In less than a metacycle of brisk walking, he found himself caught up in a half-familiar maze of shadowed streets and murky canals fronted by dilapidated warehouses built of age-darkened brick and stone. The still air was filled with arcane and familiar scents from a whole galaxy of commerce. Across a short expanse of cobblestones and glowing tram tubes stood the decrepit warehouse he'd formerly known by the fictitious name of Payless Starmotive Salvage. Now cold and tenantless, it had once been secret headquarters for one of the war's most brilliant intelligence coups against the League. Brim had obtained his Emperor's Cross on that mission. Now, the defunct old building somehow reminded him of himself.
He looked around him. If he were going to find work, he reasoned, this district seemed to be a perfect place to start. Even at an early metacycle, the byways were crowded with busy people who hurried along with purpose in their steps. Brim wondered what they all did. Most were dressed in what he remembered to be Atalantan working clothes: for the most part, loose, baggy trousers or full skirts with brightly tinted shirts and vests. Coats were either loose sack or sleeveless with high necks and narrow turnover collars, many paired with bright, multi-hued hats and vividly decorated guild aprons. A colorful, cheerful people, Atalantans, Brim remembered. He meant to become one of them as soon as possible. If nothing else, the CIGAs hadn't really taken hold of this war-torn town. People here understood the need for strength.
Clearly, he considered, scanning a new building that was going up a few blocks away, a lot of construction jobs went begging in Atalanta. They'd have to, even if the city's reconstruction were only proceeding half as fast as it appeared to be. But where to find one? That was the question. His travels had already taken him into three storefronts that looked for all the world as if they contained labor offices. Businesses like that tended to have the same look everywhere: in Avalon, Atalanta, or even Carescria. The trouble was, he could barely speak, much less read or write, the Halacian dialect natives used. And that had proved to be a tough obstacle indeed. Job interviews, he found, simply didn't work in sign language; he'd eventually discontinued each one, having accomplished nothing. He shook his head. If only he could bring himself to contact Claudia. She would help; he knew she would. But all he had left now was his pride, and he wasn't about to give that up, too.
During the next metacycles, he entered two more of the placement offices, with no better luck in them than he'd experienced in the others. Both times, he ended up back on the sidewalk feeling thoroughly frustrated—and even more hungry as morning wore into afternoon. Stopping beside a sidewalk shop to get his bearings, he sniffed the delicious aroma of freshly brewed cvceese' while his mouth began to water. It had been a long time since he'd put anything in his stomach.
Suddenly, he frowned and peered across the street. Directly opposite the shop was one of Atalanta's ubiquitous Gradygroat missions. Why hadn't he thought of them before? During the war, he'd had dealings with friars from all parts of the order, and he'd never met one of them who didn't speak at least some Avalonian. At the time, he'd given it little thought. As an officer in the Imperial Fleet, one made certain assumptions about language. He laughed at himself. He'd been getting just a bit too big for his breeches in that Fleet cloak, he mused, and filed the little revelation away for future reference. Such a small dose of comeuppance might prove valuable someday, if he ever managed to dig his way out of the hole in which his life had apparently come to rest.
Dodging across the busy street, he pushed open the door to the mission and stepped into what appeared to be a huge, round chamber. He smiled. Everything bore an uncanny resemblance to the colossal room in the Gradygroat's now-destroyed monastery, as well as to the orbiting space forts that had played such an important mission in the salvation of Atalanta.
In this little canal-side mission, however, it was all illusion, effected by clever use of holopanels. The floor appeared to contain the monastery's shining rings of "destruction," "resurrection," and "truth." A shaft of light from a lenslike "power" aperture beamed from the center of the ceiling to the center ring where a circular desk replaced the jeweled cone of the original. However, all but the latter—and its occupant—were holographic shams.
Inside the desk sat a rotund friar whose curly black beard covered most of his face. He had a great fleshy beak of a nose, somber, inquisitive eyes, and the look of a man who had experienced a great deal of the galaxy—good and bad. He was dressed in the long, crimson gown of a Gradgroat-Norchelite friar and clutched a steaming mug of cvceese', whose aroma nearly drove Brim up a wall. The man gave a genial nod and said something Brim could not understand at all.
"Does, ah... anybody here speak Avalonian, Father?" Brim asked hesitantly.
"I speak many languages, young man," the Friar answered this time in flawless Avalonian, the kind Brim had encountered only at the Imperial Court. "Welcome to the Juniper Street Mission. Father Amps at your service."
"Th-thank you, Father," Brim stumbled dumbly. He found it was difficult to stop staring at the mug.
"Ah, can I help you in any way," Amps asked after a few moments of silence. He smiled understandingly.
"Perhaps a cup of cvceese?"
Brim swallowed hard. "I'd love one," he said, half embarrassed at how anxious his voice sounded.
Presently, he was sipping a scalding hot mug of sticky-sweet cvceese'. Somehow, it brought back his days on the bridge of a warship, when he fairly lived on the stuff during his long metacycles at action stations. "Thanks, Father," he said quietly. "You can't know how good this tastes."
"Hmm. Perhaps I can," Amps said, his eyes peering momentarily into a distant time. "Once, in another life, I knew a great deal of hunger. How can I help you. Mister, ah... ?"
"My name's Brim, Father," the Carescrian answered. "Wilf Brim. And I'm trying to find work." He blurted out the words as though they'd been poisoning his system. "I need a job so I can eat—but I don't know enough Halacian to apply anywhere."
"I won't ask how you got to Atalanta," Amps said gently. "But I assume you haven't been here very long."
"A valid assumption," Brim admitted.
"When was the last time you ate?" Amps probed abruptly.
Brim shook his head. "I'm not looking for handouts, Father," he said quietly. "I'd rather earn my credits. The sooner I can do that, I'll be able to take care of the food situation myself."
"You didn't answer my question, young man. When was the last time you ate?"
"It's been a while," Brim admitted, "but that's not important. What I need is—"
"I understand," Amps interrupted firmly, "but you'll have an even harder time finding what you're looking for if you're thinking about food." He reached into the desk and came out with a carton of energy bars.
"Eat a few of these, Wilf," he said. "After that, we'll see what we can do about finding a job agent who speaks Avalonian."
Brim started to protest, but the little man held up his hand.
"You can owe the order for whatever you eat," he chuckled. "I doubt if it will threaten the budget for this year—even with our new construction." Then his face took on a serious countenance. "It's all part of being a Norchelite friar," he said. "Some of us tend orbital forts, others preach, and still others, like me, assist their fellow creatures. All serve the order, each in his own way."
"But I'm not a Gradygr—" Brim protested, catching himself a little too late.
"I didn't for a moment think you were a Gradygroat," Amps said with a grin, imperturbably using Brim's slang for the Gradgroat-Norchelite Order. "Offhand, I'd guess you were once an officer of the Imperial Fleet and are presently out of work." He grinned. "Were I to speculate further, I'd also probably guess that you jumped ship after S.S. Prosperous made landfall yesterday evening."