The Zletovar culture was organized hieratically. Governors inherited their positions, as did People in most other walks (swims?) of life. On the individual level there existed a kind of serfdom, binding not to a piece of territory but to the person of the master. And females had that status with respect to their polygamous husbands.
Yet such expressions were misleading. The decision makers did not lord it over the rest. No formalities were used between classes. Merit brought promotion; so had Allhealer won her independence and considerable authority. Failure, especially the failure to meet one’s obligation to dependents, brought demotion. For the system did nothing except apportion rights and duties.
Terra had known similar things, in theory. Practice had never worked out. Men were too greedy, too lazy. But it seemed to operate among the People. At least, Isinglass claimed it had been stable for many generations, and Flandry saw no evidence of discontent.
Reefcastle was nothing like Shellgleam. Here the houses were stone and coraloid, built into the skerries off a small island. The inhabitants were more brisk, less contemplative than their bottom-dwelling cousins; Isinglass scoffed at them as a bunch of wealth-grubbing traders. “But I must admit they have bravely borne an undue share of trouble from the Hunters,” he added, “and they went in the van of our late attack, which took courage, when none knew about the Merseian boat.”
“None?” asked Flandry in surprise.
“I daresay the governors were told beforehand. Otherwise we knew only that when the signal was given our leg-equipped troops were to go ashore and lay waste what they could while our swimmers sank the ships.”
“Oh.” Flandry did not describe his role in frustrating that. He felt an enormous relief. If Abrams had learned from Evenfall about the planned bombardment, Abrams ought to have arranged countermeasures. But since the information hadn’t been there to obtain—Flandry was glad to stop finding excuses for a man who was rapidly becoming an idol.
The party went among the reefs beyond town to see their tide pools. Surf roared, long wrinkled azure-and-emerald billows which spouted white under a brilliant sky. The People frolicked, leaping out of the waves, plunging recklessly through channels where cross-currents ramped. Flandry discarded the staleness of his armor for a plain helmet and knew himself fully alive.
“We shall take you next to Outlier,” Isinglass said on the way home to Shellgleam. “It is something unique. Below its foundations the abyss goes down into a night where fish and forests glow. The rocks are gnawed by time and lividly hued. The water tastes of volcano. But the silence—the silence!” “I look forward,” Flandry said.
“—?—. So. You scent a future perfume.”
When he cycled through the airlock and entered the Terran dome, Flandry was almost repelled. This narrow, stinking, cheerless bubble, jammed with hairy bodies whose every motion was a jerk against weight! He started peeling off his undergarment to take a shower.
“How was your trip?” Ridenour asked. “Wonderful,” Flandry glowed.
“All right, I guess,” said Ensign Quarles, who had been along. “Good to get back, though. How ’bout putting on a girlie tape for us?”
Ridenour nipped the switch of the recorder on his desk. “First things first,” he said. “Let’s have your report.”
Flandry suppressed an obscenity. Adventures got spoiled by being reduced to data. Maybe he didn’t really want to be a xenologist.
At the end, Ridenour grimaced. “Wish to blazes my part of the job were doing as well.”
“Trouble?” Flandry asked, alarmed.
“Impasse. Problem is, the Kursovikians are too damned efficient. Their hunting, fishing, gathering do make serious inroads on resources, which are never as plentiful in the sea. The governors refuse any terms which don’t involve the land-folk stopping exploitation. And of course the landfolk won’t. They can’t, without undermining their own economy and suffering famine. So I’m trying to persuade the Sixpoint to reject further Merseian aid. That way we might get the Zletovar out of the total-war mess. But they point out, very rightly, that what we’ve given the Kursovikians has upset the balance of power. And how can we take our presents back? We’d antagonize them—which I don’t imagine Runei’s agents would be slow to take advantage of.” Ridenour sighed. “I still have some hopes of arranging for a two-sided phaseout, but they’ve grown pretty dim.”
“We can’t start killing the People again!” Flandry protested.
“Can’t we just?” Quarles said.
“After what we’ve seen, what they’ve done for us—”
“Grow up. We belong to the Empire, not some barnacle-bitten gang of xenos.”
“You may be out of the matter anyhow, Flandry,” Ridenour said. “Your orders came through several hours ago.”
“Orders?”
“You report to Commander Abrams at Highport. An amphibian will pick you up at 0730 tomorrow, Terran clock. Special duty, I don’t know what.”
Abrams leaned back, put one foot on his battered desk, and drew hard on his cigar. “You’d really rather’ve stayed underwater?”
“For a while, sir,” Flandry said from the edge of his chair. “I mean, well, besides being interesting, I felt I was accomplishing something. Information—friendship—” His voice trailed off.
“Modest young chap, aren’t you? Describing yourself as ‘interesting.’ ” Abrams blew a smoke ring. “Oh, sure, I see your point. Not a bad one. Were matters different, I wouldn’t’ve hauled you topside. You might, though, ask what I have in mind for you.”
“Sir?”
“Lord Hauksberg is continuing to Merseia in another couple days. I’m going along in an advisory capacity, my orders claim. I rate an aide. Want the job?”
Flandry goggled. His heart somersaulted. After a minute he noticed that his mouth hung open.
“Plain to see,” Abrams continued, “my hope is to collect some intelligence. Nothing melodramatic; I hope I’m more competent than that. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Nose, too. But none of our diplomats, attachés, trade-talk representatives, none of our sources has ever been very helpful. Merseia’s too distant from Terra. Almost the only contact has been on the level of brute, chip-on-your-shoulder power. This may be a chance to circulate under fewer restrictions.
“So I ought to bring an experienced, proven man. But we can’t spare one. You’ve shown yourself pretty tough and resourceful for a younker. A bit of practical experience in Intelligence will give you a mighty long leg up, if I do succeed in making you transfer. From your standpoint, you get off this miserable planet, travel in a luxury ship, see exotic Merseia, maybe other spots as well, probably get taken back to Terra and then probably not reassigned to Starkad even if you remain a flyboy—and make some highly useable contacts. How about it?”
“Y-y-yes, sir!” Flandry stammered.
Abrams’ eyes crinkled. “Don’t get above yourself, son. This won’t be any pleasure cruise. I’ll expect you to forget about sleep and live on stimpills from now till departure, learning what an aide of mine has to know. You’ll be saddled with everything from secretarial chores to keeping my uniforms neat. En route, you’ll take an electrocram in the Eriau language and as much Merseiology as your brain’ll hold without exploding. I need hardly warn you that’s no carnival. Once we’re there, if you’re lucky you’ll grind through a drab list of duties. If you’re unlucky—if things should go nova—you won’t be a plumed knight of the skies any longer, you’ll be a hunted animal, and if they take you alive their style of quizzing won’t leave you any personality worth having. Think about that.”