 Part 1. of Century of the Sky by Evelyn E. Smith. Clary had checked in at classification center so many times that he came now more out of habit than hope. He didn't even look at the card that the test machine dropped into his hand until he was almost to the port way. And then he stopped. Report to Room 33 for reclassification, it said. Ten years before, Clary would have been ecstatic, sure that the reclassification could be only in one direction. The machine had not originally given him a job commensurate with his talents. Why should it suddenly recognize them? He'd known of people who had been reclassified, always downward. I'm a perfectly competent sub-archivist, he told himself. I'll fight. But he knew fighting wouldn't help. All he had was the right to refuse any job he could claim was not in his line. The government would then be obligated to continue his existence. There were many people who did subsist on the government dole, the agent and the deficient and the defective, and creative artists who refused to tremble their spirits and chose to be ranked as unemployables. Clary didn't fit into those categories. Despiritedly he passed along innumerable winding corridors and up and down ramps that twisted and turned to lead into other ramps and corridors. That was the way all public buildings were designed. It was forbidden for the government to make any law-abiding individual think the way it wanted him to think. But it could move him in any direction it chose, and sometimes that served its purpose as well as the reorientation machines. So the corridors he passed through were in constant eddying movement, with a variety of individuals bent on a variety of objectives. For the most part they were of low echelon status, though occasionally an upper echelon flashed his peremptory way past. Even though most L.E.'s attempted to ape the U.E. dress in manner, you could always tell the difference. You could tell the difference among the different levels of L.E. too, and there was no mistaking the unemployables in their sober gray habits devoid of ornament. It was Clary sometimes thought when guilt feelings bothered him the most aesthetic of costumes. The machine in Room 33 extracted whatever information it was set to receive, then spewed Clary out and sent him on his way to Rooms 34, 35, and 36, where other machines repeated the same process. Room 37 proved to be that rare thing in the hierarchy of Rooms, a destination. There was a human employment commissioner in it, splendidly garbed in Crimson Silvot and Alexandrites, very upper echelon indeed. He wore a gold mask, a common practice with celebrities who were afraid of being overwhelmed by their admirers, and even more common practice with U.E. non-celebrities who enjoyed the thrill of distinguished anonymity. Then Clary stopped looking at the commissioner. There was a girl sitting next to him, on a high-backed chair like his. Clary had never seen a U.E. girl so close before. Only the greater archivists had direct contact with the public, and Clary wasn't likely to meet a U.E. socially, even if he'd had a social life. The girl was too fabulous for him to think of her as a woman, a female, but he would have liked to have her in his archives, in the glass case with the rare editions. Good morning, sub-archivist Clary, the man said mellowly. Good of you to come in. There's rather an unusual position open, and the machines tell us you're the one man who can fill it. Please sit down. He indicated a small, hard stool. Clary remained standing. I've been a perfectly competent sub-archivist, he declared. If McFingle has, if there has been any complaints, I should have been told first. There have been no complaints. The reclassification is upward. You mean I've made it as a musician? Clary cried, sinking to the hard little stool in joyful agony. Well, no, not exactly a musician, but it's a highly artistic type of job with possible musical overtones. Clary became a hollow man once more. No matter what it was, if it wasn't as duly accredited musician, it didn't matter. The machine could keep him from putting his symphonies down on tape, but it couldn't keep them from coursing in his head, that it could never take away from him, or the resultant headache either. What is the job, then? He asked Dully. A very important position, sub-archivist. In fact, the future welfare of this planet may depend on it. It's a trick to make me take a job nobody else wants, Clary sneered, and it must be a pretty rotten job for you to go to so much trouble. The girl, whom he'd almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he noticed, were hazel. There were L.E. girls, he supposed, who also had hazel eyes, but a different hazel. Perhaps this will convince you of the job's significance, the interviewer said huffily. He took off his mask and looked at Clary with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged to elderly face. There was an awkward interval. Don't you recognize me? He demanded. Clary shook his head. The girl laughed again. A blow to my ego, but proof that you're the right man for this job. I'm General Spano. This is my mistress, Secretary Han Vollard. The girl inclined her head. At least you must know my name, Spano said querilously. I've heard it, Clary admitted. The fiend of Fomalhaut, they call you. He went on before he could catch himself and stop the words. The girl clapped her hand over her mouth, but the laughter spilled out over and around it. Pretty U.E. laughter. Spano finally laughed, too. It's a phrase that might be used about any military man. One carries out one's orders to the best of one's ability. Besides, Clary observed in a non-archivistic manner, what concern have I with your military morality? He's absolutely perfect for the job, Steph, she cried. I didn't think the machines were that good. We mustn't underestimate the machines, Han, Spano said. They're efficient, very efficient. Someday they'll take over from us. There are some things they'll never be able to do, she said. Her hazel eyes lingered on Clary's. Aren't you glad archivist? Sub archivist, he corrected her frostily. And I hadn't really thought about it. That's not what the machines say subarchivist, she told him, her voice candy-sweet. They deproved your mind. You don't do anything, but you've thought about it a lot, haven't you? Clary felt the blood surge up. My thoughts are my own concern. You haven't the right to use them to taunt me. But I think you're attractive, she protested. Honestly, I do. In a different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little light, dye your hair, and... and I wouldn't be different any more. Clary finished. That wasn't true. He would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just unappealing. He was below average height, and his eyes and hair and skin were too light. In the past he knew there had been pale races and dark races on earth. With the discovery of other intelligent life-forms to discriminate against together the different races had fused into a swarred the unity. Of course he could hide his etiolation with dye in cosmetics, but those of really good quality caused more than he could afford, and cheap maquillage was worse than none. Besides, why should his appearance mean anything to anybody but himself? He'd had enough beating around the bush. Would you mind telling me exactly what the job is? Intelligence agent, said Spano. Isn't it exciting, she put in? Aren't you thrilled? Clary bounced angrily from his chair. I won't sit here and be ridiculed. Why ridiculed, Spano asked. Don't you consider yourself an intelligent man? Being an intelligence agent has nothing to do with intelligence, Clary said furiously. The whole thing's silly. What do you have against the Tridies sub-archivist? Spano's voice was very quiet. Don't you like any of them? the girl said. I just adore sentries of the sky. Her enthusiasm was tinged obscurely with warning. Well, I enjoy it too, Clary said, sinking back to the stool. It's very entertaining, but I'm sure it isn't meant to be taken seriously. Oh, but it is sub-archivist Clary, Spano said. Sentries of the sky happens to be produced by my bureau. We want the public to know all about our operations, for as much as it's good for them to know, and they find it more palatable in fictionalized form. Documentaries always get low ratings, the girl said. And you can't really blame the public. Documentaries are dull. Myself, I like a love interest. Her eyes rested lingeringly on Clary's. They must think I'm a fool, Clary thought, yet why would they bother to fool me? But am I given to understand, he said to Spano, even by the Tridies that an intelligence agent needs special training, special qualifications? In this case, the special qualifications outweigh the training, and you have the qualifications we need for the Mourlin. According to the machines, all I'm qualified for is human filing cabinet. Is that what you want? Spano was growing impatient. Look, Clary, the machines have decided that you are not a musician. Do you want to remain a sub-archivist for the rest of your days, or will you take this other road? Once you're on a UE level, you can fight the machines. Tape your own music, if you like. Clary said nothing, but his initial hostility was ebbing slowly away. I wanted to be a writer, Spano said. The machines said no, so I became a soldier, rose to the top. Now, this is in strictest confidence, I write most of the episodes of Centuries of the Sky Myself. There's always another route for the man with guts and vision, and above all, faith. Why don't we continue the discussion over lunch? It was almost unthinkable for LE and UE to eat together. For Clary this was an honour, too great an honour, and there was no way out of it. Spano and the girl put on their masks. The general touched a section of the wall and it slid back. There was a car waiting for them outside. It skimmed over the delicately wrought immensely strong bridges that, together with the tunnels, linked the great glittering metropolis into a vast, efficient whole. Spano was not really broad-minded. Although they went to the Aurora Borealis, it was through a side door, and they were served in a private dining-room. Clary was glad and nettle at the same time. The first few mouthfuls of the food tasted ambrosial. Then it cloyed, and Clary had to force it down with a thin, almost astringent pale blue liquid. In itself the liquor had only a mild, slightly pungent taste, but it made everything else increasingly delightful. The warm, luxurious little room, the perfume that wafted from the air-conditioning ducts, hand-vollard. Martian mountain wine, she warned him. Rather overwhelming if you're not used to it, and sometimes even if you are. Her eyes rested on the general. But there are no mountains on Mars, Clary said, startled. That's it! Span shortled. When you've drunk it, you see mountains! And he filled his glass again. While they ate, he told Clary about de Morland, its beautiful climates, light gravity, intelligent and civilized natives. Though the planet had been known for two decades, no one from Earth had ever been there except a few selected government officials, and of course, the regular staff posted there. You mean it hasn't been colonized yet? Clary was relieved because he felt he should, as an archivist, have known more about the planet than its name and coordinates. Why? It sounds like a splendid place for a colony. The natives, Spano said. There were natives on a lot of the planets we colonized. You disposed of them somehow. By co-existence in most cases sub-archivist, Spano said dryly, we found it best for Terrans and natives to live side by side in harmony. We dispose of a race only when it's necessary for the greatest good. And we would especially dislike having to dispose of the Damorlenti. What's wrong with them? Clary asked, pushing away his half-finished crème brûlée à la betelgeuse with a sigh. Are they excessively belligerent then? No more belligerent than any intelligent life-form that has pulled itself up by its bootstraps. Rigid, Clary suggested. Unadaptable? Intolerant? Indolent? Personally offensive? Spano smiled. He leaned back with half-shut eyes, as if this were a guessing game. None of those. Then why consider disposing of them? Clary asked. They sound pretty decent for natives. Don't wipe them out. Even an elf has a life. Clary, the girl said, you're drunk. I'm in full command of my faculties, he assured her. My wits are all about me, moving me to ask how you could possibly expect to use a secret agent on Damorlin if there are no colonists. What would he disguise himself as? A Turing Earth official? He laughed with his triumph. Spano smiled. He could disguise himself as one of them. They're humanoid. That humanoid? That humanoid. So there you have the problem in a nutshell. But Clary still couldn't see that there was a problem. I thought we, the human race that is, were supposed to be the very apotheosis of life-species. So we are, and that's the impression we've conveyed to such other intelligent life-forms as we've taken under our aegis. What we're afraid of is that the other elfs might become confused when they see the Damorlanti, think they're the ruling race. Leaning forward he pounded so loudly on the table both the others jumped. This is our galaxy and we don't intend that any one, humanoid or otherwise, is going to forget it. You're drunk too, Steph, the girl said. She had changed completely. Her coquetry had dropped as if it were another mask. And it had been Clary thought. An advertising mask. An offer had been made, and if he accepted it he would get probably not hand herself but a reasonable facsimile. He tried to sort things out in his whizzing brain. But why should the other elfs ever see a Damorlanti? He asked, enunciating very precisely. I've never seen another life-form to speak of. I thought the others weren't allowed off-planet, except the Balutes. There's no mistaking them, is there? For the Balutes, although charming, were unmistakably non-human, being purplish, amiable, and octopoid. We don't forbid the elfs to go off-planet, Spannel proclaimed. That would be tyrannical. We simply don't allow them passage in our spaceships. Since they don't have any of their own, they can't leave. Then you're afraid that Damorlanti will develop space-travel on their own, Clary cried. Superior race, seeking after knowledge, spread their wings and soared to the stars. He flapped his arms and fell off the stool. Really, Steph, Han said, motioning for the serval mechanism to pick Clary up. This is no way to conduct an interview. I am a creative artist, the General said thickly. I believe in suiting the interview to the occasion. Clary understands, for he, too, is an artist. The General sneezed and rubbed his nose with his silver sleeve. Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine, creative, productive race. It isn't generally known, but they developed the outfastener for evening wear. Two of the new scents on the roster came from D'Morland, and the Snetus is an adaptation of a D'Morland original. Would you want a species as artistic as that to be highlighted by an epidemic? Do our germs work on them? Clary wanted to know. That hasn't been established yet, but their germs certainly work on us. The General sneezed again. That's where I got to sinus trouble last voyage to D'Morland. But you'll be inoculated, of course. Now we know what to watch out for, so you'll be perfectly safe. That is, as far as disease is concerned. His face assumed a stern, noble aspect. Naturally, if you're discovered as a spy, we'll have to repudiate you. You must know that from the Tridies. But I haven't said I would go, Clary howled, and I can't see why you'd want me anyway. Modest, the General said, lighting a smokestick. An admirable trade in a young intelligence operative, or indeed any one. Have a smokestick? Clary hesitated. He had never tried one. He had always wanted to. Don't, Clary, the girl advised. You'll be sick. She spoke with authority and reason. Clary shook his head. The General inhaled and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the shape of a bunnet. The D'Morlanti look like us, but because they look like us, that doesn't mean they think like us. They may not have the least idea of developing space travel, simply be interested in developing thought, art, ideals, splendid cultural things like that. We don't know enough about them. We may be making mountains out of molehills. Marsh and molehills, Clary snickered. Precisely, the General agreed, except that there are no moles on Mars either. But I still can't understand. Why me? The General leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, We want to understand the true D'Morlin. Our observations have been too superficial. Couldn't help being. There we come, blasting out of the skies with the devil of a noise running all over the planet as if we owned it. You know how those skyboys throw their gravity around. Clary nodded. Centuries of the sky had kept him well informed on such matters. So what we want is a man who can go to D'Morlin for five or ten years and become a D'Morlin in everything but basic loyalties. A man who will absorb the very spirit of the culture, but in terms our machines can understand and interpret. Spano stood erect. You, Clary, are that man. The girl applauded. Well done, Steph. You finally got it right side up. But I've lived twenty-eight years on this planet and I'm not a part of its culture, Clary protested. I'm a lonely, friendless man. You must know that if you've deep probed me. So why should I put up a front and be brave and proud about it? Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. I see. That's the reason you want me. I have no roots. No ties. I belong nowhere. Nobody loves me. Who else you think but a man like me would spend ten years on an alien planet as an alien? A patriot, sub-archivist, the general said sternly. By God, sir, a patriot. There's nothing I'd like better than to see Tara and all this colonies go up in smoke. Mind you, Clary added quickly, for he was not as drunk as all that. I've nothing against the government. It's a purely personal stance. The general unsteadily patted his arm. You are detached, my boy. You can examine an alien planet objectively without trying to project your own cultural identity upon it because you have no cultural identity. How about physical identity? Clary asked. They can't be exactly like us against the laws of nature. The laws of man are higher than the laws of nature, the general said, waving his arm. A gout of smoke curled around his head and became a halo. Very slight matter of plastic surgery. We'll change you back as soon as you return." Then he sat down heavily. How many young men in your position get an opportunity like this? Permanent UE status, a hundred thousand credits a year, and of course, on the morning, you'll be on an expense account. Our money's no good there. By the time you got back there'd be about a million and a half waiting for you with interest. You could buy all the instruments and tape all the music you wanted. And if the Musicians Guild puts up a fuss, you could buy it too. Don't let anybody kid you about the wheel, son. Money was mankind's first significant invention. But ten years. That's a long time away from home. Home is where the heart is, and you wanting to see your own planet go up in a puff of smoke? Why, even an elf wouldn't say a thing like that. Spaddle shook his head. That's too detached for me to understand. You'll find the years will pass quickly on to Mourlin. You'll have stimulating work to do. Every moment will be a challenge. When it's all over, you'll be only thirty-eight, the very prime of life. You won't have aged even that much, because you'll be entitled to longevity treatments at regular intervals. So think it over, my boy. He rose waveringly and clapped clary on the shoulder, and take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll fix it with archives. We wouldn't want you coming back from classification intoxicated. He winked. Make a very bad impression on your co-workers. Han master-self and escorted clary to the restaurant Portway. Don't believe everything he says. But I think you'd better accept the offer. I don't have to, clary said. No, she agreed. You don't. But you'd better. Clary took the cheap underground route home. His antiseptic little two-room apartment seemed even bleaker than usual. He dialed a disbett pill from the autospenser. The lunch was beginning to tell on him. And that evening he could even take an interest in Centuries of the Sky, which, though he'd never have admitted it, was his favorite program. He had no friends. Nobody would miss him if he left Earth or died or anything. The general's right, he thought. I might as well be an alien on an alien planet. At least I'll be paid better. And he wondered whether, in lighter gravity, his spirits might not get a lift. He dragged himself to work the next day. He found someone did care after all. Well, sub-archivist Clary, Chief Section Archivist McFingall snarled, I would have expected to see more sparkle in your eye, more pep in your step, after a whole day of nothing but sweet rest. But General Spano said it would be all right if I didn't report back in the afternoon. Oh, it's all right, sub-archivist. No question of that. How could you dare to complain about a man who has such powerful friends? I suppose if I gave you the Sagittarius files to reorganize, you go running to your friend, General Spano, sniveling about cruel and unfair treatment. So Clary started reorganizing the Sagittarius files, a sickeningly dull task which should, by rights, have gone to a junior archivist. One morning he couldn't help thinking about DeMorlin. Its invigorating atmosphere, its pleasant climate, its presumed absence of archives and archivists. During his lunch-stop he looked up the planet in the files. There was only a small part of a tape on it. There might be more in the classified files. It was, of course, forbidden to view secret tapes without a direct order from the chief archivist, but the tapes were locked by the same code as the rare editions. After all, he told himself, I have a legitimate need for the information. So he punched for DeMorlin in the secret files. He put the tape in the viewer. He saw the natives. Cold shock filled him, and then hot fury. They were humanoid all right. Pallid, pale-haired creatures. Objective viewpoint, he thought furiously. Detachment be damned. I was picked because I looked like one of them. He was wrenched away from the viewer. Sub-archivist Clary, what is the meaning of this? Chief section archivist McFingle demanded. You know what taking a secret tape out without permission means? Clary knew. The reorientation machine. Ask General Spano, he said in a constricted voice. He'll tell you it's all right. General Spano said that it was indeed all right. I'm so glad to hear that you've decided to join us. Splendid career for an enterprising young man. Smoke-stick? Clary refused. He no longer had any interest in trying one. Don't look so grim, Spano said jovially. You'll like the DeMorlanti once you get to know them. Very affectionate people. Haven't had any major wars for several generations. Currently there are just a few skirmishes at the polls, and you ought to be able to keep away from those easily. And they'll simply love you. But I don't like anyone, Clary said. And I don't see why the DeMorlanti should like me, he added fairly. I'll tell you why. Because it'll be your job to make them like you. You've got to be friendly and outgoing if it kills you. Anyone can develop a winning personality if he sets his mind to it. I thought you said you watched the Tridies. I... I don't always watch the commercials, Clary admitted. Oh well, we all have our little failings. Spano leaned forward, his voice now pitched to persuasive decibels. Normally, of course, you wouldn't stoop to hypocrisy to gain friends and quite right too. People should accept you as you are, or they wouldn't be worthy of becoming your friends. But this is different. You have to be what they want, because you want something from them. You'll have to suffer rebuffs and humiliations and never show resentment. In other words, Clary said, a secret agent is supposed to forget all about such concepts as self-respect. If necessary, yes. But here self-respect doesn't enter into it. These aren't people, and they don't really matter. You wouldn't be humiliated, would you, if you tried to pat a dog and it snarled at you. Steph, he's got to think of them as people until he's definitely given them a clean bill of health. Han Vollard protested. Otherwise the whole thing won't work. Well, the general temporized, think of them as people then, but as inferior people. Let them snoop and pry and sneer. Always, at the back of your mind, you'll have the knowledge that this is all a sham, that some day they'll get whatever it is they deserve. You might even think of it as a game, Clary. No more personal than when you failed to get the guardip ball into the loop. I don't happen to play guardip general, Clary reminded him coldly. Guardip was strictly a U.E. pastime. And in any case, Clary was not a gamesman. He was put through intensive indoctrination, given accelerated courses in the total secret agent curriculum, self-defense and electronics, decoding and resourcefulness, zeno-psychology and acting. There are eight cardinal rules of acting, the Robo-Coach told him. The first is, never identify. You'll never be able to become the character you're playing, because you aren't that character. The playwright gave birth to him, not your mother. Therefore... But I'm only going to play one role, Clary broken. All I need to know is how to play that role well and convincingly. My life may depend on it. I teach acting, the Robo-Coach said loftily. I don't run a charm school. If you come to me, you learn, or at least are exposed to, all I have to offer. I refuse to tailor my art to any occasional need. Now the second cardinal rule. Clary was glad he could absorb the languages and social structure of the planet through the impersonal hypnotapes. He had to learn more than one language, because the planet was divided into several national units, each speaking a different tongue. Inefficient as far as planetary operation went, but advantageous to him, Han Vollard pointed out, because, though he'd work in Vang Tor, he would be supposed to have originated in Ventimor, hence his accent. Work, Clary asked. I thought I was going to be an undercover agent. You'll have a cover job, she explained wearily. You can't just wander around with no visible source of income, unless you're a member of the nobility, and it would be risky to elevate you to the peerage. What kind of a job will I have? Clary asked, brightening a little at the idea of possibly having something interesting to do. Call it Librarian. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but Colonel Blinn, he's our chief officer on the planet, says that after indoctrination you ought to be able to handle it. Clary already knew that jobs under Morland weren't officially assigned, but that employer and employee somehow managed to find each other and work out arrangements themselves. Sometimes, and now explained, employers would advertise for employees. Colonel Blinn had answered such a job in Vangtour on his behalf from an accommodation address in Ventimor. You were hired sight unseen, because you came cheap, so they probably won't check your references. Let's hope not anyway. End of Part 1. Part 2 of Century of the Sky by Evelyn E. Smith This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Century of the Sky. Part 2 The trip to Morland was one long aching agony. Since luxury liners naturally didn't touch on Morland, he was set out on a service freighter, built for maximum storage rather than comfort. Most of the time he was basic. The only thing that comforted him was that it would be ten years before he'd have to go back. They landed on the Earthmen's spaceport, the only spaceport, of course, at Barshwat, and he was hustled off to Earth headquarters in an animal-drawn cart that made him realize that there were other ailments besides space sickness. Afraid you're going to have to hole up in my suite while you're with us, Colonel Blinn apologized when Clary was safely inside. Most of the establishment is crawling with native servants, day times anyway. They sleep out, but they have orders never to come near my quarters. He looked interestingly at Clary. Amazing how the plastic surgeons got you to look exactly like a native. Those boys really know their stuff. Maybe I will have my nose fixed the next time I go Earthside. Clary glared venomously at the tall, handsome, dark young officer. Don't worry," Blinn soothed him. I'm sure when you go back they'll be able to make you look exactly the way you were before. He gave Clary a general briefing and explained to him that the additional allowance he'd be receiving, since he couldn't be expected to live on a demorlit salary, would come from an alleged rich aunt in Barshwat. Well, you get the native currency, Clary asked. We do some restricted trading with the natives, bring materials that they're in short supply, salt, breakfast, cereals, pigments, thread, stuff like that. Nothing strategic, nothing they could possibly use against us, unless they decide to strangle us with our own string. He goffawed ear-splittingly. One rain evening a couple of Earth officers hustled Clary into a hacks cart. A little later, equipped with a native kit, an itinerary, and a ticket purchased in Ventimor, he was left a short distance from a large track-car station. He was so numb with fright, he had to force himself to move in the right direction leg by leg. He gained a little confidence when he was able to find the terminus without needing to ask directions. He even managed to find the right chain of cars and a place to sit in one of them. He didn't realize that this was something of an achievement until he discovered that certain later arrivals had to stand. He wondered why more tickets were issued than there were seats available. Then realized the answer was simple. Primitives couldn't count very accurately. Creakily and slowly the chain got under way. Clary's terror mounted. Here he was, wearing strange clothes on a strange world surrounded by strange creatures. They weren't really repulsive, he told himself. They look like people. They look like me. Some of the natives seemed to be staring at him. His heart began to beat loudly. Could they hear it? Did their hearts beat the same way? Was their hearing more acute than his? The tapes had seemed so full of information. Now he saw how full of holes they'd been. Then he noticed that the natives were staring at each other. His heart quieted. Only a local custom. After a while little conversational groups formed. No one spoke to him, for he spoke to no one. He was not yet ready to thrust himself upon them. He had enough to do to reach his destination successfully. He tried to follow the conversations for practice and to keep his mind off his fears. The male next to him was talking to the male opposite about the weather and its effect on the certals. The three females on his other side were telling each other how their respective offspring were doing in school. Some voices he couldn't identify with owners were complaining how much Sagar and Tittleworth cost these days. I don't know why the government is so worried, he thought. They're not really very human at all. The chain had been scheduled to reach the end of its run in three hours. It took closer to five. He got off at what would have been around midnight on earth and the terminus where he was supposed to take the next chain was almost empty of people, completely empty of cars. Although it was still a few minutes before his car was due, he was worried. Finally he approached a native. Is this... is this not where the 3912 to Zric is destined to appear? He asked, conscious as he uttered Zanktort aloud for the first time that his phrasing was not entirely colloquial. The native stared at him with small pale eyes and bit his middle finger. Strange, eh? he asked in a small pale voice. Yes. The native waited. I come from Ventimor," Clary told him. Nosey native he thought furiously, prying primitive. You don't have to shout," the native said. I'm not deep. Clary realized what he hadn't noticed consciously before. The natives spoke much more softly than earthmen. Local custom too. You'll be finding things a lot different here in Vang-Tor," the native told him. Livelier, more up to date. For instance, do the cars always run on time in Ventimor? Yes, Clary said firmly. Well, they don't hear. Know why? That's because we've got more than one chain of them. He made a noise like a wounded terti. He was laughing. Clary smiled until his gums ached. About the thirty-nine-twelve? It is rather important to me, as I understand the next chain does not leave for several days. The native lifted a chronometer hanging around his neck. Oh, to get in around forty or so, he said. Why don't you get yourself a female or a bite to eat? He waved his hand toward the two trade booths that were still open for business. Clary was very hungry, but as he got near the food booth, the stench and the sight of the utensils were too much for him. He went back to the car ways and sat huddled on a banquet until his chain came in at forty ninety-one. The car he picked was empty, so he stretched out on the seat and slept until it got to Zreg, very early in the morning. When he got out, day was dawning, and a food booth hadn't had time to accumulate odors, so he climbed to one of the perches and pointed to something that looked like a lopsided pie and something else that looked like coffee. Neither was what it appeared to be, but the pseudo-pie was edible and the pseudo-coffee was good. Somehow the food seemed to diminish his fright. It made the world less strange. Where you going, stranger? The native asked, resting his arms on the top of the booth. Catond, Clary said. The other looked puzzled. It is a village near Zreg. That a fact! The native bit his little finger. You look like a cityfeller to me. That is correct, Clary said patiently. I come from Quittet. It is a place of some size. He waited a decent interval before collapsing his smile. Now, why would a smart-looking young fellow like you want to go to a place like this Catond, eh? Clary started to shrug, then remembered that was not a demorlet gesture. I have received employment there. I should think you'd be able to do better than that. The native nibbled at his thumb. What did you say you worked at? I didn't. I am a librarian. The native turned away and began to rinse his utensils. In that case, I guess Catond's as good a place as any. Surely, Clary thought, even a demorlet would at this point rise up and smite the food merchant with one of his own platters. Then he forgot his anger in apprehension. What in the name of whatever gods they worshipped on this planet could a librarian possibly be? He got up and was about to go. Then he remembered to be friendly and outgoing. I have never tasted better food, he told the native. Not even in bar-schwatt. The native picked up the coin Clary had left by way of a tip and bit it. Apparently it passed the test. Stop here next time you're passing this way, he advised, and I'll really serve you something to write home about. The omnibus for Catond proved to be nothing but a large cart drawn by a team of hacks. Clary waited for internal manifestations as he rode. None came. I found my land-legs, he thought, or rather, my land-stomach. And with the hacks jogging along the quiet lanes of Vang Tor, he found himself almost at peace. Earth was completely urbanized. There were great metropolises. There were the parks, there were the oceans. That was all. So to him the Vang Tor countryside looked like a huge park with grass and trees and flowers that were slightly unrealistic in color but beautiful just the same, even more perhaps. It was idyllic. There's bound to be some catch, he thought. The other passengers, who'd been talking together in low tones, turned toward Clary. You'll be the new librarian I take it, the tallest observed. He was a bulky creature, wearing a rich but sober cloak that came down to his ankles. For a moment Clary couldn't understand him. The local dialect seemed to thicken the words. Why, yes. How did you know that? The native wiggled his ears. Not many folks come to Katund and a new librarian's expected, so it wasn't hard to figure. Except, you don't look my idea of a librarian. Clary nervously smoothed the dark red cloak that covered him from shoulder to mid-calf. Was it too loud? Too quiet? Too short? What give you the idea of coming to Katund? The oldest and smallest of the three asked in a whistling voice. It's no place anybody who wasn't born here chews. Most young fellows favored the city. The third, a barrel-shaped individual, agreed. I'd have gone there myself when I was a lad if Dad had needed somebody to take over the purple fur-bush when he was gone. Maybe he's running away, the ancients cibulated. When I was a boy there was a feller from the city came here. Turned out to be a thief. All three stared at Clary. I replied to an advertisement in the Dordeneck district bulletin, he said carefully. I wished for a position that was peaceful and quiet. I am recovering from an overset of the nervous system. The oldest one said, That I count for it right enough. Clary gritted his teeth and beamed at them. Typical idiot smile, the ancient whispered. Noticed it myself right off, but I didn't like to say. Is it right to have a librarian that isn't all there? The proprietor of the fur-bush asked. Foreigner too. I mean to say the young ones use him more and most. We've got to take what we can get. The biggest native said, Catan's funds are running mighty low. What can you expect when you ballot yourself a salary raise every year? The old man whistled. The other two made animal noises. Clary must not jump. He must learn to laugh like a terti if he hoped to be the life of any dormalant party. The big one stood up as well as he could in the swaying cart. Guess I'd better introduce myself. He said holding out a sturdily shod foot. I'm Malisor, headman of Catan. This is Peake. He deals in blots and snarls. And Hanksie here is the innkeeper. My name is Balt, Clary said. I am honoured by this meeting. And he went through the conventional toe-touching with each one. As you'll be putting up with me until you found permanent quarters till Balt, Hanksie said. Not that you could do much better than make your permanent home at the Purple Furbush. You'll find life more comfortable than if you lodge with a private family. Being a young unmarried man, he twisted his nose suggestively, you'd naturally want a bit of freedom, excitement. Remember, he's a librarian, Peake whistled. He might not appreciate as good a time as most young fellers. Clary was glad when a cluster of domes appearing over the horizon indicated that they reached Catan. He looked about him curiously. The countryside he'd been able to equate with a park, but this small aggregate of detached dwellings bore no relationship to anything in his experience. His kit was dexterously removed from his hand. You'll want to check in first, Hanksie said, so I'll just take your gear over to the inn for you. He pointed out a small dome shading from lavender at the bottom to rose-pink on the top. Over the door were glittering symbols which Clary was able to decipher after a moment's concentration as Dordeneck District Public Library, Catan branch, and underneath in smaller letters, please blow nose before entering. Hesitantly he touched the screen that covered the portway. It rolled back. He went inside. At his first sight of what filled the shelves from floor to topmost curve of the dome, Clary became charged with fury. The ancient books in the glass cases back on earth were of a different shape and substance, but... My God! he cried aloud. It's nothing but another archive! The female in charge glared at him. Signets, please! Suddenly the anger left him and the fear. He was no longer a stranger on a strange world. He was an archivist in an archive. She took a better look at him and the local equivalent of a bright smile shown on her face. May I help you, Till? She asked in a softer, sweeter voice. I am Balt, Till, he said. I am the new librarian. She came out from behind the desk to offer the ceremonial toe-touch. I'm M. Bill Syrah, the head librarian, and I'm very glad to see you. Her tone was warm. She really seemed to mean it. Everything's in such a mess, she went on. I've needed help so very badly, so very long. She looked up at him, for she was a good deal shorter than he. So glad, she murmured, so very, very glad to see you, really. Well, now you have help, he said, with quiet strength. Where are the files? They were written instead of punched of an alien design in an alien language, arranged according to alien patterns, but he understood them at a glance. These will need to be reorganized from top to bottom, he said. Yes, Till Balt, she said demurely. Whatever you say. Once every six months, Clary went for a long weekend to visit his aunt Eskidush in Barshwat. Barshwat was the largest city on D'morlin. It was the capital of Vittnor, the greatest nation. Earthmen, Clary thought, as he traveled there in the comparative luxury of a first-class compartment, as a rich nephew, he saw no real reason to travel third class, were disgustingly obvious. That first time he was five hours late, and Blinn was a nervous wreck. I was afraid you've been killed or discovered or God knows, he babbled, practically embracing Clary in a fervency of relief. I was afraid. Come, come, Colonel," Clary interrupted, striding past him. You know how inefficient D'morlin Transport is, and I had to make two-chain connections. Of course, the Colonel said, wiping the perspiration off his forehead. Of course. And you must be dead tired. Sit down, let me take your cloak. How about the servants?" Clary asked. This is their weekend off. Blinn pulled himself together. Really, my dear fellow, I've been in this business longer than you. I know what precautions to take. Never can be too careful. I see you've got yourself another cloak, the Colonel said as he hung it in the guest snap. Very handsome. I've never seen one like it. Yes, as a matter of fact, several people on the chains wanted to know where I'd got it. Where did you get it? asked Blinn, feeling the material. Might go well as an export. Afraid it couldn't be exported. It's a custom job, you see. Hand-woven, hand-decorated. It was a birthday present. The Colonel stared at him. Well, Clary said, if you didn't expect me to get birthday presents, you shouldn't have put a birth date on my identity papers. My boss baked me a milkshane. Your boss? The relationship between employer and employee is much different from the way it is on earth, Clary explained. Reaching over, he flipped the switch on the recorder and repeated the statement, adding, Inville Syrah is kind, considerate, helpful. She can't do enough for me. He put his mouth close to the mechanism. Be sure to tell meck-fingle that. Now, now," the Colonel said, turning the switch off. He pushed a small tea-wagon over to Clary. You must be starving. Have some sandwiches and coffee. I'm sure you'll be glad to taste good earth food again. Yes, indeed," Clary said, trying not to make a face. Er, shouldn't we start recording while everything's fresh in my mind? Might as well," the Colonel said, flipping the switch again. Pity we don't have a probe here would save so much time. But, of course, it's an expensive installation. All right, Clary, over to you. Clary choked on a mouthful of sandwich and hesitated. Begin with your very first impressions, the Colonel urged. Well, the archives, the library, was in a real mess. It took over two weeks to get it in even roughly decent shape. Three different systems of classification, and, added to that... Not so much the library, old chap. Leave the technical stuff for later. What I met was your first impressions of the natives. Is something wrong with the coffee? And you've hardly touched your sandwich. Maybe you like another kind. I have several varieties here. Ham and cheese, and... Oh, no," Clary protested. The one I have is fine. It's just that I'm... Well, to tell you the truth," he confessed, I have grown accustomed to demorlet food. Don't see how you could," the Colonel said, nauseating stuff, to my way of thinking. He added politely. He opened a sandwich and inspected the filling. You've only eaten at public places. Even the better restaurants don't put themselves out for earthmen. Say they have no... palettes, I guess the word would be. But you ought to taste my landlady's cooking. All this is being taped, you know. They'll have to listen to every word on earth. If only I could convey the true picture through words. Her ragoutes are rhapsodies. Her souffleys, symphonies. I'm using rough terrestrial equivalents, of course. The cuisine comes later, please. Overall impressions first. Well, Clary began again. At first I was a bit surprised that you'd stuck me in a quarter-credit place like Katund. Naturally, in a village, the people would be more backward than in the cities, so you'd have a poorer idea of how they were developing. Then I realized that you couldn't help putting me there, that you probably couldn't write a letter good enough to get me a job in any of the big centers. Ambel Cyrus said she was surprised to find me so much more literate than she would have expected from the letter. The colonel said erect huffily. I've never pretended to be a philologist. And anyway, de Morland isn't like earth. Here the heartbeat of the planet is in its villages. Earth hasn't any villages, so the comparison doesn't apply. Clary cleared his throat. Don't you have anything to drink except coffee? Tea? That would be better. Do you know the Katundi have a special variety of tea, or something very like it, which is tell me what they think of earth men, the colonel interrupted desperately. Not much. What I mean is nobody in Katunds actually had any contact with them, though they've heard of them, of course. Every now and then there's a little article in the Dordeneck bulletin from their bar-schwatt correspondent, and sometimes, if there isn't any real news, he gives a couple of inches to the earth men. Exactly how do they regard us? The colonel asked as he spooned tea into the pot. Demigods? Superior beings? Are they in great awe of us? They regard us as visitors from another planet, Clary said. They don't realize from quite how far away we hail. Think it's only a matter of a solar system or two. But they've got the general idea. Don't forget, they may not be a mechanical people, but they do have some idea of astronomy. They're not illiterate clods. What do they think of our spaceships? Great silver birds? Something like that? Sighing deeply, Clary said. They think our spaceships are cars that fly through the sky without tracks, and they think it's silly our having machines to fly in the sky and none to go on the ground. There's an old door-to-neck proverb. One must run before one must fly. Originally applied to birds, but what else do they think about us? Clary was hurt. That's what I was getting to if you only give me time. After all, I've been speaking vanguard for six months, and it's a little hard to go back to Taren and organize my thoughts at the same time. I'm terribly sorry," the Colonel apologized, handing him a cup of tea. Carry on. Thank you. They say if you, if we, are so smart, why do we use hacks or the chains like anybody else? They think somebody else must have given us the starships, or else we stole them. That's mostly Pick's idea. He's the village lawyer, and of course lawyers are apt to think in terms like that. Um, the Colonel said. We didn't think it would be a good idea to introduce ground cars, upset their traffic, and cause dissatisfied yearnings. They're satisfied with their hacks carts. They're not in any hurry to get anywhere, but Catan's a village. Attitudes may be different in the cities. You stick with your village, old chap. If you feel a wild urge for city life, you can always take a weekend trip to Zrig. Stay at the Zrig Grashed. It's the only decent inn. By the way, you spoke of a landlady. Do you mean at the inn? No, Clary told him, at first he had put up at the inn, but he found the place noisy, the cooking poor, and the pallet covers dirty. Besides, Hanksy had kept in pertaining him to go on visits to a nearby township where he promised him a good time. I was wondering, though, Clary finished, if it would be possible for an earthman and a delormat to, um, have a good time together. Been wondering myself, the Colonel said eagerly. I didn't dare ask on my own behalf, but it's your job, isn't it? I'll check back with the XT boys on earth. Go on with your story. As a resident of the inn, Clary told Colonel Blinn, he'd been found that he was expected to join the men in the bar parlor every evening, where they'd drink and exchange appropriate stories. But he choked on the squuffer and was insufficiently familiar with the local mores to be able to appreciate the stories, let alone tell any. He'd concentrated on smiling and agreeing with whatever anybody said, with the result that the others began to agree with Pick that he was a bit cracked. They were, for the most part, polite enough to me, but I could sense the gulf. I was a stranger, a city-man, and probably a bit of a lunatic. A few of the younger ones hadn't even been polite. They used to insult me obliquely, Clary went on, and whisper things I only half heard. I pretended I didn't hear at all. I stood them drinks and told them what a lovely place Katand was, so much cleaner and prettier and friendlier than the city. That just seemed to confirm their impression that I was an idiot. He stopped, took a sip of tea, and continued. The females were friendly enough, though. Every time they came into the library they'd always stop for a chat. And they were very hospitable, invited me to outdoor luncheons, temple gatherings, things like that. Imbal Syrah, she's the chief librarian, got quite annoyed because she said they made so much noise when they all gathered around my desk. He paused and blushed. I have an idea that... Well, the ladies don't find me unattractive. I mean, they're not really ladies. That is, they're perfect ladies. They're just not women. I'm not a bit surprised, the colonel nodded sagely. Very well set up young fellow for a native. Only natural they should take a liking to you. And only natural the men shouldn't. Clary gave an embarrassed grin. One evening I was sitting in the bar parlor talking to Kuqwal and Gasmour, two of the older men. And then Mundus comes in. He's the town muscle boy. You know the type. One in every tri-dye series. He was rather unpleasant. I pretended to think he was joking. I've learned to laugh like one of them. Listen. He gave a creditable imitation of an agonized terti. The colonel shuddered. I'm sure if anything would convince the chaps back on earth that the damnerlanti aren't human, that would do it. What then? Finally he made a remark impugning the virility of librarians that I simply could not ignore. So I empty my mug of scuffer in his face. Stout fellow. I knew he'd attack me and probably beat me up. But I thought that perhaps if I put up a show of courage they'd respect me. There was something like that in a centuries of the sky a year or so ago. But, of course, you'd have missed that episode. You were up here. Anyhow, as I expected, he hit me. And then I hit him. He smiled reminiscingly into his cup of tea. And then? I beat him, Clary said simply. I still can't figure out how I did it. I think it must be because my muscles are heavier gravity type. He smiled again. And I beat him good. He couldn't dance at the temple for weeks. The colonel's jaw dropped. He's a temple dancer? Chief temple dancer. I was a little worried about that because I didn't want to get in bad theologically. So I went to the priest and apologized for any inconvenience I might have caused. He said not to worry. Mundus had had it coming to him for a long time and his one regret was that he hadn't been there to see it. Then we touched toes and he said he'd like to see a young fellow with brawn who also took an interest in cultural pursuits like reading. He trusted I'd have a beneficial effect on the youth of the village. And then he asked me to fill in for Mundus as chief temple dancer until he, um, recovered. It's a great honor, you know, he said sharply as the colonel seemed more moved to mirth than awe. But I've never been much of a dancing man and that's what I told him. Very well done," the colonel said approvingly. But you still haven't explained where you got lodgings and a landlady. She's Emble Syra's mother. I was invited over for dinner from time to time. It's a local custom," he explained as Blinn's eyebrows went up. So when Emble Syra told me her mother happened to have a compartment to let with meals included, I jumped at it. Blinn, you really ought to taste those pastries of hers. The colonel managed to divert him onto some of the other aspects of Katunda life. When he'd finished taping everything he had to say, the colonel gave him a list of artifacts and small-sized flora and fauna, the specialists on earth wanted him to collect for his next trip, providing he could do so without arousing attention or violating taboos. They shook hands. Clary, the colonel said, you've done splendidly. Earth will be proud of you. And you might bring along one or two of those pastries, by the way. End of Part 2. Part 3 Of Century of the Sky by Evelyn E. Smith. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Century of the Sky Part 3 When Clary got back to Katunda, Imblecyra and her mother gave a little welcome home party for him. Nothing elaborate, the widow said, just a few neighbors and friends, some simple refreshments. The tiny residential dome was packed with people. The refreshments, Clary thought, as he munched industriously, were magnificent. But then he'd been forced to live on earth food for a weekend, so he was no judge. After they'd finished eating, the young people folded the furniture, and while one of the boys played upon a curious instrument that was string and percussion and brass all at once, the others danced. Clary made no attempt to participate. In his early youth he'd flopped at the earth hops, and the Damorlanti had a distinctly more Dionysian culture than his home world. He stood and watched them leaping and twirling. When they dropped, temporarily exhausted, he made his way over to the musician, whom he recognized as one of Peek's numerous grandsons. This one was Rini, he thought. Is that difficult to learn, he asked, touching the instrument. The euloran is extremely difficult, the boy said importantly. It takes years and years of practice. And you've got to have the touch to begin with. Not many do. All our family have the touch. My brother Iric most of all. He's in Barshwat, studying to be a famous musician. Clary looked at the euloran with unmistakable wistfulness. Care to try it? The boy asked. But mind, you have to pay for any bladders you burst. I shall be very careful, Clary said, taking the instrument reverently in his hands. He had never touched a musical instrument before. An earth instrument would have been no less unfamiliar, no more wonderful. Gently he began to pluck and bang and blow, in imitation of the way the boy had done, and though the sounds that came out didn't have the same smoothness, still they didn't fall harshly on his ears. The other stopped talking and listened. It would have been difficult for them to do otherwise, as he was unable to find the muting device. Sounds like the death-whale-of-a-hicks, but he added grudgingly. For an ear or not, I have to say this for him. He's got the touch. Yes, he's got the touch," others agreed. You can always tell. Rini smiled at Clary. I believe you do. I'll teach you to play, if you like. I would, very much. Clary was about to offer to pay for the lessons. Then he remembered that, though this would have been the right thing on earth, it would be wrong on D'Morlin. If it is not too much trouble," he finished. It's the kind of trouble I like. The boy twisted his nose at Clary. Sometime you can hide the reserved books for me. After the guests had gone, Clary insisted on helping the women with the pudding away. Well, as long as Ambel Syrah has a pair of brawny arms to help her, the widow yawned, I might as well be getting along to my pallet. I seem to get more and more tired these days, old age I expect. One day I'll be so tired, I'll never wake up, and Ambel Syrah will be alone, and what'll she do, poor thing? Who can live on a librarian's salary? Now, on two librarian's salaries. Mother Ambel Syrah interrupted furiously. You go to bed. She did hurriedly. Don't worry, Ambel Syrah, Clary said. She will be weaving away for decades yet. Everybody says she's the best weaver in the district, he added, to change the subject. Yes, Ambel Syrah said, as they gathered all the oddments the guests had left. She's been offered a lot of money to go to 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 home-like 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 honoured. 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 you 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 Clary, the XT boys made a few mistakes. The bug isn't an insect, it's a bird. And the lul isn't a bird, it's a flower. And the paparoon 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 bug, Clary said. He likes his morning seed mixed with milk, his evening seed with wine. His name is Murty. 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 get so much more information that way. Wouldn't dream of herding a hair, a feather. No, it's a hair, isn't it, of the little fellow's head. Clary 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, Clary. You still don't seem to realize you're on D'morlin, not Earth. Not a blooded intelligence man yet. There aren't any guilds on D'morlin, so enjoy yourself. Speaking of that, did you find out about, uh, 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. Clary was unreasonably annoyed. I wasn't thinking of what you're thinking. I mean, well, Catan is a village, and the native morality is very strict in these matters. Afraid I don't quite follow you. Clary 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 so anxious to have you, uh, meet? Clary 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, Clary said. Your boss, eh? Flying high, aren't you, old chap? His massive hand descended on Clary'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 Clary went back to Katund, he asked M. Belsaira to marry him, and she accepted. The whole village turned out for the wedding. Clary managed to take some vok-picks of the ceremonies for the XTs 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 Belsaira'd do it, and at her age, too. Peek 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 Clary's marriage were happy ones. He and M. Belsaira 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 euleran 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 addressed 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 euleran and taped some native melodies. I like them, the Colonel said, knotting his head emphatically. Catchy, very catchy. Hope the XTs appreciate them. They don't usually like music if it sounds at all human. And catching the look on Clary's face. Well, you know what I mean. To them, if a tune can be hummed, it isn't authentic. News of Clary's skill on the euleran spread through the countryside. When he played in the temple concerts, people sometimes came from as far away as Zraig to hear him. Clary 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, Clary got word from Barshwat that General Spano and the staff ship were expected shortly. He had risen to the post of Chief Librarian. Imble Syrah had retired to keep Dome and wait for the young ones who would, of course, never come. Clary had hired a Hicks head of an assistant from Zraig 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 Imble Syrah 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, Belser. Sometimes I think you're a stranger bolt," Imble Syrah 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. Bault, sometimes 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 seats to myself? You must think Pick's right. I'm just playing crazy. Pick 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, Imble Syrah. 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, Bault. 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 Katan seems to be so impressed by my strangeness. They think a foreigner's entitled to his queer ways. Nobody in Katan 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. Love 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 said her. In those tales it's always the man's fault, isn't it? Not much doubt who made them up. Now, Belser, please, I've got to finish packing. It'll be just my luck to have today be the day the bust is rigged 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, dark-haired, 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 padded her arm. Maybe she wasn't afraid, but he was. For her. And for the people of DeMorlin. 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 Blinn's office. Clary stretched out his foot in greeting, then recollected himself and reached out his hand. You see, sir, he said with a true hearty laugh, I'm really living my part. Spano beamed. DeMorlin 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? Maric leaves, Clary 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 Vollert? 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 in Belsair's way. He could never imagine Han Vollert warm and tender. Well, Clary, Spano said, you seem to be doing a splendid job. I've been absolutely enthralled by your reports. He settled himself behind Blinn's desk. Pity the information's top secret. It could make a fortune on the tridies. Clary bowed. And those music tapes 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 offence, Blinn. He turned back to Clary. Do you think you can pick up some of those, what do you call them, eulorines for us too, or is there a taboo of some kind? Not eulorines, Clary corrected. Eulorine. 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. And measured Clary with her eyes. You're quiet, Secretary, he said nervously. You used to talk a lot more. Blinn stared at him. She smiled. You're the one who has things to tell now, Clary. 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. Clary's smile was unforced this time. I got your message and 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 hacks. 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, Clary. Not even one taste beforehand, Han. Well, I suppose not. Clary 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 will take you less than an hour and will have the information cold-ated 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 led us to worry about that, Clary, she said. He didn't sleep that night. He sat looking out of the window, knowing there was nothing he could do. Emble Syra 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 cold-ated and read. So your wife suspects, does she, the general asked. Shrew little creature! You must have picked one of the more intelligent ones. Clary 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, Clary? 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 Clary did a rattling good job," Blint 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 elfs it's even stronger than in humans. The precognitive faculties in the grua, for example. What are you going to do? Clary 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 Clary could do to keep from trembling visibly with relief. It doesn't even matter too much that one of the native suspects, Han went on, as long as she doesn't definitely know. She doesn't, Clary 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 Demorlanti didn't hate earthmen, and they didn't fear them. And so Imble Syrah 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 Clary'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, Clary flared. You talk too damn much! There was a chilling silence. Nerves, said Blyn 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 smokesticks. Try not to get any more involved, Clary. 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, Blyn 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? Clary blinked. I thought she was Spano's secretary. Blyn laughed until the tears dampened his dark cheeks. Spano's only head of intelligence. She's his mistress. Of course. Mistress. Feminine of master. I should have realized that before. Then Clary laughed, too. I'm a real all-round alien. I can't even understand my own language. On the way back home he couldn't help thinking that if Han Vollard might be right. It could be the best thing for him to disappear now, the best thing for himself, the best thing for Ambel Syrah. He could pretend to desert her. Better yet, Blyn could fake some kind of accident so her feelings wouldn't be hurt. A pension of some kind would be arranged. She could marry again, have the children she wanted so much. If he waited the full ten years, she might never be able to have them. He had no idea at what age de Morlet female ceased to be fertile. But she wasn't just a de Morlet female. She was his wife. He didn't want to leave her. Maybe he never would have to. Had Spano said that when his term was over he could pick his planet, he would pick de Morlet. End of Part 3