He finished up the specs, concentrating on his task, and limped over to the monitors. From the status readouts he could see that the Comstock was almost loaded, a matter of a dozen or so hours before it would automatically disengage and journey to Moon Station. It would take approximately one rote—equivalent to not quite seven Earth days—to unload the twenty ExxTel transport ships from Phaeta, including the command ship which had carried Raj, and reload the biurnium on the Kimberly.
Odd, he thought. Odd that such a responsible command should be entrusted to so delicate a creature. But then he knew very well that there were many permutations in the galaxy. Perhaps the “male” equivalent on Raj’s planet was similar to the ethereal intellectual elite on Nexus-five, totally lacking in corporeal substance except for the means and will to procreate through selected brood partners. Perhaps that was the reason for Raj’s immediate and unmistakable interest in the youthful, virile Farlan.
Flashing red light from a screen caught his eye. He had evaluated the problem before the soft hooting of the trouble siren echoed in the control room. Shifting cargo had knocked one of the unloading robots into such a position that it could not right itself. He tapped instructor keys with certainty, and an extractor claw deftly removed offending bars of spilled biurnium so that an android could right the robot and reset its controls. The red light vanished; the siren cut off.
He took little satisfaction in his accomplishment, reflecting placidly that the simplest computer could have activated the same assembly line repair. Indeed, a simple computer would have prevented the only major production “accident” that had ever occurred on Aries Station. From ExxTel’s point of view, the accident that befell Templeton could only have happened to a man. True, a basic defect in the Station’s construction had allowed seepage of fantacid, but a robot or android would have completed the repairs in a fraction of the time; no damage would have been done like the infection in his face and leg.
“Symbiotic organism,” the doctors had said of his fantacid-infected body when he had finally been treated. “Harmless, unless we disturb it.”
And so Aries Station had become his home. He had reasoned that if he took ExxTel to court and won all the money on Earth, what good would it be to him? As the ancient nursery rhyme so aptly said, All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Gray Templeton back together again. And in exchange for waiver of his legal rights, ExxTel was willing to leave him here, provided he passed the biannual psych tests.
Here he was insulated from the emotional blows he would have suffered on Earth from his disfigurement; he was comfortable, sufficiently amused by the entertainment modes, well taken care of. Other wants and needs he had put firmly out of his mind.
He knew he performed a function of some value, although he was cynically aware that men and women were no longer really needed in space. Alien contact and the resulting severe convulsions had ensured that. With interplanetary travel almost entirely trade, and accomplished by robot ship with communication and data transmitted by computer, a Station Commander’s prime function was fulfilled when aberrant worlds occasionally declared themselves enemy and launched attack; then the Commanders transmitted early warning information until they were flamed into oblivion.
ExxTel did not publicize the fact that Aries Station had had to be rebuilt nine times in the two century interval before Templeton’s arrival. But ExxTel lavishly praised its Space Service:
YOU ARE ELITE, YOU ARE HEROES, YOU WHO WEAR THE FOREST GREEN OF EARTH AND WORK IN THE VASTNESS OF SPACE ...
Templeton smiled ruefully. He was a brightly plumaged security guard who watched over a glorified warehouse. He would some day probably die out here, his name his only legacy, etched somewhere on a list of forgotten heroes.
He took some satisfaction from overseeing the bright young people assigned here for various reasons by ExxTel. Bright, promising young people. Except for Farlan. Templeton winced, thinking about Farlan and the Trads.
Other world civilizations had reverted to their own versions of dark ages upon alien contact, reviving ancient rites and customs in fierce determination to maintain their identity and the moral history of their worlds; and so also on Earth such a sect had formed. The Traditionalists. Patterned in behavior and belief after an era Templeton considered barbaric: pre-twentieth century.
Farlan had been recruited into the Service in spite of his fanatical beliefs, because of his mathematical genius. But Templeton was convinced that the intolerant Trads were misfits anywhere in the Space Service, whatever their gifts. Midway in his three month tour of duty, Farlan was a stalamac-headed bore and a constant irritant as far as Templeton was concerned, but he intended to be fair. He had seen no reason thus far to turn in anything but a favorable report.
Templeton returned his thoughts to a more pleasurable concern, the Phaetan visitor. As usual, ExxTel had supplied a paucity of information. The laconic message from headquarters at Pacifica had read:
PHAETAN EMISSARY. APPROVAL GODDEN. ETA 0250301. EARTH TYPE. USUAL COURTESIES.
Earth-type indeed, snorted Templeton, and punched in a computer query. Impatiently but thoroughly, he read the voluminous chemical and mineral data blipping down the screen, and extracted the facts that Phaeta was Earth-size, heavily clouded, with ivory vegetation, high H2O content and almost constant misty precipitation, no ocean covering equivalent to Earth’s but multitudinous large bodies of water. The high land mass was heavy in biurnium element, ranging from six to ten percent.
CULTURAL DATA read the next heading. Lines of print flowed down the screen.
MATURATION LEVEL NINE
LIFE EXPECTANCY LEVEL EIGHT
TECHNOLOGY LEVEL TEN PLUS RESTRICTED
POPULATION LEVEL STABLE FIVE
NON-MONOGAMOUS HUMANOID TO FACTOR NINETY-FOUR POINT TWO
“Hmpf,” said Templeton, rubbing his damaged face.
VEGETARIAN
TELESTHESIA DEVELOPMENT LEVEL THREE
Now that is damn interesting, thought Templeton. Raj read feelings—not thought—and from a distance. Interesting.
THEOLOGY LEVEL ONE
“Pantheists,” Templeton interpreted, nodding approval.
POLITICAL ACTIVITY LEV —
He cancelled the program. “Seems like a nice little planet so far,” he said aloud, grinning at the screen. “Why ruin my illusions?”
At dinner Templeton made laborious conversation. Raj, bare-shouldered in a clinging pale green garment, had brought food, of course, and ate an assortment of ivory-colored leaves and bean-shaped vegetables with two curved implements reminiscent of ancient Chinese chopsticks, wielding them with dexterous grace. Farlan was monosyllabic, scraping his fork unseeingly over the contents of his plate as he stared at Raj; his face was pale and drawn with tension, mottling with red when the caressing blue gaze flowed over him. Raj’s silken skin blended through shades of amber. Templeton picked his way carefully through simple subjects, mostly the topical features of Phaeta.
Farlan blurted unexpectedly, “Do you have a husband?”
Raj’s gold eyelashes blinked in bewilderment.
“Mate. Uh, partner.” Farlan groped for other synonyms as Raj gazed. “Does someone ... stay with you, live with you?”
“Ah.” Raj brightened to a cherry pink. “No. But we do not live as you live ... together. It is different.”
“Yes. I expect it is. It doesn’t matter anyway.” Farlan rose and said unhappily, “Please excuse me. I have ... duties. Forgive me.” He walked stiffly from the room, squaring his broad shoulders. Templeton looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
“I do not understand,” Raj said, reverting to pale ivory, which seemed to be the Phaetan’s normal quiescent color.
“I don’t wonder. Yes,” he added, seeing that Raj would not comprehend his colloquialism.
“Neal desires me. I am able to know that is true.”
“Yes,” Templeton, remembering the Phaetan’s telesthetic capacity.
&nbs
p; “Why does Neal not permit me to grant desire?”
He said, astounded, “You’re willing to?”
“I know of your body structure. It was part of my briefing. I am able to.”
“With an Earthman? You’re willing to?”
“Neal has desire.”
“It doesn’t always work quite that way on our world. Desire doesn’t always lead to ...”
Tinkling silvery laughter expressed Raj’s derision for this peculiar behavior. “This is part of your ... courtship pattern?”
“Not always.” Templeton leaned his head to one side, thrust his good leg forward at a cocky angle, and grinned. “I’m willing. I have desire for you too, even if I’m ugly.”
“Not ugly.” With an elegant gesture at Templeton’s disfigured face and leg, Raj said, “Hurt, not ugly. But you do not have the desire like Neal. It is ... interest only. You are content as you are.”
Silenced, Templeton contemplated Raj, tucking his leg back under him. My face and leg aren’t the only dead parts of me, he thought.
The cobalt eyes, objective, held his. He realized that Raj had not altered in color since Farlan had left.
“The changing tones of your skin,” he said to deflect Raj’s disturbing attention. “Is that part of your courtship pattern?”
“What we feel is spoken truly with the colors of our bodies,” Raj said simply. “We have no need for some of your words.”
“I see.” Templeton felt oddly chastened.
“Explain to me please about Neal.”
“I’ll try.” He searched for simple words, concepts. “It’s our culture, but a step backward into our past culture. A sect on my world called Traditionalists. They demand that all people have one way of living, one way of belief, one mate, one God which judges and condemns.”
“Do you think—” Raj paused. “Do you think Neal ... will become well?”
As Templeton roared with laughter, the Phaetan appeared taken aback. “Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s young.”
Raj rose, willow-graceful. “I will go to Neal.”
“Good luck.”
Raj turned back inquiringly.
“A wish that good things will happen,” Templeton said.
Raj smiled.
Before he turned in, Templeton went as usual into the greenhouse. Through the leafy ferns and plants he saw Farlan with Raj’s slender body clasped in his arms, his dark eyes sulphurous with desire. Raj’s arms were wound around his shoulders, fingers stroking his neck, his hair. Raj’s body pulsated waves of deepening rose.
Raj murmured indecipherably. “Yes,” said Farlan in a husky rasp.
Templeton ducked behind a row of ferns as they left, an arm around each other, Farlan’s hand caressing down over the voluptuous curve of hip. Templeton grinned, and limped over to inspect his newest ferns. That damn alien is right, he conceded. I’ve finally managed not to need a thing. Not a damn thing.
The next day Farlan did not appear. There was a note in the control room:
Have advised Pacifica am returning on the Comstock.
Farlan
The freighter had already departed; Templeton switched on the communicator, dialed the Comstock’s frequency. The figure on the screen was in space gear; there was no reason for ExxTel to provide oxygen atmosphere in its robot-manned freighters.
“I have nothing to say,” Farlan said with cold finality.
Templeton demanded, “I have a right to know what happened between you and Raj, whether that creature is dangerous.”
Farlan did not respond, his dark imperviglas headgear motionless.
“You’ve ruined your career.” Templeton’s voice was harsh, factual.
“I don’t care. I’ve decided Trads don’t belong in the Space Service anyway.”
Templeton thought, I hope you make ExxTel realize that. But he argued with the unresponsive Farlan, feeling it was his duty, until the Comstock was outside recall frequency. He could not have recalled the Comstock anyway for other than a Phase IV emergency, and the return of a misguided young genius could hardly qualify. But it would look better for the young man’s future if his report could state that Farlan had changed his mind or at least regretted his act.
He signed off and sought Raj in the command cabin of the transport vessels. The Phaetan, clad in a tunic of ice blue, sat in motionless austere beauty, gazing into the star-specked blackness.
Templeton dropped heavily into a seating module. “What happened?”
“I do not know,” Raj said sadly.
Templeton smothered a snort of impatience. “I saw you in the greenhouse, how the two of you were. What happened?”
“In my quarters there was a merging of our naked bodies,” Raj said in a musical voice. “The rapture of Neal took me to the furthest spectrum of color.”
“I see,” Templeton said, disconcerted. He cleared his throat. “Then what happened?”
“I said to Neal that such complete fusion between bodies was rare on my world and resulted in the begetting of young.”
“Aaahhh,” breathed Templeton, his gaze sweeping in alarm over the elegant female form before him.
“Neal said the same. Neal was—” Raj’s hands made motions of agitation.
“Upset. Disturbed,” supplied Templeton. “I can well imagine.”
“Truly. He asked then would I be procreating.” Raj trilled with laughter.
“But you said—”
“It is the other members of my species which are in appearance like you who procreate.”
Templeton leaped to his feet. “You mean you’re a man?”
Raj’s forehead knitted faintly. “Yes, I am by your definition male. Neal also asked that question and was—” Raj’s hands again made agitated motions.
Templeton sat down again.
Raj said, “Male. Female. This is important ... in your culture?”
“To a Trad. Don’t concern yourself.”
“I have been ... in sorrow.”
“Don’t be, anymore. I’m sure ... I’m sure—” Templeton stumbled over his words. “Well, you’re a very special—you’re kind.”
“You are also ... kind.”
The cobalt blue eyes on his seemed molten. Templeton asked haltingly, “Do you think ... that’s all I can ever be?”
“No,” Raj said, and turned from him to again contemplate the starry universe.
He went back to his quarters and sat on his bed. And laughed for a while because he didn’t know what else to do. Then he lay back, hands behind his head, and reflected, and imagined, releasing the aspect of his being he had frozen away for many years. His thoughts became more and more vivid.
He sat up and dialed the command vessel. “Would you have dinner with me, Raj?”
“Of course.” Raj added softly, “I believe I can also arrange to come to Aries Station for a rote or two from time to time.”
Templeton looked more closely at his vidiscreen and with a rush of joy saw that Raj was a warm shade of blushing pink.
FORCE MAJEUR
Joan Bronson Randall’s father was dying.
Summoned from the family mill in mid-afternoon, she had been at the hospital only a few minutes when the dour young heart specialist gave her the prognosis.
“He knows, Mrs. Randall,” Doctor Lynn told her. “All he wants now is to see you.”
Sitting beside his bed amid the humming machinery of the intensive care unit, she rubbed cold hands over the rough corduroy and heavy cotton of her work clothes, shaking her head in stubborn denial at the sight of her father clad in white and hooked up to gauges and hanging bottles of fluid. She looked at the stocky body she had always thought so indestructible, at the strong spiky hair the color of a battleship, then into Daniel Bronson’s eyes. Her own slender body and dark hair were her mother’s, but these were her eyes; she had inherited the exact vital blue color that was now, incredibly, fading.
“Tell me again,” her father said, “about Harry. Tell me again ... now. T
hat you love him. That you’re happy. Then I’ll die believing it.”
“I hate him.” It was the first time she had spoken her profound emotion, and the rush of relief made her tremulous.
Her father stared at her.
She swallowed. “I thought I was too smart to be taken in—I was twenty-six, after all. I should have listened to you.”
She couldn’t tell her father, even now, that she had hurled herself at the seemingly innocuous Harry Randall. That it was Paula Gilliam who had panicked her into taking on the protective coloration of marriage. Paula, who had suffered enough trauma in her thirty-seven years as a lesbian to be defiant about their affair, and had threatened highly public exposure if Joan tried to end the relationship. By the time Joan had decided that far worse fates existed than disclosure of her sexual identity, she had been trapped in such a fate: her marriage to Harry Randall. So ensnared that she dared not even explore the deepening feeling between herself and Wilma Burke.
She said to her father, “He was ... a terrible mistake. He was ... in the right place at the wrong time.”
“I knew he was after your money.” Her father’s voice was weak but scornful. “Saw right through him.”
“It didn’t take me all that long either,” she said bitterly. “But Mother was much too sick for me to do anything. I didn’t want to inflict any more suffering ...” She trailed off, dreading the direction of this conversation.
His gaze sharpened, bored into her. “Martha’s been gone eight months now. Why haven’t you done anything to get rid of that scum?”
She swallowed again, then plunged ahead. “Dad, he saw you ... with Mother ...”
She was struck dumb as her father’s face sagged in shock, as his eyes widened in horrified comprehension.
“Now I understand,” her father whispered. “About everything.” He squeezed his eyes shut.
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