"The wild Joeys around the Stronghold have disappeared," Chaka said.
"The tame Joeys were tearing up their claws trying to burrow. It was making Mary Ann Weyland crazy until she turned them loose. They burrowed in and estivated. At sea we're getting eels—"
"Eels?" Jessica asked.
"There've been over thirty eels since Big Mama," Chaka said. "Eels in nearly every Camelot stream. Father thinks the solar cycle is the trigger. More ultraviolet, and the eels start to spawn. Probably triggers other biological reactions too, but there isn't enough biology on this island to notice."
"But there'll be a lot on the mainland?" Aaron asked. "Interesting.
We'd better make sure Edgar is watching that, too. Edgar?"
"Yeah. Aaron, weather problems will get serious in about four months.
Tornadoes that can tear Robor to tinsel before you can say shit-oh-dear. We could do worse than to leave Robor in his nice safe hangar for the whole season. Watch the mainland from orbit, send some probes, let the First cool down for a year. We can collect so many good questions that it'll drive them crazy by the time the weather settles down."
Chaka waited for Aaron to destroy Edgar. He was surprised when Aaron mildly said, "Sitting on our asses isn't exactly to my taste, but it certainly makes a good default option. Can you and Chaka work up some probes for the interesting mainland ecologies? Chaka, we do this right and we'll have your father foaming at the mouth."
"Hell, yes," Chaka said.
"You'll work on that? Maybe you could talk to Edgar in the bedroom for a while."
Edgar coughed, seeming almost embarrassed. "Not too long a talk, okay?
I have an appointment with Toshiro."
Chaka waited for the criticism, and was again surprised to see Aaron nod understandingly. "This will only take a minute. The rest of us can map out a way to return to the mainland. We'll flash it to you later for comment and refinement." Edgar winked off.
Chaka went into the bedroom and closed the door.
The room was near silent until the monitor returned to a view of the Scribeveldt.
"Edgar," Katya said, "could be a problem."
"Asset," Aaron said absently. "The secret to life is turning stumbling blocks into stepping-stones."
"And just how do you do that?"
His grin was pure evil. Instead of answering. Aaron templed his fingers and narrowed his eyes at Trish. "I believe that you have things to do and people to see."
Trish grabbed her gym bag from the corner. "And places to go. On my way."
"Oh, and Trish—you will be endearingly clumsy, won't you?"
She took a step toward the door and stumbled, barely catching herself. She assumed her best poor-little-me expression. "I just don't know what's wrong with me today." And she was gone.
Jessica stooped to look carefully into Aaron's eyes. "And just what are you up to?"
"I could tell you," he said cheerfully, "but then I'd have to kill you."
"Tsuruashi-dashi," Toshiro barked. Edgar's mind swirled. He was staggering through that twilight zone between fatigue and utter exhaustion. He'd been marching back and forth across the hard rubber gymnasium floor for what seemed like hours but couldn't have been more than fifty minutes.
His legs were sacks of wet sand. The fire in his chest threatened to engulf him. Toshiro stood before him in white pajamas, a garment he called a gi, with a black sash knotted about the waist.
Edgar kept his mind on that belt. His father had earned one back on Earth. Toshiro had earned his by satisfying Cassandra's kinesthetic model of a third dan karate expert. Joe Sikes had tried to interest Edgar in the formal dances, the complex and challenging stances, the terrifying strikes and kicks of Kyukushin karate. Edgar had learned only his own terrifying vulnerability. He was as likely to perform surgery on a friend as to kill with a mae-geri front kick.
Now Joe was dead. Maybe this penance was a way of keeping a little of his father alive.
Edgar stood in the Tsuruashi-dashi, the crane stance, balanced on his left leg, the right foot tucked up on his thigh, arms spread for balance. His calf was cramping, his toes digging into mat for balance so hard that he felt his toenails ready to rip free.
Toshiro wasn't the laughing funster now. Not the talented guitarist, nor the avid surfer, or careful lover. When he donned that white uniform something else came out. Maybe he was channeling a sixteenth-century samurai. Or Thomas DeTorquemada. One of those fun guys.
No mirth shone in Toshiro's eyes, but finally he acknowledged Edgar's suffering. Toshiro softened his voice momentarily. "Do you feel the similarity between this and the yoga Tree Pose?"
Edgar's whole body trembled. Why was this so damned hard? Bruce Lee made it look easy. He was drowning in a sea of lactic acid. "I, uh... I have to stand on one leg?"
"That's the obvious answer. Look deeper."
The room was spinning. This asshole wasn't going to let him put his foot down until he answered! He was going to fall, crack his head, and his brains would run out on the mat. Maybe then the Shogun of Suffering would be satisfied. Edgar almost smiled to himself, appreciating the alliteration.
Wait. Suddenly, he had the answer. "Balance," he gasped. "I have to concentrate on the same place in my body, you know, at my navel."
"Just below your navel, and three inches in. The center of mass. In Japanese, ham. In sanscrit, Manipura. All right, bring your foot down slowly."
Edgar nearly collapsed, almost didn't hear the polite applause from the side of the gym. He turned and saw Trish. She was dressed in a tan leotard that revealed the curves and angles of that magnificent body more than simply nudity ever could. What was she doing here? Was she here to watch him make a fool of himself? This was only his tenth lesson. It wasn't fair!
Toshiro seemed to read Edgar's mind. "Trish asked if she could join us today. It's her fourth lesson. She's having some trouble with her stances."
Trouble? Trish? Hard to believe.
She smiled at him. He wasn't certain, but it might have been the first time he had ever seen it up close. Even when stern she was just drop-dead gorgeous. But her smile was sort of sweet, and disarmingly girlish. "Do you mind?"
"Well, ah—"
"I thought it might be a good idea for her to see a student who is better than she is, but not so much better that it is discouraging," Toshiro said quietly.
I'm better than she is? At something physical?
Suddenly, and quiet dramatically, all of the fatigue flitted away on wings of testosterone. He felt an inch taller, and his muscles—flabby and girded with fat though they were—were suddenly steel bands. Well, rubber bands. But bands nonetheless.
She stood by his side. Taller than he by an inch, and devastatingly feminine for all of the muscle now clearly revealed to view.
"Today you learn to teach what you know," Toshiro said. "Let her take her stance, and you make the corrections."
"Would you?" she asked. There was no mockery in her voice, but some part of him still just couldn't believe it.
"Zenkutsu-dachi!" Toshiro barked. Trish bent her front knee, and leaned forward, straightening her rear leg. She wobbled badly.