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Chapter 5: Garsoom's Haven

Not until they had arrived in the system of Garsoom's Haven did Carlyle begin thinking in concrete terms about his future. And even then his thoughts were none too clear.

They had left the shining mists of Cunnilus Banks, had left the Flux, had brought Sedora spiraling up out of the subjective sea to normal-space. The local Spacing Authority masered them immediately. "Welcome to Garsoom's Haven. Your arrival in our space was noted, and we have dispatched a tow ship to solar orbit 61 by 72 standard. Will you need any assistance beyond the ordinary?" The communication was too prompt to have been sent at lightspeed from the planet; the Spacing Authority either had Flux-modulation relay satellites scattered throughout the local solar system, or a network of manned dispatcher posts.

Carlyle looked out the viewport, where Garsoom's Haven's sun was a small, orange-yellow disk darkened by radiation filters. He could not yet see Garsoom's Haven itself. The sun was the nearest in a strand of jewels edged by a dim veil nebula.

"Rigger-ship?"

He jerked his thoughts back to the communicator. "Garsoom," he said. "Sedora. We need help. We've had a Flux-abscess accident, with crew casualties, and we seek emergency haven. Please advise the RiggerGuild"—he had almost forgotten to add that—"and stand by while we test our drive to see if we can make rendezvous." He glanced at Cephean. The cynthian watched impassively, eyes unblinking.

"Sedora!" The voice was suddenly demanding.

"Yes, Garsoom."

"Sedora, this is Garsoom's Haven Spacing Authority. We have apprised the RiggerGuild of your accident situation and have dispatched a tow ship to intercept you in your present orbit. Do not, repeat do not engage your ship's engines except in emergency. RiggerGuild Code specifies that in the event of any rigger-ship suffering a Flux Space accident, any port shall provide assistance and safe transit for the rigger-ship and crew and passengers, from the point of first possible contact . . . "

Embarrassment flushed Carlyle. "Quite correct, Garsoom. Thank you. We will not engage engines."

" . . . assistance if necessary," continued Garsoom. "Do you require medical assistance, and do you have adequate life support?" The operator was speaking carefully, asking the questions required by the RiggerGuild Code.

Carlyle answered, "We have life support, and there are no injuries among the living. Garsoom." He glanced at Cephean. "Part of our Code. The port has to do everything it can to help us. Otherwise it's in violation of our RiggerGuild." As if he cares, Carlyle thought. Whatever's on his mind, he's hardly said a word in two days.

"Hh-why?" Cephean said suddenly, lifting his eyes.

Startled, Carlyle shrugged. "Well," he said, "the accident might have damaged our space engines so we don't risk using them if we don't have to."

(He sensed disapproval.) "Yiss. Hh-why?" Cephean asked, whiskers twitching furiously.

"Well," Carlyle said, "it's because we're protected by the Guild. They enforce the regulations."

"Ssso. Hh-why?"

"Because if they didn't, people would take advantage of us." He didn't want to say that it was because riggers were . . . different. "We're the only ones who can fly starships, so they give us special protection."

"Hh-why h-only hyou ffly?"

"Cephean," he said with a flare of temper, "we're not like other people!"

The cynthian hissed and started pacing around the deck, muttering. Then he sat again and looked off in another direction. The riffmar hunched nearby.

Carlyle had to think about preparing for rendezvous with the tow. They were halfway across the solar system from Garsoom's Haven, but they were probably being sent the fastest tow ship available. So he should get busy making sure that the ship really was still space-secure.

Cephean was watching him with an unreadable expression. (But he sensed scorn.) Does he see this as another rescue—cause for "demise"? Carlyle wondered. Hope he's recovered from his suicidal urge.

The cynthian blinked and looked away.

Carlyle had been trying to understand his mood since the Flume. Cephean had been cooperative, but in a withdrawn sort of way. Does he regret having lived, is he anxious about landing on a human world, with slim chance of returning home? Cephean had refused to talk about it, and his "leaks" of emotion were more confusing than clarifying. He's young for a cynthian, Carlyle thought. Maybe he's plain scared.

The cynthian gazed at him darkly.

Carlyle gave up. "Cephean, I have to go check some of the systems down on the second level—below our quarters. Will you stay here? If you hear someone calling 'Sedora' on the communicator, call me down below." He pushed several switches and pointed to the intercom. "If I don't answer, that means this intercom isn't working, and you'll have to come get me. All right?"

Cephean swayed from side to side. His tail flipped once.

"All right?"

(Carlyle sensed annoyance.) "Hyiss," said Cephean finally.

 

* * *

 

He had been in the life-systems room for less than an hour, reassuring himself that all the systems were in fact working, when he heard his name. "Caharleel." He looked up. "Caharleel." The sound came from the intercom.

"Yes, Cephean."

"Iss khall."

What? "Is the tow calling?"

"Hyiss. Iss khall."

"I'm coming right up." He closed the inspection panel.

"Iss khall," the cynthian repeated.

 

* * *

 

The tow flew out to them on a high-energy Krans trajectory. When it appeared, it grew with astonishing speed and slid across the starfield to intercept Sedora. It was nothing but a flying I-beam with Circadie space inductors at either end, a crew blister in the center, and attachment locks on either side of center. The pilot called them on direct beam. "Sedora, are you ready to be taken in tow?"

"Go ahead, Fitztaylor."

Cephean watched the proceedings, his ears fluttering every few seconds, as though something were bothering him.

The tow blocked the viewport as it approached, then drifted down and to the side. It still covered about one-third of the view when it locked, with a bump, to Sedora's forward section. "Are you ready to relinquish control, Sedora?" the pilot asked.

Carlyle started to acknowledge in the affirmative but paused when he heard a low hiss from Cephean. The cynthian's eyes were dim and half lidded. (Disapproval, he sensed clearly.) He flushed angrily. "Yes, ready," he said.

"Are you in any immediate danger?" the pilot asked. He sounded bored but amiable.

"No immediate danger," Carlyle said, burning from Cephean's stare. "Fitztaylor," he added, "we'd like to get in as soon as possible. It's been a rough ride."

"Do our best," the pilot assured him.

Far to each side of Sedora's nose, the Circadie space inductors glowed golden, then white; and the joined ships began to change velocity and drop across the solar system toward Garsoom's Haven.

 

* * *

 

After touchdown, when the tow ship detached and vanished back into the sky, they went out through the exit lock and into a transfer pod, their personal baggage piled high on a robot porter. The pod carried them toward the spaceport terminal, performing decontamination procedures as it moved. Meanwhile Carlyle spoke by videophone with the RiggerGuild counsel. On his advice, Carlyle authorized release of Sedora's log for inspection by the Guild and the Spacing Authority.

When the transfer pod slid into its bay at the terminal, the RiggerGuild counsel was there to meet them. "Rigger Carlyle, I'm Holly Wellen," the man said, shaking hands delicately and rather gravely. He was a tall, firm-featured man, probably in his late nineties; his hair was just turning gray, and his eyes were fatherly and full of concern.

Carlyle introduced the cynthian and riffmar to Wellen. He explained that Cephean could understand most spoken words telepathically, and could manage a fair reproduction of human speech. Wellen suggested that they go set up quarters in the Guild Haven. They crossed the lobby and got on a moving walkway that ran the length of the terminal. Wellen pointed out the bay windows as they moved.

The city of Plateau edged the spaceport in a giant crescent, in the middle of a range of rugged and dark-forested mountains. Nearly all of the encircling mountains rose higher than the plateau. Over the edge, in the valley, was the lower half of the city, Deephaven; a part of it could be seen climbing up an opposing mountain. Farther off in that direction, in the misty valleys beyond the settled region, lay the wilds—and deep in the wilds lived the koryfs of Garsoom's Haven.

Plateau was the largest city on this "stable frontier" planet, a world still untamed and sparsely settled—but sufficiently developed to provide for its own survival, some industry, and its own spacing capabilities. Like any planet, however, it depended upon the RiggerGuild to keep the rigger-ships coming and going with interstellar commerce.

Past the end of the walkway, they entered the privacy of the Rigger Haven and were shown to their adjoining rooms. The robot porter left their belongings neatly stacked in the rooms. Then Wellen said he would call them later, and they were left to rest and become settled.

 

* * *

 

They never did have the chance to go looking for a live koryf; the hearings into the Sedora accident began almost immediately. In the early sessions, the legal framework was established and the ship's log reviewed, along with autopsy reports on the dead crewmen. Carlyle sat in a small room in the Guild quarter with a counselor named Dial Jade, and together they watched a holo projection of the other participants: Holly Wellen, representing Carlyle and the RiggerGuild; Jon Pierce, a deputy administrator of the Garsoom's Haven Spacing Authority; Jules Tong, appointed by the Spacing Authority to represent the ship's owner in absentia; and various other experts and consultants. Carlyle was free to switch out of the session anytime he chose, but right now he wanted to listen.

Deputy Administrator Pierce greeted him. "Welcome, Rigger Carlyle, and thank you for joining us voluntarily. We will be reviewing the log cubes from Sedora, and at the appropriate time we'll ask you for your opinions and evaluation. Our first purpose will be to determine whether or not failure existed on the part of the ship's owner and maintenance staff—or, in other words, to determine whether or not the lives of your crewmates might have been saved."

Wellen spoke to Carlyle on a private channel from the hearing room. "Don't let him worry you, Gev. They're really just here to decide what to do with the ship and whether the Guild should file sanctions against the owner. I've heard the records myself, and there's no question about your own actions being commendable. And I have to say that I saw no indication of negligence on the owner's part. Nevertheless, they'll go over the whole accident at least five more times to settle the claims between the Spacing Authority and the owner. Unless you think otherwise, I don't see that the Guild should make any claim beyond an award for you and Cephean, and a settlement on behalf of the deceased."

Carlyle relaxed a little, but he was going to be nervous until it was over and the incident was behind him. He glanced at Dial Jade, beside him. She whispered reassuringly, "This is just a lot of formality. If they seem a bit stiff to you, it's just that they always act carefully when there's any chance of a problem with the Guild."

"Will I be able to get a ship out of here when it's all over?"

She nodded. "Don't worry."

"What about Cephean? I think he might want to go home, but he hasn't told me."

"It would be good if you could talk that over with him," she said. "But he'll be taken care of as a rigger guest. It's possible the Spacing Authority will ask you to bring him to the hearings to be a liaison between human and cynthian worlds."

"I don't know if he'd go along with that. He doesn't even talk to me much anymore."

"If he doesn't want to, then that will be that," said Dial. She touched a switch to restore voice contact with the hearing room.

 

* * *

 

In the early parts of the hearing, he mostly listened. Later he spoke to the group on possible uncharted hazards along the Flux route which Sedora had followed, but he was unable to make a definitive statement. Since he was out of the net at the time of the accident, he simply did not know whether the Flux abscess had been an external feature of the Flux or an aberration in his crewmates' vision.

Between sessions, he saw Cephean and explained what had transpired. The cynthian blinked his eyes and said, "Hyiss? Ssso?" and turned back to his riff-bud cultures, from which he was growing a handful of tiny ferns.

"Well," said Carlyle, "they're probably going to reward us for bringing in the ship, by setting us up with some arrangement to fly wherever we want to go." He paused. "Cephean?"

The cynthian looked around. "Sssss?"

"Do you want to go home? To Syncleya?"

Cephean muttered darkly and turned away again.

"Do you want to speak to the panel? They've never met a cynthian before, and they'd like to talk with you." No answer. "Cephean?"

The cynthian looked around slowly. "Hhh-no," he said.

"Well, what do you want to do?" said Carlyle. He was trying to be patient, but why was Cephean so sullen? Because he was alone on a human planet? "Do you want to keep flying with me, then?"

"Hhh-no," hissed Cephean.

Carlyle felt relief, but also guilt. Had Cephean said no because he felt unwanted? Did he want to feel wanted?

"Cephean—" he said. He wanted to say something soothing—or probing. "Are you all right? I mean, being away from your own people, being here with us, is that . . . hard?" He felt angry with himself for fumbling so, for being so awkward.

Cephean sat, staring at him with his copper-and-obsidian eyes. The riffmar were stirring about in the clutter behind Cephean, and one of them traipsed forward, dragging a syrup stalk. The stalk was wilted, but Cephean took it in his jaws and chewed it slowly.

Carlyle walked to the back of the room and peered into Cephean's wood-crate cache of food. "Hell," he said, "you're almost out of food." The Guild room steward had offered them provisions, but Cephean had refused; he probably was afraid of human food. But if his own supply was drying up, he might be suffering physically. Who knew what a cynthian's nutritional needs were? "Cephean, you're running out of food!"

Cephean's eyes dimmed with despair.

"Well, look. We can fix that; we can get you food. I know you don't trust our food, but if we do some shopping, we can probably come up with something like . . . odomilk . . . or your syrup stalk and whatever else you have. Do you want to go out with me and see what we can find?"

The cynthian blinked nervously. He inhaled and exhaled with a hiss, then fell silent. He started chewing his stalk again.

Carlyle looked around the room. The place was a mess, and despite good ventilation, it smelled. The cynthian did not use the human toilet but kept his wastes, rather sloppily at present, in a box which fed into the riffmar nutrient tray and the riff-bud culture tank. The floor was covered with little clots of black hair, and there were a few broken riffmar leaves lying about, suggesting that Cephean might have taken a few swipes at Idi and Odi. Obviously he was depressed, and possibly he was again becoming suicidal.

"Cephean," Carlyle said gently, "why don't we have this place cleaned up, and go out and see if we can find some food you'll like. All right?"

Again there was silence. Cephean seemed immobilized by fear. Is that it? Carlyle wondered. Fear? I can understand that—any rigger can. Some of us never go out into the outside world at all.

He reached out sympathetically to touch the cynthian—and stopped. How would that kind of gesture be taken by a cynthian? His hand trembled, and he felt ridiculous holding it out. Then he thought, go ahead—he's just a big, smart telepathic cat.

(Irritation, he sensed.)

Finally he reached all the way and touched Cephean's forehead and pushed his fingers into the long, black fur between the cynthian's ears. Cephean's eyes widened, and his copper irises dilated to bright, skinny rings of fire around black pupils. (Carlyle felt ripples of . . . what? . . . consolation . . . affection . . . condescension? He couldn't be sure.)

"We have to help each other out, Cephean. We'll just go out in the city to some food shops. No koryfs. No trouble. All right?" He was tempted to suggest that they work out their problems together in the RiggerGuild dreampool, but he quashed that thought immediately: He patted Cephean's smooth, muscular shoulder. "All right?"

Cephean bared his teeth and worked his tongue around inside his mouth. Finally he dipped his head. "H-all righ-ss. Yiss."

Carlyle sighed gratefully. His heart was pounding. "Do you want to bring Idi and Odi?"

Cephean tossed his head in the direction of the riffmar, mulling. "H-no. Thake khair hriff-ffudss," he hissed.

Carlyle peered at the two riffmar. They were fidgeting near the riff-bud cultures, taking care of the new "baby riffmar." Apparently they could manage without supervision. "Okay," he said.

They left by the main spaceport exit. Carlyle wore a magenta rigger tunic, which provided him with a measure of physical security but also made him feel self-conscious—wearing his rank, and implicitly demanding privilege. Cephean padded alongside, sniffing and staring about. He hissed in approval at the sight of ships arrayed on the spaceport field; but once they were in the general traffic, he began to mutter. Carlyle tried not to imagine that he was walking with a long-haired, panther-sized housecat.

The weather was sunny but cool, and Carlyle puffed up his windbreaker for greater insulation. They got on a shuttle which carried them two kilometers or so into the first shopping district of Plateau, where they got off and began prowling. There were no open markets with products visible from the street; here there were only small, closed-in shops. Carlyle went into the first one alone, since Cephean refused to cross the threshold. The store sold only synthetics, anyway, so he went back out. "Don't think so." he said. Cephean snuffled and hissed, and padded on.

The next shop looked more promising. "Hyou ssee," said Cephean indifferently, when Carlyle gestured toward the door. Again, Carlyle went to look.

The place was darker, cooler, and full of odors. He went back out. "Cephean, they have fresh-grown fruit and vegetables," he said. "Why don't you come in with me? There may be some things you'll like here."

Cephean sniffed.

"There are hardly any people in here now. It'll be all right."

Finally the cynthian followed him in. The air held dozens of smells, and Cephean sniffed and snorted suspiciously. "Come on toward the back," said Carlyle. The shopkeeper, at the rear, noticed them suddenly and came forward disapprovingly. "My friend is a sentient and a cynthian," Carlyle blurted defensively, trying to forestall any comment. He would have added that they were both under Rigger protection, but the shopkeeper had already noticed Carlyle's tunic and waved an unenthusiastic acknowledgment.

Carlyle looked over several open counters of produce and picked out a milk-bearing melon. He held it up for Cephean's examination. "How about this?" The cynthian's eyes glinted suspiciously. "Hmm." He put the melon back and picked up a yellow fruit. "How about this?" Cephean sniffed it, then took it in his jaws and bit deeply. "Yach!" he cried, spitting it out with a spray of saliva. "Whass sss iss?"

Carlyle picked it up from the floor where it had rolled and put it back in the bin where he had gotten it. He shrugged.

It occurred to him then that the thing to do was to have a whole assortment of foods sent to the spaceport and analyzed, and have a sample of Cephean's food analyzed, and see what came closest to matching. But they might as well try a few more items here. He showed Cephean the melon again, but the cynthian refused another trial bite. They went down the line, Carlyle holding each item for Cephean's inspection and the cynthian sniffing with disinterest. The floor creaked quietly as they moved, shuffling, toward the back. Finally Carlyle went to the counter and said, "I'd like two of everything, sent to us at the RiggerGuild Haven." The keeper looked at him skeptically but filled out the order and had Carlyle thumbprint it.

When they were back on the street, Carlyle said, "Do you want to go down into the valley, see the mountains?"

Cephean looked at him gravely. (Alarm.) "H-no. Noss wanss ssee k-k-horiff. Noss!"

"No koryfs," Carlyle promised. "They're all in the wild country, anyway—not near the city." At least that was how he remembered it.

"H-no," the cynthian insisted. "Muss gho vvack," (Urgency. Urgency.)

"Are you worried about the riffmar and the riff-buds?"

Cephean did not answer.

They returned to the spaceport.

 

* * *

 

Reluctantly, Cephean yielded samples of his dwindling food stock for analysis.

The answers from the specialists came back the next day. Carlyle studied the report in Cephean's room. The cynthian looked unkempt and ratty, with his fur matted to his body. "Hey," said Carlyle, "I think we can keep you from starving. All you have to do is eat the things on this list. Hope you like some of them." The closest substitute for odomilk, as it turned out, was the melon which Cephean had disdained yesterday. Or condensed valley-goat milk with nectar. There were a number of promising substitutes for syrup stalk, in particular celery soaked in Velan molasses, with vitamin and mineral supplements. For bramleaf, he would have to be happy with cereal grain products—perhaps thin flatcakes.

The cynthian's reaction was not enthusiastic, but at least he did not refuse outright to try the food. Maybe he's starting to understand that he has to adapt, Carlyle thought.

Cephean looked down at the crate of food which had been delivered by the shop. His eyes contracted, and the riffmar sprang into action. They scavenged through the box until they found the one remaining melon and, struggling, lifted it to the edge of the box. It fell from their hands and thumped to the floor and rolled away. They scurried to catch it, then rolled it toward Cephean, hissing softly with the effort. Cephean eyed the melon doubtfully, then mouthed it.

"Wait," said Carlyle. "I'd better cut that open for you." He went back to his own quarters and returned with a sharp knife and a platter. Taking the melon from Cephean, he placed it on the platter and carefully sliced it open. A yellowish milk spilled out, filling the platter. "You can try the milk, and you might like the inside of the melon, too," he said, quartering the fruit and placing the pieces to one side.

Cephean sniffed. "Iss noss ffoisson?" he asked cautiously.

"No, I'm sure it's safe."

The cynthian took a tentative lick, then jerked back and worried his tongue about inside his mouth. "Yach! Whass iss iss?" He hunched forward and took another taste. He shook his head jerkily. "Noss . . . noss . . . vvaddss," he sputtered. But he backed away and to one side and sat stiffly, glancing down at the platter and back up at Carlyle. "Fferhaffs, Caharleel, fferhaffs." He looked perplexed, and swiped nervously with one black paw at his unkempt fur. He looked thoughtful for a moment. Suddenly the riffmar shuffled forward and climbed up his fur and onto his shoulders, one on each side. They began to comb the fur on his head and neck, plucking out tufts that had been shed, and cleaning bits of dirt from his scalp. Their fern tops waved and fluttered as they worked. Cephean bent and licked at the milk again.

Carlyle left them and went for his final meeting with the Guild med and psych experts, and, after that, the hearing panel. The meetings went smoothly, though he never got over his feeling that somehow they were going to find fault with him before the inquest was finished. In fact, he failed to hear the concluding commendation the first time it was read, because he was too absorbed in his thoughts. Would he be blamed for the flux-pile adjustments he had made just prior to the accident? Would he be judged unstable? Would he be blamed for bringing the ship to Garsoom's Haven instead of Gammon's Annex and putting the Spacing Authority here to so much trouble? "Skan?"

"What's wrong now, Gev? You're completely in the clear."

And Janofer: "You don't have to worry, Gev. You really don't."

"Will I be able to join you when I get back?"

"Get back, first, dear."

He glanced up and saw that every holo-figure was watching him. He cleared his throat.

Fortunately, Wellen stepped in for him. "Gev, the Board has found that you handled your station with more than the requisite care and skill, and it has granted you high commendation, with reward."

Carlyle turned, startled, to Dial Jade. She smiled. He began to feel giddy with relief.

Wellen continued, "When you decide what you want to do next, the Board will help you any way it can. You may remain with Sedora after she's been refitted, if you like, or you can take on a different ship."

"I want to go back to Chaening's World," Carlyle said, impelled by a rush of homesickness—for Jarvis, for Lady Brillig.

Pierce, the deputy administrator, said, "I'm sure we can arrange that."

Wellen glanced at Carlyle, then said to Pierce, "Fine. Perhaps we can work out a way to combine that with the monetary settlement for the riggers."

Hearing that, Carlyle wondered. A monetary settlement? Just for saving himself and the ship? Of course this was all standard procedure, as specified by agreement between the RiggerGuild and the Interstellar Consortium of Spacing Authorities. Skan was right; he should have expected all this. But he still felt peculiar about it.

"And your companion, the cynthian," Pierce said. "Can you tell us what his choice for the future might be?"

Carlyle frowned. "I think he'd like to return home, too, but I don't think he knows the way back from here. I don't think we can take him home."

"You will try to learn for us what we can do for him, then?" Pierce asked.

"Of course. I'll try."

The hearing was adjourned, and Carlyle went to be alone to think. He felt responsible to Cephean, but what did that mean he should do if he left Garsoom's Haven for Chaening's World? Should he just do his best for Cephean here, and then trust Wellen and the Guild to help the cynthian? Should he invite Cephean along to Chaening's World? How would that benefit him? Cephean was so damned stubborn about not talking; he probably wouldn't be such bad company if he would just open up.

Dial Jade met him as he was walking back to his quarters. "Holly asked me to tell you that there's a light courier ship available, with a cargo already cleared for Elacia V. If you'd like to fly that, the Spacing Authority will set up a floating command arrangement, and you can take the ship on through to Chaening's World or any other destination you can get minimum carryage for. That's probably the quickest way home for you, and it would serve as a long-term monetary settlement, since you would have command and a share of shipping profits. It can be flown as a one- or two-rigger ship. Would you be interested?"

Blood pounded in his head, and it was a moment before he could even think. Chaening's World! The images: bright, busy spaceport at Jarvis with flashing ships of all designs, the city of Jarvis to one side, and beyond it the gleaming sea. And . . . Lady Brillig poised to lift, and three long-awaiting friends.

Dial was watching him curiously, as he brought his mind back. "Yes," he said. "It sounds like exactly what I want."

"Good," said Dial. "Holly is down in the spaceport now, if you want to go look over the ship with him."

Carlyle grinned and bounded down toward the main lobby. Holly was there with Deputy Administrator Pierce. "The ship can carry a co-rigger, too, if you like," said Pierce.

"You mean Cephean?"

"Do you think he'd like to go with you?" Pierce clearly hoped so; it would discharge their obligation to Cephean with the least trouble to them. "We could modify the second rigger-station for him."

Carlyle hesitated. "I haven't had a chance to talk with him yet, but—"

Pierce waited.

Before Carlyle could conclude his thought, Wellen suggested quietly, "Why don't we go look over the ship?" Carlyle agreed at once.

Later, after they had inspected the vessel, Wellen and Carlyle talked privately. "What do you think of her?" Wellen asked.

Carlyle gestured affirmatively. The ship seemed respectable enough. Its name was Spillix, and it was shaped like a long, thin seed. It seemed appropriate for its mission, which was carrying mail and valuable light cargo. "It's fine. It's what I need to get back home, and after that it won't matter, since I'll be rejoining my old friends on another ship." He had already told Wellen his plans for getting together with Skan and Janofer and Legroeder.

Wellen gazed at him with clear eyes. He tapped his cheekbone with one finger; he traced the line of his wide sideburn. "I hope that your expectations work out," he said. "But please don't become too hopeful. There are many uncertainties in the way things happen, and time goes by. I'd hate for you to become too attached to what is, after all, only a hope."

Carlyle looked at him. Confusion buzzed in his mind. Anger.

"Do you understand why I'm saying this, Gev?" The lines in Wellen's face deepened.

Carlyle felt dizzy, and his vision blurred. Yes, of course he knew what Wellen was talking about. Uncertainty. The uncertainty of the rigger. A part of his way of life—that time could play strange tricks, that in a journey completed something might be lost.

Nothing he didn't already know in theory. But to have it flung at him in a moment of hope, of vulnerability—and by the Guild counsel, a friend—was unkind. "I understand," he said tightly.

He understood. The fact was that for all the established dangers of rigging, there were others that were only speculation, rumor, or legend. The legend that a crew once sundered could never be rejoined. The legend that a rigger-ship and its crew lost something in passing through the Flux, a trace of substance, an unmeasurable bit of mass.

Legend only. There had never been established any loss of mass not attributable to pile or fusor conversion, or simple gas loss from the ship. But rumors and legends persisted. It was said that a rigger who plied the Flux long enough lost something of his body and of his soul and even became, in a ghostly sort of fashion, translucent. And that ships themselves, with their crews, became ghost ships. Legend only. No one Carlyle knew had ever seen a translucent rigger or a ghost ship. But . . . there was the so-called Dutchman legend, the legend of the ship called Impris, with her ghostly, immortal crew which had wandered the seas of the Flux for centuries and would continue wandering for all of eternity, doomed. Legend only.

But what Carlyle really feared was not legend but change—something which might stab at him out of the future's murk. A change such as finding his place on Lady Brillig taken by another . . . by someone who had shared nothing of Gev Carlyle and who cared even less . . . by someone who had rendered him unneeded, extra. His face burned as the thought circled in his mind. He saw Wellen again, met his eyes. They were the eyes of a friend who knew the upset his words had caused.

Carlyle's fear slowly dropped away, and though his heart was still fluttering rapidly he pushed his anxiety aside, and he said simply, "Yes. All right."

 

* * *

 

He was astonished to find Cephean's quarters tidied, at least by comparison with their former state. The floor had been cleared of debris, and the containers of food were now arranged neatly in two piles at one side of the room. The two riffmar stood under a sunlamp; their toes sssk'd deep in the rich-smelling nutrient bed.

"Good lord," he said.

The black cynthian studied him aloofly. "Hyiss?"

"Well. I hardly know what to say. The room looks good. You've been busy." Or the riffmar had been busy. "Anyway, I'm getting ready to leave on another ship, to go home. And you have to tell me what you want to do."

The cynthian turned away, feigning disinterest.

Carlyle looked around the room again. He wondered why the food boxes were piled in two separate piles. Sidling closer, he saw that a number of the boxes were dented and battered, and he wondered if the cynthian had thrown another rampage. But Idi and Odi and the riffbuds appeared unharmed. "Cephean, did you separate the foods you like from those you don't like?" he asked.

"Hyiss," whispered the cynthian.

Carlyle nodded. "Good. Well, then. You can stay here if you like, and you'll be under the protection of the RiggerGuild."

(Scorn, revulsion answered him, though the cynthian did not turn.)

"I can't imagine why you would want to stay, though. The people here probably won't be able to help you get home."

(Irritation. Impatience.) Cephean turned, and Carlyle sighed. "Cephean, why don't you come along with me? I'm not saying that I can get you home, either, or that you'll like the next planet any better than this one. But at least you know me, and you won't have to make your way alone."

The cynthian's ears lifted slightly, but otherwise his gaze did not change. The sensation Carlyle received was a trembling contradiction of emotions. Probably Cephean did truly want to be alone; but he also wanted not to be alone. "How about it, Cephean? Will you come with me?"

Still the cynthian stared, copper-and-obsidian eyes blinking at second-long intervals. (Fear. Killing anxiety.)

"Cephean?"

Still the cynthian stared. And suddenly he cried out, "Hyiss, Caharleel! Hyiss!" He blinked rapidly, and his whiskers twitched with great agitation. (Shame. Relief.)

Carlyle held his breath with his mouth half open, and then, slowly, he smiled. "Okay. Start getting your things ready to go. Let's make a list of the food you have to order. And maybe some fertilizer for the riffmar beds?"

Stretching to his full length, Cephean leaped to all four feet and began pacing the room. "Hyiss. Yiss, yiss."

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Framed