one bearing refreshments–and its chairs, in deference to the
guests–the room stretched dreary. Pictures of former personnel,
trophies and citations for former accomplishments, seemed to make its
walls just the more depressing. An animation showed a park on Terra,
trees nodding, in the background the skyward leap of a rich family’s
residential tower and airborne vehicles glittering like diamond dust;
but it reminded him too well of how far he was from those dear comforts.
He preferred the darkness in the real window. It was open and a breeze
gusted through, warm, laden with unearthly odors.
The Merseians were a more welcome sight, if only as proof that a
universe did exist beyond Irumclaw. Forty of them stood in a row,
enduring repeated introductions with the stoicism appropriate to a
warrior race.
They resembled especially large men … somewhat. A number of their
faces might have been called good-looking in a craggy fashion; their
hands each had four fingers and a thumb; the proportions and
articulations of most body parts were fairly anthropoid. But the posture
was forward-leaning, balanced by a heavy tail. The feet, revealed by
sandals, were splayed, webbed, and clawed. The skin was hairless and
looked faintly scaled; depending on sub-species, its color ranged from
the pale green which was commonest through golden brown to ebony. The
head had two convoluted bony orifices where man’s has external ears. A
ridge of serrations ran from its top, down the spine to the end of the
tail.
Most of this anatomy was concealed by their uniforms: baggy tunic, snug
breeches, black with silver trim and insignia. The latter showed family
connections and status as well as rank and service. The Merseians had
politely disarmed themselves, in that none carried a pistol at his wide
belt; the Terrans, in turn, had refrained from asking them to remove
their great knuckleduster-handled war knives.
It wasn’t the differences between them and men that caused trouble,
Flandry knew. It was the similarities–in planets of origin and thus in
planets desired; in the energy of warm-blooded animals, the instincts of
ancestors who hunted, the legacies of pride and war–
“Afal Ymen, may I present Lieutenant Flandry,” Abdullah intoned. The
young man bowed to the huge form, whose owner corresponded approximately
to a commander, and received a nod of the ridged and shining pate. He
proceeded, exchanging names and bows with every subordinate Merseian and
wondering, as they doubtless did too, when the farce would end and the
drinking begin.
“Lieutenant Flandry.”
“Mei Tachwyr.”
They stopped, and stared, and both mouths fell open.
Flandry recovered first, perhaps because he became aware that he was
holding up the parade. “Uh, this is a, uh, pleasant surprise,” he
stammered in Anglic. More of his wits returned. He made a formal Eriau
salutation: “Greeting and good fortune to you, Tachwyr of the Vach
Rueth.”
“And … may you be in health and strength, Dominic Flandry … of
Terra,” the Merseian replied.
For another moment their eyes clashed, black against gray, before the
man continued down the line.
After a while he got over his astonishment. Albeit unexpected, the
happenstance that he and Tachwyr had met again did not look especially
important. Nonetheless, he went robotlike through the motions of
sociability and of being an interpreter. His gaze and mind kept straying
toward his former acquaintance. And Tachwyr himself was too young to
mask entirely the fact that he was as anxious to get together with
Flandry.
Their chance came in a couple of hours, when they managed to dodge out
of their respective groups and seek the refreshment table. Flandry
gestured. “May I pour for you?” he asked. “I fear that except for the
telloch, we’ve run out of things native to your planet.”
“I regret to say you have been had,” Tachwyr answered. “It is a dreadful
brand. But I like your–what is it called?–skoksh?”
“That makes two of us.” Flandry filled glasses for them. He had already
had several whiskies and would have preferred this one over ice.
However, he wasn’t about to look sissified in front of a Merseian.
“Ah … cheers,” Tachwyr said, lifting his tumbler. His throat and
palate gave the Anglic word an accent for which there were no Anglic