I’ll give it one more chance, she thought, one sharp and acrylic-bright January morning. If he’s in the park today, watching me, I’ll take Ichmo’s advice. I’II pack up in the afternoon and move on.
She breakfasted early and spent an hour conscientiously absorbing TV newscasts, with special emphasis on her part of the United States and how its inhabitants were responding to their physical, political and cultural environment in the year AD 2025. The international news was no worse than usual—the smallpox outbreak in the Netherlands was being brought under control; Sarawak had tested a second fusion device in spite of protests from neighbouring countries; preliminary reports were coming in of some kind of major mishap on the Aristotle space colony; and Britain had introduced sugar rationing for a trial period of three months. In the U.S.A. the steel, coal and dock strikes were close to being settled, but there had been setbacks in the negotiations on the power workers’ and the hospital staffs’ pay claims; California police had discovered a partially-completed high-megaton bomb in an underground cavern close to the centre of the Palmdale bulge; in Flint, Michigan, the owner of a sporting goods store had killed his wife by tying her to a chair and hurling a total of 381 darts into her. And in the Annapolis area, because of a westerly wind, temperatures were comparatively high and the radiation count comparatively low.
Gretana took in the news with the practised indifference which preserved her sanity, storing it in a disused room in the mansion of her mind, then left the apartment and walked slowly to the southern entrance of Carter Park. A light snowfall during the night had sunk down through the atmosphere like wine finings, giving the air a sparkle, and so many people were heading for the park that lines had formed at all the weapon detectors. By the time she had passed through she had begun to feel quite warm and she opened her blue duvet jacket to allow some of the crisp air to circulate around her body. Hot food stands were already beginning to do business, the open-air ice rink was in use, and several groups of children—having discovered that the snow was a suitable consistency for throwing—were engaged in good-natured horseplay, the boys crowing with pleasure when they brought off difficult shots. Tall buildings, visible here and there through the trees, formed a mellow pastel background to the entire scene.
As had happened many times in the past, Gretana was both entranced and dismayed. The phenomenal vitality of the Terrans, shown at its best on such an occasion, was a reminder that none of them had any time, that they began to die almost from the moment of birth. When she returned to Mollan in a mere five or six decades, still at the very beginning of her life, most of the darting animated figures around her—including the children—would have been consigned to the grave. How could such a thing be? How could such inequality exist? That small boy over there, the one sitting so quietly and watchfully beside his mother while he tried to comprehend the miracle of snow—what would be left of him when she was attending her first parties on Silver Island in the Bay of Karlth? Would she remember him while she and Vekrynn circled in the spangled twilight? Because, if she did remember, what right would she or any other Mollanian have to dance?
The realisation that she was breaking her own rules for non-involvment and survival prompted Gretana to turn away in search of distraction. There was a modern self-heating conservatory in the centre of the park, one of her favourite places, and she walked straight to it. The air inside was heavy with the scent of foliage and blossoms, laden with moisture from a rectangular pool in which red-gold carp nosed and rippled the surface. She paused at a new display of trumpet-shaped purple flowers and after a moment’s thought identified them as Ruellia macrantha. After the first sensual shock of learning that Earth flowers were varicoloured, she had made a hobby of botany for some years, but found difficulty in relating its scientific terms to the wondrous actuality of the plants themselves. The richly coloured trumpets at which she was looking, for example, were…
“I don’t think you’ll ever get used to them.” The male voice came from behind her and slightly to the right. “No matter how long you stay here.”
Gretana turned and saw the man in the slate-coloured overcoat. Her first impulse was to hurry away, but years of dealing with predatory Terran men, and some women, had taught her that retreating usually encouraged the other person to advance. It was important to stand her ground. She examined the tall man dispassionately, as though he were another botanical specimen, then returned her gaze to the flowers without speaking.
“I like the flowers, but I’m not too sure about the insects,” he said. “Have you ever taken a close look at an insect?”
That’s what I’m doing now. The answer flashed into her mind—to be accompanied by a cold and impersonal stare—but it was dawning on Gretana that the stranger’s remarks had an oblique quality about them, an ambiguity which hinted that he might have more than a casual pick-up on his mind. She glanced along the leafy aisles, saw they were almost alone in the conservatory, and decided there could be occasions on which it was only prudent to retreat. The man could be anything from an immigration official to a sex offender, and either way she had no wish to find out.
“Excuse me,” she said, keeping her voice light and unconcerned, and began to walk towards the entrance.
“Of course.” The man waited until she had taken several paces before he spoke again. “Fair seasons.”
Gretana had taken two further steps before realising that the final words had been spoken in Mollanian.
She paused—overwhelmed by surprise—and without looking back said, “Who are you?”
The stranger added a new dimension to her surprise by emitting what sounded like a yelp of laughter. She spun round and saw that he really was laughing—shoulders raised, lean face growing darker as he strove to regulate his breathing. It appeared he was a person for whom laughing was not a superficial action, but a near-painful process which involved his whole body and was difficult to control.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, “but it’s so much like one of those awful spy melodramas. I knew you’d walk away, so I decided in advance that I’d speak to you in the tongue. You were supposed to stop with your back to me and say ‘Who are you?’—and that’s exactly what you did. It was classic.” He palmed away a tear from the corner of his right eye and gave a ruminative snort of amusement.
Gretana felt some anger and puzzlement, but overriding everything was a growing sense of alarm. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all right,” the tall man said. “My name is Keith and I work for the Bureau. Just like you, except that I’m not assigned to any particular area.”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t…”
“Look, I know this is something of a shock for you, but I tell you it’s all right.” He repeated the sentence in Mollanian, then switched back to English. “We both work for Vekrynn.”
“But…”
“I know, I know—there’s a strict rule about agents not associating with each other.” The man who had called himself Keith gave an elaborate shrug. “I’ve been here a quarter of a century, and that’s a long time for anybody to be on his own—even a Mollanian. And with the whole planet getting ready to blow itself up any year now, I can’t see how my talking to you for a few hours is going to make much difference to anything.” He smiled, showing teeth that were almost too regular. “Except to me, that is—I think maybe I’m a bit homesick.”