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Chapter Seventeen

APPARENTLY Confluence was a big deal, more than Jeff had realized. By tradition, it was held in the oldest part of Confluence Center, the original free-space wheel built by the first explorers and merchants of the Messina Dust Cloud for their annual rendezvous, hallway through the harvest season for stable transuranics. That whole portion of the Center was dedicated once a year to the Confluence celebration. The Logans, working around the clock, restored everything to its primitive original condition. The Anadem field in that part of the structure was turned off, and a centrifugal rotation field used in its place. The effective gravity even on the outer rim was a bit low by Earth standards, maybe a quarter of a G, but it was enough to be comfortable.

Jeff stood on the floor of the cylinder, staring around him. The original Confluence Center might be described as small by its present inhabitants, but he thought it was enormous. The length of the cylinder was at least fifty meters. The polished floor curved smoothly away from him to right and left, continuing in a great circular arc until it met seventy meters above his head. There were airlocks at the center of both flat cylinder ends, unused now but once the docking sites from which the crews of the Cloud harvesters, dressed in their finest uniforms, had entered Confluence Center. The whole interior was lit by light fixtures that ran the length of the cylinder's central axis. Looking up and beyond them, Jeff could see the heads of other people halfway around the great room. They seemed to be standing on the ceiling.

Jeff was flanked by an array of ancient autochefs, of a design unused in a century. The Logans had pulled the design from the central data banks of Confluence Center and faithfully reproduced it. Jeff wondered if any human still remembered how to program the old machines. He wouldn't know where to begin.

It was early in the first evening of Confluence. Jeff had been here for twenty minutes, apparently studying the auto-chefs. In fact, he was doing two things: remaining inconspicuous, and at the same time keeping his eyes open for Myron. He wasn't sure what he would say to his cousin when he met him—or what Myron would say in return—but he knew that somehow, somewhere, during Confluence the two of them were bound to meet. He wanted to follow his mother's advice to tackle an unpleasant task as soon as possible, and get it over with.

Easier said than done. Jeff caught sight of a tall blond-haired figure in a uniform of gleaming white, halfway around the curve of the cylinder. It was Myron, picture-perfect as always, standing at the edge of the dance floor. By his side, just as blond and in an off-the-shoulder dress of electric blue and a sequined white scarf, was Lilah.

They were not dancing. The music would begin in an hour or two. Then the dancers—Jeff certainly not among their number—would show off their paces.

Jeff was surprised to see the pair, at the same time as he told himself he ought not to be. Myron had the knack; he had always had it ever since he and Jeff became teenagers. He picked up girls as easily as breathing. Why wouldn't it work as well here as on Earth, and why should Lilah be different from anyone else?

Jeff wanted to get his meeting with Myron out of the way, but Lilah's presence complicated things. She would see how clumsy and inept he became whenever Myron was around. As he watched, his cousin took Lilah by the elbow with an easy familiarity and led her farther away around the cylinder.

Should he follow them? Myron wouldn't want him to. Maybe Lilah wouldn't, either. But he had to meet Myron sooner or later. He couldn't make up his mind. It was a relief to feel a tug on his sleeve and turn to find Billy Jexter at his side.

"You're not interested in that, are you?" Billy said. He had abandoned his usual uniform for a short-sleeved shirt and matching red shorts. He was barefoot.

"In what?" Billy's scornful gesture to the left could have been at Myron, Lilah, or the two of them together.

"In dancing. That's what they do over there, you know."

"I'm a terrible dancer." That was true enough, even if there were other reasons why Jeff did not want to go toward the dance floor.

"I thought you would be." Billy turned the other way. "Want to go to the Outer Loop, then, where the good stuff is?"

"I'm not sure we have the same ideas on good stuff. What's on the Outer Loop?"

"The games," Billy said scornfully. "Don't you know anything? Come on, they'll be starting any minute."

He was already moving to the right, along the upward curve of the cylinder. Games, or a meeting with Myron while Lilah looked on? The lesser of two evils. Jeff followed Billy, twenty meters along the polished floor and then down a tight spiral staircase to a lower level. What he found at the bottom of the stairs was nothing like his idea of a games area.

The games he knew came in two varieties. There were the athletic kind, contests depending on physical dexterity and coordination and strength, like archery, polo, tennis, running, football, cycling, skating, and swimming. He hadn't expected to find those in the space-limited environment of Confluence Center. Just as well, since he had no great talent for any of them.

Then there were the board games of chance and skill, backgammon and bridge and chess and poker and go. Jeff was pretty good at those, and he found them pleasant enough for a few hours of entertainment. The trouble was, he didn't care enough about the result. He had never developed the obsession and passion of a real chess or backgammon enthusiast. For him, no game competed with the delight of understanding something in the real world, anything from light to lightning to lightning bugs.

What he saw on the floor of the Outer Loop didn't fit either of the game types that he knew. The annular region between curved floor and curved ceiling was filled with a maze of ropes and ladders and chutes and wide tubes. A couple of dozen people were climbing around the tangle, ranging in age from children younger than Billy to adults you might think too old for games. Leaning against the wall, a dozen paces from the staircase that Jeff had descended, Simon Macafee stood gazing thoughtfully at all the activity.

"You're a bit early," he said, as they went toward him. "They're still setting up."

"Setting up for what?" Jeff couldn't make sense of what he was seeing.

"For the first game," Billy said, and ran off to swarm up a rope like a monkey in party clothes.

"One which I don't think will interest you," Macafee said to Jeff. "They always start with the youngsters. The hope is that they'll be worn out and go to sleep, and then the serious games can begin."

"But what are you doing here?" It was none of Jeff's business, but his mental image of Simon Macafee did not include a taste for party games.

"Ah. You think you spot a ringer? You are quite right. I am not here to play, or even to watch." Simon nodded at the complicated web that connected floor and ceiling. "The Center was set up this way in the early days, when there was no alternative to cylinder rotation to produce a field. If you wanted to dance on the Inner Loop—and people did—you had to spin the cylinder. I've been wondering if we could use an Anadem field instead, and still keep the spirit of the games intact. What do you think? Would I be considered a heretic if I proposed changes?"

"I don't know." Jeff looked again at the mess in front of him. "I don't see anything like the games I know."

"The games of Earth? You won't find them here. I must say, I don't think that's much of a loss. They appeal to me no more than these do." While Jeff was pondering that curious comment, Simon went on, "You wouldn't recognize these games, because they are designed to be played in a low-G environment. Some of them depend on the fact that we are rotating, so things that you throw don't move in the usual way The centrifugal force is highest near the floor, and zero on the central axis of the cylinder. That makes things do this."

He took a hoop of soft rubber from a line of them hanging on the wall, and threw it. Instead of following a straight line or falling toward the floor, the hoop floated slowly across the open space in a strange, curving path.

"Coriolis effects," Simon said. "Have you heard of Coriolis?"

"Yes. It's a fictitious force that appears in a rotating reference frame." Jeff had read about Coriolis forces, and he even had an idea how to calculate the effects. But he had never met them in practice.

"The teaching texts say it's fictitious, and not a real force." Simon handed a ring to Jeff. "But how can that be, when the force actually makes the path curve? Sometime—this isn't the place for it—you and I can talk about reference frames, and how with the right way of thinking about them one force is just as real as another. Try it for yourself. Throw the ring and try to hang it on the yellow spike on the far wall. You'll find it's easier if you spin it as you throw."

This sort of game was exactly the kind of exercise that Jeff was bad at. The only good thing was that there was no trembling in his hands. They usually shook when he tried something that needed physical skill, and as a result he never succeeded. Now his hands were perfectly steady. He threw the ring toward the spike, and watched it curve far out of line and hit the wall meters away. Apparently, steady hands were not enough.

"Hopeless," he said.

"Of course. It was your first shot. Are you the sort of person who has to get something right the first time, otherwise it's not worth doing? I count myself lucky if I get what I want the thousandth time I try. Do you know how many failures I had, before I found the theory that led to the Anadem field? Try again."

It was difficult to refuse. As Jeff threw again and again and achieved miss after hopeless miss he puzzled over why Simon Macafee showed so much interest in him. He found Simon and everything that the man had to say fascinating, but he couldn't imagine that the same was true the other way around. Was it the novelty of a person from Earth? He had become used to the idea that he, Hooglich, and Russo were sort of freaks to people at Confluence Center, just because of how they had come there. But Simon Macafee didn't seem the type to be interested in a freak show.

"All right." Simon handed Jeff a final ring. "You're on your own now. Remember, success is ninety-nine percent the refusal to accept failure."

Jeff saw, to his amazement, that the last two rings he had floated across the room were settling onto the yellow spike. He threw the third one, and it went wide by inches.

"You'll notice that two examples isn't enough to establish a general case," Simon added. "You'll still have misses. I have to go and meet with Administrator Cheever—I don't want to, but Connie always gets her way. But keep trying. You may want to enter the competition when the time comes."

Jeff knew he wouldn't. His horse-jumping disaster on Earth had provided enough competition to last his whole life. Even so, he went on doggedly throwing and retrieving rings until he could capture them on the yellow spike nine times out of ten. In the meantime, the Outer Loop became steadily busier. The game going on around Jeff was a kind of three-dimensional obstacle race, in which judgment and flexibility were apparently more important than strength. He saw one competitor, red-faced and bent double, stuck upside down in a narrow tube with only his head poking out. He noticed, with no great feeling of sympathy, that it was Billy Jexter. Billy's vocabulary for cursing would have done credit to someone much older.

Finally, other ring-throwers began to invade Jeff's territory. To them he was apparently not a freak, but merely another competitor. The air became filled with flying hoops.

He gave up and admitted the truth. Sure, he wanted to prove himself in Simon Macafee's eyes, by showing that he could perform this event as well as anyone. But more important, he was avoiding Myron and Lilah.

He passed the handful of rings he was holding to the girl next to him, who grabbed them eagerly, and set out for the spiral stairs that led to the Inner Loop. The higher level had filled up, too. Now the dance floor held scores of couples. He stood well back and looked them over. If Myron and Lilah were dancing, that would give him a good reason not to butt in on them.

No such luck. Even on a crowded floor he would have picked up those two, with their matching blond heads and smart outfits. There was no sign of them.

He walked toward the out-of-date autochefs, which were now going full blast. Hundreds of people sat eating at the long lines of tables. Hooglich was there, in the middle of a crowd of jinners and facing a pile of food big enough to show how she managed to remain so fat. She gestured to Jeff to join them.

"Come eat, Brother Kopal," she said when he reached the table. "You look a bit thin and peaky."

"Later. Where's Russo?"

Instead of replying, Hooglich pointed to the line of auto-chefs. The machine at the end was not being used. The front was wide open and a skinny backside and pair of jean-clad legs stuck out of the open door.

"What's he doing?" Jeff asked. "Cooking himself?"

"Could be. Once a jinner, always a jinner. There was something a little bit wrong with that one, and Russo says he's old enough to remember how it works. Don't worry about him."

"Does he really have any idea how to fix it?"

"Who knows? He won't let a Logan in to help him. He's happier doing that than anything. By the time he's done, it probably won't work at all."

"Have you seen Lilah?"

"Not for the past hour. She was dancing for a while with a blond guy." Hooglich gave Jeff a shrewd glance. "Your cousin, right?"

"Yes."

"They were over here, eating a little. And then off they went, that away. Toward the private rooms."

"I didn't know there were private rooms. Where are they?"

"You go all the way to the end of the cylinder. You'll see these little doors around the perimeter. They take you through, each one to a different room." Hooglich pursed her lips, and her broad forehead wrinkled. "You know, Brother Kopal, I'm not sure I'm right to tell you this. Those rooms are supposed to be private, if you know what I mean."

"Is there a way to tell which ones are occupied?"

"Sure. You'll see an in use sign on the doors. If you see that, just be sure you don't go in and find what you might not want to find."

"I understand. Thanks, Hooglich."

Jeff headed for the great end wall of the cylinder. She was acting in his best interests, but what she said sure didn't make him feel any better. His stomach was churning in the old familiar way. Until Hooglich spoke, he'd had his mind on a meeting with Myron. Now he was thinking of Myron with Lilah, and that was just as upsetting.

He came to the first of the doors. Sure enough, it had an in use sign glowing above it. After a moment's hesitation, Jeff walked on around the curve of the cylinder. The second door showed in USE; so did the third. Was there any point at all to what he was doing? Any room that was occupied was surely going to have a sign, saying that the people inside were not to be disturbed. He could barge in, but if he did, chances were it would not be Myron and Lilah that he was interrupting.

At last. A door without the glowing sign. He opened it and entered the room. It was empty. He took a quick look around and saw that it was furnished with a bathroom, autochef and serving table, chairs, table, and bed. If this was typical, someone could stay here as long as they liked—for the whole of the three days of Confluence, if they felt like it.

Jeff went back outside and continued his walk around the curve of the cylinder. He passed four more doors, all marked in use. The fifth one didn't have the sign. Jeff opened the door casually and went in, convinced that he would find another empty room.

Myron was sitting at the table, his chin resting on his fists. As Jeff entered, his cousin stood up so abruptly that the chair he had been sitting on crashed to the floor behind him.

"Well. If it isn't Jefferson Kopal, the one and only." Myron's face was unusually pale and his uniform hung loose at the neck. "I wondered when you would crawl out of the woodwork."

"Hi." Jeff looked all around the room as he spoke. He could see no sign of Lilah, but the sequined scarf was on the floor inside the open bathroom door. "I was looking for you."

He sounded inane, and knew it. Myron gave a short, brittle laugh.

"After what you did, I'm amazed you have the nerve to show your face."

"I did nothing wrong."

"Oh, sure. You only failed to keep a lookout, so the Aurora was crippled. And then when you had the chance of an honorable escape with Captain Dufferin and the rest of the officers, you refused to go."

"That's not true. I was injured. I didn't even know that Captain Dufferin had left until days afterwards."

"That's not what I heard—and it's not what the fleet believes. I've put up with a lot of criticism the last few weeks, because of your slovenly behavior and cowardice. You are a blot on the family honor and a disgrace to the navy. You deserve a court-martial."

Myron had been pale, but now his cheeks were turning rosy. Jeff had seen the signs before—his cousin was becoming angry. When Myron was angry, he was also violent.

"Look, Myron, I'm sorry if I've caused you trouble. But if you'll just listen and let me explain exactly what happened when the Aurora met the sounder, you'll understand I'm not to blame.

You don't have to take my word for this. Hooglich and Russo will back me up."

"Sure. The word of two jinners—and two traitors. I'm supposed to believe them?"

"Not just them. People here will confirm it. Lilah can confirm it." Jeff looked again around the room. There was nowhere she could be hiding. "I thought she was with you. Where is she?"

"Ah, yes, Lilah." Myron was studying Jeff's face as he spoke. He turned, picked up his chair, and casually sat down on it. "You're quite right, little Lilah was here."

"But she's not here now."

"No. When we were done, I sent her away." Myron crossed his arms. "You see, cousin, your Lilah thinks she's quite the sexpot. Maybe she is—for a hick settlement out at the edge of civilization. For all I know, you were impressed with her performance, too. I can tell you, though, she wasn't a bit impressed with you. After we'd danced a little, she got excited and we came here. It was her idea. She'd been rubbing herself up against me all the time we were dancing."

"You're lying!"

"Be careful, Cousin. No one calls me a liar and gets away with it. I'll make an allowance, just this once. Anyway, it was hardly worth coming here with her. She ran through her full repertoire in about fifteen minutes. She showed me everything she had, and a pathetic performance it was. Why, even when I told her that she'd had all she was getting, she was begging me to let her stay and give her another chance to—"

Jeff didn't remember jumping. The first thing he knew was that Myron's chair had gone over backward, and his cousin was underneath him on the floor. He had his hands around Myron's throat.

Before he could exert real force, his cousin brought his folded arms wide apart and broke Jeff's grip. They both rolled over and up to face each other.

"You scrawny, knock-kneed wimp." Myron's whole face was blood red. His hands were at his neck, rubbing where Jeff's fingers had dug in. "That does it. What did you think you were doing, protecting the sacred honor of your little tart? I'm going to smash you to pieces. Don't forget, you started it—and I doubt if a snot brain like you will have the sense to deny that if somebody asks."

He was advancing, careful to keep himself between Jeff and the door. Jeff retreated. He knew his cousin. When Myron was in this mood, the best you could hope for was someone coming along before you were hurt too badly.

Myron jumped forward. Jeff, surprising himself with his speed, moved to one side and straight-armed his cousin in the chest. Myron grunted, more with surprise than pain, and fell back a pace.

"Rather box than wrestle, eh? Well, I can live with that. You never landed a punch on me in ten years of trying—and you'll bleed here just as well as you did on Earth. Cover your nose, Jeff!"

As Myron shouted the warning he threw a thundering right-hand punch—at Jeff's middle. If it had connected, Jeff would have been on the floor, unable to breathe. But the punch seemed to take a strangely long time to arrive. Jeff could put his hand out, intercept the fist with his open palm, and bat it away. Myron, following through, hit empty air and almost overbalanced.

His head was a perfect target. Jeff struck out at the exposed right temple—and pulled his punch at the last moment. He hit the side of the head, but too lightly to do any damage.

Myron grunted and stepped back. "Been taking lessons, have you? It won't do you any good. I'm going to see the color of your blood—and I bet it's yellow."

He came in again, more carefully this time, and aimed punch after punch at Jeff's head and body. Not one of them hit. Jeff seemed to have all the time in the world. He could slip under the blows, or take them harmlessly on his open hands and forearms, or even dance away from them completely.

After forty or fifty vain tries, Myron was panting and wheezing. He stopped, put his left hand to his chest, and shook his head.

"I don't know what's happening, but for some reason I can't hit you. And you haven't managed to land a good one on me. How about we call it evens and leave it at that? Say it's a draw, then we can go and get something to eat."

He held his open right hand toward Jeff, ready to shake.

Jeff held out his own hand. "I'll be glad to. I didn't want to fight you in the first—"

He didn't finish. While he was off guard, Myron swung his left fist and punched him hard on the cheekbone, just under his right eye.

It wasn't a knockout, but it was close. Jeff didn't have any feeling of falling, but the next thing he knew he was on his back on the floor, staring up at Myron's gloating face.

"Try that for evens, snot brain. That's fighting, you see, Space Navy style. Winning isn't the main thing, it's the only thing. And if you think you hurt now, wait a few days. The bunch of coots who run this place are too stupid to give in and hand over the Anadem field and whatever else we want. So we're going to squeeze out every last thing that's worth having, and then you're going to eat fire. The main fleet will arrive, and after we've sucked you dry we'll melt the lot of you to slag. Don't think I'll be sorry to see it happen, either. Here's a little something else to remember me by."

Jeff saw it coming, but he was too winded to save himself. Myron's boot thumped into his left side at the bottom of the rib cage. Every organ inside him burst or ripped out of position. He could not bite back his cry of pain.

Myron bent low, so his face was only a couple of inches from Jeff's. "Hurts, does it? Good. Get your fancy bitch to kiss it better. And here's something else for you to think about while she's at it: I enjoyed doing this a lot more than I enjoyed doing her."

He straightened. Jeff heard the clump of boots, then the sound of the door closing. His attempt to sit up produced an intolerable stab of pain in his side. He lay with his eyes closed, praying for it to become less.

It had to become less. There was something that he must do, soon, no matter how much he hurt.

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