“That would be unfortunate,” Mekashe replied. He grinned. “In such case, you should all consume vegetables before you make port. No self-respecting galot will eat a vegetarian, on principle.”
Hahnson laughed out loud. “I’ll remind everybody. Listen, I’ll get this package right to your holo printer. And good luck!”
“Thank you.”
He cut the connection, and then worried about what Hahnson had said. He had no microcyborgs to disable. Hahnson had no need to know about his personal physiology, because there was always a Cularian surgeon aboard ship, who dealt with the Cehn-Tahr and Jebob and even Rojok casualties that sometimes were lifted by the Morcai to medical ships. Hahnson didn’t know that Mekashe needed no augmentation of his true strength. He wondered why he would need to weaken himself. Were humans so fragile?
He recalled Jasmine’s look of pain when his hand had tightened on hers the night before and grimaced. Apparently, he was going to have to modify his strength in order not to harm her. Well, the dravelzium would suffice, he was certain. He just had to restrain his enthusiasm.
* * *
HAHNSON’S PACKAGE APPEARED minutes later. Mekashe opened it and read the instructions carefully to make sure he understood the proper procedure for administering the drug.
“Be careful of the dosage,” Hahnson cautioned in a holomessage that accompanied the dravelzium. “Too little can be as dangerous to her, and too much can make you very drowsy. I’d start with one cc and see how it affects you. I’d do it in private, as well.” Hahnson grinned. “You don’t want to pass out and have her dragging you back to your quarters by a leg.”
Mekashe laughed uproariously at the image that presented itself. He took the precious discs and put them in his personal safe. One could never be too careful with powerful drugs. He saved out one of the 1-cc discs for later, just before the opera. He’d never anticipated an evening so much. Already, Jasmine had become part of his life.
* * *
HE DRESSED CAREFULLY in his most formal suit, a black one that flattered his pale golden skin and black hair. He looked very correct, he told himself, smiling at his virtual reflection. His hair, thick and soft, was in a conventional cut, like the humans wore. When he transformed to his natural form, it was like a mane that swept back from his face and down his back. Like his cousin Rhemun’s, it was gloriously curly, a genetic legacy from their forefathers.
Unlike Rojoks, whose hair signified rank by its length, Cehn-Tahr had only personal preference to consider. Mekashe had enjoyed long hair when he noticed that Dr. Edris Mallory seemed entranced by Commander Rhemun’s long, curly black hair that he wore to his waist in back. But growing his hair hadn’t provoked the same reaction in Edris, who was in love with Rhemun. It had been a huge disappointment to find that the pretty little blonde physician didn’t share his infatuation.
Now, however, he didn’t mind. He had Jasmine, who was the embodiment of dreams. He looked forward to the opera, which he’d never attended in his life. He’d heard some of his comrades bewail the experience as earsplitting misery which they endured because they were fond of their shipmates. Mekashe was going to keep an open mind. It wasn’t the affair, it was the company that he was going to keep that warmed his heart.
He presented himself at Jasmine’s door precisely when the ship’s intercommunications hailed the six bells the Duponts had told him about.
Jasmine opened the door, and Mekashe’s breath sighed out in wonder.
She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his life. She wore gold, a soft fabric that fell in folds to her ankles, with a high neckline and short sleeves. Over it was a cape of the same material, secured by a white fur collar and clasp. The fur smelled of mammal. He’d read that the humans still wore fur accessories for fashion, although these were Tri-D creations, not taken from live creatures.
“Is it...all right?” Jasmine asked worriedly, because his expression was troubling.
“You look quite incredibly beautiful,” he said in a soft, deep tone. “You take my breath away.”
She beamed. Her pale blue eyes sparkled like jewels. “Thank goodness. I was afraid I’d dressed inappropriately.” She grimaced. “The salesman said it was rather risqué.”
He frowned.
“Daring,” she modified. She flushed.
“Why?” he asked, because he could see no evidence of that.
“Well...it’s this.” She turned around. Her beautiful, smooth back was bare to the waist.
The sight of that exquisite skin had a very formidable effect on Mekashe, who was now very grateful for Hahnson’s prescription. What might have provoked an alarming behavior was tamed, so that all he did was smile.
“It is perfectly appropriate,” he assured her when she turned back. He leaned down a little. “What the salesman meant is that to some cultures, a bare nape—much less a bare back—is extremely stimulating.”
Her eyes widened. “Is your culture one of those?”
He nodded. “To us, a bare nape is very exciting.”
She caught her breath. “Oh dear. Should I go and change?” she asked at once, not wanting to make her new friend uncomfortable.
He laughed out loud. “Most certainly not. The effect is tantalizing, but not overpowering. Shall we go?”
Her father paused behind his daughter with a rare paper book in his hand. “Leaving now? Have fun.” He kissed Jasmine’s cheek. “Chess tomorrow?” he asked Mekashe.
“Definitely. After breakfast.”
“I’ll warm up the chess pieces.” He smiled and walked away.
* * *
“YOUR FATHER READS books made of pulpwood,” Mekashe remarked on the way to the theater.
“Yes. He has a collection of them. They’re very rare. He said that no electronic book has the feel and smell of the real thing. He paid a fortune for them.”
“Paper pulp.” Mekashe shook his head, smiling. “We revere our forests. We consider that they have a culture, even some form of sentience. It would never occur to us to slaughter one for a commercial product.”
She stopped and looked up at him worriedly, afraid that she’d offended him.
“We consider that the culture of other species does not conform with our own, and we make allowances.” He hesitated. “Did you think we might cage your father for public punishment for owning a book?” he added at her consternation, laughing.
“Well...” She smiled shyly. “I wasn’t sure. We know so little of your culture.”
“You will learn more, as we go along,” he promised. “Now. Tell me about this thing called opera.”
She enlightened him on the way to the event.
They were in line when he spoke again. “It will be a new experience for me.”
“Don’t you have opera?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Our music is mostly instrumental,” he replied. “We have artists who paint with sound, who—” he searched for the right word “—who make visual canvases which, when touched, produce music.”
“That sounds almost magical,” she said.
He nodded. “We have a sector called Kolmankash, where exotic tech is produced. We have many inventions that would seem like the arcane to other cultures.”
“I’ve heard of Kolmankash! I would love to see a canvas that sang.” She sighed.
“Soon,”