As though it were the most natural thing in the world, Brasidus kissed her. Unnatural, said a voice in his mind, flatly and coldly. Unnatural, to mate with a monster from another world, even to contemplate such a sterile coupling. Unnatural. Unnatural.
But his own arms were about her and he was returning her kiss—hotly, avidly, clumsily. That censor in his mind was, at the moment, talking only to itself. He felt the mounds of flesh on her chest pressing against him, was keenly aware of the softness of her thighs against his own.
Suddenly, somehow, her hands were between their upper bodies, pushing him away. With a twist of her head she disengaged her mouth. “Go, you fool!” she whispered urgently. “Go! If they find you, they’ll kill you. Go. Don’t worry—I’ll say nothing. And if you have any sense, you’ll not say anything either.”
“But . . .”
“Go!”
Reluctantly, Brasidus went. Just as he closed the door he heard footsteps approaching along the alleyway.
But there was no alarm raised; his intrusion had been undetected.
Back in the deep-freeze chamber, Alessis looked at him curiously. “Have you been in a fight? Your mouth . . . there’s blood.”
Brasidus examined the back of his investigatory hand. “No,” he said. “It’s not blood. I don’t know what it is.”
“But what happened?”
“I don’t know,” replied Brasidus truthfully. Still he was not feeling the shame, the revulsion that should have been swamping him. “I don’t know. In any case, I have to make my reports only to Captain Diomedes.”
Chapter 14
“SO IT WAS NOT the same one that you saw before?” asked Diomedes.
“No, Captain. At least, I don’t think so. Her voice was different.”
“H’m. There must be an absolute nest of Arcadians in that bloody créche . . . And all . . . she did was to talk to you and warn you to make yourself scarce before any of the doctors came on the scene?”
“That was all, Captain.”
“You’re lying, Brasidus.”
“All right.” Brasidus’ voice was sullenly defiant. “I kissed him, her, it. And it—or she—kissed me back.”
“You what?”
“You heard me, sir. Your very vague instructions to me were that I should find out all that I could. And that was one way of doing it.”
“Indeed? And what did you find out?”
“That these Arcadians, as you have said, exercise a sort of hypnotic power, especially when there is physical contact.”
“Hypnotic power? So the touch of mouth to mouth almost put you to sleep?”
“That wasn’t the way I meant it, sir. But I did feel that, if I weren’t very careful, I should be doing just what she wanted.”
“And what did she want?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, sir? Oh, I know that intercourse with an alien being must be wrong—but that was what she wanted.”
“And you?”
“All right. I wanted it, too.”
“Brasidus, Brasidus . . . You know that what you have just told me could get you busted down to helot. Or worse. But in our job, as you are learning, we often have to break the law in order to enforce it.”
“As a policeman, sir, I am reasonably familiar with the law. I cannot recall that it forbids intercourse with aliens.”
“Not yet, Brasidus. Not yet. But you will recall that contact with the crews of visiting ships is prohibited. And I think that the preliminaries to making love may be construed as contact.”
“But are these Arcadians in the créche crew members of visiting ships?”
“What else can they be? They must have got here somehow.” Diomedes looked long and hard at Brasidus, but there was no censure in his regard. “However, I am not displeased by the way in which things are turning out. You are getting to know something about these . . . . things. These Arcadians. And I think that you are strong enough to resist their lure . . . Now, what have we for you? This evening, I think, you will visit your friend Achron at the créche. Keep your eyes and ears open, but don’t stick your neck out. Tomorrow I have an assignment for you that you should find interesting. This Margaret Lazenby wishes to make a sightseeing trip, and she especially asked for you as her escort.”
“Will Lieutenant Commander Grimes be along, sir?”
“No. He’ll be consorting with the top brass. After all, he is the commander of Seeker and, to use spaceman’s parlance, seems to pile on rather more G’s than the master of a merchantman . . . Yes, Brasidus, have yourself a nice visit with your boyfriend, and then report to me here tomorrow morning at 0730 hours, washed behind the ears and with all your brasswork polished.”
000111
Brasidus spent the evening with Achron before the latter reported for duty. It was not the first time that he had been a guest at the nurse’s Club—but it was the first time that he had felt uncomfortable there. Apart from his own feelings, it was no different from other occasions. There were the usual graceful, soft-spoken young men, proud and happy to play host to the hoplites who were their visitors. There was the usual food—far better cooked and more subtly seasoned than that served in the army messes. There was the usual wine—a little too sweet, perhaps, but chilled and sparkling. There was music and there was dancing—not the strident screaming of brass and the boom and rattle of drums, not the heavy thud of bare feet on the floor, but the rhythmic strumming of lutes and, to it, the slow gyrations of willowy bodies.
But . . .
But there was something lacking.
But what could be lacking?
“You are very thoughtful tonight, Brasidus,” remarked Achron wistfully.
“Am I?”
“Yes. You . . . you’re not with us, somehow.”
“No?”
“Brasidus, I have to be on duty soon. Will you come with me to my room?”
The Sergeant looked at his friend. Achron was a pretty boy, prettier than most, but he was not, he could never be, an Arcadian . . .
What am I thinking? he asked himself, shocked. Why am I thinking it?
He said, “Not tonight, Achron.”
“But what is wrong with you, Brasidus? You never used to be like this.” Then, with a sort of incredulous bitterness, “It can’t be one of the men from the ship, can it? No, not possibly. Not one of those great, hairy brutes. As well consort with one of those malformed aliens they’ve brought with them!” Achron laughed at the absurdity of the idea.
“No,” Brasidus told him. “Not one of the men from the ship.”
“Then it’s all right.”
“Yes, it’s all right. But I shall have a heavy day tomorrow.”
“You poor dear. I suppose that the arrival of this absurd spaceship from some uncivilized world has thrown a lot of extra work on you.”
“Yes. It has.”
“But you’ll walk with me to the créche, won’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll do that.”
“Oh, thank you. You can wait here while I get changed. There’s plenty of wine left.”
Yes, there was plenty of wine left, but Brasidus was in no mood for it. He sat in silence, watching the dancers, listening to the slow, sensuous thrumming. Did the Arcadians dance? And how would they look dancing, stripped for performance, the light gleaming on their smooth, golden skins? And why should the mere thought of it be so evocative of sensual imaginings?
Achron came back into the hall, dressed in his white working tunic. Brasidus got up from the bench, walked with him out into the night. The two friends made their way through the streets in silence at first, but it was not the companionable silence to which they had become used. Finally Brasidus spoke, trying to keep any display of real interest out of his voice.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you nurses lived in at the créche? The same as we do in the barracks.”
“Then we shouldn’t have these walks, Brasidus.”
“You could visit me.”
“But I don’t like y
our barracks. And your Club’s as bad.”
“I suppose that the cooking could be improved in both. Just who does live in at the créche?”
“All the doctors, of course. And there are some engineers who look after the machinery.”
“No helots?”
“No. Of course not.” Achron was shocked at the idea. “Even we—but, after all, Brasidus, we are helots—have to live outside. But you know all that. Why are you asking me?”
That was a hard counterquestion to answer. At last Brasidus said, “There have been rumors . . .”
“Rumors of what?”
“Well, it’s a very large building. Even allowing for the wards and the birth machine, there must be ample space inside. Do you think that the staff doctors and engineers could have . . . friends living with them?”
It was Achron’s turn to hesitate. “You could be right, Brasidus. There are so many rules telling us that we must not stray away from our wards. Now that you raise the point, I can see that there has always been an atmosphere of . . . of secrecy . . .”
“And have you ever seen or heard anything?”
“No.”
“And do the staff doctors and engineers have any friends among the nurses?”
“They wouldn’t look as us.” Resentment was all too evident in Achron’s voice. “They’re too high and mighty. Keep themselves to themselves, that’s what they do. And their own accommodation, I’ve heard, the King himself might envy. They’ve a heated swimming pool, even. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard about it. And I’ve seen the food and the wine that come in. Oh, they do themselves well—far better than us, who do all the work.”
“There might be inquiries being made,” said Brasidus cautiously.
“There are always inquiries being made. That Captain Diomedes wanted me to work for him. But he’s not . . . he’s not a gentleman. We didn’t get on. Why should I help him?”
“Would you help me?”
“And how can I, Brasidus?”
“Just look and listen. Let me know of anything out of the ordinary in the créche.”
“But the doctors can do no wrong,” said Achron. “And even if they did, they couldn’t. You know what I mean.”
“In your eyes, you mean?”
“In my eyes,” admitted the nurse. “But for you, and only for you, I’ll . . . I’ll look and listen. Does it mean promotion for you?”
“It does,” said Brasidus.
“Are you coming in?” asked Achron as they reached the entrance to the créche.
“No. I shall have a long and wearing day tomorrow.”
“You . . . you don’t give me much inducement to help you, do you? If I do, will things be the same between us again?”
“Yes,” lied Brasidus.
Chapter 15
BRASIDUS DROVE OUT to the spaceport in the car that had been placed at his disposal. He realized that he was looking forward to what he had told Achron would be a long and wearing day. He enjoyed the freshness of the morning air, looked up with appreciation at the Spartan Navy still, in perfect formation, circling the landing field. But now he did not, as he had done so many times in the past, envy the airmen. He was better off as he was. If he were up there, a crew member of one of the warships, even the captain of one of them, he would not be meeting the glamorous, exotic spacefarersmost certainly would not, in the course of duty, be spending the entire day with one of them.
Margaret Lazenby was already ashore, was waiting in Diomedes’ office, was engaged in conversation with the Security captain. Brasidus heard his superior say, “I’m sorry, Doctor Lazenby, but I cannot allow you to carry weapons. The cameras and recording equipment—yes. But not that pistol. Laser, isn’t it?”
“It is. But, damn it all, Diomedes, on this cockeyed world of yours my going about unarmed degrades me to the status of a helot.”
“And the Arcadians are not helots?”
“No. It should be obvious, even to a Security officer. Would a helot hold commissioned rank in the Federation’s Survey Service?”
“Then if you possess warrior’s status, your being let loose with a weapon of unknown potentialities is even worse insofar as we are concerned.” The fat man, facing Margaret Lazenby’s glare with equanimity, allowed himself to relent. “All right. Leave your pistol here, and I’ll issue you with a stun gun.”
“I shall not leave my weapon here. Will you be so good as to put me through to the ship so that I can tell the duty officer to send somebody ashore to pick it up?”
“All right.” Diomedes punched a few buttons on his board, picked up the handset, spoke into it briefly, then handed it to the Arcadian. He turned to Brasidus. “So you’ve arrived. Attention!” Brasidus obeyed with a military crash and jangle. “Let’s look at you. H’m, brass not too bad, but your leatherwork could do with another polish . . . But you’re not going anywhere near the palace, so I don’t suppose it matters. At ease! Stand easy! In fact, relax.”
Meanwhile, Margaret Lazenby had finished speaking into the telephone. She returned the instrument to its rest. She stood there, looking down at the obese Diomedes sprawled in his chair—and Brasidus looked at her. She was not in uniform, but was wearing an open-necked shirt with a flaring collar cut from some soft, brown material, and below it a short kilt of the same color. Her legs were bare, and her slim feet were thrust into serviceable-looking sandals. At her belt was a holstered weapon of unfamiliar design. The cross straps from which depended her equipment—camera, sound recorder, binoculars—accentuated the out-thrusting fleshy mounds on her chest that betrayed her alien nature.
She was, obviously, annoyed, and when she spoke it was equally obvious that she was ready and willing to transfer her annoyance to Brasidus. “Well, Brasidus,” she demanded. “Seen enough? Or would you like me to go into a song and dance routine for you?”
“I . . . I was interested in that weapon of yours.”
“Is that all?” For some obscure reason Brasidus’ reply seemed to annoy her still further. And then a junior officer from Seeker came in, and Margaret Lazenby unbuckled the holstered pistol from her belt, handed it to the young spaceman. She accepted the stun gun from Diomedes, unholstered it, looked at it curiously. “Safety catch? Yes. Firing stud? H’m. We have similar weapons. Nonlethal, but effective enough. Oh, range?”
“Fifty feet,” said Diomedes.
“Not very good. Better than nothing, I suppose.” She clipped the weapon to her belt. “Come on, Brasidus. We’d better get out of here before he has me stripped to a peashooter and you polishing your belt and sandals.”
“Your instructions, sir?” Brasidus asked Diomedes.
“Instructions? Oh, yes. Just act as guide and escort to Doctor Lazenby. Show her what you can of the workings of our economy—fields, factories . . . you know. Answer her questions as long as there’s no breach of security involved. And keep your own ears flapping.”
“Very good, sir. Oh, expenses . . .”
“Expenses, Brasidus?”
“There may be meals, an occasional drink . . .”
Diomedes sighed, pulled a bag of coins out of a drawer, dropped it with a clank on to the desk. “I know just how much is in this and I shall expect a detailed account of what you spend. Off with you. And, Doctor Lazenby, I expect you to bring Brasidus, here, back in good order and condition.”
Brasidus saluted, then followed the spaceman out through the doorway.
She said, as soon as they were outside the building, “Expenses?”
“Yes, Doctor . . .”
“Call me Peggy.”
“I have rations for the day in the car, Peggy, but I didn’t think they were . . . suitable. Just bread and cold meat and a flagon of wine from the mess at the barracks.”
“And so . . . and so you want to impress me with something better?”
“Why, yes,” admitted Brasidus with a certain surprise.
“Yes.” (And it was strange, too, that he was looking forward to buying food and drink
for this alien, even though the wherewithal to do so came out of the public purse. On Sparta every man was supposed to pay for his own entertainment, although not always in cash. In this case, obviously, there could be no reciprocation. Or could there be? But it did not matter.)
And then, with even greater surprise, Brasidus realized that he was helping Margaret Lazenby into the hovercar. Even burdened as she was, she did not need his assistance, but she accepted it as her due. Brasidus climbed in after her, took his seat behind the control column. “Where to?” he asked.
“That’s up to you. I’d like a good tour. No, not the city—shall be seeing plenty of that when I accompany John—Commander Grimes—on his official calls. What about the countryside and the outlying villages? Will that be in order?”
“It will, Peggy,” Brasidus said. (And why should the use of that name be so pleasurable?)
“And if you’ll explain things to me as you drive . . .”
The car lifted on its air cushion in a flurry of dust, moved forward, out through the main gateway, and for the first few miles headed toward the city.
“The spice fields,” explained Brasidus with a wave of his hand. “It’ll soon be harvest time, and then the two ships from Latterhaven will call for the crop.”
“Rather . . . overpowering. The smell, I mean. Cinnamon, nutmeg, almond, but more so . . . And a sort of mixture of sage and onion and garlic. But those men working in the fields with hoes and rakes, don’t you have mechanical cultivators?”
“But why should we? I suppose that machines could be devised, but such mechanical tools would throw the helots out of employment.”
“But you’d enjoy vastly increased production and would be able to afford a greater tonnage of imports from Latterhaven.”
“But we are already self-sufficient.”
“Then what do you import from Latterhaven?”
Brasidus creased his brows. “I . . . I don’t know, Peggy,” he admitted. “We are told that the ships bring manufactured goods.”
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