The 20th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ™: Evelyn E. Smith

by Evelyn E. Smith

  “Yes," Embelsira said as they gathered all the oddments the guests had left, “she's been offered a lot of money to go work in Zrig. But she won't leave Katund; she was born here, and so were her parents."

  “I do not blame her for wanting to stay," he said. “It's a very — homelike place."

  She sighed. “To us it is, but I don't suppose someone who's city born and bred would feel the same way. I know you won't let yourself stay buried here forever, and what will I — what will Mother and I ever do without you?"

  “It is — very kind of you to say so," he replied. “I am honored."

  The girl — she was still young enough to be called a girl, though no longer in her first youth — looked up at him. Blue eyes could be pleasing in their way. “Why are you always so stiff, so cold?"

  “I am not cold," he said honestly. “I am — afraid."

  “There is nothing to be afraid of. You're safe, among friends, no matter what you may have done back where you came from."

  “But I have done nothing back there," he said. “Nothing at all. Perhaps that is the trouble with me.

  She looked up at him and then away. “Then isn't it about time you started to do something?"

  * * * *

  The next time he went to Barshwat he took a lot of luggage with him, because, besides the artifacts and the flora and fauna, he brought cold pastries for the colonel. The colonel ate one in silence, then said, “Try to get the recipe."

  “By the way," said Clarey, “the X-T boys made a few mistakes. The bugg isn't an insect; it's a bird. And the lule isn't a bird; it's a flower. And the paparun isn't a flower; it's an insect."

  “Oh, well, I guess they'll be able to straighten that out," the colonel said, licking crumbs from his thick fingers. “We do our jobs and they do theirs." He reached for another pastry.

  “Take good care of the bugg," Clarey said. “He likes his morning seed mixed with milk; his evening seed with wine. His name is Mirti. He's very tame and affectionate. I — said I was bringing him to my aunt . . . " He paused. “You are going to take him back alive, aren't you? You'd get so much more information that way."

  “Wouldn't dream of hurting a hair — a feather — no, it is a hair, isn't it? — of the little fellow's head."

  Clarey looked out of the window at the purple night sky. Then he turned back to the colonel. “I've been taking music lessons," he said defiantly.

  “Fine! Every man should have a hobby!"

  “But I've no music license."

  “Come now, Clarey. You still don't seem to realize you're on Damorlan, not Earth. Not a blooded intelligence man yet! There aren't any guilds on Damorlan, so enjoy yourself."

  “Speaking of that, did you find out about — er — Earthmen and — "

  “Yes, I'd meant to drop you a note, but it seemed rather odd information for your aunt to be giving you. It's absolutely all right, old chap. Go ahead, have your bit of fun."

  Clarey was unreasonably annoyed. “I wasn't thinking of what you're thinking. I mean — well, Katund is a village and the native morality is very strict in these matters."

  “Afraid I don't quite follow you."

  Clarey bit his finger. “Well," he finally admitted, “the truth of the matter is I'd like to get married."

  The colonel was extremely surprised. “A legal arrangement! Is it absolutely necessary? How about the females that the innkeeper's so anxious to have you — ah — meet?"

  * * * *

  Clarey didn't know how to explain. “Their standards of cleanliness ..." he began, and stopped. Then he started again: “I suppose I'd like a permanent companion."

  “I don't suppose there's any real reason why you shouldn't enter into a legal liaison while you're here," said the colonel. “After all, it isn't as if the two races could interbreed. That could be decidedly awkward. Who's the lucky little lady?"

  “My landlady's daughter," Clarey said.

  “Your boss, eh? Flying high, aren't you, old chap?" His massive hand descended on Clarey's shoulder. Then he grew serious. “Can she cook like her mother?"

  “Even better."

  “My boy," the colonel said solemnly, “you have my unqualified blessing. And when I ask you to save me a piece of the wedding cake, I ask from the heart." So, when Clarey went back to Katund, he asked Embelsira to marry him and she accepted. The whole village turned out for the wedding. Clarey managed to take some vocpix of the ceremonies for the X-Ts with a finger unit. I ought to get a handsome wedding present for this, he thought.

  And, to his surprise, on the wedding day, an elaborate jewel-studded toilet service did arrive from Barshwat — with the affectionate regards of his aunt, who was too ill to travel. They tie up everything, he thought, but he knew it was a little more than simply remembering to pick up a loose end. The toilet set was vulgar, ostentatious, hideous — obviously selected with loving care and Terrestrial taste.

  Everybody in Katund and a lot of people from the surrounding country came to look at it. It seemed to establish his eligibility beyond a doubt. “Never thought 'Belsira'd do it, and at her age, too," Piq was heard to comment. “But it looks like she really got herself a catch. What's a little weakness in the dome-top when there's money, too?"

  The first three years of Clarey's marriage were happy ones. He and Embelsira got on very nicely together and, since he was fond of her mother, he didn't mind her constant presence too much. Once a week he took a ulerin lesson from Rini. He practiced assiduously and made progress that he himself could see was sensational. He did wish that Rini would accept money; it would have been so much less of a nuisance than replacing the music books the boy stole from the library, but he couldn't expect local customs to coincide with his own. The money, of course, didn't matter; he still wasn't living up to his allowance, although he was beginning to spread himself on elaborate custom-made cloaks and tunics. On Earth he had dressed soberly, according to his status, but here he felt entitled to cut a dash.

  At the colonel's request, on his next trip to Barshwat he brought his ulerin and taped some native melodies. “I like 'em," the colonel said, nodding his head emphatically. “Catchy, very catchy. Hope the X-Ts appreciate them; they don't usually like music if it sounds at all human." And, catching the look on Clarey's face, “Well, you know what I mean. To them, if a tune can be hummed, it isn't authentic."

  News of Clarey's skill on the ulerin spread through the countryside. When he played in the temple concerts, people sometimes came from as far away as Zrig to hear him. Clarey was a little disturbed about this, because he didn't subscribe to the local faith. But the high priest said, “My son, music knows no religious boundaries. Besides, when you play, we always get three times as much in the collection nets."

  At the time Clarey got word from Barshwat that General Spano and the staff ship were expected shortly, he had risen to the post of chief librarian. Embelsira had retired to keep dome and wait for the young ones who would, of course, never come. Clarey had hired a hixhead of an assistant from Zrig to assist him;

  he saw now why the village had originally been grateful to get even a foreigner of doubtful background for the job.

  “I'm going to have to stay at least a week with Aunt Askush this time," he told his wife. “Legal matters. I think she's drawing up a will or some such," he added, hoping that this would keep Embelsira happy and convinced.

  Maybe it worked too well. “But why can't I come with you? I've always wanted so much to meet her."

  “I keep telling you her illness is a disfiguring one; she won't meet strangers. And don't say you're not a stranger — you'd understand, but she's the one who wouldn't. Please don't nag me, Belsir."

  “Sometimes I think you're a stranger, Balt," Embelsira declared emotionally.

  “Yes, dear, I'm a stranger, anything you say, but let me get packed." He started folding a robe crookedly, hoping it would distract her into taking over the job.

  But she leaned against the lintel, staring at him. “Balt, sometime
s I wonder if you really have an aunt."

  The only thing he allowed himself to do was put down the robe he was holding. “Do you think I send expensive toilet sets to myself? You must think Piq's right — I'm just plain crazy." “Piq doesn't think you're crazy any more. He and the other old ones say you have a woman in Barshwat. But I don't believe that!"

  “Maybe I do, Embelsira. A man's a man, even if he is a librarian."

  “I know it isn't true. I think it's . . . something else entirely. You're so strange sometimes, Balt. How could somebody who comes only from the other side of the same world be so strange?"

  * * * *

  He forced a grin. “Suddenly you've become very cosmic. What do you know of our — of the world? It's a big place. And nobody else in Katund seems to be so impressed by my strangeness; they think a foreigner's entitled to his queer ways."

  “Nobody in Katund knows you as well as I do. And I've seen foreigners before. They're not different in the way you are." She looked intently at him. “It's not a shameful kind of strangeness, just a . . . strange kind of strangeness. Fascinating in its way — I don't want you to think I just married the first stranger who came along ..."

  “I'm sure you had many offers, dear. Come, help me fold this cloak or I'll never make the bus." “You know what I'm reminded of?" she said, coming forward and taking the cloak. “Of the old tale about the lovely village maiden who marries the handsome stranger and promises she'll never look into his eyes. And then one day she forgets and looks into his eyes and sees — "

  “What does she see?"

  “The worst thing of all, the greatest horror. She sees nothing. She sees emptiness."

  He laughed. “The moral's clear. She shouldn't have looked into his eyes."

  “But how can you help looking into the eyes of the man you love? Maybe that's the moral — that it was an impossible task he set her."

  “In those tales it's always the man's fault, isn't it? Not much doubt who made them up. Now, Belsir, please, I've got to finish packing. It'll be just my luck to have today be the day the bus to Zrig's on time."

  “A couple of weeks ago I was in Zrig shopping and I saw an Earthman," she said, folding his cloak into the kit. “The way he walked, the way he moved, reminded me a little of you."

  It was a long moment before he could speak. “Do I look to you like a dark-faced, darkhaired, brown-eyed — "

  “I didn't say you were an Earthman! But if Earthmen can travel through the sky, they might be able to do other things, too; maybe even change the way a man looks."

  He snapped the kit-fastener. “If you really believe that, you should be careful. Creatures as clever as that might be able to pluck your words from my brain."

  “What if they did? I'm not ashamed. Or afraid, either."

  He reached out and patted her arm. Maybe she wasn't afraid, but he was. For her. And for the people of Damorlan. If there was a deep-probe on the staff ship . . . If only something could happen to him, so he could never reach Barshwat . . . Spano wouldn't know. He might guess, but he wouldn't know. He'd have to start all over again — and maybe things would turn out better next time.

  * * * *

  General Spano and his secretary were waiting in Blynn's office. Clarey stretched out his foot in greeting, then recollected himself and reached out his hand. “You see, sir," he said with a too-hearty laugh, “I'm really living my part."

  Spano beamed. “Damorlan certainly seems to agree with you, my boy. You look positively blooming. Doesn't he, Han?"

  She nodded grave agreement. The general sniffed. “What's that you two are smoking?"

  “Marac leaves," Clarey said. “A native product. Care to try one?" He extended his pouch to Spano.

  “Don't mind if I do," the general said, taking a roll. “Which part do you light? And why don't you offer one to Secretary Vollard?"

  “Oh, sorry; I didn't think of it. The women here don't use it. Care to try one, Secretary?" As she took a roll, she looked at him searchingly. She was still beautiful in an Amazonian way, but he preferred Embelsira's way. He could never imagine Han Vollard warm and tender.

  “Well, Clarey," Spano said, “you seem to be doing a splendid job. I've been absolutely enthralled by your reports." He settled himself behind Blynn's desk. “Pity the information's top secret. It could make a fortune on the tri-dis."

  Clarey bowed.

  “And those musictapes you sent back created quite a stir. We've brought along some superior equipment. The rig here is good enough for routine work, but we need better fidelity for this. And it would be appreciated if the colonel didn't beat time with his foot while you played — no offense, Blynn."

  He turned back to Clarey. “Do you think you can pick up some of those what-do-you-call-'ems — ulerins — for us, too, or is there a tabu of some kind?"

  “Not ulerins," Clarey corrected, “uleran. And you can walk up to any marketplace and get as many as you like — providing you have the cash, of course."

  “I told you the job had musical overtones. I'll bet that makes up for some of the discomforts and privations."

  “It's not too uncomfortable."

  “There speaks a true patriot!" Spano approved.

  Han measured Clarey with her eyes. “You're quiet, Secretary," he said nervously. “You used to talk a lot more."

  Blynn stared at him. She smiled. “You're the one who has things to tell now, Clarey."

  “And show," the general said, almost licking his lips. “Every one of your tapes made my mouth fairly water. I trust you brought an ample and varied supply of those delicacies." Clarey's smile was unforced this time. “I got your message and I brought along a large hamperful, but it'll be hard to make the people back home keep thinking my aunt's an invalid if she eats like a team of hax. My wife baked some pastries, which I especially recommend to your attention."

  “I think we ought to get business over before we start on refreshments," Han suggested.

  “Yes," Spano agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you had better be deep-probed first, Clarey . . . Not even one taste beforehand, Han? . . . Well, I suppose not." Clarey tensed. “You've got a probe on the ship?" he asked, as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

  “That's right," Han Vollard said. “It's an up-to-date model. The whole thing'll take you less than an hour, and we'll have the information collated by morning." “I — I would prefer not to be deep-probed. You never can tell: it might upset all the conditioning I've received here; it — "

  “Let us worry about that, Clarey," she said.

  * * * *

  He didn't sleep that night.

  He sat looking out of the window, knowing there was nothing he could do. Embelsira was in danger — her people were in danger — and he couldn't lift a finger to save them.

  When he came down to breakfast, he saw that the reports had been collated and read. “So your wife suspects, does she?" the general asked. “Shrewd little creature. You must have picked one of the more intelligent ones." Clarey struggled on the pin. “Wives often have strange fancies about their husbands. You mustn't take it too seriously." “How often have you been married, Clarey?" Han asked. “Or even linked in liaison? How many married people did you know well back on Earth?" There was no need to answer; she knew all the answers.

  “I think Clarey did a rattling good job," Blynn said stoutly. “It wasn't his fault that she suspects."

  “Of course not!" the general agreed. “Feminine intuition isn't restricted to human females. In fact, in some female ilfs it's even stronger than in humans. The precognitive faculties in the grua, for example — "

  “What are you going to do?" Clarey interrupted bluntly.

  Han Vollard answered him: “Nothing yet. You've got us a lot of information, but it's not enough. You'll have to keep on as you are for another three years or so."

  It was all Clarey could do to keep from trembling visibly with relief.

  “It doesn't even matter too much that one of the natives sus
pects," Han went on, “as long as she doesn't definitely know."

  “She doesn't," Clarey said, “and she won't. And she won't tell anybody; she'd be afraid for me." But he wasn't all that sure. The Damorlanti didn't hate Earthmen and they didn't fear them, and so Embelsira wouldn't think it was a shameful thing to be. He was glad he'd already been deep-probed. At least this thought would be safe for three years or so.

  “At any rate, they don't seem antagonistic toward Earthmen," the general said, almost as if he'd read part of Clarey's mind. “I think that's nice."

  Han Vollard looked at him. “It's not their attitude toward us that matters. They couldn't do anything if they tried. It's what they are that matters, what they will be that matters even more." “I take back what I said before!" Clarey flared. “You talk too damn much!"

  There was a chilling silence. “Nerves," said Blynn nervously. “Every agent lets go when he's back among his own kind. Nothing but release of tension."

  * * * *

  Several days later the staff ship was ready to go back to Earth. “Don't forget to tell your wife how much I enjoyed the pies," Spano said; then, “Oh, I was forgetting; you could hardly do that. But do see if you can work out something with the dehydro-freeze. I'd hate to have to wait three years before tasting them again. You can keep your marac rolls, though; I'll take my smoke-sticks."

  “Try not to get any more involved, Clarey," Han Vollard said as they stood outside the airlock. “Maybe you ought to move on — to a city, perhaps, another country — "

  “When I want your advice, I'll ask for it!" he snapped.

  After they'd gone, Blynn turned on him. “Man, you must be out of your mind, talking to Secretary Vollard like that."

  “Why does she have to keep meddling? It's none of her business—"

  “None of her business! Secretary of the Space Service, and you say it's none of her business?"

  Clarey blinked. “I thought she was Spano's secretary."

  Blynn laughed until the tears dampened his dark cheeks. “Spano's only Head of Intelligence. She's his Mistress."