“That we shall,” the Impact said a bit grimly. “Do you, the victim, prefer charges against this entity?”
“No,” she said grudgingly. “It was an accident. I am pleased with my offspring. Only give me safe conduct to my zone.”
“As you wish,” the Impact said. “These things do happen.”
And so she departed with the little one, and Flint was conducted to the ruling council of his sex. He knew from data within his host’s memory that the council entities possessed the acumen to comprehend and verify his message, and the self-interest to cooperate. After all, this tri-sexed species could not have formed a stellar empire without knowledge of space and a high technology. Their achievement in doing it from a water base was phenomenal; it spoke well of their potential and drive. He would soon be back in his home sphere, mission accomplished.
He hoped the two Impacts he had fushed would not come forward to testify against him. But probably they would hide that embarrassing secret, as a human man might hide the fact of a homosexual attack on him. Justice was not worth the notoriety.
He rather hated to leave Llyana behind. He doubted he would ever again encounter a Kirlian aura that intense. And she had spirit and intelligence. She was in many respects his ideal mate.
But then he thought of Honeybloom, and remembered that he could never marry a nonhuman entity. How could they stay together any length of time, with fading auras? No, he belonged with his own kind.
6. Eye of the Charioteer
*notice agent mired in sphere spica cannot remove for some time*
—we know! what of the target kirlian?—
*retransferred to sphere sol no subsequent transfer*
—well check the mattermission indications, idiot!—
*target kirlian mattermitted to system capella within own sphere*
—detail on system—
*renaissance culture despotic center of internal resistance to domination of earth planet some infiltration by agents of anti-coalition spheres dominated by scheming queen*
—excellent that system may take care of our problem for us!—
*POWER*
—CIVILIZATION—
Capella was forty-five light-years from Sol, in the general direction of Sphere Nath but only a sixth as far. Its closest colonized neighbor was Castor, about as far away from it as Sirius was from Sol. What were eight or ten light-years between friends? Nothing like the hundred and some light-years to Etamin. Some day Flint meant to stop in at his home planet—but alas, Capella was not on that route.
He arrived in his own body in the afternoon, unannounced. Sol controlled the mattermitter, so that could be arranged. The station attendant, another pale-whitish specimen in an Imperial black tunic, introduced himself as Ambassador Jones of Earth. Flint identified himself. The man looked him up in the Orders of the Day and became more affable. “I’ve never met a genuine Outworlder before,” he remarked. “I had understood that planet was—”
“Stone Age,” Flint finished for him. “Right. And I really am a jolly green giant. And I chipped stone for a living, until the Imps snatched me. I’m here to—” he hesitated.
“Do not be concerned; I am cleared for such information. It’s in your dossier. You are our chief transfer agent, on temporary leave to recover your aura. I gather it fades somewhat during transfer.”
“Yes. They did not trust me to visit my home world. Afraid I might skip back to the better life.”
“Ha ha,” the man laughed dutifully, though Flint had been serious. “Well, we shall take good care of you. Tonight is a very special occasion, locally. Good Queen Bess is having a birthday party. Capella is in the midrange of regression, culturally and technologically, you know. Post-medieval, early Renaissance, though of course that isn’t exact. You’d think that in the three hundred years it’s been settled they’d have advanced further, but there have been complicating factors. A number of the parallels to Earth history are contrived; the Queen is a student of history, and you can guess who her idol is.”
“I’d have to,” Flint remarked. “I’m more of a student of Paleolithic events myself. I’m not much on contemporary Earth.”
But he did remember that the Shaman had called Capella “Victorian.” Evidently it was further regressed than that Maybe its population had been too thin to sustain the Victorian level.
The Ambassador chuckled again. “Well I have made arrangements for you to attend as the representative from System Etamin. Should make quite a splash. Do you have any idea what it costs to mattermit a man your size a hundred light-years?”
“Two trillion dollars,” Flint said immediately.
The Ambassador looked startled; evidently he had expected ignorance. “Ah, yes. Queen Bess will be flattered to think that a system over thirty parsecs distant has sent a man to honor her. I would imagine you’ll be feted. You should enjoy it. These are a lusty people, for all their mannerisms, much given to feasting and, er, wenching.”
Flint thought of Honeybloom, back on Outworld. When would he see her again? At any rate, she was not the jealous type. His dallying elsewhere would not bother her, as long as she knew he preferred her. Men were men, after all. “Sounds great.”
“Let’s get you outfitted.” The man brought out an armful of costume clothing. “This habiliment may seem outlandish, but believe me, it’s what they wear. This is a suit appropriate to a high-ranking envoy.”
“Wouldn’t an authentic Outworld outfit be better?”
“Possibly. What is the established Outworld costume?”
“Nothing,” Flint said. “We run naked.”
The man forced yet another laugh. Flint got the message. When in the Capella system, dress Capella style.
He tugged his way into the skintight pants. “These are awful,” he complained. “They’re one size smaller than my skin.”
“That’s the style. Actually, you have very nice legs. The Queen has a fine eye for that sort of thing. Muscle in the right places, no fat. Now this.”
Flint eyed the bright-red bag. “What’s that?”
“The codpiece.”
“A piece of fish? Looks more like a scrotum.”
“Precisely. A crotch guard. This one’s armored, just in case.”
“It’s uncomfortable as hell! Suppose I need to—?”
“Ha ha. It’s removable. Wait till you try on the armor.”
“Armor?”
The Ambassador brought out a pile of metal. “This is a parade vest, decorative yet functional. Note the articulation of the joints, the polish of the surface. They have fine metalsmiths here.”
“I’m a flintsmith, myself,” Flint observed, frowning. But he struggled into the thing, clank by clank. And suffered an unpleasant memory. “It’s worse than an old Luna spacesuit!”
“Undoubtedly. But even more proof against punctures.” The man got it on him efficiently, then dropped an elegant blue sash across his right shoulder, knotting it over his left hip. Then slippers with blue bows. And some kind of trinket.
“I’m no lady!”
“You misunderstand the role of jewelry historically. Many virile men have worn it. But this happens to be a watch. These are very important here. Queen Bess has her own palace watchmaker.”
Flint looked at it: a round object about the heft of a good throwing stone, glassed on one side, with a decorated dial and two pointers. “What’s it for?”
“For telling time. You wear it on a chain, tucked into a special pocket, here.”
Flint balked again at the next object. “A snuffbox,” the Ambassador explained. “It contains powdered tobacco—don’t do that!”
But he was too late. Flint had opened the box and done what was naturaclass="underline" taken a good sniff to find out what it smelled like. His paroxysm of sneezing blew tobacco powder all over the room, setting the Ambassador off too.