“A call-name,” he said promptly, eying his “Space Jockey Special.”
“Yes, but—why not your name?”
The absence of utensils argued that the foodstuff on his plate was intended to be addressed with the fingers, though he scarcely knew how he was to escape without becoming well sauced, indeed.
“My name was unknown in the initial transaction,” he said, picking up the first overflowing bun gingerly. “And one must call a man something. Also, there appeared to be a complaint regarding my comportment, in that I kept fading in and out, like smoke. I was inclined to put that aspect of things down to the head injury, myself, but one must not be churlish in these matters.” He glanced over to Aelliana, who was holding her spoon near her mouth, an expression of not-entirely-pleasant surprise on her face.
“How is your meal?” he inquired politely.
She took a deep breath, lowered her spoon and reached for her bottle of lemon water.
“The word may be 'decisive,' ” she said. “I had not expected something so warm. And yours?”
“I have not yet recruited my courage,” he admitted. “Hold but a moment.”
He assayed a small bite, finding it not bad; the sauce sweet, but not overly so, and the filling agreeably chewy, despite being every bit as messy as he had feared.
“Not inedible,” he told Aelliana. “If you cannot support yours, take from mine, do. I cannot imagine that I can accommodate the entire plate.”
“Perhaps the second spoon will be less surprising,” she said, determinedly. “After all, one cannot always have toasted cheese sandwiches.”
Daav laughed. “Now that,” he said, “is not a very Liaden outlook.”
“I suppose it isn't,” she agreed, and assayed her soup again.
“The yoster and me have reached an accord, and he'll be staying on,” Bruce Peltzer said. He nodded at the green plant on the counter. “I'll be doing better for him, of course, but for now, he's taken that for his bunk. Last I saw, he was having a bit of a nap, but if you'd like to say your good-byes . . . ”
“I see no reason to disturb his dreaming,” Daav murmured. “He'll recall us, and we'll recall him, each for as long as we can.”
“That's right.” The big man cleared his throat. “I didn't do any better getting a fix on his previous bunk. Seems clear he was lifted, though, and took off without permissions.” He shook his head. “Boy that took him had some troubles—like the pilot said, more than a norbear could fix. They were both lucky you two happened by.”
“Work he will do for you?” Aelliana asked. Bruce looked to her.
“Don't you worry, Pilot, I'm not going to let him slack off! Norbears are useful to have around the place. Not only are they what you might call a calming influence, but they're real good on knowing when somebody's thinking about walking out a hatch without a suit. You don't often get 'em as sharp as Hevelin; he's going to be a real asset to the circuit rider's office.”
“Good,” Aelliana said, and Daav heard the tears in her voice. “We do well for him.”
He reached out and took her hand. “We've done what's best for him,” he said, and gave Bruce Peltzer a grin. “And for you, too.”
“I'll allow a good turn,” the big man said comfortably, and stuck his hand out. “Good to see you again, Smokey.”
“And you.” Daav put his palm against the other man's, watching as it was swallowed and released. “Fair travel, Pilot. Walk carefully, port-wise.”
“That I'll do—and the pair of you, as well. Pilot Caylon, it's an honor.”
“Thank you,” Aelliana said, inclining her head slightly. “Good lift, Pilot.”
“Safe landing,” he replied.
They were passing a bookstore on Duty Free Street, all but in sight of The Luck, when the unanticipated happened.
The door opened as they strolled by; Daav registered the impression of an ordinary-seeming Terran of perhaps an affluent habit, his belt innocent of weaponry, and a package with the bookstore's name emblazoned upon it cradled against his chest.
In a word: harmless.
Hand in hand with his pilot, his love, Daav took a step.
“Professor!” Excitement, only that. Nothing to concern one.
Daav took another step.
“Professor Kiladi, wait!”
There was no excuse for it; the merest Scoutling might have acted with more finesse. His heart stuttered, his step faltered . . .
. . . he snatched his hand away from Aelliana's.
“Professor!”
Discovered, he thought, after all these years. And yet, the thing might still be recovered, if only you can rally a bit of credence, Daav.
Slowly, an expression of what he devoutly hoped was cool and slightly offended curiosity on his face, he turned. Aelliana, who must have felt that first jolt of horror as clearly as if it had been her own, turned with him, her face wary, and one hand on her gun.
The man approaching them, already out of breath with his hurried dozen steps, was younger than Daav, his pale hair glued to his head by the rain. His eyes were tight at the corners, as if he spent long hours before a text screen, or bent over the pages of books. He came on, oblivious to Aelliana's threat, a smile of purest pleasure on his not-entirely-forgettable face.
“I beg pardon, sir . . . ” Daav said, suddenly recalling the face as it had been, much younger, rounder, less drawn—third row, second quadrant, he thought. Dobson. Chames Dobson.
“ . . . you have the advantage of me,” he concluded.
The man paused at the proper distance for speech between non-kin, Daav was pleased to note, and performed quite a credible bow to the master.
“You are Jen Sar Kiladi, are you not? I—of course, out of so many students, you wouldn't remember me. Chames Dobson, sir. I was in your class on comparative cultures at Searston University, and it—” He blinked, and appeared at last to see the man who stood, broadly puzzled and perhaps losing patience, before him; his leather well worn, and his partner standing at backup.
“I . . . It is I who beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “You—you might be his brother, sir, but I see that I am in error. You are not Jen Sar Kiladi. Please accept my apologies for disturbing your peace, Pilot.”
“Please,” Daav said, carefully, as would a man who had been surprised, but after all not threatened, and by one who had some grasp of proper manners. “It is a simple error. I have made it myself, when on a strange port, and hoping, perhaps, to see a friend.”
Dobson's face relaxed into a smile, and for a moment he was entirely the earnest young scholar he had been.
“Yes, exactly. I just got word—well. Say that circumstances brought him to mind—and I wished that I could share my news, and tell him how much his teaching had meant to me. Then I saw you as I came out of the bookshop . . . ” He shook his head, half amused, half regretful, and stepped back, lifting his free hand politely.
“Safe lift, Pilot.”
“I thank you. May your day embrace joy.”
Chames Dobson turned and walked off, a trusting man.
Daav braced himself for the question that, alas, was not long in coming.
“Who,” Aelliana asked sternly, “is Jen Sar Kiladi, and why did you lie to that man?”
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Contents
Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Liaden Scout” must now be seen as a misnomer, for to become a Scout is to become other than Liaden. It is to turn one's face from the homeworld and enter a state of philosophy where all custom, however alien, is accepted as equally just and fitting.
We are told by certain instructors that not everyone may aspire to—nor all who aspire, attain—that particular degree of philosophical contrariness required of those who are said to have “Scout's eyes.”
For this we must rejoice, and allow the Scouts full honor for having in the past provided refuge for the disenfranchised, the adventurous and the odd.