Poul Anderson - Flandry 10 - The Day Of Their Return

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The Day of Their Return
by Poul Anderson
Version 1.1
I
On the third day he arose, and ascended again to the light.
Dawn gleamed across a sea which had once been an ocean. To north, cliffs
lifted blue from the steel gray of its horizon; and down them went a streak
which was the falls, whose thunder beat dim through a windless cold. The sky
stood violet in the west, purple overhead, white in the east where the sun
came climbing. But still the morning star shone there, the planet of the First
Chosen.
I am the first of the Second Chosen, Jaan knew: and the voice of those who
choose. To be man is to be radiance.
His nostrils drank air, his muscles exulted. Never had he been this aware.
From the brightness of his face to the grit below his feet, he was real.
—O glory upon glory, said that which within him was Caruith.
—It overwhelms this poor body, said Jaan. I am new to resurrection. Do you not
feel yourself a stranger in chains?
—Six million years have blown by in the night, said Caruith. I remember waves
besparkled and a shout of surf, where now stones lie gaunt beneath us; I
remember pride in walls and columns, where ruin huddles above the mouth of the
tomb whence we have come; I remember how clouds walked clad in rainbows.
Before all, I seek to remember—and fail, because the flesh I am cannot bear
the fire I was—I seek to remember the fullness of existence.
Jaan lifted hands to the crown engirdling his brows.
—For you, this is a heavy burden, he said.
—No, sang Caruith. I share the opening that it has made for you and your race.
I will grow with, you, and you with me, and they with us, until mankind is not
only worthy to be received into Oneness, it will bring thereunto what is
wholly its own. And at last sentience will create God. Now come, let us
proclaim it to the people.
He/they went up the mountain toward the Arena.
Above them paled Dido, the morning star.
II
East of Windhome the country rolled low for a while, then lifted in the
Hesperian Hills. Early summer had gentled their starkness with leaves.
Blue-green, gray-green, here and there the intense green-green of oak or
cedar, purple of rasmin, spread in single trees, bushes, widely spaced groves,
across an onyx tinged red and yellow which was the land's living mantle, fire
trava.
A draught blew from sunset. Ivar Frederiksen shivered. Even his gunstock felt
cold beneath his hand. The sward he lay on had started to curl up for the
night, turning into a springy mat. Its daytime odor of flint and sparks was
almost gone. A delphi overarched him: gnarled low trunk, grotto of branches
and foliage. Multitudinous rustlings went through it, like whispers in an
unknown tongue. His vision ranged over a slope bestrewn with shrubs and
boulders, to a valley full of shadow. The riverside road was lost in that
dusk, the water a wan gleam. His heart knocked, louder than the sound of the
Wildfoss flowing.
Nobody. Will they never come?
A flash caught his eye and breath. An aircraft out of the west?
No. The leaves in their restlessness had confused him. What rose above
Hornbeck Ridge was just Creusa. Laughter snapped forth, a sign of how taut
were his nerves. As if to seek companionship, he followed the moon. It
glimmered ever more bright, waxing while it climbed eastward. A pair of wings
likewise caught rays from the hidden sun and shone gold against indigo heaven.
Easy! he tried to scold himself. You're nigh on disminded. What if this will
be your first battle? No excuse. You're ringleader, aren't you?
Though born to the thin dry air of Aeneas, he felt his nasal passages hurt,
his tongue leather. He reached for a canteen. Filled at yonder stream, it gave
him a taste of iron.
"Aah—" he began. And then the Imperials were come.
They appeared like that, sudden as a blow. A part of him knew how. Later than
awaited, they had been concealed by twilight and a coppice in his line of
sight, until their progress brought them into unmistakable view. But had none
of his followers seen them earlier? The guerrillas covered three kilometers on
both sides of the gorge. This didn't speak well for their readiness.
Otherwise Ivar was caught in a torrent. He didn't know what roared through
him, fear, anger, insanity, nor had he time to wonder. He did observe, in a
flicker of amazement, no heroic joy or stern determination. His body obeyed
plans while something wailed, How did I get into this? How do I get out?
He was on his feet. He gave the hunting cry of a spider wolf, and heard it
echoed and passed on. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, the
nightmask over his face. He snatched his rifle off the ground and sprang from
the shelter of the delphi.
Every sense was fever-brilliant. He saw each coiled blade of the fire trava
whereon he ran, felt how it gave beneath his boots and rebounded, caught a
last warmth radiated from a giant rock, drank in the sweetness of a cedar,
brushed the roughness of an oak, could have counted the petals a rasmin spread
above him or measured the speed at which a stand of plume trava folded against
the gathering cold—but that was all on the edge of awareness, as was the play
inside of muscles, nerves, blood, lungs, pulse—his being was aimed at his
enemies.
They were human, a platoon of marines, afoot save for the driver of a field
gun. It hummed along on a gravsled, two meters off the road. Though helmeted,
the men were in loose order and walked rather than marched, expecting no
trouble on a routine patrol. Most had connected the powerpacks on their
shoulders to the heating threads in their baggy green coveralls.
The infrascope on Ivar's rifle told him that. His eyes told of comrades who
rose from bush and leaped down the hillsides, masked and armed like him. His
ears caught raw young voices, war-calls and wordless yells. Shots crackled.
The Aeneans had double the number of their prey, advantage of surprise, will
to be free.
They lacked energy weapons; but a sleet of bullets converged on the artillery
piece. Ivar saw its driver cast from his seat, a red rag. We've got them! He
sent a burst himself, then continued his charge, low and zigzag. The plan, the
need was to break the platoon and carry their equipment into the wilderness.
The cannon descended. Ivar knew, too late: Some kind of dead-man switch. The
marines, who had thrown their bodies flat, got up and sought it. A few lay
wounded or slain; the rest reached its shelter. Blaster bolts flared and
boomed, slugthrowers raved. The Aenean closest to Ivar trembled, rolled over
and over, came to a halt and screamed. Screamed. Screamed. His blood on the
turf was outrageously bright, spread impossibly wide.
A new Imperial took the big gun's controls. Lightning flew across the river,
which threw its blue-whiteness back like molten metal. Thunder hammered. Where
that beam passed were no more trees or shrubs or warriors. Smoke roiled above
ash.
Blind and deaf, Ivar fell. He clawed at the soil, because he thought the
planet was trying to whirl him off.
After a fraction of eternity, the delirium passed. His head still tolled,
tatters of light drifted before his vision, but he could hear, see, almost
think.
A daggerbush partly screened him. He had ripped his right sleeve and arm on
it, but was otherwise unhurt. Nearby sprawled a corpse. Entrails spilled
forth. The mask hid which friend this had been. How wrong, how obscene to
expose the guts without the face.
Ivar strained through gloom. The enemy had not turned their fieldpiece on this
bank of the river. Instead, they used small arms as precision tools. Against
their skill and discipline, the guerrillas were glass tossed at armor plate.
Guerrillas? We children? And I led us. Ivar fought not to vomit, not to weep.
He must sneak off. Idiot luck, nothing else, had kept him alive and unnoticed.
But the marines were taking prisoners. He saw them bring in several who were
lightly injured. Several more, outgunned, raised their hands.
Nobody keeps a secret from a hypnoprobe.
Virgil slipped beneath an unseen horizon. Night burst forth.
Aeneas rotates in twenty hours, nineteen minutes, and a few seconds. Dawn was
not far when Ivar Frederiksen reached Windhome.
Gray granite walled the ancestral seat of the Firstman of Ilion. It stood near
the edge of an ancient cape. In tiers and scarps, crags and cliffs, thinly
brush-grown or naked rock, the continental shelf dropped down three kilometers
to the Antonine Seabed. So did the river, a flash by the castle, a clangor of
cataracts.
The portal stood closed, a statement that the occupation troops were
considered bandits. Ivar stumbled to press the scanner plate. Chimes echoed
emptily.
Weariness was an ache which rose in his marrow and seeped through bones and
flesh till blood ran thick with it. His knees shook, his jaws clattered. The
dried sweat that he could taste and smell on himself stung the cracks in his
lips. Afraid to use roads, he had fled a long and rough way.
He leaned on the high steel door and sucked air through a mummy mouth. A
breeze sheathed him in iciness. Yet somehow he had never been as aware of the
beauty of this land, now when it was lost to him.
The sky soared crystalline black, wild with stars. Through the thin air they
shone steadily, in diamond hues; and the Milky Way was a white torrent, and a
kindred cloud in the Ula was our sister galaxy spied across a million and a
half light-years. Creusa had set; but slower Lavinia rode aloft in her second
quarter. Light fell argent on hoarfrost.
Eastward reached fields, meadows, woodlots, bulks that were sleeping
farmsteads, and at last the hills. Ivar's gaze fared west. There the rich
bottomlands ran in orchards, plantations, canals night-frozen into mirrors,
the burnished shield of a salt marsh, to the world's rim. He thought he saw
lights move. Were folk abroad already? No, he couldn't make out lamps over
such a distance ... lanterns on ghost ships, sailing an ocean that vanished
three million years ago....
The portal swung wide. Sergeant Astaff stood behind. In defiance of Imperial
decree, his stocky frame bore Ilian uniform. He had left off hood and mask,
though. In the unreal luminance, his head was not grizzled, it was as white as
the words which puffed from him.
"Firstlin' Ivar! Where you been? What's gone on? Your mother's gnawed fear for
you this whole past five-day." The heir to the house lurched by him. Beyond
the gateway, the courtyard was crisscrossed with moon-shadows from towers,
battlements, main keep and lesser building. A hound, of the lean heavy-jawed
Hesperian breed, was the only other life in sight. Its claws clicked on
flagstones, unnaturally loud.
Astaff pushed a button to close the door. For a time he squinted until he said
slowly, "Better give me that rifle, Firstlin'. I know places where Terrans
won't poke."
"Me too," sighed from Ivar.
"Didn't do you a lot o' good, stashed away till you were ready for—whatever
you've done—hey?" Astaff held out his hand.
"Trouble I'm in, it makes no difference if they catch me with this." Ivar took
hold of the firearm. "Except I'd make them pay for me."
Something kindled in the old man. He, like his fathers before him, had served
the Firstmen of Ilion for a lifetime. Nevertheless, or else for that same
reason, pain was in his tone. "Why'd you not ask me for help?"
"You'd have talked me out of it," Ivar said. "You'd have been right," he
added.
"What did you try?"
"Ambushin' local patrol. To start stockpilin' weapons. I don't know how many
of us escaped. Probably most didn't."
Astaff regarded him.
Ivar Frederiksen was tall, 185 centimeters, slender save for wide shoulders
and the Aenean depth of chest. Exhaustion weighted down his normal agility and
hoarsened the tenor voice. Snub-nosed, square-jawed, freckled, his face looked
still younger than it was; no noticeable beard had grown during the past
hours. His hair, cut short at nape and ears in the nord manner, was yellow,
seldom free of a cowlick or a stray lock across the forehead. Beneath dark
brows, his eyes were large and green. Under his jacket he wore the
high-collared shirt, pouched belt, heavy-bladed sheath knife, thick trousers
tucked into half-boots, of ordinary outdoor dress. There was, in truth, little
to mark him off from any other upper-class lad of his planet.
That little was enough.
"What caveheads you were," the sergeant said at last.
A twitch of anger: "We should sit clay-soft for Terrans to mold, fire, and use
however they see fit?"
"Well," Astaff replied, "I would've planned my strike better, and drilled
longer beforetime."
He took Ivar by the elbow. "You're spent like a cartridge," he said. "Go to my
quarters. You remember where I bunk, no? Thank Lord, my wife's off visitin'
our daughter's family. Grab shower, food, sleep. I've sentry-go till
oh-five-hundred. Can't call substitute without drawin' questions; but
nobody'll snuff at you."
Ivar blinked. "What do you mean? My own rooms—"
"Yah!" Astaff snorted. "Go on. Rouse your mother, your kid sister. Get 'em
involved. Sure. They'll be interrogated, you know, soon's Impies've found you
were in that broil. They'll be narcoquizzed, or even 'probed, if any reason
develops to think they got clue to your whereabouts. That what you want? Okay.
Go bid 'em fond farewell."
Ivar took a backward step, lifted bis hands in appeal. "No. I, I, I never
thought—"
"Right."
"Of course I'll— What do you have in mind?" Ivar asked humbly.
"Get you off before Impies arrive. Good thing your dad's been whole while in
Nova Roma; clear-cut innocent, and got influence to protect family if Terrans
find no sign you were ever here after fight. Hey? You'll leave soon. Wear
servant's livery I'll filch for you, snoutmask like you're sneezewort
allergic, weapon under cloak. Walk like you got hurry-up errand. This is big
household; nobody ought to notice you especially. I'll've found some yeoman
who'll take you in, Sam Hedin, Frank Vance, whoever, loyal and livin' offside.
You go there."
"And then?"
Astaff, shrugged. "Who knows? When zoosny's died down, I'll slip your folks
word you're alive and loose. Maybe later your dad can wangle pardon for you.
But if Terrans catch you while their dead are fresh—son, they'll make example.
I know Empire. Traveled through it more than once with Admiral McCormac." As
he spoke the name, he saluted. The average Imperial agent who saw would have
arrested him on the spot.
Ivar swallowed and stammered, "I... I can't thank—"
"You're next Firstman of Ilion," the sergeant snapped. "Maybe last hope we
got, this side of Elders returnin'. Now, before somebody comes, haul your butt
out of here—and don't forget the rest of you!"
III
Chunderban Desai's previous assignment had been to the delegation which
negotiated an end of the Jihannath crisis. That wasn't the change of pace in
his career which it seemed. His Majesty's administrators must forever be
dickering, compromising, feeling their way, balancing conflicts of
individuals, organizations, societies, races, sentient species. The need for
skill—quickly to grasp facts, comprehend a situation, brazen out a bluff when
in spite of everything the unknown erupted into one's calculations—was
greatest at the intermediate level of bureaucracy which he had reached. A
resident might deal with a single culture, and have no more to do than keep an
eye on affairs. A sector governor oversaw such vastness that to him it became
a set of abstractions. But the various ranks of commissioner were expected to
handle personally large and difficult territories.
Desai had worked in regions that faced Betelgeuse and, across an unclaimed and
ill-explored buffer zone, the Roidhunate of Merseia. Thus he was a natural
choice for the special diplomatic team. In his quiet style, he backstopped the
head of it, Lord Advisor Chardon, so well that afterward he received a raise
in grade, and was appointed High Commissioner of the Virgilian System, at the
opposite end of the Empire.
But this was due to an equally natural association of ideas. The mutiny in
Sector Alpha Crucis had been possible because most of the Navy was tied up
around Jihannath, where full-scale war looked far too likely. After Terra
nevertheless, brilliantly, put the rebels down, Merseia announced that its
wish all along had been to avoid a major clash and it was prepared to bargain.
When presently the Policy Board looked about for able people to reconstruct
Sector Alpha Crucis, Lord Chardon recommended Desai with an enthusiasm that
got him put in charge of Virgil, whose human-colonized planet Aeneas had been
the spearhead of the revolt.
Perhaps that was why Desai often harked back to the Merseians, however remote
from him they seemed these days.
In a rare moment of idleness, while he waited in his Nova Roma office for the
next visitor, he remembered his final conversation with Uldwyr.
They had played corresponding roles on behalf of their respective sovereigns,
and in a wry way had become friends. When the protocol had, at weary last,
been drawn, the two of them supplemented the dull official celebration with a
dinner of their own.
Desai recalled their private room in a restaurant. The wall animations were
poor; but a place which catered to a variety of sophonts couldn't be expected
to understand everybody's art, and the meal was an inspired combination of
human and Merseian dishes.
"Have a refill," Uldwyr invited, and raised a crock of his people's pungent
ale.
"No, thank you," Desai said. "I prefer tea. That dessert filled me to the
scuppers."
"The what? —Never mind, I seize the idea, if not the idiom." Though each was
fluent in the other's principal language, and their vocal organs were not very
different, it was easiest for Desai to speak Anglic and Uldwyr Eriau. "You've
tucked in plenty of food, for certain."
"My particular vice, I fear," Desai smiled. "Besides, more alcohol would
muddle me. I haven't your mass to assimilate it."
"What matter if you get drunk? I plan to. Our job is done." And then Uldwyr
added: "For now."
Shocked, Desai stared across the table.
Uldwyr gave him back a quizzical glance. The Merseian's face was almost human,
if one overlooked thick bones and countless details of the flesh. But his
finely scaled green skin had no hair whatsoever, he lacked earflaps, a low
serration ran from the top of his skull, down his back to the end of the
crocodilian tail which counterbalanced his big, forward-leaning body. Arms and
hands were, again, nearly manlike; legs and clawed splay feet could have
belonged to a biped dinosaur. He wore black, silver-trimmed military tunic and
trousers, colorful emblems of rank and of the Vach Hallen into which he was
born. A blaster hung on his hip.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Oh ... nothing." In Desai's mind went: He didn't mean it hostilely—hostilely
to me as a person—his remark. He, his whole civilization, minces words less
small than we do. Struggle against Terra is just a fact. The Roidhunate will
compromise disputes when expediency dictates, but never the principle that
eventually the Empire must be destroyed. Because we—old, sated, desirous only
of maintaining a peace which lets us pursue our pleasures—we stand in the way
of their ambitions for the Race. Lest the balance of power be upset, we block
them, we thwart them, wherever we can; and they seek to undermine us, grind us
down, wear us out. But this is nothing personal. I am Uldwyr's honorable
enemy, therefore his friend. By giving him opposition, I give meaning to his
life.
The other divined his thoughts and uttered the harsh Merseian chuckle. "If you
want to pretend tonight that matters have been settled for aye, do. I'd really
rather we both got drunk and traded war songs."
"I am not a man of war," Desai said.
Beneath a shelf of brow ridge, Uldwyr's eyelids expressed skepticism while his
mouth grinned. "You mean you don't like physical violence. It was quite an
effective war you waged at the conference table."
He swigged from his tankard. Desai saw that he was already a little tipsy. "I
imagine the next phase will also be quiet," he went on. "Ungloved force hasn't
worked too well lately. Starkad, Jihannath—no, I'd look for us to try
something more crafty and long-range. Which ought to suit your Empire,
khraich? You've made a good thing for your Naval Intelligence out of the joint
commission on Talwin." Desai, who knew that, kept silence. "Maybe our turn is
coming."
Hating his duty, Desai asked in his most casual voice, "Where?"
"Who knows?" Uldwyr gestured the equivalent of a shrug. "I have no doubt, and
neither do you, we've a swarm of agents in Sector Alpha Crucis, for instance.
Besides the recent insurrection, it's close to the Domain of
Ythri, which has enjoyed better relations with us than with you—" His hand
chopped the air. "No, I'm distressing you, am I not? And with what can only be
guesswork. Apologies. See here, if you don't care for more ale, why not
arthberry brandy? I guarantee a first-class drunk and— You may suppose you're
a peaceful fellow, Chunderban, but I know an atom or two about your people,
your specific people, I mean. What's that old, old book I've heard you mention
and quote from? Rixway?"
"Rig-Veda," Desai told him.
"You said it includes war chants. Do you know any well enough to put into
Anglic? There's a computer terminal." He pointed to a corner. "You can patch
right into our main translator, now that official business is over. I'd like
to hear a bit of your special tradition, Chunderban. So many traditions,
works, mysteries—so tiny a lifespan to taste them—"
It became a memorable evening.
Restless, Desai stirred in his chair.
He was a short man with a dark-brown moon face and a paunch. At fifty-five
standard years of age, his hair remained black but had receded from the top of
his head. The full lips were usually curved slightly upward, which joined the
liquid eyes to give him a wistful look. As was his custom, today he wore
plain, loosely fitted white shirt and trousers, on his feet slippers a size
large for comfort.
Save for the communication and data-retrieval consoles that occupied one wall,
his office was similarly unpretentious. It did have a spectacular holograph, a
view of Mount Gandhi on his home planet, Ramanujan. But otherwise the pictures
were of his wife, their seven children, the families of those four who were
grown and settled on as many different globes. A bookshelf held codices as
well as reels; some were much-used reference works, the rest for refreshment,
poetry, history, essays, most of their authors centuries dust. His desk was
less neat than his person.
I shouldn't go taking vacations in the past, he thought God knows the present
needs more of me than I have to give.
Or does it? Spare me the ultimate madness of ever considering myself
indispensable.
Well, but somebody must man this post. He happens to be me.
Must somebody? How much really occurs because of me, how much in spite of or
regardless of? How much, and what, should occur? God! I dared accept the job
of ruling, remaking an entire world—when I knew nothing more about it than its
name, and that simply because it was the planet of Hugh McCormac, the man who
would be Emperor. After two years, what else have I learned?
Ordinarily he could sit quiet, but the Hesperian episode had been too
shocking, less in itself than in its implications. Whatever they were. How
could he plan against the effect on these people, once the news got out, when
he, the foreigner, had no intuition of what that effect might be?
He put a cigarette into a long, elaborately carved holder of landwhale ivory.
(He thought it was in atrocious taste, but it had been given him for a
birthday present by a ten-year-old daughter who died soon afterward.) The
tobacco was an expensive self-indulgence, grown on Esperance, the closest
thing to Terran he could obtain hereabouts while shipping remained sparse.
The smoke-bite didn't soothe him. He jumped up and prowled. He hadn't yet
adapted so fully to the low gravity of Aeneas, 63 percent standard, that he
didn't consciously enjoy movement. The drawback was the dismal exercises he
must go through each morning, if he didn't want to turn completely into lard.
Unfair, that the Aeneans tended to be such excellent physical specimens
without effort. No, not really unfair. On this niggard sphere, few could
afford a large panoply of machines; even today, more travel was on foot or
animal back than in vehicles, more work done by hand than by automatons or
cybernets. Also, in earlier periods—the initial colonization, the Troubles,
the slow climb back from chaos—death had winnowed the unfit out of their
bloodlines.
Desai halted at the north wall, activated its transparency, and gazed forth
across Nova Roma.
Though itself two hundred Terran years old, Imperial House jutted awkwardly
from the middle of a city founded seven centuries ago. Most buildings in this
district were at least half that age, and architecture had varied little
through time. In a climate where it seldom rained and never snowed; where the
enemies were drought, cold, hurricane winds, drifting dust, scouring sand;
where water for bricks and concrete, forests for timber, organics for
synthesis were rare and precious, one quarried the stone which Aeneas did have
in abundance, and used its colors and textures.
The typical structure was a block, two or three stories tall, topped by a flat
deck which was half garden—the view from above made a charming motley—and half
solar-energy collector. Narrow windows carried shutters ornamented with brass
or iron arabesques; the heavy doors were of similar appearance. In most cases,
the gray ashlars bore a veneer of carefully chosen and integrated slabs,
marble, agate, chalcedony, jasper, nephrite, materials more exotic than that;
and often there were carvings besides, friezes, armorial bearings, grotesques;
and erosion had mellowed it all, to make the old part of town one subtle
harmony. The wealthier homes, shops, and offices surrounded cloister courts,
vitryl-roofed to conserve heat and water, where statues and plants stood among
fishponds and fountains.
The streets were cramped and twisted, riddled with alleys, continually opening
on small irrational plazas. Traffic was thin, mainly pedestrian, otherwise
groundcars, trucks, and countryfolk on soft-gaited Aenean horses or six-legged
green stathas (likewise foreign, though Desai couldn't offhand remember where
they had originated). A capital city—population here a third of a million,
much the largest—would inevitably hurt more and recover slower from a war than
its hinterland.
He lifted his eyes to look onward. Being to south, the University wasn't
visible through this wall. What he saw was the broad bright sweep of the River
Flone, and ancient high-arched bridges across it; beyond, the Julian Canal,
its tributaries, verdant parks along them, barges and pleasure boats upon
their surfaces; farther still, the intricacy of many lesser but newer canals,
the upthrust of modern buildings in garish colors, a tinge of industrial
haze—the Web."
However petty by Terran standards, he thought, that youngest section was the
seedbed of his hopes: in the manufacturing, mercantile, and managerial classes
which had arisen during the past few generations, whose interests lay less
with the scholars and squirearchs than with the Imperium and its Pax.
Or can I call on them? he wondered. I've been doing it; but how reliable are
they?
A single planet is too big for single me to understand.
Right and left he spied the edge of wilderness. Life lay emerald on either
side of the Flone, where it ran majestically down from the north polar cap. He
could see hamlets, manors, water traffic; he knew that the banks were
croplands and pasture. But the belt was only a few kilometers wide.
Elsewhere reared worn yellow cliffs, black basalt ridges, ocherous dunes, on
and on beneath a sky almost purple. Shadows were sharper-edged than on Terra
or Ramanujan, for the sun was half again as far away, its disc shrunken. He
knew that now, in summer at a middle latitude, the air was chill; he observed
on the tossing tendrils of a rahab tree in a roof garden how strongly the wind
blew. Come sunset, temperatures would plunge below freezing. And yet Virgil
was brighter than Sol, an F7; one could not look near it without heavy eye
protection, and Desai marveled that light-skinned humans had ever settled in
lands this cruelly irradiated.
Well, planets where unarmored men could live at all were none too common; and
there had been the lure of Dido. In the beginning, this was a scientific base,
nothing else. No, the second beginning, ages after the unknown builders of
what stood in unknowable ruins....
A world, a history like that; and I am supposed to tame them?
His receptionist said through the intercom, "Aycharaych," pronouncing the
lilting diphthongs and guttural ch's well. It was programmed to mimic
languages the instant it heard them. That gratified visitors, especially
non-humans.
"What?" Desai blinked. The tickler on his desk screened a notation of the
appointment. "Oh. Oh, yes." He popped out of his reverie. That being who
arrived on the Llynathawr packet day before yesterday. Wants a permit to
conduct studies. "Send him in, please." (By extending verbal courtesy even to
a subunit of a computer, the High Commissioner helped maintain an amicable
atmosphere. Perhaps.) The screen noted that the newcomer was male, or at any
rate referred to himself as such. Planet of origin was listed as
Jean-Baptiste, wherever that might be: doubtless a name bestowed by humans
because the autochthons had too many different ones of their own.
The door retracted while Aycharaych stepped through. Desai caught his breath.
He had not expected someone this impressive.
Or was that the word? Was "disturbing" more accurate? Xenosophonts who
resembled humans occasionally had that effect on the latter; and Aycharaych
was more anthropoid than Uldwyr.
One might indeed call him beautiful. He stood tall and thin in a gray robe,
broad-chested but wasp-waisted, a frame that ought to have moved gawkily but
instead flowed. The bare feet each had four long claws, and spurs on the
ankles. The hands were six-fingered, tapered, their nails suggestive of
talons. The head arched high and narrow, bearing pointed ears, great rust-red
eyes, curved blade of nose, delicate mouth, pointed chin and sharply angled
jaws; Desai thought of a Byzantine saint. A crest of blue feathers rose above,
and tiny plumes formed eyebrows. Otherwise his skin was wholly smooth across
the prominent bones, a glowing golden color.
After an instant's hesitation, Desai said, "Ah ... welcome, Honorable. I hope
I can be of service." They shook hands. Aycharaych's was warmer than his. The
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TheDayofTheirReturnbyPoulAndersonVersion1.1IOnthethirddayhearose,andascendedagaintothelight.Dawngleamedacrossaseawhichhadoncebeenanocean.Tonorth,cliffsliftedbluefromthesteelgrayofitshorizon;anddownthemwentastreakwhichwasthefalls,whosethunderbeatdimthroughawindlesscold.Theskystoodvioletinthewest,purp...

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