see her again? At any rate, she was not the jealous type. His dallying elsewhere would not bother her, as long as she knew he preferred her. Men were men, after all. “Sounds great.”
“Let’s get you outfitted.” The man brought out an armful of costume clothing. “This habiliment may seem outlandish, but believe me, it’s what they wear. This is a suit appropriate to a high-ranking envoy.”
“Wouldn’t an authentic Outworld outfit be better?”
“Possibly. What is the established Outworld costume?”
“Nothing,” Flint said. “We run naked.”
The man forced yet another laugh. Flint got the message. When in the Capella system, dress Capella style.
He tugged his way into the skintight pants. “These are awful,” he complained. “They’re one size smaller than my skin.”
“That’s the style. Actually, you have very nice legs. The Queen has a fine eye for that sort of thing. Muscle in the right places, no fat. Now this.”
Flint eyed the bright-red bag. “What’s that?”
“The codpiece.”
“A piece of fish? Looks more like a scrotum.”
“Precisely. A crotch guard. This one’s armored, just in case.”
“It’s uncomfortable as hell! Suppose I need to—?”
“Ha ha. It’s removable. Wait till you try on the armor.”
“Armor?”
The Ambassador brought out a pile of metal. “This is a parade vest, decorative yet functional. Note the articulation of the joints, the polish of the surface. They have fine metalsmiths here.”
“I’m a flintsmith, myself,” Flint observed, frowning. But he struggled into the thing, clank by clank. And suffered an unpleasant memory. “It’s worse than an old Luna spacesuit!”
“Undoubtedly. But even more proof against punctures.” The man got it on him efficiently, then dropped an elegant blue sash across his right shoulder, knotting it over his left hip. Then slippers with blue bows. And some kind of trinket.
“I’m no lady!”
“You misunderstand the role of jewelry historically. Many virile men have worn it. But this happens to be a watch. These are very important here. Queen Bess has her own palace watchmaker.”
Flint looked at it: a round object about the heft of a good throwing stone, glassed on one side, with a decorated dial and two pointers. “What’s it for?”
“For telling time. You wear it on a chain, tucked into a special pocket, here.”
Flint balked again at the next object. “A snuffbox,” the Ambassador explained. “It contains powdered tobacco—don’t do that!”
But he was too late. Flint had opened the box and done what was natural: taken a good sniff to find out what it smelled like. His paroxysm of sneezing blew tobacco powder all over the room, setting the Ambassador off too.
When the spasms subsided, the dressing resumed. “I think we can safely dispense with the snuffbox,” the Ambassador said. Flint agreed emphatically. “And we won’t need the helmet and gauntlets, since this is a festive occasion. But the sword must be worn. It is a mark of honor.”
“But it has no cutting edge!” Flint objected, running his thumb along it. Swords were not yet in use on Outworld, but the Shaman had told him of them, and he found them intrinsically fascinating.
“It is a rapier, not a machete,” the Ambassador said. “Remember the level of culture here. Three musketeers—know what I mean?”
“Guns haven’t yet been invented on my world. But I thought a musket was a firearm.”
“Come to think if it, you’re right. I wonder why they called them the three musketeers? They were French swordsmen of the seventeenth century. Furthermore, there were four of them, counting D’Artagnan. Though of course they did have muskets there—and have them here too—but they aren’t used as weapons of honor. Except for pistols, in arranged duels.” He shrugged. “Well, we’ve dressed you for the part, and if you watch your manners you won’t have to use the sword. You can’t get into any trouble wishing the Queen happy birthday. So long as you don’t mention her age, ha ha.”
So the Queen was an old bag. Well, he could wish her happy birthday, all right. Then get into the feasting and wenching.
The ritual of dressing had taken some time. It was night already. They went outside to wait for the transportation provided by the Queen. The stars were bright, but Flint hardly had time to look at them before the thud of hooves signaled the approach of his coach. He did identify his home star, Etamin, and that made him feel he had gotten his bearings, though the constellation it now occupied did not look much like Draco the Dragon. A shift of forty-five light-years to the side made a big difference in the apparent positions of the nearer stars. There was no Charioteer constellation, of course, because Capella was in it, as the eye of Auriga, mythological inventor of the chariot. The colonies were well aware of the places of their systems in human mythology, and Flint had no doubt the chariot was an important symbol here, just as the dragon was around Etamin. The visible constellations changed with each planet, but they lacked the human authenticity of the Earth-sky, and had not built up followings of their own. Even as a child in Etamin’s system, Flint had learned the constellations of Sol’s system. And some, like Orion’s Belt, were the same anywhere in Sol Sphere, because those three stars were so far away.
Flint had a premonition about the probable nature of his steed. Sure enough: what hove into view was a dragon drawing a chariot. “They have several beasts of burden here,” the Ambassador explained. “Since your world is considered to be a primitive warrior-system—”
“An accurate description,” Flint agreed, pleased. Actually, from what he had seen and beard, more civilized cultures were far more combative than his own. There were no wars on Outworld, and few individual combats. But each man liked to think of himself as a warrior.
The man coughed. “Yes. So you will be expected to have a rather crude, forceful bearing. But remember: The Queen’s courtiers are all expert swordsmen, and dead shots with pistols. No one not raised to the manner can match them. Whatever you do, don’t get into a duel! Don’t draw your weapon at all in the palace.”
“Tantamount to a challenge, eh?” Flint inquired as servitors guided the dragon in, like little tugboats beside its mass. “But why would they bother an honorary delegate from another system who only comes to wish their Queen well?”
“They wouldn’t, ordinarily. But there has been unrest recently. There’s a lot of local intrigue; it’s part of the manners of the period. The Queen had her last lover beheaded some time ago for treason—he was guilty, incidentally; she’s very fair about such things—and that heightens it.”
“Because they’re afraid there’ll be more beheadings?”
“No. Because all the young nobles are jockeying for her favor, hoping to become her next lover. The Queen’s specific favor means a lot, as she is the source of all power here. So she has been in a bad mood, and the whole planet reflects it. Duels are frequent. But as I said, you aren’t part of this, so you’re safe enough so long as you don’t go out of your way to antagonize anyone. Sol isn’t sending a delegate, and I’m staying here in the embassy. Diplomatic immunity goes only so far.
Rumors of transfer have gotten about, and these people have confused medieval notions about that. The mood is generally antiscientific. Do you know what I mean by the Inquisition?”
“No.” But Flint made a mental note to find out, at his convenience; the Ambassador had spoken the word with a suggestive intonation that hinted at horrible things.
“Well, Queen Bess has suppressed the Inquisition anyway. But it typifies the alienophobic attitudes to which such cultures are prone. To them, Earth is alien. So Sol and Sirius are in bad repute; they make much of the fact that Capella is a hundred and fifty times as luminous as Sol. But Etamin is well regarded, perhaps because it is far away and primitive. So just be careful not to mention transfer, and you’ll have a good time.”
“A good time—in the midst of this caldron of animosities?”
“For a Stone Age man, you have quite a vocabulary! But perhaps I have exaggerated the situation. Those in favor are very well treated, and when the Queen throws a party, there’s nothing like it in Sphere Sol. Their ladies are very provocative and, er, free. But I’d advise against—well—”
“Why not?” Flint asked, more curious than alarmed.
“Well, the Queen—” The Ambassador paused. “You really don’t know much about this culture, do you? No reason you should, of course. I just hadn’t thought it through. I think as a precaution you’d better take this.”
He held out a flattish flesh-colored bit of plastic. “Stick it to the roof of your mouth.”
“Why?”
“It’s a communicator. Two-way radio. Picks up all sounds in your neighborhood, including your own speech, and transmits our messages through the bony structure to your ears, inaudible to anyone else. Essential for guiding you in local etiquette, just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
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