"Is it convenient for you to come now?"
"Yes."
Simdna backed away from the door and held out a clawed hand. "Then Lothas would see you now."
On the way to his quarters, Deayl sagged against the corridor wall. He turned his head up, then closed his eyes and let his muzzle drop to his chest. The claws on his fingers dug into his palms, the pain almost blotting out the waves of self-condemnation that threatened to drive his mind empty. He heard the sound of someone approaching, and he pushed himself away from the wall and opened his eyes. It was Nozn.
"There you are, Deayl."
"Here I am."
Nozn turned back, and seeing the corridor empty, returned his gaze to Deayl. "The hue-mun still lives, Deayl. If you cannot perform the task, leave it to someone who can."
Deayl hissed, his eyes sparking. "You forget your place, Nozn!"
Nozn closed his eyes and performed a shallow bow. "I meant no disrespect, Deayl."
"I shall do what needs to be done, and with no one's help. That I can keep all others but myself clean from this act is my only claim to honor. Do not take this from me by becoming involved."
Nozn bowed again. "It will be as you wish, Deayl." He stood and half-turned to go. "But, if you should fail, there are others who will not." Nozn nodded once, then moved off down the corridor.
Deayl placed a hand against the corridor wall, turned his gaze toward the deck plates, and saw the glassy surface of Naal, the child-moon of Nitola. Baxter had stood on the thin crust of the molten pool, and it would have taken only a slight shove to have removed the creature from existence. The Council would have accepted the event as an accident, while the humans on the planet would have… Are the hue-muns that sensitive that they would attempt retaliation on the basis of one suspicious death? Will they adopt an attitude that will make their removal the only option left to the Council, for just one death? Deayl wiped his hand over his muzzle, then let it drop to his side. Or, will the hue-muns' tribes be more reflective, making the murder I will commit a futile gesture ?
Deayl, still supporting himself by moving his hand along the corridor wall, walked the few remaining steps to his quarters. He pressed the panel and the iris opened. Inside, the compartment was black, making the door appear as the dark, slathering maw of some nightmare-begotten creature. If the hue-muns know it is a murder, the Council will as well. But, perhaps this is the only way—exchange my future for the future of my race. Deayl stepped into the iris, and it closed behind him.
Baxter stared at the upholstered, wing-backed chair in disbelief. From its wooden claw-on-ball legs to the garish oranges and yellows of the fabric, the chair appeared to have been cloned from a discount department store's loss leader. He looked over to Lothas. The Nitolan governor reclined on several of the familiar thick cushions. "Where did you get this?" Baxter held out a hand toward the chair.
"Do you like it? I hope it is comfortable."
Baxter lowered himself into it, did one or two experimental bounces, then leaned back and crossed his legs. "It's fine."
"That pleases me, Captaincarlbaxter. It was constructed according to information gleaned from your television transmissions. It was felt that you might find our furniture out of size."
Baxter smiled. "Thank you very much… do I call you 'governor'?"
"I am Lothas. If you would exchange names, I am called Dimmis."
Baxter nodded. "Very well, Dimmis. I am called Baxter. I appreciate the chair very much."
"Another like it will be placed in your quarters, and one more in the conference compartment where you will meet with my council."
"Excellent." Baxter wondered if he should mention something about the horrible pattern, but decided against it.
"We can prepare you one of your beds, if you wish."
Baxter held up his hands. "Thank you, but that would be quite unnecessary. I find the cushions in my quarters very comfortable."
Lothas nodded. "Baxter, you know of us and our mission, do you not?"
"Yes. I watched the record you prepared before I slept."
The governor nodded again. "Still, you know too little of us, and we, too little of you." The Nitolan sat up and pulled a table console to where he could reach it. "The knowing ones have amassed a great deal of information from your radio and television, and from the visual and sensor surveys they have done. Still, we know too little to judge properly what we should do."
Baxter nodded. These lizards don't know what to do any more than I do. "I understand. If you will tell me the information you want, perhaps I can arrange to get it for you."
"We understand that your information storage piles can talk to each other, is this not true?"
Baxter nodded. "Yes. Computers."
"The information we need appears to be contained in a number of your… computers. I would like to send three of our knowing ones down to a place that can talk to your computers."
"I'll see if I can arrange it."
Lothas sat quietly for a moment, then lifted his head. "There is much, Baxter, that we must learn about each other, as well."
Baxter followed the direction of the governor's gaze and saw nothing but an inverted green dome set into the overhead. He looked back at Lothas and shrugged. "I agree, we must…"
Baxter's vision blurred as Lothas removed a hand from the console beside his cushion bed.
"It is good you agreed, Baxter. Trust is important." Lothas's hand rose to the console, and Baxter felt himself expanding, whirling up and out, as the compartment went black.
He felt his gorge rise as he realized he was standing off to one side observing while another thumbed and sorted through his memories. From memories to automatized interactions and responses as memories were let to play, mesh, divide, and redivide according to their own dictates.
… the job; the goddamned job… still haven't called Boxman. Deb. That damned Argyle sock… He felt his thoughts pulled from one area, then forced into another… a documentary; stacking them up like cordwood in Auschwitz… Eichmann in a little glass booth… Korea, Lebanon, Vietnam, Gaza, Suez, South Afr…
His thoughts plunged down a dimly lit hole… a little red balsa wood plane with a wind up… Christmas, and Grandma's there, so we'll say grace this time… high school, college… planes at the grass strip near Evanston… testing at Lockheed… Air Force…
A cesspool of repressed fear yawned before him… The Python, panic… what to do, God, what to do?… the size of them… why me ?…
Baxter opened his eyes and saw Lothas removing his hand from the console. The Nitolan stared at him for a long time, then held its hands over its eyes for a moment. Lothas let his hands fall to his knees. "Baxter… you, your race… you are everything…" He waved a hand toward his compartment's iris. "Please leave. Take no offense, but please leave. I must think."
Baxter stood, a feeling of panic rising in his chest. He watched as Lothas put his head down on the cushions and appeared to sleep.
Back in his quarters, seated in a duplicate of the wing backed chair, Baxter shook his head at his transceiver. "I don't know, Wyman. After I woke up, Lothas seemed very upset. Then, he asked me to leave."
"I don't know what to make of it, Baxter. You think it's some kind of mind-reading machine?"
"I'm sure of it. Should I make a break for it? I know the way to the docking bay, and— "
"No. Baxter, get control of yourself. Since we don't have any plans, Lothas couldn't have uncovered any hostile intentions. We just don't know, so sit tight until we do."