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A taxi with square lines and a great deal of chrome brightwork was stopped against the central plantings. A large crowd was gathered around the vehicle. A man wearing Nevasan formal kit, embroidered robes suggesting those of Earth's Ming Dynasty, stood on the taxi's roof.

  "We must not be backward in defending our civilization against arrogance and barbarism!" the man cried. Drink slurred and hoarsened his voice. "The tree of liberty grows in the soil of martyrs' bones!"

  Listeners at the back of the circle looked over their shoulders at Ran and the woman. Nevasans tended to be short and slightly-built by general human standards. The two foreigners stood out, even without Ran's white uniform and the glitter of Susan's dress.

  Ran stepped to the outside and put his arm around the woman. He didn't look aside at the crowd, nor did he quicken his pace.

  An emergency vehicle drove slowly down the boulevard. A blue strobe light pulsed above the cab, though its siren was silent. The driver was a policeman, but two soldiers in battledress sat in the open back of the vehicle, dangling their feet over the bumper.

  "There's the Parisienne," Susan said quietly. She had a make-up mirror in her hand. She used it to glance at the street behind them. She didn't pull away from Ran, though they were past the group gathered around the taxi.

  She closed the mirror. "They aren't following," she added. "I—didn't think it would feel like this. It frightens me." Her voice was calm.

  "It's a bad time to be an outsider," said Ran, who'd been an outsider all his life. He quickened his pace slightly. A broad marquee labeled PARISIENNE jutted out in the middle of the next block, guarded by a uniformed concessionaire.

  They crossed an alley between two extensive courtyards. A stone bollard at the mouth blocked the passage for any but pedestrian traffic. Signs dangled from either side of the alley, but the expensive boutiques were locked and shuttered.

  Ran slowed. "Is there a back entrance to the hotel?" he asked." ! . . . don't like the look of the folks across the street."

  Susan leaned past Ran for a better view. The mob—this lot wasn't a crowd or a gathering—filled both opposite lanes of the boulevard and was trampling the bushes of the divider. Ran could hear metal ring under heavy blows.

  "The Grantholm embassy," Susan said. "The staff left yesterday, all but a caretaker or two."

  "Come on," Ran said harshly. He turned and strode back toward the pedestrian way, half dragging the woman with him when she hesitated.

  "The authorities shouldn't let that happen," Susan muttered. "The host country is responsible for the safety of all embassy—"

  Someone at the rear of the mob saw the woman's blond hair and shouted, "There go a couple of Grantholm dog-fuckers!"

  "Go!" said Ran at the alley mouth. He gave Susan a push in the right direction and released her.

  The shop nearest the corner specialized in carved jade. Chromed steel rods two and a half meters long slanted from the wall to support the plush marquee. Ran grabbed one of the rods and wrenched it free. He backed a few steps down the alley, out of the pool of the streetlight at its mouth. His hands were set a meter apart at the center of the rod.

  Well-dressed Nevasans, their faces contorted with fury, foamed around the bollard like the tide racing past a bridge pier. One of the leaders brandished a pistol. Ran stepped toward the mob, swinging the rod with all the strength of his torso behind the motion.

  The man with the gun screamed as his skull cracked. He jerked a shot into the ornamental brick pavement at his feet

  Ran backed, stabbed with the tip of the rod, and swung in another broad arc. This time he used the opposite end of his weapon. A Nevasan gripped the rod. Ran judged his angle, smiled like the angel of death, and thrust forward with all his weight. The glittering tube slid through the Nevasan's hands and punched his front teeth into his palate.

  Ran backed another step. The shot had spooked some of the mob, and those still thrusting forward stumbled over the ruin of their front rank. Ran scanned his target Both ends of his rod were black with blood.

  "Don't breathe!" Susan Hatton said sharply. She hadn't run when he told her to. She reached past Ran, bracing her left hand on his shoulder.

  The canister in her right hand went poom! and belched a cloud of gas toward the mob. The recoil lifted her arm. Nevasans sprawled.

  "Now run!" she shouted. They fled together. No one followed. Stun gas lay as a bitter haze at the alley mouth.

  Under the light at the end of the block, Ran threw down the steel tube. It was kinked at both points his grip had formed the fulcrum for his blows.

  Susan led him across the street, dodging the light vehicular traffic. "The hotel?" he said.

  She stopped at a grillwork gate. The building beyond the courtyard was of four stories, with balconies shielded by carved screens at each level. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asked as she touched the thumbprint lock.

  "On a Cold Crew. In sponge space," said Ran. His eyes were dilated. "Only we used cutting bars and adjustment tools, and sometimes a man's line broke and he went sailing off forever."

  There was no expression in Ran's voice. His eyes stared all the way to Hell.

  "Ran?" the woman said. She brushed his cheek wonderingly. Her fingers came away smeared with the blood that had spattered him.

  He shuddered. "I'm all right," he said. It was a prayer, not a statement. "I'm fine." He hugged her fiercely.

  "Not here," she said, but she kissed him anyway. "Come on, inside my apartment."

  "I'm all right," Ran Colville whispered as she thumbed the lock to the entrance elevator. "I'm fine . . . ."

  * * *

  The phone rang. It had a pleasant-sounding mechanical bell. Ran didn't associate the chime with the cause until Susan Hatton lurched over him to lift the handset "Four-two-four-one," she said crisply.

  A voice squeaked from the unit. Susan looked puzzled and gave the phone to Ran. "It's for you," she said.

  "Colville," Ran said as he straightened up in bed. Who knew that he was—

  "Ran," Wanda Holly said in a tone that melded humor with the grating seriousness of the words, "you need to get back aboard the Empress ASAP. We'll be making an early departure from Nevasa. Parliament has just declared war on Grantholm."

  "Right, I'm on my way," said Ran. His mouth was open to say more, but Wanda broke the connection at the other end.

  He put the handset on its cradle and looked at Susan. She had tossed the bedclothes back. Her body was supple and flawless. "It's war, so we're undocking early," he said. "I've got to get to the ship soonest."

  He swung his legs out of bed. Pain slashed through his shoulders and the sheets of muscle over his ribs. He gasped involuntarily and tucked his elbows in close for a moment.

  Susan touched his back. Her fingers were warm.

  "It's okay," Ran explained. "I—haven't had that particular sort of exercise in about ten years, God be praised."

  She looked startled. Ran laughed. "Oh, not that exercise," he said. "I meant earlier last night, the . . . the trouble."

  The spasm passed and he stood up.

  "I . . ." Susan said. Her tongue touched her lips. Her nipples were small and very pale. "I hadn't been with anyone in three months. Since Tom was transferred to the consulate at Bu Dop on the other side of the planet But you seemed to need me as much as I . . . ?"

  Ran leaned over and kissed her. He reached gently between her thighs. Her labia were swollen. "Umm," he said. "You're going to be bruised, m'dear."

  They hadn't slept much. Every time he started to doze off, Susan had hugged him to her again; and he'd responded. He didn't know that was really what she'd wanted, but it was what he had to give, and give again.

  "And he laughs, the brute!" she said chuckling. Then, in a neutral tone, she voiced the first question to cross his mind when he heard Wanda speak. "How did she know where you were? The woman who called?"

  "I should've clipped my commo unit to a phone when I took it off," Ran said. He'd pulled on his tro
users and shirt, but he waited a moment before he dealt with his boots. "I didn't, but they could still locate it from the Empress. Bridge, that's the AI, must have dug the telephone address of the location out of the local system's records."

  The marquee support had trailed a line of bloodspots across the sleeves and front of his tunic. The white fabric filtered the blood as it wicked through. Each spot had dried as a black center in a reddish ring, with a pale brown margin surrounding the lot. Ran put the garment on anyway.

  "I'll be leaving Nevasa City in two days," Susan said from the bed. "There was a commercial attache slot open in Bu Dop. I put in for a transfer to be with my husband."

  Ran finished sealing his boots. Momentary twinges suggested that he'd broken a rib, but he was sure it was just muscle strain. He didn't say anything.

  "I—don't suppose," Susan said, "that your ship will be returning to Nevasa anyway, because of the war?"

  Ran put on his commo unit. He knelt on the bed to kiss the blond woman again. "Not during the war, no," he said as he held her. "Trident probably should have chosen an alternative port even for this run, but nobody really expects a crisis to get worse yet."

  He stood up again. He didn't remember ever having seen a more perfect body than hers, and he'd seen a few . . . .

  "After the war, whenever that is," he said, "you'll know when the Empress docks. And what you do then is your business."

  He made his way out of the apartment alone. Susan lay on the bed, her eyes empty.

  * * *

  The sky-stabbing departure horn of the Empress of Earth sounded its three notes for the second time as the taxi dropped Ran Colville at the gangplank. It had been a quiet drive. Debris from the vast assemblages of the previous night lay over many of the streets, but the mobs themselves had dispersed.

  Second Officer Wanda Holly waited at dockside. Men in bright blue uniforms stood protectively before the gangplank. Their shoulder patches and cap tallies read Terran Mission. Ran nodded at them in approval. One of the guards saluted, though they couldn't have the least awareness of who the man in the dirty uniform was.

  "You're the last, except for a few of the Cold Crew," Wanda said crisply as she swung into step with Ran. "Did you have a pleasant time last night?"

  Ran looked at her. "I went," he said without emotion, "to arrange for the embassy to send guards. The embassy did do that, and we're able to leave Nevasa without a major problem. So yes, Wanda. Success in a difficult mission is always pleasant."

  "Glad you made it back," she said. She turned and walked away at the top of the ramp.

  Ran headed for his room and a change of uniform. He was whistling absently.

  When he thought about the tune, he realized it was the old ballad, Clerk Colville.

  IN TRANSIT:

  NEVASA TO BISCAY

  Tables in the Dining Room were set for groupings of two, four, and six. It seemed natural enough, when places were adjusted after the exodus and influx of passengers on Nevasa, for Reed, Da Silva, and the Dewhursts to share one of the larger tables with Wade and Belgeddes.

  The huge room was illuminated by surface emission from ceiling coffers and the tall vertical columns separating panels of mythological bas reliefs. The lights had been dimmed when serving robots brought out the dessert, Glace Empress, flickering with blue brandy flames. Now sated diners were beginning to leave, and the walls brightened to accommodate them.

  The grand staircase from Deck B, down which the splendid made their entrances, was a less romantic feature as folk climbed it again at the close of the meal. Most people chose to leave by the side doors onto Deck A.

  Wade looked at the panel beside him, a scene of Roman fishermen with nets and rakes gathering in the riches of a sea packed with life. The stone was a bluish marble gilded to pick out details of the figures. Men, sea creatures, and the choppy waves were executed in realistic style, but none of the people seemed aware of the fish-tailed Tritons and Nereids sporting among them.

  "Reminds one of sponge space, doesn't it?" Wade said, gesturing toward the relief with his coffee cup. "Where what you see generally isn't anywhere near you."

  "But we're in sponge space now, aren't we, Mr. Wade?" said Ms. Dewhurst, a slightly shorter, slightly more rounded version of her husband. She wore a choker of diamonds and pearls, the latter with a mauve iridescence that marked them as coming from Tellichery.

  "What he means, Esther," Dewhurst said, "is when you're out on the hull of the ship in sponge space, not inside the envelope like we are."

  "You've been outside the ship, Mr. Wade?" Ms. Dewhurst asked in amazement.

  A human steward began to clear the table, handing items into the open maw of the robot which trailed behind him. Flatware and dishes with remnants of the ice vanished without so much as a clink to mark their passing.

  "Wade's been everywhere, didn't you know?" Reed muttered.

  "Ah, lots of people have traveled," said Belgeddes. "Dickie's done things wherever he was. Just one of those lucky fellows that things happen to, you know."

  "Oh, yes, back in the old days—long, long before you were born, Mistress Dewhurst," Wade said. Ms. Dewhurst beamed, an expression that made her broad face unexpectedly attractive. "We used to go out with the Cold Crews and throw targets for each other to shoot at."

  "That's impossible!" Dewhurst said.

  "Well . . ." said Reed through a grimace, "I do recall old-timers on Ain talking about that sort of thing. It was something they'd heard of, not done, though. That must have been in the really early days of star travel, though."

  "There's ships and ships, you know," Belgeddes commented. "You mustn't think that the standards of Trident Starlines are quite the same as what you'll find on some of the tramps Dickie and I knocked around on in our salad days."

  "Not impossible, Dewhurst," Wade said easily, "but damned difficult, I'll grant you. It wasn't a matter of accuracy, you see. I've sailed with some crack shots—lizard-hunters on Hobilo, chaps who could knock the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred paces, even wearing spacesuits. Out on the hull, they couldn't hit a thing."

  "That," said Da Silva, "I believe."

  "I suppose you didn't have any problem, though?" Reed asked.

  "No problem?" Wade replied. "I certainly can't claim that. I needed several shots, sometimes half a dozen, before I got a feel for where to aim. The spatial relationships in another universe—that's what each cell of the sponge is, you know—are utterly different from those of our own. And they changed after each insertion, of course."

  "A quick study, Dickie is," Belgeddes said approvingly.

  The main room was emptying out. The Empress of Earth had six smaller dining rooms as well. Large parties could book them, but normally the separate rooms were used to accommodate groups of non-humans traveling on the vessel. The door of one opened and disgorged a herd of Rialvans, their jaws working in a sidewise rotary motion as they continued to masticate their meal.

  Dewhurst sighed. "Anyone for a drink?"

  Da Silva shrugged. "Fine by me. Starlight Bar all right?"

  "Ugh, not me," said Ms. Dewhurst. "I'm going back to the room, dear. And I believe there's a dance in the lounge tonight."

  "It gives me the creeps, looking out at all that—light," Reed said.

  "That's good," replied Da Silva. "You can get a meal and a drink in any hotel in the universe. Up there—sponge space—is what makes this different."

  "Ah . . ." said Wade, shooting both cuffs of his loose velour shirt. Neither wrist bore a credit bracelet. "I don't seem to be wearing my—"

  "No problem," said Da Silva. "I'm buying."

  They all got up. A steward and robot poised to make a final sweep.

  "As usual," murmured Dewhurst. "Except when Reed's buying, or I am."

  Nobody appeared to hear him.

  "You know . . ." Reed said softly as he followed Da Silva out of the dining room. "The Empress is supposed to have an impressive shooting gallery . . . ."

  BISCAY


  "But I just want to get off and stretch my legs!" the woman cried to Commander Kneale. Her voice rose into a shrill blade of sound that sliced the muttering of the Embarkation Hall where three hundred First Class passengers waited.

  These were the folk—all of them human—who hadn't heard the announcement that First and Cabin Class unloading would be delayed, or who had ignored the announcement or who simply thought that the delay would be much shorter than the two hours which had already passed. Commander Kneale himself had thought the delay would be much shorter . . . .

  "I'm sorry, madam," Kneale said calmly, "but we can't permit passengers to disembark at the moment, for their own safety. I assure you that when the gangplank can be lowered, we'll announce it in all the lounges."

  "But I want to get out now!" There was an edge of hysteria in her tone. There were people who could keep the feeling of being trapped in a metal coffin at bay—until landfall. Then they had to get out . . . and the trouble was, Kneale didn't dare lower the gangway until he got the all-clear signal from Third Class.

  Another white uniform cut through the crowd: Crewman Blavatsky, carrying a tall glass of varicolored fluids on which bits of fruit floated. "Ms. Fessermark?" the rating said. "Would you sit with me for a moment? I'm not feeling well. . . ."

  Startled, the passenger turned from Commander Kneale and allowed herself to be guided out through a corridor. The leather banquettes in the Embarkation Hall were filled by passengers waiting with slightly more patience than Ms. Fessermark had shown.

  Blavatsky and her charge paused for a moment. Ms. Fessermark took the drink and downed a good three ounces of it before she lowered the glass. That ought to calm her down, if it didn't simply knock her legless when the full effect of layered rums and liqueurs set in.

  Kneale's transceiver was attached to a pilaster that would recess into the gangplank when it finally opened. "Holly, what's your estimated completion point?" he demanded.

  "Another twenty minutes and we'll have it, sir," answered Colville, not Holly. "The contractor's short, real short."