“Bury it deep. Preferably encapsulated in some permaform. Sea trench would be ideal,” Killashandra answered and was ignored by the security leader, who continued to look for an answer from Thyrol. Abruptly Killashandra’s captious temper erupted. She slammed her right hand into the leader’s shoulder, forcefully turning toward her. “Alternatively, insert it in your anal orifice,” she said, her voice reasonable and pleasant.
With a wave of astounded gasps sounding in her ear, she made her exit.
Chapter 7
As Killashandra started across the stage to retrace her steps to the Complex, she decided that that was the last place she wanted to go in her state of mind After all, Trag had chosen her because she could be more diplomatic than Borella. Not that Borella mightn’t have handled that security fardle-face with more tact, or effectiveness. However, the Optherians were stuck with her and she with them, and just then she didn’t wish to see one more sanctimonious, self-righteous, smug Optherian face.
She strode to the edge of the stage, peered over at the ten-foot drop to the ground, saw the heavy doors at each end of that level and made her decision. She lay at the edge, swung her legs down, gripping the overhang, and let go.
Her knees took the jar and she leaned against the wall for a moment just as she heard the men emerge from the organ room.
“She’ll have gone back to the Complex, ‘ Thyrol said, breathless with anger. He hurried across the stage, followed by the others. “Simcon, if you have offended the Guildmember, you may have jeopardized far more than you have protected . . .” The heavy door closed off the rest of his reprimand.
Somewhat mollified by Thyrol’s attitude and pleased with her timely evasion, Killashandra dusted off her hands and moved toward the clearly marked exit door at the outer edge of the amphitheater. Even the soft sound of the brushing was echoed by the fine acoustics. Grimacing. Killashandra stepped as cautiously and as silently as she could toward the exit. The heavy door had the usual push-bar on the inside, which she depressed, holding her breath lest it be locked from a control point. The bar swung easily out. She opened it only wide enough to permit her egress and it closed with a thunk behind her. Its exterior was without handle or knob for reentry and a flange protected it from being forced open – if such a circumstance ever arose on perfect Optheria.
Killashandra now found herself on a long ledge which led to one of the switchback paths she had seen yesterday, though this one was at the rear of the Complex. From that height she had a view of an unpretentious area of the City, to judge by the narrow streets and the small single-story buildings crowded together. Between it and the Complex heights lay a stretch of cultivated plots, each planted with bushy climbing plants and fenced off from its neighbors, and most of them neat. In several, people were busily watering and hoeing in the early morning sunlight. A rural scene served as a restorative to Killashandra’s exacerbated nerves.
She began her descent.
As she reached the valley floor, her nose was assailed by the unmistakable aroma of fermenting brew. Delighted, Killashandra followed the odor, squeezing past an old shed, traversing the narrow path between allotments, nodding polite greetings to the gardeners who paused in their labors to regard her with astonishment. Well, she was wearing a costume which marked her as alien to Optheria, but surely these people had encountered aliens before. The aroma lured her on. If it tasted half as good as it smelled, it would be an improvement on the Bascum brew. Of course it could be Bascum, for breweries were often situated in suburbs where the fumes would not irritate the fastidious.
She reached the dirt road that served as main artery for the settlement, deserted at that morning hour except for some small, peculiar-looking animals basking in the sun. She was aware of being watched, but as that was only to be expected, she continued her inspection of the unprepossessing buildings facing the road. The brew-smell continued to permeate the air but intensified to her right. Common sense indicated that the wide gray structure on the far side of the road some thousand meters away was probably the source. She headed there.
As she walked she heard doors and windows open behind her, marking her passage to her objective. She permitted herself a small smile of amusement. Human nature did not change and anything new and unusual would be marked in a society as dull and repressed as she suspected Optheria’s was.
The brew-smell was almost overpowering by the time she reached the gray building. An exhaust fan was extracting the air from the roof, its motor laboring. Although there was no sign or legend on the building to indicate its purpose, Killashandra was not deterred. A locked front door, however, did pose an obstacle. She rapped politely and repeated her knock when it brought no immediate response. Thumping on the door also produced no results, and Killashandra felt determination replace courtesy.
Was brewing illegal in Optheria’s largest city? Or could it be brewing without due license? After all, Bascum originated on Optheria and might have a monopoly. To be sure, she hadn’t paid much attention to what plants were being so carefully tended in the gardens. Home industry? Thwarting the ever vigilant and repressive Elders?
Quickly she stepped around the building and toward its rear, hoping to find a window. She caught a glimpse of a running juvenile body and heard it raise its voice in warning. So she raced around the corner to find the rear doors folded back on a scene of much industry as men and women supervised the bottling of a brew from an obviously improvised vat. The young messenger took one look at her and fled, ducking down the nearest alley.
“May a thirsty stranger to this planet have a sample of your brew? I’m perishing for lack of a decent glass.”
Killashandra could, when she exerted herself, be smoothly charming and ingratiating. She’d played the part often enough. She glanced from one stony expression to the next, holding her smile.
“I’ll tell you it was some shock to discover this planet doesn’t import anything spirituous or fermented.”
“Shuttle got in yesterday,” someone in the group said.
“Too early for tourists.”
“Those clothes aren’t local.”
“Nor island.”
“I’m not a tourist,” Killashandra inserted in the terse comments. “I’m a musician.”
“Come to see the organ, have you?” The man’s voice was so rich in contempt, disapproval, cynical skepticism, and malicious amusement that Killashandra tried hard to spot him in the hostile group.
“If I can judge by my reception above, that sour lot permits few favors. A body really needs a brew here.” Again she fortified her smile with winning charm. And licked dry lips.
Later, in reviewing the scene at her leisure, Killashandra decided that it might have been that unconscious reflex that won her case. The next thing she knew an uncapped bottle was thrust at her. She reached to her belt pouch for the Optherian coins she had acquired on the Athena but was curtly told to leave off. Money didn’t buy their brew.
Although some had turned back to their job, most watched while she took her first sip. It was rich despite its clandestine manufacture, slightly cool, undoubtedly improved by a proper chilling but superior to the Bascum and almost on a par with Yarran.
“Your brewmaster wouldn’t happen to be of Yarra origin?” she asked.
“What do you know of Yarra?” Once again the question was posed anonymously though Killashandra thought the speaker was on her left, near the vat.
“They make the best beer in the Federated Sentient Planets. Yarran brewmasters have the best reputation in the Galaxy.”
A rumble of approval greeted this. She could feel the tension ease though the work continued at the same swift pace. Above the rattle of bottles, and the noise of crating the full containers, Killashandra heard a gasping wheeze to her right, on the roadway, and then a dilapidated vehicle, its sides scarred and rusting, pulled up to the open door.