“Don’t go,” he whispered, trying to smile. “I’ll let you beat me at Indian wrestling.”
It dawned on her that Hargate, unaware that she too was under confinement, had assumed he was going to be left alone and the prospect had scared him. She went to the bed and, concealing her dismay at how light and feeble he was, helped him rearrange his limbs in a comfortable position. As a member of a disease-free race, she found it chastening to touch his wasted frame. The little Terran, unprepared and with zero physical resources, had been through experiences which could have reduced others to incoherence—and yet he had dared to criticise her way of life. Gretana gave a grudging smile as she realised that Hargate was quite unrepentant—he had pleaded and joked, but had not actually apologised.
“What’s funny?” he said tiredly, watching her with half-closed eyes.
“Perhaps you are,” she replied, aware that for the first time in their strange relationship she had begun to see him as a human being. “I’ve been answering all your questions—when do I get to hear something about you?”
“Apart from my triple career as a male model, tennis champion and computer designer, there isn’t much to tell.” Hargate allowed himself to be coaxed into an account of his life which grew more and more episodic as the effects of weakness and medication drew him closer to unconsciousness. In between times, Gretana told him something of her own past and hopes for the future, not really sure whether he was awake or asleep, and as she too grew tired it occurred to her that she had been waiting a long time for Vekrynn to arrive.
Perhaps what I’ve done won’t seem all that terrible to him, she thought, drifting into a sleepy euphoria. Perhaps, he’ll understand…
Chapter Twelve
The domed blue ceiling of Vekrynn’s office was like an empty sky, and the sparse furnishings—devoid of individuality—were a reminder that the room’s nominal occupant viewed the material world with an Olympian perspective. There was a lack of warmth which had nothing to do with the air temperature, rather a sense of coldness seeping backwards from the end of time.
Intimidating though the ambience was, Gretana was unable to look anywhere but at Vekrynn tye Orltha himself. Years on Earth had insensibly accustomed her to the proportions of Terran males, with the result that the Warden seemed more than ever like a titanic statue moulded in all the noble metals. The gilt helmet of closely waved hair, the platinum of the embroidered tunic, the brown eyes needled with gold—all had the effect of irradiating the surrounding space. As she approached him she felt a sudden faith that his resources were more than enough to render her problems insignificant.
“Fair seasons, Warden,” she said, with more confidence than she would have thought possible an hour earlier.
“You,” Vekrynn replied, ignoring the greeting, “are even more stupid than you are ugly—and, believe me, that means stupid.”
“Sir, I…” The insult roiled through Gretana’s mind, demoralising her with its crudity, and all at once it was as though she had never been to Earth. She was the Gretana ty Iltha who had lived a sequestered life in a Karlth suburb long ago—pathetic, unlovely and vulnerable.
“I’d like to know what you thought you were doing. What made you bring that object here?”
“There was no time to…” Gretana, who had been unconsciously drawing herself up into her old mirror-watching attitude, was jarred by the word which Vekrynn had applied to Denny Hargate. She dredged up the self-control to make her shoulder muscles relax, to stave off the prickling that had begun to blur her vision.
“He isn’t an object,” she said quietly, numbed by her temerity in challenging the Warden. “He’s a human being, and he was dying.”
Vekrynn came towards her, looming. “Is that supposed to be something new on Earth?”
“It’s new for each person it happens to,” she said, willing herself not to back down in response to the overwhelming psychic pressure being exerted by the Warden.
“This is incredible,” Vekrynn half-whispered, drawing near. “I never thought that you, of all the observers I’ve recruited, would have the…” His eyes hunted over her face, speculative and oddly cautious, then he turned and walked back to his desk. He sat down in the high-backed chair and when he looked towards Gretana again she was surprised to see that he was smiling.
“You made me lose my temper, Gretana ty Iltha, and that is quite an achievement,” he said. “Now, let’s see if you can distinguish yourself even further by correctly divining why I got angry.”
Gretana was disconcerted. “I broke the law. I disobeyed a prime directive, but there was no…” Her voice faded as she saw that Vekrynn, still smiling, had begun to shake his head.
“Laws. Directives. Regulations. They’re very important to us, but at the same time they are only abstractions, which means they are quite unimportant compared to some other things—for example, a human life. I know you acted on impulse, but what’s going to happen to this poor creature Hargate now? He can’t be sent back to Earth, knowing what he does, and there is no place for him in our society.” Vekrynn waited for his words to take effect.
“From what I’ve been told, Hargate is a very sick person, in all probability one whose intellect and experience are severely limited, even by Terran standards. I can arrange to have him institutionalised, of course, but the severity of the culture shock that would involve is inconceivable. In your attempt to be kind you have condemned him to end his days in isolation from everybody and everything he knows and cares about, in total confusion and bewilderment.”
“I didn’t think of it like that,” Gretana said, aware that she was being truthful on two separate levels. In skording with Hargate to Station 23 she had acted with absolutely no thought for the future—nor could she, now that she knew him, imagine the acid-tongued and quick-tempered Terran being intimidated by alien surroundings. He would possibly be afraid, but—another fragment remembered from conversation with Lorrest—it was the Mollanians entrusted with his welfare who were likely to experience culture shock. Thoughts of Lorrest reminded Gretana she had not yet told Vekrynn the reason for her unscheduled return. It should have been the first thing to be discussed, but the Warden had been too busy telling her she was stupid and ugly…
“Let’s go on with the guessing game,” Vekrynn said. “Give me two more reasons for being angry with you.”
Gretana, still unable to gauge the Warden’s mood, shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“One of them is the harm you’ve done your own career—I’m supposed to return to you to Mollan for arraignment—the other is the fact that you have involved me. You see, I have no intention of surrendering a member of my team, and that means I must commit certain infringements and do a lot of talking and go to a lot of trouble that I wouldn’t otherwise have had.” Vekrynn took time to produce a wintry smile. “I’m a busy man, young Gretana, and I would have been happy to forego all this.”
“I’m quite prepared to return to Mollan and accept the…”
“Nonsense! You’re going back to Earth, where you can be of some service to the Bureau, and the Terran is going with me.”
“Where to?” Gretana said, having difficulty in keeping up with the pace of the exchange.
“I have a private estate—a retreat, you might call it—on Cialth. It’s a very pleasant world and I have permanent staff there, so the Terran will be well looked after. He will be my private guest for as long as it takes for him to…for the time remaining to him.”
The resentment caused by Vekrynn’s opening remark began to fade from Gretana’s mind as she strove to modify her attitudes towards him. She had hoped for clemency and understanding, but it had never occurred to her that a man in the Warden’s position would personally shoulder the responsibility for her ill-considered actions.