She turned, shut the door. Joe continued to No. 14, where the steward webbed him into his hammock for the take-off.
Joe awoke from the take-off trance. He said, «Whatever you're looking for, I haven't got it. Hableyat gave you a bum steer.»
The man across the cabin froze into stillness, back turned toward Joe.
Joe said, «Don't move, I've got my gun on you.»
He jerked up from the hammock but the webbing held him. At the sound of his efforts the intruder stole a glance over his shoulder, ducked, slid from the cabin like a ghost.
Joe called out harshly but there was no sound. Throwing off the web he ran to the door, looked out into the saloon. It was empty.
Joe turned back, shut the door. Waking from the trance he had no clear picture of his visitor. A man short and stocky, moving on joints set at curious splayed angles. There had been a flashing glimpse of the man's face but all Joe could recall was a sallow yellow tinge as if the underlying blood ran bright yellow. A Mang.
Joe thought, Now it's starting. Damn Hableyat, setting me up as his stalking horse! He considered reporting to the captain, who, neither Druid nor Mang, might be unsympathetic to lawlessness aboard his ship. He decided against the action. He had nothing to report–merely a prowler in his cabin. The captain would hardly put the entire passenger list through a psycho-reading merely to apprehend a prowler.
Joe rubbed his face, yawned. Out in space once more, on the last leg of his trip. Unless, of course, Harry had moved on again.
He raised the stop-ray shield in front of the port, looked out into space. Ahead, in the direction of flight, a buffer-screen absorbed what radiation the ship either overtook or met. Otherwise the energy, increased in frequency and hardness by the Doppler action due to the ship's velocity, would have crisped him instantly.
Light impinging from a beam showed him stars more or less with their normal magnitudes, the perspectives shifting and roiling as he watched–and the stars floating, eddying, drifting like motes in a beam of light. To the stern was utter darkness–no light could overtake the vessel. Joe dropped the shutter. The scene was familiar enough to him. Now for a bath, his clothes, food.
Looking at his face in the mirror he noticed a stubble of beard. The shaver lay on a glass shelf over the collapsible sink. Joe reached–yanked his hand to a halt, an inch from the shaver. When first he had entered the cabin it had hung from a clasp on the bulkhead.
Joe eased himself away from the wall, his nerves tingling. Certainly his visitor had not been shaving? He looked down to the deck–saw a mat of coiled woven brass. Bending, he noticed a length of copper wire joining the mat to the drain pipe.
Gingerly he scooped the shaver into his shoe, carried it to his bunk. A metal band circled the handle with a tit entering the case near the unit which scooped power from the ship's general field.
In the long run, thought Joe, he had Hableyat to thank–Hableyat who had so kindly rescued him from the Thearch and put him aboard the Bekaurion with a potted plant.
Joe rang for the steward. A young woman came, white-haired like the other members of the crew. She wore a parti-colored short-skirted garment of orange and blue that fitted her like a coat of paint. Joe dumped the shaver into a pillowcase. He said, «Take this to the electrician. It's very dangerous–got a short in it. Don't touch it. Don't let anyone touch it. And–will you please bring me another shaver?»
«Yes, sir.» She departed.
Finally bathed, shaved and as well-dressed as his limited wardrobe permitted, he sauntered out into the saloon, stepping high in the ship's half-gravity. Four or five men and women sat along the lounges to the side, engaging in guarded conversation.
Joe stood watching a moment. Peculiar, artificial creatures, he thought, these human beings of the Space Age–brittle and so completely formal that conversation was no more than an exchange of polished mannerisms. So sophisticated that nothing could shock them as much as naive honesty.
Three Mangs sat in the group–two men, one old, the other young, both wearing the rich uniforms of the Mangtse Red-Branch. A young Mang woman with a certain heavy beauty, evidently the wife of the young officer.
The other couple, like the race which operated the ship, were human deviants unfamiliar to Joe. They were like pictures he had seen in a childhood fairybook– wispy fragile creatures, big-eyed, thin-skinned, dressed in loose sheer gowns.
Joe descended the stairs to the main deck and a ship's officer, the head steward presumably, appeared. Gesturing politely to Joe he spoke to the entire group. «I present Lord Joe Smith of the planet»–he hesitated–»the planet Earth.»
He turned to the others in the group. «Erru Kametin»–this was the older of the two Mang officers–»Erru Ex Amma and Erritu Thi Amma, of Mangtse.» He turned to the fairy-like creatures. «Prater Luli Hassimassa and his lady Hermina of Cil.»
Joe bowed politely, seated himself at the end of the lounge. The young Mang officer, Erru Ex Amma, asked curiously, «Did I understand that you claim Earth for your home planet?»
«Yes,» said Joe half-truculently. «I was born on the continent known as North America, where the first ship ever to leave Earth was built.»
«Strange,» muttered the Mang, eyeing Joe with an expression just short of disbelief. «I've always considered talk of Earth one of the superstitions of space, like the Moons of Paradise and the Star Dragon.»
«I can assure you that Earth is no legend,» said Joe. «Somehow in the outward migrations, among the wars and the planetary programs of propaganda, the real existence of Earth has been called to question. And we travel very rarely into this outer swirl of the galaxy.»
The fairy-woman spoke in a piping voice which suited her moth-frail appearance. «And you maintain that all of us–you, the Mangs, we Cils, the Belands who operate the ship, the Druids, the Frumsans, the Thablites–they are all ultimately derived from Earth stock?»
«Such is the fact.»
A metallic voice said, «That is not entirely true. The Druids were the first fruit of the Tree of Life. That is the well-established doctrine, and any other allegation is false.»
Joe said in a careful voice, «You are entitled to your belief.»
The steward came forward. «Ecclesiarch Manaolo Ma Benlodieth of Kyril.»
There was a moment of silence after the introductions. Then Manaolo said, «Not only am I entitled to my belief, but I must protest the propagation of incorrect statements.»
«That also is your privilege,» said Joe. «Protest all you like.»
He met Manaolo's dead black eyes and there seemed no human understanding behind them, no thought–only emotion and obstinate will.
There was movement behind; it was Priestess Elfane. She was presented to the company and without words she settled beside Hermina of Gil. The atmosphere now had changed and even though she but murmured pleasantries with Hermina her presence brought a piquancy, a sparkle, a spice...
Joe counted. Eight with himself–fourteen cabins–six passengers yet unaccounted for. One of the thirteen had tried to kill him–a Mang.
A pair of Druids issued from cabins two and three, and were introduced–elderly sheep-faced men en route to a mission on Ballenkarch. They carried with them a portable altar, which they immediately set up in a corner of the saloon, and began a series of silent rites before a small representation of the Tree. Manaolo watched them without interest a moment or two, then turned away.
Four, unaccounted for, thought Joe.
The steward announced the first meal of the day, and at this moment another couple appeared from their cabins, two Mangs in non-military attire–loose wrappings of colored silk, light cloaks, jeweled corselets. They bowed formally to the company and, since the steward was arranging the collapsible table, they took their places without introduction. Five Mangs, thought Joe. Two soldiers, two civilians, a woman. Two cabins still concealed their occupants.