But the state should be more or less stable through his and Nivala’s lifetime, and they could make provision for their children.
An elbow jabbed his ribs. “Out o’ the way, tumy!”
He tensed but stepped off the walk. The man strutted on by. As Kenri went back, a woman, leaning fat and frowzy from a second-floor window, jeered at him and spat. He dodged, but could not dodge the laughter that yelped around him.
Has it gotten this bad? he thought. Well, maybe they’re taking out on us what they don’t yet dare say to the overlords.
The long view gave thin consolation. He felt shivery and nauseated. And the sadness in his father and mother — Though Nivala awaited him, he needed a drink. A lightsign bottle winked above a doorway ahead.
He entered. Gloom and sour smells closed in on him. A few sullen men slumped at tables. A mural above them jerked through its obscenities. A raddled Standard-D girl smiled at him, saw his features and badge, and turned away with a sniff.
A live bartender presided. He gave the newcomer a glazed stare. “Vodzan,” Kenri said. “Make it a double.”
“We don’t serve no tumies here,” said the bartender.
Kenri sucked in a breath. He started to go. A hand touched his arm. “Just a minute, spaceman,” said a soft voice; and to the attendant: “One double vodzan.”
“I told you —”
“This is for me, Ilm. I can give it to anyone I want. I can pour it on the floor if I so desire. Or over you.”
The bartender went quickly off to his bottles.
Kenri looked into a hairless, dead-white face. The skull behind had a rakish cast. The lean gray-clad form sat hunched at the bar, one hand idly rolling dice from a cup, scooping them up, and rolling again. The fingers had no hones, they were small tentacles, and the eyes were cat yellow, all iris and slit pupil.
“Uh, thank you, sir,” Kenri stammered in bewilderment. “May I pay —”
“No. On me.” The other accepted the goblet and handed it over. He put no money down. “Here.”
“Your health, sir,” Kenri said, emboldened. He lifted the vessel and drank. The liquor burned his throat.
“Such as it is,” said the man indifferently. “No trouble to me.” He was doubtless a petty criminal of some sort, maybe an assassin, if that guild still flourished. His somatype was not quite human. He must be Special-X, created for a particular job or for study or for fun. Presumably he’d been released when his master was done with him, and had ended in the slums.
“Been away long?” he asked, his gaze on the dice.
Kenri couldn’t immediately remember. “About a hundred years.” Or more?
“Watch out. They really hate Kithfolk these days. Hereabouts, anyhow. If you get slugged or robbed, it’ll do you no good complaining to the militia. You’d probably get your butt kicked.”
“It’s kind of you —”
“Nothing.” The supple fingers gathered the dice, rattled them in the cup, and tossed. “I like having somebody to feel superior to.”
“Oh.” Kenri set the goblet down. “I see. Well —”
“No, don’t go.” The yellow eyes lifted toward his and, astonished, he saw tears glimmer. “I’m sorry. Sometimes the bitterness breaks loose. No offense to you. I tried to sign on as a spaceman once. Naturally, they wouldn’t have me.”
Kenri found no response.
“A single voyage would have been enough,” said the X dully. “Can’t an Earthling dream, too, now and then? But I realize I’d have been useless. And my looks. Underdogs don’t like each other.”
Kenri winced.
“Maybe I shouldn’t envy you at that,” the X muttered. “You see too much history. Me, I’ve made my place. I don’t do badly. As for whether it’s worth the trouble, staying alive —” He shrugged. “I’m not, anyway. A man’s only alive when he has something bigger than himself to live and die for. Oh, well.” He rolled the dice. “Nine. I’m losing my touch.” After a moment: “I know a place where they don’t care who you are if you’ve got money.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’ve an appointment,” Kenri said. How awkward it sounded. And false, in spite of being true.