XVI
The room within the mountain was spacious, and its lining of Ancient material added an illusion of dreamlike depths beyond. Men had installed heated carpeting, fluoropanels, furniture, and other basic necessities, including books and an eidophone to while away the time. Nevertheless, as hours stretched into days he did not see, Ivar grew half wild. Erannath surely suffered worse; from a human viewpoint, all Ythrians are born with a degree of claustrophobia. But he kept self-control grimly in his talons.
Conversation helped them both. Erannath even reminisced:
“—wing-free. As a youth I wandered the whole of Avalon … hai-ha, storm-dawns over seas and snowpeaks! Hunting a spathodont with spears! Wind across the plains, that smelled of sun and eternity! … Later I trained to become a tramp spacehand. You do not know what that is? An Ythrian institution. Such a crewman may leave his ship whenever he wishes to stay for a while on some planet, provided a replacement is available; and one usually is.” His gaze yearned beyond the shimmering walls. “Khrrr, this is a universe of wonders. Treasure it, Ivar. What is outside our heads is so much more than what can nest inside them.”
“Are you still spaceman?” the human asked.
“No. I returned at length to Avalon with Hlirr, whom I had met and wedded on a world where rings flashed rainbow over oceans the color of old silver. That also is good, to ward a home and raise a brood. But they are grown BOW, and I, in search of a last long-faring before God stoops on me, am here"—he gave a harsh equivalent of a chuckle—"in this cave.”
“You’re spyin’ for Domain, aren’t you?”
“I have explained, I am a xenologist, specializing in anthropology. That was the subject I taught throughout the settled years on Avalon, and in which I am presently doing field work.”
“Your bein’ scientist doesn’t forbid your bein’ spy. Look, I don’t hold it against you. Terran Empire is my enemy same as yours, if not more. We’re natural allies. Won’t you carry that word back to Ythri for me?”
Ripplings went over Erannath’s plumage. “Is every opponent of the Empire your automatic friend? What of Merseia?”
“I’ve heard propaganda against Merseians till next claim about their bein’ racist and territorially aggressive will throw me into anaphylactic shock. Has Terra never provoked, yes, menaced them? Besides, they’re far off: Terra’s problem, not ours. Why should Aeneas supply young men to pull Emperor’s fat out of fire? What’s he ever done for us? And, God, what hasn’t he done to us?”
Erannath inquired slowly, “Do you indeed hope to lead a second, successful revolution?”
“I don’t know about leadin’,” Ivar said, hot-faced. “I hope to help.”
“For what end?”
“Freedom.”
“What is freedom? To do as you, an individual, choose? Then how can you be certain that a fragment of the Empire will not make still greater demands on you? I should think it would have to.”
“Well, uh, well, I’d be willin’ to serve, as long as it was my own people.”
“How willing are your people themselves to be served—as individuals—in your fashion? You see no narrowing of your freedom in whatever the requirements may be for a politically independent Alpha Crucis region, any more than you see a narrowing of it in laws against murder or robbery. These imperatives accord with your desires. But others may feel otherwise. What is freedom, except having one’s particular cage reach further than one cares to fly?”
Ivar scowled into the yellow eyes. “You talk strange, for Ythrian. For Avalonian, especially. Your planet sure resisted bein’ swallowed up by Empire.”
“That would have wrought a fundamental change in our lives: for example, by allowing unrestricted immigration, till we were first crowded and then outvoted. You, however—In what basic way might an Alpha Crucian Republic, or an Alpha Crucian province of the Domain, differ from Sector Alpha Crucis of the Empire? You get but one brief flight through reality, Ivar Frederiksen. Would you truly rather pass among ideologies than among stars?”
“Uh, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Your race doesn’t have our idea of government.”
“It’s irrelevant to us. My fellow Avalonians who are of human stock have come to think likewise. I must wonder why you are so intense, to the point of making it a deathpride matter, about the precise structure of a political organization. Why do you not, instead, concentrate your efforts toward arrangements whereby it will generally leave you and yours alone?”
“Well, if our motivation here is what puzzles you, then tell them on Ythri—” Ivar drew breath.
Time wore away; and all at once, it was a not a single man who came in a plain robe, bringing food and removing discards: it was a figure in uniform that trod through the door and announced, “The High Commander!”
Ivar scrambled to his feet. The feather-crest stood stiff upon Erannath’s head. For this they had abided.
A squad entered, forming a double line at taut attention. They were typical male Orcans: tall and lean, brown of skin, black and bushy of hair and closely cropped beard, their faces mostly oval and somewhat flat, their nostrils flared and lips full. But these were drilled and dressed like soldiers. They wore steel helmets which swept down over the neck and bore self-darkening vitryl visors now shoved up out of the way; blue tunics with insignia of rank and, upon the breast of each, an infinity sign; gray trousers tucked into soft boots. Besides knives and knuckledusters at their belts they carried, in defiance of Imperial decree, blasters and rifles which must have been kept hidden from confiscation.
Yakow Harolsson, High Commander of the Companions of the Arena, followed. He was clad the same as his men, except for adding a purple cloak. Though his beard was white and his features scored, the spare form remained erect. Ivar snapped him a salute.
Yakow returned it and in the nasal Anglic of the region said: “Be greeted, Firstling of Ilion.”
“Have … Terrans gone … sir?” Ivar asked. His pulse banged, giddiness passed through him, the cool underground air felt thick in his throat.
“Yes. You may come forth.” Yakow frowned. “In disguise, naturally, garb, hair and skin dyes, instruction about behavior. We dare not assume the enemy has left no spies or, what is likelier, hidden surveillance devices throughout the town—perhaps in the very Arena.” From beneath discipline there blazed: “Yet forth shall you come, to prepare for the Deliverance.”
Erannath stirred. “I could ill pass as an Orcan,” he said dryly.
Yakow’s gaze grew troubled as it sought him. “No. We have provided for you, after taking counsel.”
A vague fear made Ivar exclaim, “Remember, sir, he’s liaison with Ythri, which may become our ally.”
“Indeed,” Yakow said without tone. “We could simply keep you here, Sir Erannath, but from what I know of your race, you would find that unendurable. So we have prepared a safe place elsewhere. Be patient for a few more hours. After dark you will be led away.”
To peak afar in wilderness, Ivar guessed, happy again, where he can roam skies, hunt, think his thoughts, till we’re ready for him to rejoin us—or we rejoin him—and afterward send him home.
On impulse he seized the Ythrian’s right hand. Talons closed sharp but gentle around his fingers. “Thanks for everything, Erannath,” Ivar said. “I’ll miss you … till we meet once more.”
“That will be as God courses,” answered his friend.
The Arena took its name from the space it enclosed. Through a window in the Commander’s lofty sanctum, Ivar looked across tier after tier, sweeping in an austere but subtly eye-compelling pattern of grand ellipses, down toward the central pavement. Those levels were broad enough to be terraces rather than seats, and the walls between them held arched openings which led to the halls and chambers of the interior. Nevertheless, the suggestion of an antique theater was strong.