Enough, Bomeer thought, I’ve at least given him something to think about. Then, aloud: “Anyway, I think the dissemination of technology should be handled more slowly and more carefully.”
Fain turned suddenly. “The Council of Academicians has, perhaps, been moving too slowly for too long,” he snapped.
Bomeer smiled broadly, allowing that there was at least some truth to the man’s statement. “Perhaps.” He turned for the door, but when he reached it he turned back as another thought struck him.
“You do know, Fain, why we—you and I—have been sent here.”
The Commander swiveled to face him, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs. “Suppose you tell me.”
“We are being eased out,” Bomeer replied simply. He had expected Fain to protest, and was surprised when he remained quiet. “You and I are part of the old Empire, Commander. There may not be a role for us to play in the improved version, and Javas knows it. Even rejuvenation has its limits. What was it you called me earlier? ‘Old friend’? That may be much more accurate than you realize. For both of us.”
Fain nodded, and it was obvious to Bomeer that nothing he was saying had in any way come as a surprise to him. Clearly the man must have had many of the same thoughts himself.
“Anyway,” he sighed, “you may be right about we academicians being too slow. Perhaps the time has come for me to adopt a speedier attitude toward what’s left of my life.”
Aboard the Kowloon, Dr. Templeton Rice monitored the equipment and waited patiently for Oidar to return to the open lab, but couldn’t stop the growing concern he was beginning to feel at the length of time he’d been gone. Because they had reached a delicate stage in the modeling, the alien had delayed going to the fountain that had been installed for him at the far end of the room. His body moisture and temperature were maintained by his wet suit, but Oidar still needed to dampen the exposed skin of his face and neck frequently in the misty spray of the specially designed fixture. This time, however, in his excitement he had waited too long and needed to return to his quarters when he began to feel dizzy.
I hope he’s okay, Rice thought. It’s as much my fault as his. I should have reminded him to go.
The comm beeped suddenly, startling him, and he slapped the answer bar anxiously. A haziness coalesced on the small screen and Rice knew it was Oidar even before he could see his features, calling from the comfort of the Sarpan-normal conditions maintained in his room on the Kowloon.
“Are you all right?” he barked into the comm. A swift blur passed suddenly over the image, bringing the picture into sharper focus, and Rice realized the alien must have wiped his hand across the video pickup on his end to clear the moisture that had collected on the lens.
“I have thanks for your concern, Temple, but no worry. I am fine.” His voice sounded tired. Oidar had removed his wet suit and reclined now on a small couch as he spoke. He had wrapped a brightly colored towel around his waist, but otherwise wore nothing else. “However, had I waited much longer I would have looked like—what was it you said the last time?”
Rice chuckled. “A dried prune.”
“Yes. So.” The alien grinned broadly and tilted his head back. Rice saw the gill slits vibrating, and a high-pitched buzzing sound came softly from the comm speaker: the Sarpan equivalent of a laugh.
The thought of comparing him to a dried fruit amused him, and Rice was relieved to see that his counterpart was feeling better, but at the same time was concerned at his coloring. Oidar was only five years old, and Rice was used to seeing his skin a bright greenish-brown color that was normal for Sarpan of breeding age. Now, however, his hue had darkened considerably to the deep gray-brown shade common to males approaching the end of their ten-year life span.
Rice had seen that coloring on only one other Sarpan—Oidar’s father, during his last months of life before his role in the experimentation was taken over by his son. “I want you back on the Flisth as soon as possible.”
Oidar’s smile faded, and he sat upright suddenly. “There is no cause to return to my ship,” he said, all traces of good humor gone. The abrupt movement seemed to have caused him discomfort and he crossed his arms and grasped his sides with his hands, gently messaging the twin egg sacks located halfway down each side of his body. “I am fine.”
“You are not fine! Look at you; you’ve nearly dehydrated yourself again.”
Oidar’s eyes widened and he tilted his head, a confused, hurt look crossing his alien features. “You are displeased,” he said simply, a hint of disappointment in his voice as if he had unintentionally offended an elder.
Rice cursed himself under his breath for losing his temper—the aliens simply could not understand how humans could connect anger with concern for another’s well-being. He lowered his voice, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry, Oidar,” he said, and bowed his head in a Sarpan gesture of apology. “This one is not displeased. But”—he lifted his chin and looked his friend directly in the face—“I’m going to have to insist that you take better care of yourself while in the open lab. You’ve got to… I can’t…” He had trouble expressing the worry he felt in words the alien would understand. In the screen, Oidar waited patiently for him to continue, his head tilting one way, then the other.
Rice gave up. “Look, I can’t deal with this over the comm. I’m coming up.”
He punched the disconnect bar and headed for the door, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. The open lab was generally kept several degrees above the ship’s normal working temperature, to better accommodate Oidar’s comfort, but he knew the alien’s cabin would make the lab feel chilly. The cabin was not far, and he arrived at the door at about the same time he’d managed to slip his shirt off and sling it over his shoulder.
Oidar was expecting him and opened the door as soon as he pressed the call button, allowing Rice to enter the narrow airlock that helped maintain the room’s internal environment.
The air was so hot and humid that sweat burst forth from his skin the moment the airlock door slid aside and admitted him to the room. The air was thick and dank, and had a vague swamp-like pungency to it; not unpleasant, the scent carried with it the musky odor of vegetation and mud. Other than the Kowloon’s captain and members of the crew who had worked with the Sarpan team to set up the cabin, Rice was one of the few people on board who had even set foot inside, much less spent any amount of time with Oidar.
The cabin consisted of a small living room—a receiving room, actually, since Oidar used it only to see infrequent guests—a galley kitchen and bathroom. The largest of the cabin’s three rooms, it was the bathroom itself that comprised the main living and sleeping area for the Sarpan. The receiving room was sparsely decorated: There were two small couches facing each other, a low round table between them. In one corner stood a tall plant with snakelike tendrils that crept up the wall, although whether it was a genuine Sarpan growth or something specially bred, Oidar had never said. A sealed lighting strip circled the room at the edge of the ceiling, and Rice noted that it had not been cleaned in some time; algae growing on the glassy surface caused it to cast a soft green glow that glistened off the moist surfaces of everything. The room was quiet, empty; the alien nowhere to be seen.
“Oidar?”
“A moment,” called a voice from the galley. “Be comfortable.”