“No. It was an arranged marriage between us. First son of Eldest Five, Third Daughter of Eldest Four. Highly expedient, socially—but we had never met, and did not meet until after his liaison with the minionette. And of course he had known her since his childhood. She was his first—and I would have been satisfied to have been his hundredth, so long as I was his at last. After knowing her, he chose me—that is the greatest compliment of my existence.”
Coquina would not speak against the minionette! “Who killed her?”
“Aton did.”
Once again, Arlo was stunned. “He killed his wife—his mother? Why? How?”
“By loving her.”
• • •
Arlo sought out Ex, wanting to explain, to apologize. But she avoided him. Her golden tresses flew out behind her as she ran down the cavern passages. No doubt she thought he was going to hit her again. She feared no creature of the caverns since his pact with Chthon, but Arlo himself could hurt her.
“Wait! Wait! he called. But she would not listen.
He pursued her far beyond and garden, across the great river whose finned predators would have torn apart anyone else, and into the chill ice caverns. He seldom ventured there because the footing was treacherous, and he quickly became uncomfortably cold. But he could not relent until he made her listen.
Ex swung around a stalagmite. “Whee!” she cried as the warmth of her hand melted its sheen of ice and eliminated her support. Her feet went out from under her and she took a graceful fall, unhurt. “Whee!” she repeated, as she slid on down the winding river of ice on her bare bottom, feet and hands lifted, spinning slowly around.
Arlo flopped on his belly and followed. A thin layer of water flowed over the ice, making it frictionless. The heat of his run made the chill contact stimulating. Seeing Ex rotating blithely with elevated but attractively disposed limbs stimulated him another way. First he would explain: Then—
The ice river debouched into an ice lake. Hairy cavern ice-fowl fluttered out of sight as the two humans shot into the center. Broken ice stalactites littered the surface. Arlo swept them out of the way with hands and feet, and watched them skate in their fashion until they crashed tinkling against the vertical ice-slick rock of the shore. It was fun—but that was not what he was here for.
Ex’s forward progress slowed. Arlo, heavier, had more momentum. He reached out a hand and caught her foot as it passed by him, and hauled her into him. “I just want to tell you about the minionette,” he gasped.
Her mouth popped open prettily. “You know?”
“Yes. I am quarter-minion. My grandmother was Malice, the minionette. It is from her I inherited my sadistic streak. But it can be suppressed. My father suppressed it—and so will I. I love you.”
For a moment he thought she misunderstood him. Her face froze in seeming pain.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded with a flash of the old irritation. “I said I love you!” And inside he wondered whether this could really be true, or whether Coquina’s remark about the wildness of first love had really been a warning. He had not before experienced this type of love...
Suddenly Ex smiled. She reached out and pinched him in a most indelicate region. “Prove it!” Then she braced both feet against him and pushed off, hard.
She sailed across the ice in one direction, he in the other. In one sense her reaction was funny; in another infuriating. Either way, a challenge. Grimly he set out to prove his love—aware that he was catering more than a little to his minion quarter, but nonetheless determined.
He reached the rock wall, braced his feet, and shoved off. He shot back across the lake, toward Ex. But she bounced off the opposite wall and passed him on the bias. “Yoo-hoo, stupid!” she cried waving gaily.
Growing hotter as his posterior grew colder, Arlo reached the wall and pushed off again, angling directly toward her. But she avoided him again, maddeningly. “You’re not trying very hard!” she called.
Determined, he planned a better strategy. He watched her push off just before he struck his wall, then angled his own thrust to intersect her line of travel. She was unable to change it in the middle of the ice, being essentially in freefall, and so he was able to grasp her long hair as they passed each other.
He yanked cruelly, letting her hair transmit the full shock of the cancellation of their inertias. Then he was sorry, as she spun about, mouth open, eyes staring. But she only laughed, and he was angry again.
He drew her in to him. She came willingly, her legs spread, droplets of cold water falling from her heels. Her buttocks were white where the ice had cooled them.
She kissed him, again arousing his instant passion for her body. Then her feet came up against his stomach, and she shoved him away again.
But he was not to be caught twice by that device! He still had hold of her hair. Her legs flung out, but she could not get away from him. He hauled her back in, trying for the embrace her open arms and legs had invited. There was no traction. Ex laughed as he attempted to put his torso adjacent to hers. It was like trying to write the old Earth script, in one of his mother’s lessons, while holding the sheet of paper in air. Without firm backing, the effort was useless. Ex was anything but firm; in fact she wriggled like a rockworm, finding his ineptitude hilarious, all the time showing him tantalizing glimpses of the target. When she laughed, she quivered right down to her crotch. “You’re not much of a lover!” she cried cheerily.
They had retained a net impetus across the ice. Now they fetched up against a wall. And Arlo had an idea. Here was his backing!
He maneuvered to get her backside against the wall, her feet and hands forward so that she could not push off again. He found rough edges, crevices in the stone, and pressed his fingers hard against them so that the thin sheathing of ice melted. That provided him with a firm grip. His arms and legs formed an enclosure against the wall, and she was trapped within it.
Now, he thought, the key maneuver. It was as though he were one of the spaceships she had described: an ore-shuttle, bringing iridium ore up from the surface of a planetoid. Now he was in orbit, aligning with the hanger, the ore-storage facility. He had to dock precisely, extend his jettison-chute and pump his cargo into the sealed hopper. The pump would trigger automatically as the connection was made, for this entire operation was automatic: no human hand controlled it. That way the ships did not have to be pressurized or carry life support systems, or shielding against radiation. It was very efficient.
But this shuttlecraft had suffered a malfunction, with the result that he could not grapple the receiving mechanism properly. He had to make ties to the outlying wings of the hanger, and swing the center in to make contact. With proper care and judgment, this could be accomplished. The conveyor hydrant had been primed for immediate delivery; rigid, it nosed toward the hopper-tube. The crushed ore was already rising along the internal conveyor, building up pressure for the release. Slowly, slowly, toward the target...
The aim was off; a correction had to be made. Nudge to the side—too much, compensate! Now it was dead center. Time for the decisive forward thrust—
Contact! The hydrant triggered, jettisoning the ore.
And something at that instant shoved the nozzle to the side. Too late for correction! The invaluable cargo missed the hopper and spewed out into space, wasted, irrecoverable.
Arlo woke from his reverie amidst a climax of pleasure-pain. Ex was laughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath.
Arlo’s own hands had been occupied, gripping the rock behind her. He had forgotten that hers were free. She had used them at the critical moment to foil his purpose.
Arlo’s hands let go of the rock and closed about her neck. He squeezed, at the same time banging her head against the wall. But there was not much force in it because of the lack of traction. Once more they drifted out into the center of the lake.
“I’m sorry,” Ex said contritely.
“Sorry! You—”
Dubiously, stil
l smoldering with disappointment, he took her back to the garden. There he picked a fine blue-glow hvee plant, holding it until it oriented on him. Then he presented it to her knowing that it would shrivel and die, for her love could hardly be true. Yet part of him hoped that wouldn’t happen, not only for the human relationship, but for the same of the unique blue hvee.
And the hvee retained its health as she placed it in her hair. Its glow, if anything, increased. Silently she faced him, needing no words, suddenly no teasing gamin but a beautiful. Girl.
She did love him; the hvee proved it by its brilliance. And by this token they were betrothed, after the style of his ancestry.
CHAPTER II
Death
Two men sat in the passenger lounge of the FTL ship. They looked out at the simulated stellar view: it was impossible actually to see the stars while in Faster-Than-Light travel, but the simulation was accurate and probably more effective than the reality would have been.
One man was old. Pacemakers and inducers attached to his major organs forced them to function, however reluctantly, and a portable lung gave him breath and oxygen. Nevertheless he seemed ready to die, for his whole body was wasted by the ravages of some hideous malady.
The other was a minion: a small, sour-looking man of indeterminate age, bearded and garbed in the traditional loincloth of his culture.
“Shall we celebrate with wine, Morning Haze?” the old man inquired, showing an ancient bottle.
“Is it permitted for your health, Benjamin?” Morning Haze inquired in return.”
“Naturally not!”
“Then by all means! What is the occasion?”
“Today I am one hundred and eight years old,” Benjamin said.
“Well! For that we should make it a party and invite our pilot.”
“Yes. And—your wife?”
“Not yet,” Morning Haze said meaningfully.
“I beg pardon. In my infirmity I sometime forget...”
“How well we know the cause of that infirmity! Make no apology.” And the man of Minion smiled as he rose to fetch the pilot.
Benjamin poured two glasses of wine with a slightly trembling hand, then rested the stringy muscles of that arm.
In a moment Morning Haze returned with the pilot. This was a Xest: eight-legged with a globular body, like the center of a compact galaxy. Ship’s gravity was maintained at a quarter Earth-normal in deference to the needs of the spider-like creature—and that level did no harm to old Benjamin, either.
The Xest had no vocal apparatus, so the humans augmented their dialogue automatically with galactic sign language. “We are celebrating my one hundred and eighth birthday, this day in §460,” Benjamin said.
“You have been hatched one hundred and eight times?” the Xest inquired, twitching two legs in far more facile Galactic than any human could manage. It had associated with Benjamin for more than thirty Earth years, yet still seemed to have no clear notion of human reproduction or aging.
Benjamin laughed as heartily as he dared. “It is merely our measurement of time. I was born in §352, Second Son of Eldest Five. My brother Aurelius was born four years prior, so took the A designation, leaving the B to me. Thus I am not of the first rank of Five, and never sought to marry; perhaps that was fortunate. I am indubitably the oldest surviving Five. The only surviving Five, as my old friend and companion Morning Haze knows. Since all such humble vanities are soon to end, I celebrate. Do you imbibe?”
“It is a festive matter?” the Xest signaled.
“Indeed it is. Be merry, for there will be no tomorrow.”
The Xest made a syncopated quiver with four legs, indicating some alien emotion. It well understood their mission, but had not until this moment realized that the truth was to be acknowledged openly. “Then one may be permitted the Taphid?”
“Taphid?” Morning Haze inquired.
“How fitting!” Benjamin exclaimed with such vigor that the warning indicator on his portable lung swung into the red. “I with my wine, you with your wife, the Xest with its Taphid. This will be the mightiest party ever!”
The Xest brought out a small box. It lifted the lid. Frost formed: the interior was refrigerated. Then the creature paused. “Do you both know the meaning of the Taphid?”
“I do not,” Morning Haze said.
“Not really,” Benjamin said. “But I assure you, it is permissible on this occasion, if it is your desire. Anything is permissible, save deliberate discourtesy. My alcoholic beverage is an example: It will surely kill me.”
“Death we comprehend,” the Xest signaled. “Yet there are differing modes. Why does the minionette remain alone in her cell?”
“Her presence would not enhance our celebration,” Morning Haze said. “In due course I shall go her and initiate a private celebration, in that way avoiding a demonstration that could be offensive to others.”
Benjamin set down his drink. “This may be out of place—but I suggest, with no disrespect intended, that she should be with us now. I doubt that any offense will be taken—on this occasion. It is right that our friend be enlightened—as the Xest shall enlighten us.”
The minion signaled directly to the Xest. “You realize that though our definitions of beauty may differ, this may not be pretty for you?”
“The Taphid is not pretty, by your definition. In fact, there will be some risk to you.”
“You aren’t fooling—either of you,” Benjamin said with a smile. “I have no such telepathy as you do, but my smattering of information—I say, let’s indulge ourselves, each in his fashion and perhaps in his companion’s fashion. We shall none of us have another chance!”
“Very well,” Morning Haze agreed, touching a stud on his wristband. “I have released the lock. Misery will join us presently.” He leaned over the table and picked up an ornate whip.
Benjamin poured himself another drink, though the minion’s drink remained untouched. “Odd isn’t it, the diverse mechanisms we invoke on behalf of individual demise,” he said. “I am taking sweet poison; the minion takes the minionette, the Xest takes the Taphid. Does it not show how very similar we really are, at the root?”
“We are all sentient life forms, therefore similar,” Morning Haze remarked, flexing the whip experimentally. It was evidently an instrument he was well familiar with. “The Human, the Xest, the Lfa, and EeoO—superficial distinctions at Ragnarok, as we discovered.”
The Xest lifted out a frozen cube. It steamed as the heated air of the ship touched its surfaces. “There well be perhaps half a unit of your time. Is this sufficient?”
Benjamin looked at his watch, which was built into the master control of his digestive regulator. “Half an hour...contact is in forty-two minutes at present velocity and azimuth. I believe that is a satisfactory margin.”
“Quite satisfactory,” Morning Haze agreed. “If one of you will be so good as notify me when only five minutes remain...”
“I expect to be too drunk to speak, if my liver has not already failed,” Benjamin said with regret. “I have shorted out my alcohol-neutralizing circuit, so that the raw element can reach my old brain.”
“One, too, will be incapacitated,” the Xest signaled.
“In Old English that would have been a pun,” Benjamin observed. “One, two—”
“I will notify you,” the minionette said from the doorway.
Morning Haze peered over his whip at her. “Thank you, my dear.” He elevated his weapon. “Step forward, please.”
She stepped into the room. Misery was a tall figure in a voluminous cloak, veiled; yet her motion conveyed the suggestion of extraordinary beauty.
“Let me see your hair,” Morning Haze said.
She hesitated. “There is little luster.”
“Because I have neglected you, my love,” Morning Haze said.
The whip cracked loudly. Misery’s veil flew off her face. Her hood fell back to reveal dull brown tresses. A streak appeared across her cheek where the whip had struc
k. But she smiled radiantly.
“Misery, meet my old friend Benjamin,” the minion said. “And my other friend the Xest, who is nameless as is the custom of his kind. Smile for them, bitch.”
The minionette smiled dutifully at each, and such was her facility at this expression that Benjamin paused in his imbibing to smile back while the Xest’s leg joints spasmed together.
“Will you now commit mergence?” the Xest signaled. “Excuse it if one’s curiosity transgresses propriety. Our kind has never properly comprehended the complete nature of your kind.”
“And never will,” Benjamin agreed. “There is no transgression this hour.” He stood unsteadily, his pacers shifting across his body like so many decorations. “Friend minion, my brother died in §402 of the minionette. Malice was her name, I believe. I have harbored for decades an insidious urge that only rising intoxication permits me to vent now. May I?”
Morning Haze handed him the whip. “It would gratify me, friend. Who has a better right than you?”
Benjamin raised the whip. “You see,” he explained to the Xest as well as he could with only one hand left to signal, “the emotions of the minionette are reversed. Our pain is her pleasure. I feel extremely guilty about this, therefore—”
He cracked the ship, inexpertly. The lash caught the woman across the shoulder, more or less harmlessly. “Damn Chthon!” Benjamin swore as his lung-unit swung out and banged into his side, in effect punishing him instead of the object. The minionette smiled.
“You lack practice,” the minion said, also smiling—and now the minionette looked pained. “I was not addressing myself to you!” Morning Haze shot at her, and her smile returned.
“This is most interesting,” the Xest signaled. “There is a certain similarity to the Taphid. One begins to comprehend.”
Benjamin clasped his glass left-handed, took another gulp of wine, steadied himself, checked to be sure his pacers were clear, and raised the whip again. “When I strike her well, I cause her pain, and so she is happy. It is my guilt at causing the pain that affects her, not the injury itself, which she is well equipped to endure. When I miss the mark, I am angry at myself for my inexpertise—and again she is happy. That is the beauty of it. Not for a century have I had such a chance to exercise my suppressed antagonisms!”