"You really aren't one of them, are you?" The tension and suspicion of last night had left her voice.
"No," he said. "I'm really not." That was his choice; he had not been ostracized. He had isolated himself; he had avoided even personal relationships. Or perhaps he had not avoided so much as been oblivious to them.
He showed Mischa how to get food and drink. An area had been hastily reworked in cafeteria style and the spare ship's cook assembled and stocked with local food; Subtwo would not permit slaves in the public rooms. Jan was grateful for that. He was not yet ready to face the situation in which he found himself.
The nervous tautness Jan had noticed in Mischa's stance and movements was somewhat relaxed. She sampled coffee and did not like it, so he brewed the tea he had brought from his room.
She accepted the cup he offered. "Who are they?"
"Subone and Subtwo?" She nodded. All he could have told her was the gossip he had heard, none of it pleasant. Had Mischa planned to join Subtwo's crew permanently, Jan might have put aside his disinclination to repeat unfounded tales; but, the situation being what it was, he saw no point in making the pseudosibs into monsters. "No one knows much about them," he said. "They're very reticent about their past."
"They're not like anybody else who ever came to Center."
"They're not like anybody else at all. They're said to have been experimental subjects. There's no telling what kind of conditions they grew up under." He did not tell her that they might or might not have murdered the man responsible for the conditions.
Jan took a bite of the food. He was not very hungry and did not like the taste or texture any more than did the raiders. The flavors were artificial, either too strong or not strong enough to screen out the taste of yeast or bacterial chlorophyll. He pushed the mushy portions around on his plate.
"Are you okay?"
He put down the fork. "My body doesn't approve of so much traveling, I suppose."
"You can get outside food some places. It's expensive but a lot of offworld people seem to think it's worth it."
"I haven't felt hungry recently," Jan said, and shrugged it off. "I'll be all right."
She seemed about to say something more, but did not. Her manners were far from elegant, but neither were they uncouth. Her restraint and her composure gave her a sort of untrained natural grace and consideration that Jan appreciated, even while noticing it only peripherally. Realizing she had finished, he dragged himself out of his mental and emotional circlings. "Let's get started."
They returned to Jan's room. He gave her his library extension. She took
it carefully, as though it might shatter when she touched it.
Jan said apologetically, "Real books are more emotionally satisfying."
Mischa glanced up at him, her expression half-amused, half-curious. "Do you really think it matters?"
"Perhaps not." But he had always felt that the word "book," in standard English, was very nearly onomatopoeic. Having been raised with rooms full of dusty, leatherbound, fascinating books, he found that the fluorescent green words on the dark blue screens of library extensions came between him and the writer. Still, he understood the need for conservation of space in a ship. The general memory bank of the pocket-sized device Mischa held was extensive, and had exchangeable banks for specialized subjects. Jan showed her the codings. Mischa listened with little expression, but Jan had seen her quickly hidden flash of interest. He never had to repeat an instruction.
Aware of her eagerness, he kept his explanations brief. He realized suddenly how few written signs he had seen in Center, and how easily he might have shamed Mischa if she had not been able to read. He said nothing, but felt great relief that he had by luck avoided a blunder.
He pointed out the title of an elementary book on xenobiology. It was somewhat out of date, but it had begun his own interest in the field, and he had never found one better for that purpose. "Read this, and when you're finished, come back and we'll talk."
She left him alone in his dim room. He felt a vague sense of disquiet. His time-sense was deceived by the lack of diurnal rhythm in the Palace. He felt as though he had been on earth much longer than a very few days. However short the time was since the pseudosibs' ship had landed, Jan had no rational excuse for his neglect of his single responsibility. The promise he had made, to bury his friend here, was unfulfilled; she lay cold and shrouded on the ship. Jan did not want to consign her body to dust and decay; he did not want to admit she was dead. His sleep had been troubled since her death. He reached for her in the darkness, and grasped only air; he heard her voice in the night, and awoke to silence. He had given too little thought to death in his lifetime. Lately, the possible solace of belief in an afterworld had become very attractive.
He slid out of his dragon-robe, pulled off his boots, stood in the center of the cool room, and began to do isometric exercises. Moving only to change position, he showed very little evidence of the violence of his exertions, but sweat soon ran down his sides and soaked into the waistband of his pants. His hair stuck to his face with perspiration that slid into his eyes, stinging. Only when he finally began to tremble with exhaustion did he stop to rest. He lay down on his bed for a moment; without meaning to, he dozed.
"Jan?"
He sat up abruptly, startled by the soft voice. "What?" It was more an expression of surprise than query.
"I'm sorry," Mischa said from the doorway. "Go back to sleep. I'll come later."
"No, wait." He combed his sticky hair with his fingers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Stiff with abrupt activity and cooling, his muscles ached fiercely. He kneaded his biceps with his thumbs. "I didn't mean to go to sleep. Is anything wrong?"
"No, you just said to come when I was finished."
"What time is it?" He did not feel as though he had slept so soundly so long.
"Almost midday."
"You're done?"
"Yes."
"Very good." He ran his fingers through his hair again. "I'll be right back. I don't make sense before I wash my face."
When he returned, with clean water dripping slowly from the hair at the back of his neck, he felt considerably more awake and slightly less dirty. He sat down on the rug and gestured for Mischa to join him. She put the extension on the carpet between them, as though returning a loan.
"What did you think of it?"
"Is that all real?"
"Yes," he said. "Of course."
"I had to ask," Mischa said. "It's just that compared to the places in that book, it's empty here."
"Yes, well." Empty: most of earth, but not all of it. He smiled a little. "I'll be giving you things to read that are true or not depending on your point of view, but I won't try to fool you."
They began to talk, and Mischa spoke without self-consciousness, without first probing to see what Jan believed, with a kind of directness that revealed self-confidence lacking egotism: undidactic and able to consider alternatives. Jan had not known quite what to expect. He knew Mischa must have a considerable amount of innate courage and cleverness; her lack of information on subjects he considered basic had appalled him. He had not expected the keen and logical and perceptive intellect she revealed. He
was astonished.
Their conversation did not cease until they realized, almost simultaneously, that they both were hoarse. Jan stopped talking; Mischa said something that came out as a sort of croak. They looked at each other and suddenly laughed. If Mischa laughed seldom, she laughed well; Jan liked the sound of her delight.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes," he said, with some surprise. "Yes, I am. Let's go."
It was quite late; Jan and Mischa were the only ones in the dining hall.