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  Glawen stared at Chilke through the twilight. “How do you do it?”

  Chilke chuckled. “It’s simple enough. A woman likes to be appreciated - sometimes for what she is, sometimes for what she is not but wants to be.”

  “I wish you would write a book,” said Glawen. “I don’t want to forget any of this lore.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Chilke. “Wayness appreciates you, so you must be doing everything right.”

  “You make me feel as if I’m walking a tightrope,” said Glawen. He stretched his arms. “Suddenly I’m anxious to get home. It should not be long now. Barduys is starting to walk. As soon as the doctors allow it, he’ll leave the Bainsey project to the engineers, and we’ll be on our way.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Chapter 7, Part I

  The city Pasch on Kars, Perseus TT-652-IV, served as junction and transfer point for a dozen major trans-galactic carriers. Pasch was also the hub of a hundred feeder routes, circulating into every far corner of the Perseid sector. Two of Lewyn Barduys’ transport companies were based at Pasch, and provided a more or less regular connection with worlds in Cassiopeia and Pegasus, and even Beyond. Another line existed mainly to service L-B construction projects, but on occasion moved cargoes of opportunity wherever the prospect of profit directed. All three lines operated from Barduys’ private terminal in Ballyloo Township south of Pasch. To this terminal the Fortunatus brought Barduys, Flitz, Glawen and Chilke.

  There was a delay of four days, while the Rondine, a trim cargo-passenger vessel, was modified to suit Barduys’ requirements. Meanwhile, he assembled a crew of fourteen stalwart, if laconic, men, with special competencies. Glawen thought them a rather rough lot, though they seemed mature and steady. Each, so he noticed, took pains not to startle any of the others, or come up silently behind them, and none indulged in easy reminiscences of the past.

  The Rondine departed Pasch and set off across the Great Lonesome Gulf, with Mircea’s Wisp to the side and the Purple Rose Cluster ahead. The Fortunatus remained behind in the hangar at Ballyloo.

  Barduys finally saw fit to discuss his program. “For a fact, there is nothing definite to tell you. I have a few personal objectives. They include vindictive intentions toward Namour, who threw me into the slutes and flew away in my Flecanpraun. I am also displeased with Smonny. She swindled me in cavalier style, with truly remarkable aplomb. So, as you see, I have grievances which I hope to redress - but on this occasion I suspect that they will become side-issues.

  “As you know, both the LPF and Smonny want me to provide them transport, so that they can ferry a horde of Yips to the mainland, but each wants to act independently. That is the context of the present venture. I have arranged a meeting with representatives of the two factions on neutral ground. Ostensibly I am ready for serious negotiations, but I require something more definite than talk. I will ask that differences be compromised and a responsible spokesman appointed. I will suggest that a contract be drawn up and a sum of earnest money be paid over.

  “What will happen next? This is an area of uncertainty. Under ideal conditions, all differences would be reconciled; all hurt feelings would be soothed in a surge of joyous bonhomie, and an executive director, perhaps Julian Bohost, would be appointed. He would at once extend me a contract and a hundred thousand sols.

  “That is the ideal case. Reality may be different. The format of the meeting will remain the same. After my initial statement, I will have little to say. The others must make their arrangements. What will happen? Who knows? I expect some polite remarks, a disclaimer or two, and finally someone will reluctantly offer to take on the thankless job of executive director. There will be counter-suggestions, then some gentle chiding and urging that the other party yield to reason, in the name of solidarity. Next: expostulation, fanciful rhetoric, and even the exchange of intemperate comments.

  “The discussion must be allowed to run its course. Every opinion should be aired, every cherished ambition must be explained, no matter who may or may not be interested. Both parties will gradually become tired; at last they will sit back, perhaps not defeated but disillusioned, exhausted, apathetic.

  “Meanwhile, I have committed myself to nothing and, in fact, I have uttered no more than ten words. But at last I speak. I point out that the programs I have heard conflict with established law. However, from sheer altruism, I will resolve the problem in the only way possible. In short, I will transport the Yips to the Mystic Isles of Rosalia, where they will find a congenial environment. I will also transport the LPFers at bargain rates to destinations of their choosing, and even help them adapt to lives of productive work.

  “How this proposal will be met I can only speculate.”

  “And what if they will commit themselves to nothing?”

  Barduys shrugged. “Plans are useful when they engage a known problem. We are faced with a hundred variations and planning is a waste of time.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7, Part II

  The Rondine passed to the side of fat red Sing and its merry little companion, white Lorca, and approached Syrene. Cadwal became a sphere below. The Rondine approached from the side opposite Araminta Station. The equatorial continent Ecce appeared below: a long rectangle straddling the equator. Openings through the clouds revealed a blackish-green surface, meshed with wide rivers - a place almost palpably purulent, pulsing with violent life.

  The Rondine flew west across the ocean, barely skimming the waves, so that the monitor station above Lutwen Atoll might not be alerted.

  A dark smudge showed on the horizon, which presently became Thurben Island, with Lutwen Atoll still two hundred miles to the northwest.

  The Rondine approached the island and made a slow circuit, discovering a waterless waste, two miles in diameter, with a low crag of rotten red rock at the center. Vegetation was limited to dingy yellow scrub, thorn-bush and a straggle of palms along the beach. A strip of lagoon was protected by an offshore reef, with two passes open to the ocean. Opposite the north pass a broken dock thrust into the lagoon; behind were the ruins of a cabin built of fronds: a place, for Glawen, latent with horrid recollections.

  The Rondine landed on a flat area of packed sand a few yards inland from the beach, opposite the south pass. “We are a day or so early,” Barduys told the others. “This will give us time to make our preparations.”

  The site was arranged in accordance with Barduys’ directions. Three pavilions, of blue- and green-striped fabric were erected and disposed about the area. One was backed up against the ship; the other two faced each other across a hundred feet of intervening ground. At the center of the space so delineated, a square table six feet on a side, was set out, with four chairs, one to a side.

  The preparations were now complete; there would be a wait until noon of the following day. Barduys reviewed the instructions he had already issued to Glawen and Chilke. “You will be in deep disguise, of course; no one will recognize you, but still you must stay back, and keep to the shadows. The crew will be wearing uniforms and should have no trouble maintaining order.”

  The afternoon passed; a melancholy sunset flared in the west and gave way to twilight. The night passed, and morning arrived. The crew donned the black and ocher uniforms which Barduys had supplied, as did Glawen and Chilke, who also disguised themselves with skin-toning, wigs, sideburns, cheek-pads and beards. After pulling the smart short-billed semi-military caps down over their foreheads they could not recognize themselves in the mirror.

  Syrene reached the zenith; noon was at hand. Low in the southern sky appeared a flitter: evidently the deputation from Stroma. They were twenty minutes early: an unimportant detail. The flitter circled the area, then settled at the site to which they were directed by signals from members of the Rondine crew.

  Six persons alighted from the flitter: Dame Clytie, Julian Bohost, Roby Mavil, a gaunt hollow-cheeked woman, a plump pink-cheeked man, and Torq Tump. Four of the Rondine crew
met them and after an irritable colloquy led the members of the group one at a time through a passage adjacent to their pavilion, where they were deprived of their weapons – articles which all carried save only Dame Clytie. The group entered their pavilion, where Barduys and Flitz met them. Stewards served refreshments and Barduys apologized for the need to sequester the weapons. “I cannot disarm the other side without asking you to undergo the same inconvenience,” he told them. “It is of no consequence, after all, since we are engaged in a quest for consensus.”

  “Wherein, so I hope, justice and reason will prevail,” said Dame Clytie weightily. Today she wore a heavy tweed skirt, a tan shirt tied at the neck with a small black cravat, a severe jacket of black twill and sturdy square-toed shoes. She wore no hat; her short straight locks dangled to each side of her weathered brown face.

  “Justice is our goal,” said Barduys. “Today all avenues must be explored.”

  “There are not so many of these,” said Dame Clytie with a sniff. “Certainly we must opt for the best and most ‘democratic’ - and here I use the word in its new expanded sense.”

  “That is an interesting concept,” said Barduys. “I will listen intently while you explain it at the conference table.”

  Julian Bohost turned to Flitz. Today he wore an oyster-white suit, a dull blue sash and a wide-brimmed planter’s hat. “Ah there, Flitz! It is a pleasure to see you again!”

  Flitz looked at him blankly. “‘Again? Have we met?”

  Julian’s smile became a trifle less fulsome. “Of course! You were visiting at Riverview House, perhaps a year ago!”

  Flitz nodded. “I recall the occasion. There were some folk in from Stroma; you must have been one of them.”

  “Quite so,” said Julian. “But no matter. Then was then and now is now! The wheel of Fate has rolled a full roll, and so we meet again.”

  “That is as good an explanation as any.”

  Julian had turned to inspect the surroundings. “What a dismal place for a meeting! Still, it is curiously beautiful in a forlorn sort of way. The lagoon shows a truly halcyon blue.”

  “Don’t attempt to swim. The pipe-fish would streak at you from all directions. In five minutes you would be a skeleton in a white suit, the hat still on your head.”

  Julian winced. “That is a most macabre thought! Flitz, despite your innocent appearance, you must have a dark side to your nature!”

  Flitz responded with an indifferent shrug. “Perhaps.”

  Julian continued, unheeding. “I am surprised to find you here. It will surely be a dull business, all harangues and stipulations: certainly nothing to interest pretty heads such as yours. But I suppose you must go where duty calls.” Julian glanced meaningfully toward Barduys, whose relationship with Flitz he had never been able to fathom. Business associate? Well, maybe. He turned back to Flitz. “So then: what are your views on all this conferencing and parleying?”

  “I’m just decoration; I am not supposed to think.”

  “Come now!” said Julian reproachfully. “You are probably far wiser than anyone suspects. Am I right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I thought so! After I have delivered my peroration I shall look to you for applause.”

  “As you like, but at the moment you should look to Dame Clytie. she seems to be signalling in this direction.”

  Julian glanced across the flat. “It is nothing urgent; she just wants to comment on the weather, or complain about my sash, which she considers too frivolous for the occasion.”

  “You are brave to delay.”

  Julian sighed. “It’s all such a bore, and quite unnecessary. Everyone knows how things must go; our scheme has been worked out in detail. Still, if this is what is needed to start the ball rolling, I will make no further complaint.”

  “Your aunt is still signalling, Mr. Bohost.”

  “So she is! A formidable creature, don’t you think?”

  Flitz nodded. “She could swim in the lagoon without fear of the pipe-fish.”

  “Even so, I will pass on the warning, though I doubt if she is planning to bathe.” Julian turned to leave. “Shall we meet again after the conference?”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  Julian gave a rueful laugh. “Time has worked no changes; your moods are as marmoreal as ever!” He doffed his hat, bowed, then marched off to join Dame Clytie. She stood inspecting the table and its four chairs, pointing back and forth in apparent displeasure. Julian nodded, turned to look around the area, but Barduys had retired into his own pavilion. Julian made as if to follow, then halted, as through the pass from the open sea came what seemed to be a fishing boat, somewhat larger than the ordinary craft. It halted ten

  yards offshore; a dinghy was dropped into the water. Into the dinghy stepped a large woman heavy of chest and bosom, massive of hips and upper legs with disproportionately small ankles and feet. It was Smonny, born Simonetta Clattuc, now Madame Zigonie of Shadow Valley Ranch. She wore a coverall suit belted at the waist, black boots with stylish pointed toes and block heels. Her taffy-colored hair had been twisted into a rope, then wound tightly into an impressive pyramid, under the control of a black net. She was followed into the dinghy by four Oomps. They were handsome men of early middle age, golden-skinned, golden-haired, wearing neat uniforms of white, yellow and blue.

  The dinghy grounded in the shallow water ten feet from dry land; heedless of pipe-fish two of the Oomps splashed through the shallows and pulled the dinghy up on the beach. Smonny stepped ashore, followed by the rest of her retinue. She stood a moment looking about the area, then was met by four of Barduys’ crew. They apprised her of what must be done and she drew herself up in outrage. At last Barduys joined the group. Smonny snapped: “These demands are demeaning! I see no need for this sort of thing!”

  “It must be done,” said Barduys. “It is a formality, no more. The group from Stroma also protested, but I explained that everyone must feel at ease. The conference cannot proceed until everyone acquiesces to the rules.”

  Smonny scowled and submitted to the search, which produced a compact hand-gun from her sash and a dagger from her boot. The Oomps were deprived of their side-arms and directed to the pavilion designated for their use.

  Meanwhile, Smonny had gone to the center table, where Dame Clytie and Julian also stood. The two women acknowledged each other’s presence with curt nods, but remained silent while adjusting themselves to the atmosphere of the island. Their differences were fundamental. Smonny intended to transfer all the Yips from Lutwen Atoll to the Marmion foreshore, using whatever transport was available - preferably that provided by Barduys. The Yips would then swarm down the coast and overwhelm Araminta Station. Smonny would sit in state and administer dreadful justice upon the folk who had hurt her feelings so badly. After that, the Yips could do as they liked – under her supervision of course.

  Originally Dame Clytie and other LPFers had endorsed the basic principle of moving the Yips to Deucas, and then establishing a true democracy which would give the vote of the lowliest Yip fisherman equal weight to the vote of the arrogant Bodwyn Wook. This had been the basic thesis of the LPF party in the early innocent days, when progressive intellectuals and excited students met to drink tea and debate political morality in the tall drawing rooms of Stroma. The passage of years had brought many changes. Innocence had disappeared. The ideal of pure democracy had been replaced by plans for a more manageable – and useful - system of kindly paternalism, to be administered from a network of fine country estates. When asked how the system differed from manorial feudalism, the LPFer said that the comparison was sophistry of the rankest sort. Serfs were serfs, and Yips were free spirits who would be trained in the arts of folk dancing and choral singing, and who would enjoy many gay festivals, while others would learn to play the guitar.

  As for Smonny’s chaotic and bloody-handed plan, it must be rejected, smartly and definitely, for a number of reasons. In the first place, the program offered no clear benefits to
the LPF and the Yips might well learn bad habits. Smonny’s rage must be tempered and diverted into useful channels.

  Dame Clytie set herself to the task at hand. With Julian Bohost at her elbow, beaming graciously, she turned to Smonny. “How nice to see you again; it’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I am becoming impatient. Waiting is very hard.”

  “True! But our time is approaching, and we must carefully mesh our plans.”

  Smonny gave Dame Clytie a quick indifferent glance, then looked away.

  Dame Clytie felt a tingle of annoyance. She spoke on, pitching her voice so as to convey intimacy and assurance, and still give Smonny a hint as to how events must go and who was in charge. “I have been hard at work, and I have prepared a schedule which I hope will guide our operations. Only the first step is sensitive. When the supply ship goes up to the monitor over Lutwen, our men will be aboard, and we will quickly overpower the crew. Thereafter the operation should proceed smoothly.”

  Smonny listened in contemptuous silence. So far, the plan was as she herself envisaged it. She gave a small curt nod and turned away. Dame Clytie stared at her a moment, then shrugged and became quiet.

  The group waited in silence, broken only by muttering among the LPFers.

  Barduys came forward and signaled to the occupants of the two pavilions, who filed out into the area and stood in two silent groups.