‘That’s not saying much,” Fain said. He knew, as well as Skallon did, that simple genetics explained that: space colonization had drawn only the brightest.
“Of course Kish isn’t his real father.”
“He’s not?” Fain strove to appear interested, while keeping his eyes focused on the threatening crowd around them. They passed a series of street stalls, where food, clothing, and goods made from the skins of dead animals were sold amid shouts, screams, and howls. The mob was even thicker here. A fat thigh brushed against his. Fain sucked in his breath and bit his lip.
“Oh, no,” said Skallon. “It’s complicated, but if you understand the various local cultural patterns, it does make sense. Kish, when he was a member of the trader caste, was married to another woman, one much closer to his own age, but she died in one of the plagues without bearing him a son. Now, among the trader caste, the presence of a male heir is almost a necessity, because trading rights and franchises are always passed through the generations. Without a son and the guarantee that his business would survive after him, Kish found it very difficult to obtain new contracts. So what he had to do was marry again, but there was a problem there, too, because I gather the main fault for the lack of a son in the first place was Kish’s own.”
“He told you this,” said Fain, who whispered, still unaccustomed to a world in which electronic listening devices were unknown, Skallon insisted that for an Alvean eavesdropping was a worse sin than murder.
“No, not him. Joane did. She’s told me a lot about local customs and mores.
“ I see.
‘Well, the upshot of it is that Kish found a bride who was already pregnant with another man’s child, and that was Joane. Her father was a very minor trader and he eagerly made a marriage contract with Kish, despite the great disparity in ages, which would normally have presented a major stumbling block. There was only one stipulation, and that was inserted at Joane’s insistence. Apparently, she disliked Kish from the beginning and didn’t want to be forced into having sexual relations with him.”
“And he agreed?”
“Yes, of course. He needed the son.”
“But he’s not a trader now. He’s an innkeeper.”
“Yes, and that’s what happened next. Joane’s father, it seems, was so proud of the agreement with Kish that he couldn’t keep quiet. When Kish’s trading contacts heard the story, they laughed at him. Kish felt humiliated in the eyes of his peers and his business dwindled to nothing. He was fortunate to find the Battachran Hotel to keep.”
“He was an idiot. Women aren’t that hard to find.”
“But now he hates Joane. He blames her and Danon for all his troubles.”
“He should.”
“Not that I blame him,” Skallon said, with an odd tremor in his voice. “Was it her fault she can’t stand him?”
“She could pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That she thinks he’s the hottest item on this planet.”
“But he disgusts her.”
“So?”
“So it would be impossible to pretend about that.”
Fain could have laughed, but he let the matter drop. Someday he’d tell Skallon the history of the art of female prostitution, but not now. Skallon obviously was sleeping with the woman. That was risky enough. Fain wasn’t going to worsen the problem by making him defensive.
“Is that the place there?” asked Fain, pointing ahead to where the spiked roof of a wooden building rose above the ramshackle trading huts surrounding it. Danon had paused in the middle of a crowd and was waving at them to hurry.
“Yes,” Skallon said. “That must be the Great Hall.” All of a sudden he was nearly running, brushing past Danon and vaulting ahead. Fain had to waddle furiously to keep pace. “I haven’t seen it this close before. This is wonderful—this is the greatest day in my life.”
“Keep your damn voice down.”
“You can’t understand how I feel,” Skallon said, clearly hurt that Fain did not share his enthusiasm.
But Fain was hurrying now, too. If nothing else, the fabled Central Assembly of the Great Hall would provide some relief from these crowded, stinking streets.
Once each Alvean year, Fain knew, the leaders of the various castes gathered in all the planet’s major cities to decide in a series of open meetings the general patterns to be followed by the entire world during the time of the next year. Fain thought the whole idea was crazy: decisions had to be reached on the spot—they could never be planned that far in advance. But Skallon insisted that for the Alveans with their weak governmental structure, the meetings were a necessary and very sensible democratic institution. Fain just shrugged. He also knew what wondrous opportunities such a system offered a Changeling.
Danon had left them at the door. On their own, Fain and Skallon managed to squeeze into the interior of the Great Hall. Despite its size, the hall was already packed past the bursting point. Fain saw every conceivable shade of the rainbow represented by someone’s billowing attire. Like every public place on the planet, the hall exuded a stale pungent odor. The babble of shrill, shouting voices stung his ears.
Spotting an empty chair off to his left, Fain started to move toward it, but Skallon grabbed his arm.
“No, not there.”
“Why not?” Fain had to shout to be heard. “My feet are killing me.” The extra padding he wore more than offset the weak Alvean gravity; Fain found that his legs ached constantly.
“Because we have to be seated with our own caste, with the other Doubluths.” Skallon pointed to a distant splotch of dull purple. “There they are—over there.”
Fain suppressed a groan. Skallon, as eager as ever, began clearing a path through the mob. Fain had said nothing to Skallon, but he seriously wondered whether their presence here was serving much good. Would the Changeling, fully aware that it was being pursued, be apt to make any sort of move in such an open and obvious place? Logic said that it wouldn’t. Changelings knew their work well, and there were a hundred subtle ways of bringing down a planet without ever once attending a meeting like this. But Changelings also liked to do brazen things. They liked to taunt and sneer and take crazy risks. Changelings never thought at all, never planned, and that was what made them so dangerous.
At the edge of the purple section of seats—Fain noted sadly that every chair was already filled—Skallon glided to a stop, laid his hands neatly together under his chin, and murmured, “We have come to express a desire to join our brothers in consultation.”
Fain, who had been thoroughly briefed on the necessity for this ritual, did likewise. For a long moment, however, none of the Doubluths seated near them gave the slightest hint of recognition. Most seemed busily engaged chatting with a neighbor. Their words came too quickly for Fain to overhear.
Then, somewhere near the middle of the group, a man stood up, smiled, waved, and began moving toward him. Fain, his hands still tightly clasped, watched the Alveans progress with some interest. This was the first really old man he could recall seeing on the planet. He was as fat and grotesque as any of the others, but even the soft folds of flesh on his cheeks and chin failed to conceal the deep lines and wrinkles that creased his face. “The senior,” whispered Skallon. “You know what to do.”
Fain didn’t need to nod. This was not a moment he had been anticipating. As far as he was concerned, it was only another reason why he should have stayed away today. Only Skallon’s practical ignorance-and the possibility of some severe blunder—had convinced him finally of the need to attend.
The old Alvean, the senior, bowed deeply in front of Skallon. “I welcome my younger brothers to our congress with much pleasure and delight.”
“The pleasure must lie with us,” said Skallon. Bending slightly, he lowered his lips and kissed the old Alvean upon the forehead.
Fain, steeling himself with care, edged over until he stood beside the old man. Without a word, he dropped his head and performed the necessary kiss
. Skallon had warned him that, because of his still inadequate accent, he should say as little as possible.
There was a taste on Fain s lips that reminded him oddly of old tea.
Skallon said, “I am Thomas and my companion is Joseph. We are both men of the South who journeyed here in order to greet the grandest masters of our craft.” Skallon had explained that such pilgrimages, though not common, would create little surprise. The areas near Kalic were dominated by the financial and commercial castes. Doubluths from the agricultural southern continents would find the meetings held here closer to their own interests. Skallon had warned that they might expect to be questioned rather closely by the senior regarding mutual friends and acquaintances. It would be the quickest means possible for determining their own beliefs and concerns. Fain had memorized a few rote phrases regarding the Alvean economy. Otherwise, Skallon would have to lead in this deception.
But the senior, after a murmured “I am Jal,” turned away from them and hurried back to his seat.
Fain now noticed that a disturbance had broken out there. One Alvean, surrounded by a crowd of purple-gowned listeners, was waving his fists and shouting. Even Fain could pick out certain repeated words. One was Earth and another was plague.
The senior, when he arrived, took the wildly gesticulating man by an arm and tried to guide him toward an empty chair away from his crowd of listeners. The man resisted at first, but the senior appeared to whisper something, and the man, with an angry shrug, finally moved obediently away.
“What was that all about?” Fain said.
Skallon shook his head in apparent concern. “It’s not good. The man was complaining that the Doubluth program is a failure because it doesn’t call for an end to all interstellar trade.”
“So?”
“Well, it’s absolutely unheard of for anyone to criticize the program of his own caste. The idea is to come to these meetings and fight with the other castes for your own plan. Without a united front, each caste would be equally weak.”
“Then what did the senior say that made him quiet?”
“Only some matter of ritual, I assume. I don’t think the man was convinced he was wrong.”
But Fain had spotted something that took his attention totally away from Skallon’s explanation. It was an empty chair—two of them—at the rear of the Doubluth section.
“Hurry,” said Fain, pulling at Skallon’s robes.
They reached the empty chairs just before the two men who had temporarily deserted them to listen to the anti-Earth agitator returned.
Fain slid quickly into one chair and pulled Skallon down into the other.
The two Alveans glared but Fain pretended not to see.
After a few moments, the Alveans went away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Skallon said. “As pilgrims, we shouldn’t intrude upon our hosts.”
“Then stand up and go for a walk,” Fain said. “I’m not holding you here.”
Skallon grinned. “No, but my feet are. Fain, I’m beginning to understand there’s some use for you, after all”
“Now tell that to the Changeling.”
“I will. If you’ll point him out to me.”
“Not yet,” Fain murmured. “But soon—damn soon.”
The meeting, largely as Fain expected, proved to be a hopeless bore. Fain fought to keep alert, as caste succeeded caste upon a wooden platform in the center of the hall. Each speaker, as nearly as he could determine, rose to offer a detailed and, to Fain, indecipherable plan for running the planet over the course of the next local year. The Changeling, if it was present, gave no obvious sign. The speakers, according to Skallon, were uniformly bland in their words and presentation. Earth was attacked only in the softest and most general terms. The plagues, when they were mentioned at all, were described as a medical problem with possible solutions. The heat in the room, the constant hum of nearby voices, added to Fain’s drowsiness. Afternoon stretched invisibly into evening. Night came. Skallon perched on the edge of his seat, swallowing each word. Fain let his eyes close. It was warm. It was cozy. The Changeling had gone far away.
He had no way of telling how long he’d slept before Skallon touched his arm. In an instant, Fain was alert.
“Look,” said Skallon, whispering. “I think something’s wrong with that man.”
Fain looked to where Skallon was pointing. A purple-gowned Doubluth had at last gained the platform. By squinting, Fain thought he could identify the man as Jal, the senior who had greeted them. But Jal wasn’t speaking; Instead, his hands held high above his head, his robes twisting with the movement of his body, he seemed to be dancing.
“It’s the plague,” Skallon whispered.
Fain needed no one to confirm that diagnosis. He sensed that every eye in the hall now watched the jerking, twisting dancer. So far no one had spoken, shouted, or cried out, but an atmosphere of suppressed terror, of panic on the verge of eruption, filled the room.
Then someone shouted. Fain turned to his right and saw the young Doubluth who had caused the earlier disturbance now standing on a chair. “Look,” the man cried, pointing toward the platform. “See what they have done to us now.”
No one needed to ask what he meant by they.
“It is our senior,” the man went on. In the silence of the hall, punctuated by the pounding of the seniors dancing feet, his voice boomed like a cannon. “It is my senior and master. They have murdered him. Haven’t you been warned? We hold our assembly and speak of wondrous plans, agricultural quotas, and trading rights. We speak, while all about us men die, murdered by the selfish greed of the Earth Consortium and its so-called Cooperative Empire. No, this is blasphemy. It is an obscenity in the eyes of the God with a Million Names.”
Fain clutched his arm. “Fain, do something.”
Along with everyone else, Fain watched the dancer. The senior moved more slowly now. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. His head jerked spasmodically back and forth. “What do you suggest?”
“Stop him. Stop that man from talking. Can’t you see he’s trying to blame the Earth for—for that?” He jerked his head toward the platform.
“Maybe he’s got a point.”
“Fain, that man may be the Changeling.”
“And he may not be. Shut up and let me handle this.” But Fain made no move to act. For the moment he was content to watch and listen. He did lower his hand and press the comforting bulk of his heatgun.
The speaker was saying, “Watch that man. Watch him dance. See him jerk his head and throw his hands to the sky. He is a puppet. He is a creature controlled by another. He is the Earth’s puppet. They have made him dance and—as surely as I stand here now—they will make him die.”
Just as the man said that, as if on cue, the dancer on the platform threw back his head, let loose a dreadful shriek of pain and despair, and collapsed in a motionless heap.
“Dead,” said Fain, without feeling.
And then the panic—held in check until now both by the dancer and the speaker—broke loose. Men screamed. Men shouted. Chairs fell to the floor. In a mass, everyone seemed to be rushing toward the exits.
Fain held Skallon tightly. He had to shout to be heard over the sudden pandemonium. “Don’t move. Stand where you are.” Even Fain could feel himself drawn irresistibly toward the fresh air outdoors. But he did not intend to be trampled to death. Not here on Alvea.
Fain led Skallon in the opposite direction from the mob. He kicked a chair out of his way.
“Where.are you going?” said Skallon.
Fain pointed to the platform ahead of them. “I want to take a close look at that man.”
“But, Fain, he’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“But—but—we—” Skallon kept swiveling his head. The rush of the mob had managed to knock a hole in the wall. Nearly everyone had made it outside by now. Everyone except those broken bodies that lay scattered behind, dropped by the crush of the crowd.
“S
kallon, we’re safe from any possible plague strains. There’s no reason for us to be afraid. You, of all people, ought to know that.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You’re right. But—”
Fain made himself pat the other man’s arm. “You don’t have to explain. Panic is a catching disease. I felt it myself back there.”
“It’s just hard to think clearly. With all this—all this chaos.”
“Yes,” Fain said dryly. “Exactly.”
He mounted the platform. It was empty, the last place on this world most people would want to be. The sudden excess of empty space came as a welcome relief to Fain. He felt he could think more clearly now.
Taking the dead body of the senior, Fain turned the man over on his broad stomach. Gripping the thick flesh at the back of one arm, he pinched down hard. ‘There,” he said, gesturing at Skallon to look. T thought this was too good to be true.”
Skallon looked but shook his head. “I don’t see anything.”
“The flesh. It’s discolored. See where I’m pinching.” He let go of the dead man and stood up. “This man has been hit with an injector—and recently.”
“Vertil?”
Fain was already moving away from the platform. He walked quickly but did not run. From outside, he could still hear the loud rumble of the mob, but the interior of the hall was now deserted. “There’s no need to inject Vertil. No, I’d guess it was the plague that killed him.”
“But the Changeling couldn’t have obtained that—not a local strain of plague.”
“Then maybe it brought its own.”
“But then—we—we—”
“Exactly,” said Fain. “We might not be immune.”
Skallon, like Fain, began to move quickly, but then a sudden thought seemed to strike him and he slowed. Skallon knew as well as Fain that haste would do them no good now. “Then the Changeling must have been that Alvean, after all. Remember, we saw them standing close together. He could have used the injector then.”
“He could have, but so could nearly anyone else.” Fain shook his head. “No, I’m not ready to make any definite guesses—not yet.”
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