There’s one soldier moving to intercept Strongpincer. He knows that he can’t afford to get tied up fighting, so he tries to brush past and keep on going. It doesn’t work. The soldier jabs with a spear, and Strongpincer has to do a sudden roll to avoid getting an obsidian point in his head. He’s not called Strongpincer for nothing: he gets one pincer onto the shaft of the spear and snaps it.
Now the soldier’s grappling with him, trying to hold one of his limbs and slow him down. Strongpincer gives the fellow a powerful blow to the head, deafening him for a moment. He loses his grip on Strongpincer’s leg. That’s all Strongpincer needs—he dives for the bottom, where the rocks and rubble make confusing echoes. The soldier tries a few pings, but evidently he doesn’t want to fight Strongpincer alone, and his comrades are busy chasing down Headcracker and Onefeeler. Strongpincer swims away, slowly at first as he weaves among the rocks, then rising above them and picking up speed. The soldier doesn’t follow.
Strongpincer swims until he’s ready to pass out, then listens. Nobody’s following him. The sounds of fighting are dying down. He lets himself sink to the bottom and finds a sheltered spot to rest. The bottom here is silty, and Strongpincer digs in until only his feelers stick out of the dirt. He wonders if any of the others are safe. There’s a big rock slab a few cables away where he remembers agreeing to meet, but nobody’s meeting anywhere until the militia leave.
VOLUNTEERING to guide the Sholen around didn’t get Rob out of his share of the cleanup work before their arrival. Since he was the imaging and video specialist, Dr. Sen gave him the task of going through all the visual data stored in the station network and removing all the frames that showed living or dead Ilmatarans.
The Sholen weren’t as far ahead of humans in computer technology as in other areas, but they weren’t behind either, and Rob had to assume whoever they were sending would be familiar with Terran systems. So he couldn’t just delete the images, he had to replace them. He dug up some of his early files, from when he’d first arrived on Ilmatar and was still learning the ropes. There were plenty of shots of silt, lens covers, his fingers, and black water to use as filler.
Of course, the researchers didn’t want to lose their images, so he had to store everything he cut out on a disk, heavily encrypted and labeled ANIME PORN. For verisimilitude he copied in a few videos from his private collection.
Since he spent the whole day on the station network, he was one of the first to see the new feed go up, entitled: “Ways the Sholen Can Go Fuck Themselves.” He watched the list grow as the day went on.
DGraves: Immediately.
JPalashnik: Far from here.
GWeiss: Sideways.
Fouchard: With an Aenocampus.
PAdler: Sideways, with an Aenocampus.
Sergei: Senseless.
HIshikawa: Is that a comment, or a suggestion for the Sholen? Sergei: Suggestion.
APonti: Responsibly.
SamIam: In a house, with a mouse, in a box, with a fox, in a car, in a tree, on a train, in the dark, with a goat, on a boat . . .
RaduZ: In accordance with all interstellar treaty agreements. APonti: That rules out Fouchard’s idea, then.
Anonymous: Any way they like, if I get to watch! NKyle: If you ask nicely, they might let you do that anyway. Anon: Or let you join in.
PAdler: From what I understand, the problem is likely to be keeping them from doing it right in front of everybody.
APonti: Unless they’re both male, or both female.
GWeiss: That doesn’t stop some of us.
PAdler: That wouldn’t be a problem for Sholen. Their sex roles are based more on status than on physical gender. And yes, public display is apparently an important element.
GGdG: Six ways to Sunday!
MadameX: With whoever started this stupid stream.
DGraves: That would be me. If you don’t like it, don’t play.
Ilmatar: Having consulted several journal articles on Sholen reproduction, I would like to suggest 1: The “Missionary” position; 2: The “Lotus” position; or 3: The “Screaming Wombat” position.
Anonymous: Your Screaming Wombat Kung Fu is no match for the Drunken Monkey!
VSen: I certainly hope this discussion is closed and completely erased by the time our guests arrive, which by my clock is in only 26 hours from now.
ROB took a break from his work and ate dinner; it was weird but kind of pleasant to be eating with everyone else. He glimpsed Alicia, but she was hurrying off to the dive room for another shift outside and could spare him only a smile and a wave.
By the time the eve ning shift was coming to an end, Rob realized he felt gritty and tired. He had been awake for more than thirty hours without a rest, so he decided to go to bed at 1600 along with everyone else.
Alicia was in his room.
“I was wondering if you were going to sleep at all,” she said.
“If there was more coffee, I could probably keep going.”
“I am all sore and tired from moving things outside, and I
expect you must be stiff from sitting at a table. Would you like to trade massages?”
“Um, sure. Wait. I’m not very good at the subtle social cues thing—”
“I have noticed.”
“—so before we start, I want to know: by massage do you mean actually rubbing each other’s sore muscles, or do you mean having sex?”
There was a long pause, during which Rob wondered if he had just done the equivalent of shoving his head into a wood chipper. But then she smiled. “Muscle rubbing first, then sex.”
Rob’s massage technique was based on brute force and what he could remember from being on the swim team in high school, but evidently that was what Alicia needed because her groans and grunts had a contented sound. He worked his way from her calves to her forearms, kneading and rubbing until his own arms ached. Her bare skin was still slightly chilly to the touch from being out in the cold water, but under his hands she turned pink and warm again. Like just about everyone at Hitode, she was in terrific shape, with muscles as hard as wood and less body fat than the average famine victim.
When he couldn’t make his fingers work anymore, he tapped her shoulder. “My turn.”
She made a disappointed sound, but dutifully perched on the back of his thighs and began working on his stiff neck and shoulders. If they did have sex together, he never noticed it because he promptly fell asleep.
LONGPINCER’S apprentice shows no surprise when Broadtail arrives at the boundaries of Bitterwater and pings to signal the house. Apparently everyone at Bitterwater is accustomed to half-starved outlaw scholars showing up without warning.
The apprentice takes Broadtail to Longpincer straight away. The master is at work on his pipes, commanding a group of tenants and apprentices who are installing a curious gadget in one of the main channels. It seems like a circulator turbine, but the axle is linked to a bundle of twisted ropevine, which is in turn anchored solidly to a heavy stone.
“Broadtail! I don’t remember getting word of your coming.
But you are welcome all the same,” says Longpincer. “I am an outlaw, Longpincer,” says Broadtail. “I am exiled from Continuous Abundance for killing a landowner on common ground.”
Longpincer considers this. “Describe the crime.”
“I remember a dispute in the commonhouse over nets. The leader of the other faction tries to recruit me to his side. We argue. I am tired and hungry. He refuses to leave. I believe myself to be on my own land and fight him. I kill him, and then learn we are on neutral ground.”
“A sad mistake. I am certainly surprised, but I repeat that you are welcome here. At Bitterwater you are under my protection.”
“Thank you,” says Broadtail. Longpincer is a stickler for the old forms, and when he calls someone his guest he means it.
Broadtail can relax for the first time since the trial. He is no longer an outlaw, he is the guest of a sovereign landowner.
Within Longpincer’s bo
undary stones he is safe.
Longpincer pings at Broadtail. “Enough chatting—get to the house and eat something at once. You sound all hollow! I expect us to speak a great deal after this task is done.” Longpincer turns his attention to one of the hired workers. “You wild child! Feel that pipe joint! Half the flow is going out through the seam. Put it together properly.”
ROB slept nine hours, ate a huge meal, and worked another shift packing up Henri Kerlerec’s belongings so that Una Karlssen could switch into Henri’s old room. That way the two aliens could have adjacent quarters.
Alicia volunteered to help him pack up Henri’s stuff, but Rob told her he could do it himself. “It’s easier for one person in these tiny cabins,” he said. “And I promise I won’t slit my wrists in some outburst of delayed grief.”
Nevertheless, it was weird going through Henri’s things. All the items that had seemed so affected and annoying were sad and kind of pathetic now. The ankh pendant that Henri claimed he’d found in the harbor of Alexandria. The French navy diver’s shirt he wore when he wanted to look macho. The flight suit with mission patches for Titan, Europa, and Ilmatar. Rob tried to be reverent, folding things up and packing them neatly into the Betacloth bags. He found himself wondering: if someone had to pack up Robert Freeman’s gear, what would they find? Some faded T-shirts with the names of bands or brands of beer on them. Some imaging software manuals.
A Caltech class ring. Two crew shirts from feature films he’d worked on.
Henri had been an egotistical pain in the ass, but people would at least remember him after he died. If Rob got lost in Ilmatar’s ocean and never went home to Earth, who would notice? Five relatives, maybe a dozen acquaintances, and whoever was in charge of cutting names into the astronaut memorial at Kennedy Space Center.
When Henri’s room was empty, Rob spent another couple of hours doing general clean-up, getting rid of the mildew in the bathroom nearest the aliens’ rooms.
The sad truth, as Rob looked about the station with a critical visitor’s eye, was that space explorers were terrible slobs. They might be fanatics about putting things away properly, but nobody had the time or inclination to do the boring daily chores like scrubbing walls or sweeping corners. The Japanese Space Agency designers had done their best, packing Hitode with self- cleaning toilets and smart plastic walls laced with antifungal chemicals, but ultimately one simply tuned out the stains and smells, lumping them together with the low gravity and constant chill as just another feature of life on Ilmatar. With only four hours to go, he made the mistake of lying down for just a few minutes of rest, and didn’t wake up until ten minutes before the aliens were due to arrive.
He dressed in his one clean set of coveralls and hurried through the connecting tunnel to Hab 4, where most of the twenty- eight inhabitants of Hitode Station were packed into the common room. Dr. Sen was waiting by the airlock door, dressed in an immaculate white silk outfit that was certainly the most comfortable and elegant-looking thing on the planet. Not a very handsome group otherwise, Rob thought as he looked around the room. Most of the crew were all pale and pasty-looking after so long without sunlight, and even the naturally dark- skinned ones had acquired a weird grayish tint.
The only ones who looked at all healthy were the Ishikawas, who spent all their time in the farm section under the grow lamps. All of them were squeezed into their astronaut flight suits, many of which were getting quite tight across the shoulders and chests as the crew bulked up with swimming muscles.
They had insignia from half-a-dozen space agencies, but all had the United Nations Interstellar Cooperation Agency patch prominently displayed on the right shoulder. One big, happy space-going family.
“I can see the elevator,” Una Karlssen called from the docking module. “It’s just at the last safety stop now. Three minutes!”
It was odd how excited they all were. The elevator had been making its way down the cable from the surface for thirty- six hours, but everyone was counting down the seconds until it docked. To fill the anxious silence, Dr. Sen cleared his throat and spoke. “Let us all try to make sure this visit goes smoothly.
If the Sholen do not find anything to complain about, there is less chance of their trying this kind of surprise inspection again.”
“I still think we should file some complaints of our own,” said Maria Husquavara. “They’ve got no right to keep coming in here and interfering with our work.”
Sen smiled tolerantly. “I have already prepared a message to UNICA addressing that subject at length, but we can hardly turn them away now.”
“Besides, the designers forgot to put a lock on the front door,” said Pierre Adler in a stage whisper.
There was another nervous pause, and then Una called out “One minute!”
From outside came the sound of scraping metal as the elevator caught the guide rails and began to slide down to mate snugly with the docking hatch. It landed on the support brackets with a heavy thump, and then the docking latches clanged shut one after another. There was a pause while the pumps forced air into the space between the two hatches. Una swung the inner door open and checked the pressure gauge on the elevator hatch. The difference was minor, so she turned the equalizing valve set in the hatch. When it stopped hissing she opened the door to let the aliens out of the elevator. There were two of them. The Sholen were bigger than humans, covered with sleek dark-gray skin, and wore no clothes other than belts with storage pouches. In the cramped station they walked on their four rear legs, peering about nearsightedly and flicking out their purple tongues to taste the air. The horizontal posture and curiously mammalian faces made them look like giant hairless otters.
“Welcome to Hitode Station. I am Vikram Sen, the director of the facility.”
“I call myself Gishora; I present Tizhos,” said the leader, indicating his companion. Gishora was a male, with wicked- looking claws on his forelimbs and brightly colored genitalia.
The female, Tizhos, was bigger and had a pouch barely visible on her chest.
Among themselves the Sholen gesture of greeting was an embrace that verged on foreplay; with humans they contented themselves with a hug and a few tongue flicks to pick up the scent. Dr. Sen submitted to the process with tolerant grace, like a man who doesn’t really like dogs putting up with having his face licked.
Rob hadn’t seen any Sholen in the flesh before, and he found himself studying the way they moved. The body could never be mistaken for a Terran vertebrate’s, even if you ignored the extra pair of limbs. When the aliens turned, Rob got a glimpse of their segmented spines, a series of jointed bones like femurs. Dr. Sen was still playing host. “Why don’t I show you to the rooms I have selected for your use? We can make sure that all of your belongings are stowed away properly and then perhaps discuss your plans for how to proceed with this investigation.”
“I agree,” said Gishora.
“Then please follow me this way,” said Dr. Sen. He motioned to Rob, who helped carry the Sholen luggage—mostly food and dive equipment, since they didn’t wear clothes. Sen put them in Hab One, right next to his own room.
A small group of Hitode staffers followed along. Rob could see some unhappy looks. Simeon Fouchard was the one who broke the silence as they reached the aliens’ quarters. “We would like to know the purpose of your visit,” he said. “This is a serious interruption of our work and we want to know why you are here.”
Gishora turned and looked at Fouchard, then at Sen. “We came because of the incident involving the death of a human.
He violated the contact rules.”
“I know that! Kerlerec was foolish and died for it. It is sad and a nuisance, but it is done. Why are you here? What can you do that we cannot?”
“We must investigate how the violation came to happen, and what effect it had on the inhabitants of this world.”
“That is intolerable! Dr. Sen is preparing a full report, and you will get a copy. Do you think we will not tell the truth about the Ke
rlerec incident?”
“Please, Dr. Fouchard,” said Sen. “This is not at all a good time to be having this sort of argument. I am sure our guests are quite tired from their journey and would like some time to rest and unpack their belongings.”
“No! I will not be silent! They say they are here to investigate, as if they are the police and we are criminals. I say they have no authority here and no crime has been committed.”
“Simeon!” said Dr. Sen, tugging the bigger man’s arm. He bent close to Fouchard and spoke quietly, but Rob could hear what he said. “I do not like this situation any more than you do, but getting angry and starting confrontations like this will not make things any better.”
“Pah! You are too accomodating, Vikram. Remember what planet you come from.” He stomped away, muttering in French. Sen turned back to the aliens. “I do hope you will pardon Dr. Fouchard’s outburst just now. He is understandably upset about what is going on.”
“I do not understand what angers him,” said Gishora. “Well, I think it is simply that he objects to being investigated. I am preparing a report on Dr. Kerlerec’s death and the events leading up to it, and let me assure you that it will be entirely truthful and accurate. This desire of yours to conduct your own inquiry implies that you don’t believe we will tell the truth. Among humans that is an insult.”
“I understand,” said Gishora. “And I apologize if we give offense. But I fear I must continue with my assignment. I must speak privately with Tizhos now, and then we would like to question the witness of the event.”
FOUR
BROADTAIL wakes in a hallway of Longpincer’s house. He recalls dragging himself inside and dozing off from the effort. There is a good flavor in the water, and he follows it to the dining room, where Longpincer and the work crew are having a whole young towfin.
“I am pleased that you can join us,” says Longpincer. “I remember finding you passed out in the hall and thinking perhaps to have some apprentices carry you to a room.”
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