The Sirens of Space (9 page)

LaRue bowed in deference to his dismissal,
and backed clumsily toward the door. But he paused before leaving,
not quite sure how to proceed next.

“
Something else?” Cook
asked.

“
About Lt. Mendelson,
Commandre
.”

A look of fury flashed across Cook’s face,
passing as quickly as a tropical rainstorm.

“
Whatever personal problems she is
having— ” LaRue began.

“
I’m sure she’ll appreciate your
concern, François,” the commander said pleasantly, but with a
hardened edge to his voice.

“
But to let an officer of her caliber
sulk in her room over some personal concern cannot but impede the
smooth operation of this ship.”

“
Thank you François,” came the cold
reply, “but I will decide what impedes the operation of this ship.
And I have given her permission to stand down until further notice.
Anything else?”

“
No, sir,” said LaRue, timidly shaking
his head and wondering why his resolve disappeared whenever he and
the commander aired their differences. He withdrew quietly, leaving
Cook alone in his office.

Slowly, Cook rose from his chair to pace
absently about his office. At last, he stopped in front of a
bookshelf next to the door to his quarters, the one that held most
of his personal library. He reached for a figure used as a bookend
on the third shelf, where he kept his natural history materials,
and stood for several minutes looking at it. It was a gift from a
friend now lost to the past: a small castle, made from the sands of
Demeter.

With a burst of resolve, he replaced the
trinket on the shelf and left the office, heading for the bridge.
There was work to be done, even before the rest of the crew
returned. And with Mendelson out of action, Ensign Jacobs would be
helmsman for the trip to IshCom. Cook chuckled as he walked. This
would be the young ensign’s first solo at the helm; the captain
hoped it wouldn’t be the last sail for the lot of them.

WHAT THE TERRANS CALLED the Caucus Room had
no windows, but was admirably furnished. Six stuffed chairs arrayed
next to an artificial fireplace lent the room a coziness otherwise
lacking on the barren world they had chosen for the current round
of peace talks. On the walls were tapestries, imported from as far
west as Earth for the purpose of impressing their visitors with the
richness of Terran artistry. Over the mantle was a reprint of a
painting by an Old Earth master, depicting a Renaissance lady in
all her mysterious beauty. The walls were painted a soft ivory, to
accent the fine woodwork crafted to mimic the warmth found on
friendlier worlds. As if to atone for their choice of planets, the
Terrans had spared no expense to make their guests feel at
home.

Unfortunately, most of the touches that the
Terrans lavished upon their guests passed unnoticed. Rather than
dangling their legs over the end of the “Terran sitting
implements,” the diplomats of the Grand Alliance sat on the floor
near the fire, taking what warmth they could from its artificial
flames. They found it hard enough to tolerate sitting Terran-style
through the talks—it did, after all, tend to cut off circulation to
their posteriors as well as their legs—without subjecting
themselves to such abuse when the courtesies due from guests did
not demand it. Though tapestries were a major art form among the
Veshnans, the abstract patterns of design that hung from the bland
walls were disconcerting, like peering through a distortion lens,
and the delegates, each of whom felt disoriented enough already,
avoided looking at them whenever they could. What appeared to be a
Terran painting looked flat and lifeless, like a poor photograph
with faded colors—although Zatar thought he could feel the eyes of
the Terran female follow him around the room whenever he moved. But
however uncomfortable they felt upon entering the room, they always
managed to lose themselves in discussion whenever they retired to
caucus, and this time was no exception.

“
What do you want of me, Zatar?” asked
an exasperated Munshi. “Should I permit you to make a fool of
yourself when it is within my power to spare you
embarrassment?”

“
If I choose to play the fool,”
snapped Zatar, “what right have you to interfere? You, who chose to
venture alone into their midst and almost to your own death! And do
the Terrans really care if I butcher their tongue? Did they take
offense? Did my effort to reach beyond ignorance find them laughing
like children at another’s clumsiness, or beating their breasts
like a waddlewort closing on his prey?”

Several of the other Veshnans began to
smile—men took to anger so easily, for all the good it did them—but
the ambassador’s glower soon froze their smirks on their faces. It
was impolite to bait a brood male during a nest mate’s rutting
season, and today’s talks did come at a most inopportune time. It
was understandable that Zatar was in no mood for teasing. Besides,
none of them wanted to be the new target of the keenest mind and
sharpest tongue of the High Council’s Procuracy. Patiently, they
waited for Zatar’s anger to pass, and soon he returned to the topic
at hand.

The Terran ambassador, the one they
called
Gr’Raun-te
, had
offered a dramatic concession, one that rendered obsolete their
tepid compromises of the past. For the first time, Terra was
willing to cede sovereignty over the disputed space, all the way to
the Terran edge of the Great Divide—which the Terrans, with
characteristic inscrutability, called
ny’Otrl’Zhog’hn
, or “The Area of Indifference.”
What they asked in return were the twin rights of exploration and
exploitation, in nearby portions of the great Crutchtan Cloud.
Zatar was certain that they would be willing to restrict their
movements even more, accepting limits on their penetration into
Crutchtan space. But G’Rishela, the Imperator’s representative,
demurred nonetheless, for reasons which remained a
mystery.

It was that maddening Crutchtan stoicism,
thought Zatar. They never committed themselves to anything, never
showed the slightest emotion, until they were certain of their
course and confident of their advantage. If that didn’t change
quickly, they would lose the momentum this new initiative could
give them, perhaps squandering their chance for peace as well.

Zatar looked at the Crutchtan seated by
himself near the fireplace, whose face was a study in stolid
impenetrability. The Crutchtan’s eyes stared ahead impassively
while listening to the others airing their disagreements. All the
Crutchtans he had ever met displayed the same expressionless calm,
thought Zatar, as if expressing interest or passion would be a show
of weakness. In the course of his duties as procurator for the High
Council, he had watched the Crutchtan delegates sit motionless,
listening to passionate arguments on the most difficult issues
facing the Alliance, all the while keeping their own counsel until
the very end, when they finally decided on the proper course of
action. Then, of course, they were among the most forceful of
advocates for their own cause, but their very reluctance to commit
themselves often led to misunderstandings with their allies.

Intellectually, Zatar could understand their
ways. Mildly telepathic, the Crutchtans instantly sensed the
intentions of others of their kind. When faced with a crisis, they
never needed to reassure each other by word or conspicuous deed,
for each could sense the good will of the others—or their
malevolence, if that were the case. It let a Crutchtan think
matters through thoroughly before venturing to speak. While an
admirable trait sorely lacking in most of the Universe, it often
caused consternation in their dealings with other races.

“
I suppose none have a thought about
this latest impasse?” the ambassador said at last, his voice thick
with dignity.

G’ela cleared her throat. “I cannot
understand the Terrans’ dismissal of our exchange program. It can
only foster understanding between all the races, by giving science
the chance to study new life forms.”

Zatar cut her short. “We are not
talking about your cadaver proposals, G’ela,” he snapped. “We are
still talking about the border dispute. And that idea may take a
long time, in any event. The Terrans are still primitives in many
ways. According to the anthropology texts our friend
Khu’ukh
has provided, they still
bury their dead.... ”

Suddenly the Crutchtan’s head snapped up, as
if stirring himself from lethargy; Zatar suddenly remembered that
their allies also buried their dead, but continued undaunted.

“
And they and have a rather mystical
attachment to the bodies of their loved ones. I’m afraid it will be
hard for them to adopt a more practical approach to the needs of
science.

“
Now, does anyone else— ”

The Crutchtan learned forward, toward the
rest of the group. The light from the fire illuminated one side of
his face, giving a reddish glow to his leathery brown skin. The
slits of his pupils, which had contracted to almost nothing while
he was deep in thought, now dilated to full circles, and on either
side of his neck his gill slits, vestiges of an earlier stage of
evolution, flushed with the green of churning Crutchtan blood.

“
You have been curious as children,”
he said, in the hissing, image-rich tones of his native language.
“You have been wondering why we of the
g’Khruushtani
so quickly reject the ideas of the
longnoses; why we do not jump with child-like glee at the prospect
of agreement with the strange ones from the West; why thoughts of
peace with these newcomers....”

Zatar sighed wearily. Crutchtans kept their
own counsel longer than he found comfortable, but when they finally
did speak they tended to ramble a bit, and often took a while to
come to the point.

“…
and why we approach the ten-fingered
simians with the caution of songbirds, and not the boldness of
raptors.”

The Veshnans leaned forward, listening
intently. Although only Munshi could speak the Crutchtan
language—and with difficulty at that—all but G’ela could understand
it.

“
Friends of the
g’Khruushtani
, this is the reason.” Still seated
on the floor, the Crutchtan seemed to rise until he towered above
the smaller Veshnans nearby. But he had merely straightened his
back, as Crutchtans often did before beginning a lecture, or one of
their epic ballads. He placed his hands together in his lap. The
lights in the room flickered briefly, as the dust storm raging
outside toyed with the city’s power system. The Crutchtan continued
without a sideward glance, as if the fury of the Terran weather
were of trifling significance compared to imparting understanding
to his friends, now that he knew his own mind.

“
When the Sheregal roamed only the
hills of home, the
g’Khruushtani
were like the children of Spring. We knew but of hope and
gladness, with the ocean of dreams nourishing our spirit as the
river of life nourished our fields.

“
But the Sheregal would not remain in
the hills, though game was plentiful and flavorful fruits abundant.
Their wandering spirit watched birds soar beyond the horizon, and
they heard the call of distant hills and fertile valleys. So they
left their own river behind them, and trailed a river of death
flowing thick with blood, following the setting sun to the land of
our fathers.

“
And I tell you, friends of the
g’Khruushtani
, and I tell you Truth:
the Sheregal were not done until the sea itself flowed with the
blood of innocents, and the heavens cried with the screams of
murdered children.”

“
But surely,” said Munshi, in her
finest Crutchtan, “the Terrans are of a different world. And as
wise a race as the
g’Khruushtani
cannot let prejudice cloud their eyes. The resemblance is
strong, that I will grant. When the longnose males let the fur pour
from their bodies, a Terran mother could not pick the Sheregal from
among her own offspring without difficulty. But the enemies of our
friends were savages, without the spark of humanity. And the last
Sheregal vanished into the jungles of time in the long-ago past.
The Terrans are not the same, and the
g’Khruushtani
cannot treat them the same. They
seek peace, not war, and they worry over children of their
own.”

The Crutchtan leaned forward and gazed
intently at Munshi, then at each member of the party in turn until
his eyes came to rest upon Zatar. His eyes bulged wildly, and his
head nodded slowly, in the Crutchtan manner of showing
amusement.

“
My friends mistake parable for
prejudice,” he said at last, “for we know that the longnoses are
not the enemies of legend. But they are simians nonetheless, with
the same driving curiosity and burning passions. Perhaps in time we
can live as neighbors, sharing friendship as friends share food.
But even now the Terrans cannot keep their word—for as we speak,
Terran ships continue straying beyond the Great Divide.”

“
Though against the wishes of their
government,” Zatar interjected, speaking in his own
tongue.

G’Rishela bowed in the Veshnan manner.
“And what does this tell us, Zatar? That any agreement we reach
will bind their leaders, but not their people? And where will this
lead us? If we accept their proposal, my grandchildren will live to
see the Terrans scattering throughout
g’Khruushte
, pounding at our doors and demanding
more, ever more. If they pass the Divide today with our blessing,
they will be with us forever. And they will never leave of their
own accord.”