“I wish to register a protest, ul’ptarze Troy,” Peters said without heat. “You have attacked and abducted me without provocation, and offered minimal reparations if any. Return me to my previous environment, please.”
“That may well be possible in the future.” Elisin Troy glanced at Ander Korwits, received the most minimal of nods. “This meeting is at an end. Ipze Peters, please go with de’ze Korwits; she and her staff have questions for you, of a nature not suitable for open discussion.”
“What sort of questions?”
“I believe you might consider them philosophical.”
Peters thought back to the book he had been reading. “I may not be able to properly elucidate any really complex philosophy,” he warned.
“The level at which you are able to answer will be highly indicative… Fers, you will go along to interpret.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Ander Korwits in a musical voice, with a hint of amusement. The others were clearly amazed; Peters caught a glimpse of Jons, his jaw practically touching his chest, as the woman went on, “For a matter of this importance, direct communication is necessary.” She smiled and touched Peters on the chest. “Come along, ipze Peters, or Peteris, or whatever your name is. We will have tea, and discuss philosophy.”
“I have been behaving like an adolescent,” Ander said when they were seated in bowl-like chairs on thin stems. The chairs were grouped around a circular table with a white top; the table held a tea service, pot and cups made of glass so thin Peters was apprehensive handling them. The compartment sported a window, the first he’d seen outside the control deck, currently displaying Jivver in half phase.
“Why do you say that, de’ze Korwits?” Peters asked.
She laughed. Her voice was a clear alto, and her laugh was refreshing; the Grallt version seemed even more like choking or something mechanical in retrospect. “Don’t call me by my title,” she admonished. “Say ‘Ander’ or ‘Andy.’ What is your name among friends?”
“My friends call me ‘John’.” Peters smiled, a little apprehensively. “It remains to be seen whether or not I am among friends.”
She laughed again. “Never doubt it! And surely you noticed my behavior. Really, it’s disgraceful.” When he didn’t respond she—well, she giggled, and took a sip of tea, regarding him over the rim of the cup with a half-smile. “I believe you have indeed taken notice, and are too polite to be specific,” she observed.
Peters nodded. “I am among strangers, and wouldn’t care to be incited to inappropriate behavior.” The trip from ul’ptarze Troy’s office to here amounted to a hundred meters of corridor and two decks, and all during the walk she’d been touching him at any excuse, walking with a little too much hip-swing, glancing at him with averted sparkling eyes. He’d been on his guard. From the behavior of Troy and the others at the conference, this was a very important person, not someone to swing immediately into the sack… the prospect appealed anyway.
“Very wise, if not the best compliment you could have offered. I wonder what is affecting me? I assure you that I don’t flirt with every man who steps aboard.”
“I can well believe that.” Peters thought as he took a sip of tea. Late nights over pinochle came to mind… “I can offer a possible explanation, from the lore of my people.” Well, the lore of sailors’ bullshit sessions, anyway. They’d been talking about why it was that “pretty” didn’t matter much on liberty after a long cruise. He thought he remembered most of it.
“Say on,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps if I know what is happening I can counteract it.”
“Very likely, though as you mentioned the notion isn’t the best possible compliment.” She giggled again and gave a little wave, and Peters went on: “The highest imperative of an organism is to reproduce. That process is mediated by—” he searched for the word, finally used the English “—genes, small components of our bodies which direct its development. Are you familiar with this theory?”
She frowned. “I have read something similar, but only as speculation.”
“Hm… Our—” again he was forced into English “—scientists have established that this is in fact the case. Our bodies give off secretions, byproducts of the genes, which are specific to the individual, but also carry general information about the sex and health of the person.”
When he paused she waved him on. “Continue, please. This is interesting.”
Peters shrugged. “Next to the eyes, the nose is the organ most closely connected to the brain,” he pointed out. “Our nasal organs detect these substances, and the information carried by them is delivered to the brain, where they induce many reactions, including desire.”
She frowned. “If I follow you, I should react the same to any healthy male. I don’t; your theory is faulty.”
“Not necessarily. All the males you meet are from the same population; their pheromones—the word in our language for the substances—are strongly similar. You have become acclimatized to them, and don’t react.” He smiled. “Our two populations have clearly been separated for a long time; my pheromones are not at all similar to the ones you are accustomed to. Therefore you react.”
“Plausible… do you find me attractive on the same basis?”
Peters laughed. “Ander, I would find you attractive if you were sealed in a gas-tight bubble.”
“That is good to hear.” She took another sip of tea, grimaced, and set the cup on the table. “The tea set is beautiful, but it doesn’t keep the heat properly,” she complained. “The cup I use normally is much less elegant, but my tea doesn’t get cold so quickly. I’ll fetch it.”
She stood and walked out, and Peters took the opportunity to take a deep breath—still laden with pheromones, unfortunately, as well as the perceptible odor of human female—and look around. Thank God for the table between them. The room was paneled in pale tan material with no surface features but the seams between sections, and was lit by the ubiquitous fluorescent tubes, here diffused by gridworks of mirrored bars. In addition to the table and chairs, the room was furnished with a settee and an overstuffed chair, both white, with smooth surfaces. Two doors led back to the corridor and to wherever Ander Korwits had gone, probably her quarters… no, better not to follow that line of thought.
She was gone longer than necessary to fetch cups, and when she returned she walked with her back straight and fluid minimal movements; her face had reassumed the neutral immobility it had displayed during the conference with the ul’ptarze. With her came another female ferassi, young, a short blonde with undistinguished features and a masculine-like haircut parted on the left. The blonde carried a tray upon which were a ceramic teapot and four thick ceramic mugs like the ones many sailors used. She distributed the set, collected the beautiful thin glass ones, and left with economical motions, her entire interaction with Peters being confined to a single flashing glance laden with suspicion.
De’ze Korwits seated herself and sat erect. “Further refreshment will be coming soon,” she said in a neutral tone. “This is likely to be an extended discussion. If your body functions require relief, make the necessity known and we will suffer a brief interruption. Serve yourself, if you would.”
Peters nodded and did so, reflecting that he was in no condition to suffer an extended interrogation. His headache had subsided, but he was conscious of an overall debility that would yield only to food and rest. Maybe the “further refreshment” would provide the first… he poured for himself and the de’ze. She acknowledged the courtesy with a bare nod, her expression not varying. Dolls were positively exuberant by comparison.