Atvar H’sial froze rigid. “Why do you say that name?”
“Because you’ve been thinking it, and trying to keep it from me. Darya’s the arm’s top expert on the Builders. You know it. You think she’ll understand what’s going on.”
“I doubt that Darya Lang’s comprehension is better than my own.” But Atvar H’sial’s pheromonal words were soft-edged and unconvincing.
“Another half-lie. It doesn’t have to be better for the two of you to make progress. Two heads are better than one — even if one of them is a Cecropian.”
It was a deadly insult, and a deliberate one. Nenda was making his own test. And Atvar H’sial’s response, when it came, was revealingly mild.
“I do not question Professor Lang’s competence — in her specialized field. I do, however, question the wisdom of meeting with her. Even if, as you say, you can predict her location.”
“She’s back home on Sentinel Gate, sure as shooting. But if you’re afraid of coming off second-best with her…”
“That is not my concern, and you well know it.” The Cecropian’s message was tinged with acid. “I worry about meeting with her not for my sake, but for yours.”
“Hey, I don’t claim to be the Builder expert.”
“Enough deliberate innocence. You know why I worry about your meeting. Deny it as you choose, Louis Nenda, but you have a powerful emotional attachment to that human female. In previous encounters Darya Lang has diverted your attention, blunted your limited powers of ratiocination, and made your every decision suspect.”
“You’re full of it. Didn’t I leave her behind, to fly with you on the Indulgence when we thought there was profit to be had? Anyway, you don’t know humans. Darya Lang already picked her man. She chose Hans Rebka, that trouble-shooter from the Phemus Circle.”
“A choice which you, at least, have not accepted. Human females are not like Cecropian males, mating until death.”
“Don’t you trust her?”
“Neither her, nor you. Although I admit that it might be useful to confer with Darya Lang, in order to learn more of the artifact changes.”
“Listen to me.” Nenda advanced to stand directly below the thorax of Atvar H’sial, where the pheromonal messages were most distinct. “Here’s the deal. We go to Sentinel Gate, and we see what we can learn from Darya Lang. Straight facts, pure business, nothing personal. Stay there no more than one day. Soon as we have all we can get from her, we leave. Just you and me. And we find a way to make some money out of what we learned. End of story.”
“You pledge this?” Atvar H’sial was on the point of believing him — or pretending to, for her own reasons.
“Cross my heart.” Nenda made the sign on his chest.
“An activity which, as you well know, has no meaning to a Cecropian.” There was a cinnamon whiff of regret, together with a scent of acceptance. “Very well. I agree. We go to Sentinel Gate — and there will be no emotional coupling with Darya Lang.”
“Trust me. That’s not the sort I had in mind, anyway.”
But Louis did not offer his last sentence in pheromonal form.
Chapter Four
Life on Sentinel Gate was worse for Atvar H’sial than for Louis Nenda. Any rational being would agree with that statement. The permanent sentient population was exclusively human, the gravity and atmosphere and food perfect for humans. Humans felt right there. But to a Cecropian, designed by nature for a small, cloudy world lit by a faint, red dwarf star, Sentinel Gate was hot, dry, massive, and blindingly bright. Appropriate liquid nourishment was hard to find. Cecropians felt strange there.
All the same, any rational being would be wrong. Life on Sentinel Gate was worse for Louis Nenda.
Sure, Atvar H’sial on Sentinel Gate was a freak, no doubt about that. There was no way she could not be a freak, with her alien appearance, size, and metabolism. Everyone would recognize that, and accept it.
But Louis Nenda was a freak on Sentinel Gate, too, and one without Atvar H’sial’s excuses. The average inhabitant — women included — loomed half a head or more above him. They were fair of complexion. He was dark and swarthy. Their eyes were wide-open and innocent. His were deep-set and bloodshot. The men favored shorts and an open, sleeveless vest that left the chest and arms bare.
Bare arms and legs were all right, even if Nenda’s rated as too short and hairy. But his chest was the site of his augment, an array of grey mole-like nodules and deep pock marks that emitted and received the pheromone molecules. No way was he going to show that off in public, even if it did not excite comment. It was one of his secret weapons, something that gave him an edge in reading human emotions as well as Cecropian conversation.
Louis did it the hard way. He emerged from Immigration with arms, legs, chest, and throat clothed in close-fitting black. His hair was tucked away inside a tight and uncomfortable cap. If he had to be a freak, he’d be a complete freak.
He emerged to a world where even the building interiors were filled with birds and light and flowers, where every structure seemed to reach effortlessly for the sky. It was hard to believe, standing here, that down-scale worlds like Karelia and Peppermill and Opal and Quake even existed. Hard to accept that every day, throughout much of the spiral arm, life was a struggle for simple existence — hardest of all to believe what Atvar H’sial was at pains to assert, that there were events taking place in the spiral arm, right now, that might change everything for everybody, including the favored few of this lucky planet.
Louis was not sure that he believed it himself.
Darya Lang worked at the Artifact Research Institute of Sentinel Gate, a fact which Louis had long ago committed to memory. The problem was, no one at the spaceport seemed to have heard of such an institute. He went from one information desk to another, conspicuous in his odd clothing, and even more conspicuous because of the huge and colorful Cecropian at his side. Atvar H’sial was, relatively speaking, on her best behavior, but she received inquiring glances — and gave as good as she got.
Nenda’s sixth inquiry won a condescending nod, and a terse set of travel instructions. By the sound of it, Darya’s research institute was down near noise level on the list of Sentinel Gate’s significant activities. Louis Nenda was apparently judged to be of the same level of importance. He was an oddity, but not a rewarding oddity.
The Institute was located in a foothill town called Bower. Louis made more inquiries, and came back to Atvar H’sial shaking his head.
“They stared at me like I was nuts. All I did was ask how much it would cost for the two of us to get there.”
The answer was the most mind-boggling thing of all — more than the riotous flowers and the soft breezes and the sweet-smelling air. Travel on Sentinel Gate was free, a basic right so taken for granted that no one ever thought about it.
No one except Louis. On Karelia or Scaldworld, a trip halfway around the planet would be filled with risks and cost a good part of a life’s savings. On Sentinel Gate, people seemed amazed at the very idea of buying a ticket.
They reached Bower using a combination of ground car, hypersonic aircraft, rail car, and hovercraft. Almost broke, Louis had wondered how they would pay for food. By now he ought to have learned. Like travel, simple meals on Sentinel Gate came free. The seats on every vehicle were broad and comfortable, perfect for sightseeing or sleeping. It was life as it ought to be lived, but never was.