knees-aloft position, drew on his cigar and watched the view. Beneath
him, shadowy land plunged to a bay and, beyond, the vast metallic sheet
of a calm Pacific. A breeze blew cool, scented with roses and Buddha’s
cup. Overhead, stars twinkled forth in a sky that ranged from amethyst
to silver-blue. A pair of contrails in the west caught the last glow of
a sunken sun. But the evening was quiet. Traffic was never routed near
the retreats of noblemen.
How many kids do I have? And how many of them know they’re mine? (I’ve
only met or heard of a few.) And where are they and what’s the universe
doing to them?
Hm. He pulled rich smoke across his tongue. When a person starts
sentimentalizing, it’s time either to get busy or to take antisenescence
treatments. Pending this decision, how about a woman? That stopover on
Ceres was several days ago, after all. He considered ladies he knew and
decided against them, for each would expect personal
consideration–which was her right, but his mind was still too full of
his son. Therefore: Would I rather flit to the mainland and its bright
lights, or have Chives phone the nearest cepheid agency?
As if at a signal, his personal servant appeared, a Shalmuan, slim
kilt-clad form remarkably humanlike except for 140 centimeters of
height, green skin, hairlessness, long prehensile tail, and, to be sure,
countless more subtle variations. On a tray he carried a visicom
extension, a cup of coffee, and a snifter of cognac. “You have a call,
sir,” he announced.
How many have you filtered out? Flandry didn’t ask. Nor did he object.
The nonhuman in a human milieu–or vice versa–commonly appears as a
caricature of a personality, because those around him cannot see most of
his soul. But Chives had attended his boss for years. “Personal servant”
had come to mean more than “valet and cook”; it included being butler of
a household which never stayed long in a single place, and pilot, and
bodyguard, and whatever an emergency might require.
Chives brought the lounger table into position, set down the tray, and
disappeared again. Flandry’s pulse bounced a little. In the screen
before him was the face of Dominic Hazeltine. “Why, hello,” he said. “I
didn’t expect to hear from you this soon.”
“Well”–excitement thrummed–“you know, our conversation–When I came
back to base, I got a chance at a general data scanner, and keyed for
recent material on Dennitza. A part of what I learned will interest you,
I think. Though you’d better act fast.”
II
—
Immediately after the two Navy yeomen who brought Kossara to the slave
depot had signed her over to its manager and departed, he told her:
“Hold out your left arm.” Dazed–for she had been whisked from the ship
within an hour of landing on Terra, and the speed of the aircar had
blurred the enormousness of Archopolis–she obeyed. He glanced expertly
at her wrist and, from a drawer, selected a bracelet of white metal,
some three centimeters broad and a few millimeters thick. Hinged, it
locked together with a click. She stared at the thing. A couple of
sensor spots and a niello of letters and numbers were its only
distinctions. It circled her arm snugly though not uncomfortably.
“The law requires slaves to wear this,” the manager explained in a bored
tone. He was a pudgy, faintly greasy-looking middle-aged person in whose
face dwelt shrewdness.
That must be on Terra, trickled through Kossara’s mind. Other places
seem to have other ways. And on Dennitza we keep no slaves …
“It’s powered by body heat and maintains an audiovisual link to a global
monitor net,” the voice went on. “If the computers notice anything
suspicious–including, of course, any tampering with the bracelet–they
call a human operator. He can stop you in your tracks by a signal.” The
man pointed to a switch on his desk. “This gives the same signal.”
He pressed. Pain burned like lightning, through flesh, bone, marrow,
until nothing was except pain. Kossara fell to her knees. She never knew
if she screamed or if her throat had jammed shut.
He lifted his hand and the anguish was gone. Kossara crouched shaking