“Habbers don't drink?”
“Some do and some don't,” Benzi replied. “We generally prefer to keep our minds clear.” Keir Renin would be expecting such haughty remarks from a Habber, and Benzi could not resist making them. “I'll try some, though.”
Keir poured some of the liquor into Benzi's cup. “I had some schooling, you know,” the officer said, “but I wasn't chosen for advanced education.” His Anglaic was fluent enough, but he lingered a bit over longer words, drawing out each syllable. “My Counselor sort of suggested that I try the Guardians, and after I thought about it, it seemed like a good idea. They sent me to Baghdad for officers’ training. I've been a Guardian for twenty years, and this is the first time I've had my own command.” He gulped down some liquor, then folded his arms across his broad chest. “I keep hoping they'll send me for Linker training, make a Commander out of me.”
“Well, maybe they will,” Benzi said politely, although that seemed a goal beyond Keir's reach.
“I doubt it. You can't show what you're made of here. They give two kinds this post—young ones who look promising and older ones they can't find anything else for. The young ones get a little experience, and the older ones just mark time. A lot of people don't like Guardians, you know. They think of the few times we've had to be harsh and forget about what we do most of the time, when we just keep order and repair the old weapons systems in orbit. Maybe they ought to think about what it used to be like a long time ago, when you had one army here and another there and everyone could get dragged into the fight. They're a lot better off now.”
“Indeed,” Benzi replied. “The Mukhtars could hardly maintain their control without your services.”
Keir's broad, ruddy face brightened, as though Benzi had complimented him. “True enough,” he said, “and some of the Commanders think it might be time for the Mukhtars to pay more attention to their views. Sometimes the Mukhtars wait just a little too long before doing what has to be done. The people here—they think things'll be different on Venus. They'll see what it's like when we—” He leaned back and took another drink.
Benzi was silent. Any political struggle among Mukhtars and Guardians would distract Earth's attention from the Project, and that might be to the Cytherians’ benefit—unless, of course, the Guardians won. That was a troubling thought.
“Did you have a nice chat with that man from the camp?” the officer asked suddenly.
“I'm afraid it wasn't very informative. As you might guess, he wasn't anxious to say much to me. In fact, he seemed to resent the imposition. I was foolish to think he wouldn't.”
“You two aren't so bad,” Keir said expansively. “But you're not like a lot of Habbers, are you? Maybe you're a little homesick, and that's why you're here. Anybody can make a mistake, but sometimes there's a chance to make up for it. You two might like to see your old homes and the people you left behind.”
He knew about them, then. Benzi kept his composure. Angharad had told him she would mention their conversation to her Counselor; that information might have been passed on and found its way to Keir. His fears faded; the agreement would still protect him.
“Maybe you're not so ready to leave,” Keir went on. “I could help you out, or you could deliver your passengers first and then come back. You could keep your Links and tie up with the cyberminds here—you'd do all right for yourselves.”
Keir, in the aftermath of such a defection, would certainly do all right for himself; a promotion might be won. Benzi's own fate would be more uncertain. After a flurry of praise for the Habber who had returned, there would probably be interrogations, which would become less gentle when the questioners found out that Benzi could not tell them the sorts of things they would wish to know.
“There's nothing in the agreement that says you can't stay if you choose,” the officer said. “In your case, even the Habbers would understand if you did. I'll tell you something, Benzi. You'd be smart to come back to us while you can. Things are changing here, and Guardians will have more to say about what happens later on.”
“You'll still need Habber help on Venus,” Te-yu said softly.
“Maybe the people there won't always welcome you,” Keir replied. “A lot of them don't particularly like you as it is. I'd rather see that Project rot than stand by and let Habbers treat it as if it's theirs, but we've put too much into it to abandon it now. It'll continue, but on our terms. If progress slows a little, the settlers will live with that—they'll learn their world still belongs to Earth.”
Benzi was repelled by the man's pride and resentments. Keir reminded him of everything he had wanted to escape.
“We're only too aware that the Project is Earth's accomplishment,” Benzi said carefully. “It's not a venture that the Associated Habitats would have chosen, believing as we do that our future doesn't lie on the surface of planets, but we can learn a little by contributing in our own small way to its efforts.” If, he thought, Earth did not strangle the development of a new culture that might revitalize the two older ones, and if the Habbers did not decide to retreat from the Project.
Venus should have been a world free from the evils of the old. Unlike Earth, its people did not have to build a civilization on the ruins of ancient wars; unlike the Habbers, its settlers would not have to feel guilt about the Earth left behind. Venus could mend the breach between Earth and the Habitats. Benzi had not appreciated that possibility when he had been younger. He had seen only Earth's dead hand clutching the new world, and had dreamed of escaping to the stars. He had convinced himself in time that he might instead find a purpose among the worlds he knew. Now, in Keir Renin's presence, with the memory of Malik's words still fresh, he felt a new quickening of his old dream.
“You'd contribute more by giving up your ties to the Habs,” Keir said. “I don't think you'd be here if you didn't miss what you once had. Maybe you left the Islands because you didn't think you'd get a chance to rise, but we could do something about that. We might find a place for you even there.”
“I have missed my childhood homes, both here and on the Islands,” Benzi said. Keir had become unpredictable; there was no point in provoking him. “Being here has brought back many memories.”
“I'll be getting a list of passengers in a day or so.” The Guardian toyed with his empty cup. “I guess it would delay things if you didn't make this run, but you'll be coming back, and maybe then—” He lifted his brows.
“I'll definitely give it some thought,” Benzi said. The man could fix on that false hope and perhaps leave him alone until he and Te-yu were safely away. He stood up. “Thank you for the dinner. We'll look forward to getting the list.”
* * * *
“You almost made me think you were considering that ridiculous suggestion,” Te-yu said when they were outside. “What a clumsy, obvious man he is.”
“Maybe you're underestimating him,” Benzi replied. “From his point of view, it's reasonable for him to think I might want to come back. If I don't, he's still given me a warning to pass along to our people. The Guardians must think of Habbers as cowards who will easily retreat if they feel threatened, and they do have evidence for believing that, along with reasons to resent the Mukhtars for making an agreement with us.”
“Oh, I understand him. We can still think the way Earthfolk do, can't we? How unlike true Habbers we are.”
“Do you know what that man from the camp said today?” Benzi asked. “He wanted to know if there was a way he could get to a Hab, if I could help him. And I had to tell him there wasn't. He said he didn't belong on Venus, and I gave him a lot of stern words about accepting his fate and making the best of it.”
“You couldn't have done anything for him,” she said, “without violating the agreement.”
“Maybe the agreement isn't worth what may happen to that man, and the others with him, if Earth tightens its grip on Venus again. Are they going to labor there just so that Earth can impose its will and take away their dream?”
“It isn't up to us,
” she said quietly. “It's up to the Cytherians.”
“I shouldn't have come here, Te-yu. When I get to Anwara, I'm going back to our Hab. Someone else can ferry all these lost souls.”
“I came here only because you did,” she murmured, “and yet I'm sorry to hear you say that. It makes me think the ones like Keir Renin will win out in the end.”
The warm wind was picking up. It would be fierce before long and howl as the colder winds had howled outside his boyhood home on the North American Plains. He gazed through the darkness at the camp and the small, dim lights that shone against the night.
Five
The announcement came at dawn, before the morning call to prayer. Malik was barely awake when the amplified voice sounded through the camp.
“Line up in front of the south tower,” a man's voice droned in Anglaic. “Pack up everything you wish to bring with you in case you do not return to the camp. Say your name clearly as you enter the room. If you are on the list, go directly to the floater cradle. If you are not on the list, return to the camp with your belongings.”
Malik sat up quickly, pulled on his clothes, then began to pack his things. The announcement was being repeated; by the time he opened his blanket-curtain, the other men were already leaving the yurt.
Nikolai caught Malik's arm as he emerged. “Better take a piss first,” he said. “We'll be standing on that line for a while.”
Malik followed the other men toward the lavatory. “Why do they want us to bring our packs? Surely everyone can't be on the list.”
Nikolai sighed. “Because if you're picked, they don't want you coming back here to collect your things. Some who aren't picked could get a little nasty with the ones who are, and they want to make sure there's no trouble.”
“I shouldn't think there'd be any point in having me wait on the line,” Malik said. “I haven't been here very long, so it isn't likely I'd be selected.”
“It doesn't matter—everyone's got to line up. I waited on a line like that a week after I got here.”
The men's section of the lavatory was crowded. The sky was lighter when Malik came back outside; a large shadow moved toward him over the ground. He looked up. A floater was overhead, moving slowly above the camp; he could see the airship's cabin clearly. As he came to open ground, he saw that the Guardians were already taking up positions by the posts.
The line was long; at least three hundred of the two thousand inmates were already waiting. A few were couples who held hands or clung to each other; most had their heads down, refusing to look at those nearest them. In the distance, a small figure left the tower and began to walk in the direction of the floater cradle.
“Someone got lucky,” Nikolai muttered.
Malik lowered his eyes and stared at his feet. Nikolai had been here longer than anyone; that had to mean his chance of being chosen was greater than Malik's. Perhaps some of the young Russian's friends would be picked as well. Malik was beginning to dread returning to the yurt. Nikolai had mocked him but more gently than the others had; he had spoken up for Malik when his friends began to press for more details of the conversation with the Habber pilot. He wondered what his days would be like if Nikolai were no longer there to ease life a little for him.
“Malik!”
He raised his head, recognizing Yekaterina's voice. She was farther up the line, waiting with a group of women; Alexei was nowhere in sight. He waved tentatively; she left the women and made her way back to him.
“I'll wait with you,” she said. Nikolai, standing just behind Malik, averted his eyes from the pair.
“You'll just be waiting a while longer,” he responded.
“I won't be chosen so soon, I think. This will give me more time to pretend I might be.” She lowered her dark eyes. “I have been sorry for what I said to you,” she whispered.
“I've also regretted my words.”
She touched his arm lightly. The day was already growing warm. Behind him, Bogdan was once more laboriously assessing his friends’ chances; others were already returning from the tower. Malik glanced at the people as they passed; their faces were grim, their eyes hard and resentful.
Malik thought of the Habber who had refused to help him. He knew that the man could do little for him, but his hopes had risen when he realized who Benzi Liangharad was. He had been foolish; even the bit of compassion he had glimpsed in Benzi's eyes was probably feigned. Malik was nothing to the Habber, useless in whatever game Benzi's people were playing with Earth, only someone to be ignored and dismissed; Benzi had lectured to him in the end as though Malik were a child instead of a man of thirty.
The pilot, of course, could easily view him that way. His boyish appearance was deceptive; Benzi had to be somewhat older than he looked. His life among Habbers enabled him to observe life from afar, as a series of events that might affect him only in passing; he could remain indifferent to the individual lives he momentarily touched. Malik had once seen his own life in that way.
The line was moving more quickly now. More people filed past, their heads lowered as they strode back to the camp. A woman left the tower and ran to the arms of a man waiting for her; they remained locked in their embrace until one of the Guardians stationed outside shouted at the pair. The woman freed herself and began to walk toward the cradle; the man covered his eyes for a moment. Yekaterina's friends walked by, their eyes fixed on the ground.
When Yekaterina's turn finally came, the people near Malik had grown silent. The Guardians paced, hands on their wands. The door opened; Yekaterina came outside, shook her head as she glanced at Malik, then shrugged.
He entered the tower. The officer in charge was behind the small table; two Guardians stood behind him. The two Habbers were nowhere in sight.
“Malik Haddad,” Malik said.
The officer stared at his small screen, then raised his head. “You're on the list.” Malik tensed in surprise. “Give him his med-scan and send him on his way.”
Another Guardian approached Malik with a scanner; apparently he would not have to disrobe this time. Had someone interceded for him with the Project Council? Somehow, he doubted that, having no practical skills that would be of immediate use to the settlers. His name might have been picked at random, or perhaps someone on the Council had felt a bit of pity for a former Linker. He was not likely ever to know the true reason.
“Go to the cradle,” the officer was saying. “The floater will take you to the port in Tashkent.” Malik did not move. “Don't you hear me? Get going.”
Malik stumbled outside; his head was swimming. Yekaterina was waiting; she hurried toward him as Nikolai went inside. “What is it?” she asked. “You look so pale.”
He said, “I'm on the list.”
She drew in her breath sharply. “I'm happy for you, Malik. It'll be better for you away from this place, but I'll miss you.”
“When you get to Venus—”
She shook her head. “Make a life for yourself—find a home. You don't know when I'll be on the list.”
She was right. Better to allow her to find someone who could commit himself wholeheartedly to her instead of making promises he was not likely to keep. “I wish I had something to give you,” he said.
“You must keep what you have—you may need it there.”
He had one small gift. He shifted his coat to his left arm, then fumbled at the pin on his collar. “Take this, Katya.” He held out the tiny gold pin of a scroll with Arabic lettering, the symbol marking him as a historian. “It's my specialist's pin. I won't need it among the settlers. They say that the dome-dwellers and even many of the Islanders don't bother with signs of rank.” He put it into her hand and closed her fingers around it.
“On your way, man,” a Guardian shouted. Yekaterina touched his face lightly, then hurried away. Malik had gone only a few steps before he felt a hand on his arm.
“I'm on the list, too,” Nikolai said.
“Maybe we should say farewell to the others.”
The Russian shook his head. “They wouldn't want that. No sense in rubbing it in. I can't believe it—I got so used to the bad news.”
They had not moved far from the tower before Howin joined them, followed by Bogdan. The men congratulated one another in Russian; Howin narrowed his eyes as he turned toward Malik. “Your Habber friend must have put in a good word for you,” he said. “Maybe you didn't tell us everything he said.”
“He had nothing to do with this,” Malik replied. “You don't seriously think the Council would listen to a Habber's recommendation. It's luck, that's all.”
“Don't question our good fortune, Howin,” Nikolai said. “If the Habber helped Malik, then maybe he decided to put in a word for us. There's no use thinking about it now—just be grateful.”
* * * *
Evening had come before the last of the fortunate ones joined those aboard the floater. The mood on the airship had grown more subdued; Malik had taken his turn in the floater's lavatory and was wondering if they would be fed before the journey began. Nikolai slouched in the seat next to his; perhaps he was now brooding about whether the long wait would be worth it.
Two Guardians walked down the aisle and passed out packages of dark bread and cups of tepid tea. The two Habber pilots came inside; the woman raised her arms for a moment.
“We'll board a shuttlecraft in Tashkent,” she said. “My companion and I will be the pilots on the shuttle, but a few Guardians will accompany us. When we get to the Wheel, you'll follow us to the bay where our own ship is waiting.”
The two Habbers disappeared behind the door up in front with the airship pilot. Malik gazed out the window as the floater slowly lifted from its cradle.
* * * *
At the port, Malik and his fifty companions were herded aboard the magnetic train that was to take them to the shuttle field. The people they passed in the wide, lighted halls of the port looked away when they saw the uniformed Guardians among the group; even the children who hung around the port trying to sell their services as guides to unwary travelers avoided them.
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