“Somebody goofed, that’s for sure,” Wyeth agreed.
“Similarly, I think you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t sterilize your data system as soon as you can.”
“Fascinating stuff. Very informal, very final. Once judgment has been made, there’s no appeal,” Bors said.
“Their trials are held at mealtime. A few members of the Stavka gather at the suspect’s table and ask questions.
Witnesses drop by to chat, then wander off. By the time the meal is over—” he impaled seven peas on an eating needle and popped them in his mouth—“the guilty party has been condemned. And if he wasn’t paying attention, he might well have mistaken it all for casual dinner conversation.”
Rebel glanced quickly at Wyeth. The expression on his face was suddenly careful. “Of course I myself had nothing to do with the exterior of the hull,” he said, “since I was responsible solely for internal security.”
“A legalism,” Stilicho said.
Cincinnatus shook his head. “No, that’s a valid point.
What I’m concerned with are all these rifles loose in the tanks. I believe they could well grow into a major social problem given time. It would—”
“Have you ever eaten meat?” Bors asked Rebel loudly. “I don’t mean fish or termite compress, but real meat. Dead flesh, carved from animal corpses.”
Rebel stared at him blankly, and he jabbed her with his thumb. “People used to eat rabbits, I know,” she faltered.
“And chickens.”
“They still do in the Outer System. Had it myself. Deadchicken is mighty fine eating.”
Several citizens glanced at Bors with distaste. Wyeth leaned forward and said, “I understand that on Earth people used to eat the major mammals—horses, cows, bears, apes.”
“Apes?” Cincinnatus said, horrified.
“Cows were more common, I believe. The cooks prepared them by hand, first killing the cow with a blow to the head with a large hammer. The animal grunts, the knees buckle, and there’s your food.”
“I do not think this conversation is necessary,” Stilicho said. “Certainly not while people are eating.”
“Oh, but there’s more!” Bors said. “Did you know that the internal organs were considered delicacies—the liver, the heart, the brains? You’d be surprised how little there is of a dead animal that you can’t eat. The pizzle was boiled and served on a bun. The stomach was crammed with a stuffing made of the minor organs, roasted and then sliced—there’s irony for you, eh?” Two citizens, faces pale, put down their utensils and fled. “Now the way they prepared lobster—this is especially interesting—they placed the creatures, still alive, in a large pot of cold water, then put a flame beneath the pot. Very slowly they brought the water to a boil. At first the lobster would skitter about, trying to escape, but then, as the water heated up, its motions slowed, and it died. When it was bright red, it was ready. To eat it, you had to crack the shell open and suck the dead meat out.”
Now Stilicho was the only citizen left, and he too looked nauseated. “We will continue our discussion tomorrow,”
he said to Wyeth. Then, looking at Bors, he added,
“Without you.”
“Did you notice how many members of the Stavka were here at our table?” Bors asked when they were alone. He tonged up a square of grub loaf. “I felt quite honored.”
Rising, Wyeth bowed formally and said, “I am in your debt, sir—I don’t know when I’ve found conversation more valuable. But right now I have business to see to. Rebel, where are we sleeping today? I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.”
“It’s still diamond blue seventeen. Apparently guests get special privileges.”
Wyeth gone, Rebel turned to her meal again and found she had no appetite. She pushed the food about on her tray, but could not bring herself to place it in her mouth.
She was about to excuse herself when Bors, leaning forward for a slice of papaya, murmured in her ear, “The Pequod leaves in an hour. If you caught me before I left Mars’ sunspace, I could cut you a deal for transit to Earth orbit.” He settled back and winked. “Think about it.”
Halfway to diamond blue seventeen, a god-head, eyes luminous, stumbled up to Rebel and handed her a card.
His paint was smeared across his face, but it had obviously begun as a green triangle. To Rebel, his mere existence was a revelation. It implied an entire underworld of vices in Deimos, hidden away from public view. With an ecstatic wail, the god-head broke away from her and trotted up the corridor, turned aside, and was gone.
Rebel looked down at the card. It was blank.
Wonderingly, she ran a thumb across its surface. There must have been an empathic contact circuit layered onto the paper, for a voice whispered within her head, “Go to a public data port and place your hand against the screen.”
A quick, almost subliminal flash of a large black wheel hung in the air. She recognized the logo.
Earth.
Rebel ran her thumb over the card again, but nothing happened. The bit of more-than-human technology had destroyed itself.
This was exactly Wyeth’s kind of opportunity. Doubtless he’d have two-edged bargains ready to offer and poisoned concessions to make. In some neat little mental drawer, he’d have his baits fresh, his hooks sharpened, and his lines coiled. His arguments would be finer than a hair, almost invisible and yet stronger than diamond-whisker cable.
No matter. It was all irrelevant now.
Rebel was not about to follow up on the card. She had troubles enough of her own. But when she came to the intersection of tunnels down which the god-head had run, she glanced down it casually and saw him being beaten by a knot of citizens.
Two citizens were holding the man against the curve of the wall, while two others systematically pounded his stomach, his face, his chest, with their fists. They worked in grim silence, and the god-head did not cry out. Despite the damage done him, he grinned weakly. “Hey!” Rebel cried. “Stop that!” The citizens looked up. She felt vaguely foolish, as if they had caught her at wrongdoing, rather than the other way around, but she ran toward them anyway.
The citizens’ faces were stolid. Their victim’s head lolled down against his chest, and he chuckled weakly. One citizen stepped forward, hand upraised to block Rebel’s way. “Go back,” he said. “This is no concern of yours.”
“Maxwell,” she said wonderingly. “Maxwell, is that you?”
The citizen glanced over his shoulder at his fellows, then took her arm and started walking her away. She resisted at first, but then Maxwell said, “Think. There’s nothing you can do.”
They turned a corner and walked on in silence. After a time, Rebel said, “This isn’t like you, Maxwell.” He smiled ironically. “I don’t see how you could have done this to yourself! You were always light. Carefree.”
“Irresponsible,” Maxwell said. “Yes, I know. I enjoyed it at the time. But I grew. Everybody grows.” They strolled along somberly, and then he said, “What did it for me was when I was snatched by King Wismon. He didn’t just throw me in with his rude boys—he made me their zookeeper. Practically his second in command. Think of that. It was the first time I’d ever been put in charge of anything. And you know what? I enjoyed it. Not the work itself, but the sense of being responsible. Of being an adult. That’s what citizenship gives me. They’re sending me down to the surface tomorrow.”
“Maxwell, you were beating that man! That’s not being responsible. That’s just plain vicious.”
Maxwell thought for a long time before speaking. “Duty doesn’t always make you feel good. That citizen will be reprogrammed, but the memory still remains. He must remember that there was pain as well as pleasure.” They were now a good distance from the site of the beating. “But as I said, it’s none of your concern. Your dormitory area is just ahead. Third corridor right, straight on to the end.
You can’t miss it.”
Rebel stood there as this new stranger turned and started to walk away. It was such a pathetic moment she wished she could slice it out of her memory entirely. All his ravings about responsibility. “Maxwell?”