The way outside was easily enough reached. They picked a path through the broken wall and soon saw the blaze of stars overhead. The crowd had largely dispersed. A few scattered clots of people remained. Fain took a deep breath of clean, night air and felt instantly better. He was too tired to stand around listening to a few idiots denouncing the Earth.
“What happened in there, good sirs?” It was the boy, Kish’s son—no, Fain corrected himself, Joane’s. Apparently he had waited outside the whole time. “Some say it is an outbreak of plague.”
“Something like that,” said Fain. He gave the boy a gentle push. “Show us the way home and I’ll let Skallon here tell you all about it.”
As they moved through the twisting streets of the city, as dead and empty now as they had been crowded and alive before, Fain couldn’t help drawing Skallon close to him. “That Doubluth—the one who spoke against the Earth—remember him?”
“Yes, of course. And I still think he was the Changeling. Otherwise, the whole thing is just too coincidental.”
“Did you notice him when he was speaking?”
“Notice him? What do you mean?”
“His eyes, his stance, the way he was talking.”
“Yes. No. I mean, not that carefully. I was watching the senior, I suppose. What are you getting at?”
“Vertil,” Fain said. “If anyone in my life was ever acting under the influence of Vertil, it was that man.”
“Then—then he wasn’t—he couldn’t be the Changeling.”
“No,” said Fain, “but it was there. It was there, and it was very careful to let us know it was there.”
Skallon moved in silence for a moment. Ahead in the darkness, Fain could hear the pounding of the boy’s feet preceding them. “What does that mean, Fain?”
“I wish I knew.” Fain shook his head from side to side. “I really wish I knew.”
9
Drawing the comb gently through the soft fur of the dog’s back, Fain said, “Now, isn’t that better? Don’t you feel cleaner?” He and Scorpio were alone in Fain’s room. It was late at night, but Fain didn’t feel tired. He had spent a good part of the day napping during the meeting at the Great Hall.
Scorpio made a wheezing noise, halfway between pleasure and pain. “Cleaner. But, Sick.”
“You are better now,” Fain said.
“Sick.”
Fain understood. Despite augmentation, Scorpio remained an animal, incapable of drawing keen distinctions concerning the state of his own health. But Fain knew he was right. Scorpio was much improved. In a day or two, he could join the search for the Changeling. If only some way existed for smuggling him inside the Great Hall…“But you’re going to live.”
“I. Will. Not. Die.” There was a genuine note of surprise in the dog’s tone.
“No. I meant that you could have. You might have. You’re all right now.”
“Good,” said Scorpio.
T think so, too.” But Fain doubted that the dog was capable of appreciating such a feeling, especially since what he’d really meant was, if the dog had died here, he would not have readily forgiven himself—nor Skallon. No, Scorpio was too much like Fain himself to care about friendship, compassion, or guilt. Scorpio, like Fain, lived in the present moment, and if that moment was proving sufficiently tedious for Fain—the endless ramblings of the Alvean Assembly—then it had to be that much worse for poor Scorpio, who-could only lie in his room all day, surrounded by these grotesque half-humans, and wait. Scorpio, like Fain, wasn’t made for waiting. He patted the dog. “It won’t be long now. Soon enough, you’ll be up and out of here. Then we’ll catch that Changeling and go home.”
“I. Am. Ready.”
Fain laid the comb aside and tickled the dog’s ears. “So am I.”
But when? he wondered. And how?
She entered without knocking.
Fain, who had heard her bare feet approaching in the hall long before the door actually opened, turned casually. “Drop the bolt,” he said. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”
She wore only a thin wisp of cloth. Her usual night clothes? he had wondered before. Or something special? Something for him?
She hadn’t moved, her spine pressed against the smooth wooden door. “I do not like that animal.” She pointed to Scorpio. “He is a disturbance. An—an unreal thing.”
Fain couldn’t help smirking. She should talk. Unreal? What did she think she was—she and her sixty million fellow pseudos? “Scorpio stays,” he said, on a sudden impulse. “He’s sick. I don’t want to leave him tonight.”
“But hasn’t he been sick before, the other times when I came?” Her words were spoken tentatively. Fain guessed that she knew what he was doing—perhaps even understood why. “Skallon says the animal is much improved and will soon be able to confront your enemy.”
Fain shrugged, moved away from the dog, and came toward the woman. “Bolt the door, Joane,” he said softly. “I don’t want Skallon stumbling in here.”
“Is it that you fear him? His wrath? His jealousy?”
“No, I don’t fear him.”
“Then why not leave it open?” Her voice rose shrilly, but she remained in control—complete control. “If the dog can watch, then why not Skallon, too? Or Kish? Or Danon? Why don’t we let everyone watch us, fain? On Earth you said that they do that.”
‘This isn’t Earth.” He started to move past her. He caught Scorpio’s eye. The dog gave no warning move. Good; she was all right. “Bolt it,” he said, stopping at once.
She moved immediately to comply. One hand flew to her mouth and she giggled in a high-pitched, tautly controlled way. In a ripple of filmy cloth, she showed him her round backside as she dropped the heavy wooden bolt across the door. Her buttocks were broad but hard. Strong muscles showed in the backs of her thighs. Joane’s body testified to the many uses it had served. There were wrinkles and calluses, firmnesses you never saw in women on Earth. Maybe that helped explain why he had unresistingly violated his own principles and had taken her veiled offer, that first time. In her own way she faced the world square, unflinching. She was stuck in this stupid Alvean swamp, but she didn’t whine. She didn’t suck-up to him, like most Earthwomen.
Fain shook his head slightly. No point in getting sloppy about her; there was a kind of contract between them, an agreement to have some sex and not to lie to each other, and that was all there was.
“At least the thing is tired,” she said, gesturing at Scorpio. Fain saw the dog had tucked his muzzle into his shoulder, curled up and gone to sleep. He smiled slightly. Her little speech about his watching had been enough.
“You have been so tense, since you returned. I thought perhaps you disliked what you have seen of Kalic.”
“It’s okay.”
“Is it much different from—” Fain reached for her to stop the flow of words. Small talk was pointless. It helped you get along with some people, the kind who liked to babble on about nothing, but he knew with Joane he didn’t need to keep up a pretense. They could talk later, maybe, when it might really mean something. For now, it would just get in the way. He pressed her to him. She responded, and he could feel a sudden quickening in her. At once her breath shifted to ragged gasps. After a few minutes they tumbled onto the bed. He kissed her, stroked her, but she set the pace, led him on, felt him, tugged at him, licked him. Beneath her hands he abruptly felt the stirring pressure of an orgasm. He shoved her back. She shuddered and pulled him down. She bit his lips, bringing the rich, dark taste of blood into his mouth. Fain rose and descended. Scorpio, in his sleep, grumbled a word. Joane held Fain between pincerlike thighs. Her strength amazed, delighted, defied, and taunted him. On Earth, the women were never physically strong. There was little need for that, not with the abundance of machinery. He came inside her silently. She had no way of knowing and continued to tremble beneath him till, in a rush, he drew out, callously beading her thighs. On Earth, treating a woman this way would have brought instant scorn and certain
shame. Here, light-years distant, he could do as he wished. When he looked back at her, Joane was smoothing her gown across her legs.
“Do you want me again?” she asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he did know that he wanted her to stay. Why? Because, he also knew, if she did leave, she’d go immediately to Skallon. One night, he’d followed her and seen that happen. Was it different with Skallon, better for her? Fain assumed it was. Skallon would feel compunctions about ensuring that Joane shared his orgasms. But she came to Fain first. He noted that and noted also how it filled him with pleasure.
“Now?” she asked, reaching for the hem of her gown.
He shook his head with a wry smile probably invisible in the dark. Jesus. “I think I ought to wait.” He went to the door, removed the bolt, and glanced into the corridor. A sweet, sharp odor assailed his nostrils. Food. Meat. This late at night? The fat Alveans seldom rested from their prime means of entertainment. It could be Kish below in the kitchen but it could as easily be someone else in the Communal. Fain decided not to worry. Turning back into the room, he clicked his tongue. “Scorpio—here.”
The dog came at once. He never had been asleep, Fain wasn’t surprised. Scorpio, unlike many humans, knew the value of modesty.
“Fain. Called,” said the dog, pretending sleepiness.
T think you ought to go back to your room now. Rest. Sleep. In the morning, if you’re still feeling better, maybe we can think of some way to use you.”
“Good.” Scorpio started to go out.
“And, Scorpio,” said Fain, knowing there was no need for this but that it might help reassure Joane, “if you run into Skallon, say nothing. About Joane, I mean. About her being here with me.”
“Skallon. Speaks. Not. To. Me.”
Fain nodded and went back inside. After bolting the door, he faced the bed. Joane had ignited the lantern. Its hard light shadowed the planes and ridges of her face. He lay down at her side.
“Fain,” she asked, “do you fear Skallon?”
“No.” Her question struck him so oddly that he felt no anger. “What makes you ask that?”
“Because of what you told the animal.”
T said that for your sake. So you wouldn’t have to worry.”
“About Skallon?” She laughed. “But he is only a boy. Like Danon. He is not at all like you, Fain.”
And who am I like? Fain wondered. Kish? But he said nothing. “If Skallon knew we were seeing each other, it would upset him. He’d be hurt and angry. I have to work with him. I want to keep him happy.”
“But we are not betrothed. Not you and I. We are not wedded. It is Kish who should be angry, not Skallon.”
“Skallon would be angry,” he said patiently. “Not because of you—because of me. Skallon hates me. He may love you. He certainly thinks he does.”
“But I love no one.” She said it casually, like a child. Fain was remembering what Skallon had told him about Kish and Joane and, for the first time since hearing that story, he began to feel a certain real sympathy for Kish.
“Neither do I,” he said.
“Then we are alike.” She put her arms around his shoulders and brushed his neck with her lips. “We are from different worlds, but we are the same. Tell me, Fain. On Earth, are the women like Skallon? Do they fall in love?”
‘The women on Earth aren’t women anymore. I don’t know what they are.”
“You do not like them.”
“I like very few people, Joane.”
“But you like me.”
It wasn’t a question. She knew. “I like you.”
“If you desire,” she said, “I can stay away from Skallon. I went with him before only because he asked. I think you are probably better, Fain, than Skallon. He tries too hard to be like us, like an Alvean. You are only yourself.”
Her offer did not displease him. Fain admitted this quickly to himself, but then said, “No, don’t do that. If you have to stay away from either of us, make it me. I’m not the one who needs you. That’s Skallon.”
“But what if I am the one who needs you, Fain?”
He didn’t believe that. Still, when she drew closer, he made no effort to resist. Her fingers probed skillfully. He responded. All the while, the lantern burned. When Joane mounted him, Fain opened his eyes and studied her face, the deep furrows that creased her brow, the squiggly lines that spread out from the corners of both eyes. Joane was pretty, he decided, but not’ beautiful. On the Earth, where all women were beautiful, none were pretty. Joane was pretty. He liked that. It was a difference, and Fain was not incapable of appreciating the beauty of something different.
The sound from the corridor brought him instantly alert. He jumped, reaching for his heatgun. Joane, spilled from her perch upon him, cried out. Fain rushed to the door and threw it open.
Had the Changeling at last drawn too close?
But all he saw was Kish. Poor, fat, foolish Kish. The innkeeper stood with his hands raised high above his head. His eyes bulged like those of some frightened animal. He licked his lips, trying to speak.
Fain lowered the heatgun. He felt embarrassed and ashamed and his awareness of those emotions made him angry. “What do you want here?”
“I—I was passing.” Kish spoke quickly. His hands, still raised, were shaking. “I thought I heard—I heard a noise. A cry.”
“That was me,” Fain said. “‘A bad dream. A nightmare.”
T thought it might be…your enemy. The one who makes himself over into other things. I thought he might have come here to—to attack you.”
“There’s no chance of that. Scorpio will keep him away from here.” Fain guessed that Kish Was lying. He glanced behind. From where they stood, only the foot of the bed was visible. Kish could not see Joane. But there had been that cry. He must have heard that, if nothing else. “Have you seen Skallon?” Fain asked. He wanted to change the subject.
Kish dropped his arms in a whoosh of expelled breath. “No. He must be sleeping, too.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try that. Skallon and I have a long day tomorrow. Another important meeting. Those things have a tendency to drag on for hours, you know.” Why was he babbling like this? It was small talk—he hated small talk. Kish meant nothing to him. Why should he feel guilty?
“I would not know about the meetings. I am not of the high castes, to be sure/’ Kish spoke stiffly, showing real emotion for the first time. He was bitter. But at whom?
Fain stepped back into the room. “I have to go now. I don’t want to detain you any longer.”
Kish took a step forward, as if he intended to follow Fain into the room, then stopped suddenly with his tiny feet together and bowed past his broad waist. “A good night’s rest to you, Mr. Fain.”
“Yes, of course. Yes, thank you.” Fain shut the door upon Kish’s dark, smiling face and bolted it surely behind him. He waited a moment until the thump of footsteps moving down the corridor convinced him that it was safe to speak. “Go back to your room,” he told Joane.
She had hardly moved upon the bed. Her nakedness showed boldly. Either she had been certain that Kish would not enter the room, or else she did not care. Whichever it was, Fain realized he had seen enough of her for one night.
“Why?” she asked. “Kish has gone away now. You need not fear him.”
“I don’t fear him.” Fain found her gown bunched in a ball at the foot of the bed. He threw it across her breasts. “Go.”
Then she started laughing. It was the last thing he had expected, and several moments passed before he understood that she wasn’t entirely in control. “He—he-he heard us,” she said, gasping to get out the words between frantic spurts of laughter. “He heard us and knew what we were doing and did nothing. It’s funny, Fain. Can’t you see that? He was afraid. Afraid of you. Of us. Kish was afraid…afraid …afraid—”
Fain slapped her. Not brutally. That wasn’t necessary. He slapped her not because she was hyst
erical or loud but because, for a moment, he hated her. He hated her because she was laughing and because he knew that he was the cause of it. He remembered what Skallon had told him about Kish and Joane and the real nature of their marriage. Remembering, he wondered how much of that story, if any of it, was true. He also wondered why Joane had seen fit to tell Skallon and not him.
Holding her cheek gingerly, Joane stared at Fain. Her eyes showed nothing—not pain, not shock, not remorse. “I—I have wronged you, Fain.”
“No, not especially.” His hatred had ebbed as quickly as it flared. “But I think you ought to go. Kish is our contact here. Skallon and I have to depend upon him. I don’t think we ought to betray his trust any more than necessary.”
She dressed. “But it was so funny, Fain. I heard every word he said. He was so afraid.”
“We’re all afraid sometimes, Joane.” He sat on the end of the bed with his back facing her.
She placed her arms upon his shoulders. ‘Then I cannot come back to see you ever again.”
“I didn’t say that.” He turned around and looked at her. “Maybe another time. Maybe tomorrow. But not tonight. Tonight I want to think.”
“I understand.” She stood and went toward the door. “You Earthers are always doing that—always thinking.” She didn’t say it as an accusation. To her, it was true. One of the characteristics of the Earth-born human being: constant thought.
Fain waited until she had gone out. Where? he wondered. He guessed that she had gone to Skallon, but he deliberately refused to listen to the sound of her disappearing footsteps in order to learn their direction. No, he was thinking of something else. He was thinking of how odd it was.
In all the time he had spent at this inn, he couldn’t once recall finding Kish here in the upper corridors late at night. What had brought him here this particular night? And—something else he had to think about—Kish’s odd smile there at the end. What was the meaning behind that?
Fain realized with a start of surprise exactly where his thoughts were taking him: how could he be sure that Kish was Kish at all? How could he be sure that Kish wasn’t the Changeling? There were few firm reasons for suspecting that, but there were even fewer for rejecting it.
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