The Seiner fumbled in the pockets of his antiquated tweed jacket. BenRabi wondered if the man was an Archaicist. His preconceptions of the Seiners did not include the possibility that they were faddists too.
The man produced a curious little instrument. He thrust it between his teeth. He gripped it with his right thumb and forefinger, puffing while he held a small flame over its bowl. Only after he had begun expelling noxious clouds did benRabi realize what was happening.
"A pipe!" he muttered. "What the hell?" Tobacco stench assailed his nostrils. "I can't believe this much bad taste." He shuddered.
His reaction was not unique. His companions buzzed. A woman rose and started to leave, then gagged and returned to her seat. Even Mouse looked appalled.
How many of these crude horrors lay in ambush ahead? This was carrying Archaicism to the point of boorishness.
Much as the pipe disgusted him, benRabi applauded the psychology behind its appearance. The man was easing them in after all. The impact of later cultural shocks would be blunted a little.
"As I said," the Seiner continued, once his pause had his audience squirming, "there're spies here. Spy is a nasty word, I know. And spying is a nasty business. But a realist recognizes the existence of espionage, and we're all realists here. Aren't we? Espionage is all around us today. We're drenched in it. Up to our heinies in it. Because almost anybody with any power at all will do almost anything to get control of a starfish herd."
He assayed a little smile. It mocked them all. He was doing a show, putting on the pompous ass to prod somebody into reacting. BenRabi sensed a quiet, self-assured competence behind the showmanship. In fact, there was something about the man that screamed Security Officer.
"You spies won't learn a thing. Till your contracts terminate you'll see nothing but the guts of a ship. Even then you'll see only what we want you to see, when we want you to see it. Everybody. Hear this. Security rules will be observed at all times. That's the Eleventh Commandment. Engrave it on your souls—if you have any. Even a slight irregularity might spook us into hasty reaction. Since we're not sure what information the spy-masters would consider valuable, we're going to do our damnedest not to give away anything at all."
BenRabi grimaced. Was the fool trying to impress them with Seiner paranoia and xenophobia? He could rave for a week and not intimidate the professionals.
"I reiterate: outside agents simply won't be given a chance to contact anybody who might possess critical information. There'll be penalties for trying to reach such people. Am I making myself clear?"
Someone made a snide remark.
The speaker responded, "You've got to realize that we consider ourselves a nation unto ourselves. We're not Confederation. We don't want to be Confederation. We don't give a damn about Confederation. All we ever asked from it was to be left alone. Which is what we ask of any gang of strongmen. Archaicism is our way of life, not just a crackpot hobby. Just for example, we still execute people once in a while."
That blockbuster fell into an ocean of silence.
BenRabi wondered how many times Confederation had tried coaxing these strange, fiercely independent people into the government fold. Dozens, at least. Luna Command was persistent. It was a long-toothed hound that did not turn loose of a bone.
And for a century and a half the Starfishers had managed to evade Luna Command's "protection," mostly by remaining so damned hard to find, but also by making it clear they were willing to fight.
Luna Command had never given up. It never would. Even these people had to recognize that, benRabi thought. They had to recognize the government's stake.
Nervousness pervaded the waiting room, fogging in like some unexpectedly conjured demon. The briefing officer met pairs of eyes one by one. The romantic flinched before his stare. They were finding their legend had teeth and claws.
No one executed people anymore. Even the barbarians beyond Confederation's pale recycled their human garbage, if only through cyborg computation systems.
The civilians were learning what people in benRabi's trade learned early. Adventures were more fun when it was somebody else getting the excelsior ripped out of his crate.
"In view of what I've said, and knowing that your futures may not be exactly what you anticipated when you applied," the man said, "anybody who wants to do so can opt out now. We'll cover expenses as advertised."
BenRabi smiled at his lap. "Thought that's where you were headed," he whispered. "Trying to spook the weaklings, eh?"
There was a stir in response, but no one volunteered to go home. The weaklings seemed scared that they would look foolish. The Starfisher shrugged, collected his notes, and said, "All right. I'll see you all upstairs." He left the room.
Time to sit, to wait for the shuttle; benRabi returned to his notebook and Jerusalem.
He was having trouble with the story. His mind seemed to be too ordered and mundane to produce the chaotic, nonobjective symbolism of a McGuhan or Potty Welkin. His maliciously intentional obscurantisms refused to remain obscure. That could have been because he knew what he wanted to say.
Maybe he should do the story as straight narrative, Moyshe thought. He could strive for what the Archaicist reviewers called "a refreshingly anachronistic flavor." It might then survive the Archaicist marketplace, where the unsophisticated arts of the past still had appeal.
Jkadabar Station is six months long and two years wide, fifteen minutes high and a quarter of nine forever; there are songs in its skies and trumpets in its walls. The Roads have neared their ends...
Was he wrong? Was he alone in his feeling that all people were exiles in time? No matter. What could he do about it? Not a damned thing. That was the passion that should drive the story. Raging impotence.
People began moving excitedly. The volume of conversation picked up. BenRabi dragged himself back to reality. He muttered, "Shuttle must be ready."
Yes. His companions had begun filing onto the field already. These Seiners were frugal. They had not bothered to lease an attached landing bay.
The air outside was cool and on the move. A raindrop touched his cheek, trickled like a tear. A ragged guerilla band of clouds hurried over, firing off a few scattered water-bullets that made little mud balls in the dust lying thick on the tarmac. An omen? Rainy weather at Blake City was almost a nevertime thing. Water was too scarce in this part of Carson's.
He laughed nervously. Omens! What was the matter with him? "Into the shuttle, caveman," he mumbled.
The ship had been an antique when his grandfather was wetting diapers. It was no commercial lighter, and never had been. Broomstick, from Century One, it was a go-powered coffin with no comforts from strictly-for-gun-power days. He saw nothing but stark functionalism and metal painted black or grey. It appeared to be Navy surplus, probably from the Ulantonid War.
The part of him that was still line officer noted that she was well maintained. Not a spot of dirt or corrosion showed anywhere. The ship had that used but kept-up look sometimes seen in rare antiques. These Seiners were lovingly careful of their equipment.
The passenger compartment was the antithesis of luxury. BenRabi had to suspend disbelief to credit it as suitable for human use. Yet the converted cargo bay did have ranks of new acceleration couches, and soothing music came from hidden speakers. It was old stuff, quiet, perhaps something by Brahms. It put a comforting gloss over the unsteady whine of the idling drives.
They would lift blind, he saw. Weedlike clumps of color-coded wiring hung where view-screens had been removed. They were taking no chances.