“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it!” he snapped.
After they’d gone, Blynn turned on him. “Man, you must be out of your mind, talking to Secretary Vollard like that.”
“Why does she have to keep meddling? It’s none of her business—”
“None of her business! Secretary of the Space Service, and you say it’s none of her business?”
Clarey blinked. “I thought she was Spano’s secretary.”
Blynn laughed until the tears dampened his dark cheeks. “Spano’s only Head of Intelligence. She’s his Mistress.”
“Of course—mistress, feminine of master! I should have realized that before.” Then Clarey laughed, too. “I’m a real all-round alien. I can’t even understand my own language.”
On the way back home he couldn’t help thinking that Han Vollard might be right. It could be the best thing for him to disappear now; the best thing for himself, the best thing for Embelsira. He could pretend to desert her—better yet, Blynn could fake some kind of accident, so her feelings wouldn’t be hurt. A pension of some kind would be arranged. She could marry again, have the children she wanted so much. If he waited the full ten years, she might never be able to have them. He had no idea at what age Damorlant females ceased to be fertile.
But she wasn’t just a Damorlant female—she was his wife. He didn’t want to leave her. Maybe he never would have to. Hadn’t Spano said that when his term was over he could pick his planet? He would pick Damorlan.
When Clarey came home from Barshwat, Embelsira said nothing more about her suspicions, but greeted him affectionately and prepared a special supper for him. Afterward, he wondered if making love to an Earth girl could be as pleasant. He wondered how it would be to make love to Han Vollard.
The days passed and he forgot about Han Vollard. After much persuasion, he agreed to give a series of concerts at Zrig, but only on condition that Rini played with him and had one solo each performance. He was embarrassed at having so far outstripped his teacher, but Rini seemed unperturbed.
“My technique’s still better than yours will ever be,” he said. “It’s this new style of yours that gets ‘em. I understand it’s spreading; it’s reached as far as Barshwat. You should see the angry letters Irik writes about it!” Rini chuckled. “And he hasn’t the least idea it started right here in his own home village that he’s always sneered at for being so backward!”
Clarey smiled and clapped the boy on the neck. If it made Rini feel better to think Clarey had a new style rather than that Clarey played better than he did, Clarey had no objection.
Clarey was offered the post of head librarian at Zrig, but Embelsira didn’t want to leave Katund, and, when he thought about it, he really didn’t want to either. So he refused the job and didn’t bother mentioning the matter to Headquarters.
As he grew more sure of himself and his position, he allowed his wealth to show. He and Embelsira moved into a larger dome. Instead of sending to Zrig or even Barshwat for the furnishings, they hired local talent. Tavan, the carpenter, made them some exquisite blackwood pieces inlaid with opalescent stone that everyone said was the equal of anything in Barshwat. A talented nephew of Hanxi’s painted glowing murals; Embelsira’s mother wove rugs and draperies in muted water-tones. The dome became the district showplace. Clarey realized he now had a position to keep up, but sometimes it annoyed him when perfect strangers asked to see the place.
He was invited to run against Malesor as headman but declined. He didn’t want to be brought into undue prominence. Trouble was, as he became popular, he also aroused animosity. There were the girls who felt he should have married them instead of Embelsira, and their mothers and subsequent husbands. A lot of people resented Clarey because they felt he should have decorated his house differently, dressed differently, spent his money differently.
A man can live ignored by everyone, he discovered, but he can’t be liked by some without finding himself disliked by others.
Matters came to a head in his fourth spring there. He thought of it as spring, although on Damorlan the seasons had no separate identities; they blended into one another, without its ever being very hot or very cold, very rainy or very dry. The reason he called this time of the year spring was that it seemed closest to perfection.
It was less perfect that year. Because it was then that Rini’s brother Irik came back from Barshwat, after a six years’ absence. He was very much the city man, far more so than anyone Clarey had seen in Barshwat itself. His tunics were shorter than his fellow villagers’, and his cloaks iridesced restlessly from one vivid color to another. He wore a great deal of jewelry and perfume, neither of the best quality, and the toes of his boots were divided.
Clarey described this in detail to Embelsira the night Irik put in his first appearance at the Furbush. “You should have seen the little horror!”
“That’s the way city men dress,” Embelsira told him. “It’s fashionable.”
“But, dear, I’ve been to Barshwat.”
“You don’t have an eye for clothes. You never notice when I put on anything new. And I think it’s unfair to take a dislike to Irik just because you don’t care for the way he dresses.”
“It’s more than that, Belsira.” And yet how could he explain to her what he couldn’t quite understand himself, that Irik was vain, stupid, hostile; hence, dangerous?
“I swear to you, Balt,” Embelsira said demurely, “that whatever there was between me and Irik, it all ended six years ago.”
Clarey gave a start and then held back a smile. “I believe you, dear.” And he kissed her nose.
Irik held forth in the Furbush every evening of his stay in Katund. He had grievances and he aired them generously. He hated everything—the government, taxes, modern music, and Earthmen, whom he seemed to consider in some way responsible for the modern music, or at least its popularization. “Barbarians—slept completely through my concerts.”
“But people are always falling asleep during concerts, Irik,” Malesor pointed out reasonably. “And how could you expect barbarians to appreciate good music? What do you care for Earthmen’s opinions as long as your own people like your music?”
Irik hesitated. “But the Earthmen have taken up the new kind of music; they stay awake during that. And—a lot of people seem to think that whatever’s strange is good, so whatever the Earthmen like eventually becomes fashionable.”
Hanxi wiggled his ears. “Fashions change. Well, who’s ready to have his mug refilled?”
“But the Earthmen will keep on setting the fashions,” Irik snarled. “Many people think the Earthmen know everything, just because they’re aloof and have sky cars.”
“Well,” Malesor said, “the sky cars certainly prove they know something we don’t. Better stick to your music, boy.”
The smoky little bar-parlor resounded with laughter and Irik’s face turned a nasty red. “They don’t know anything about music and they don’t know everything about machinery. We might surprise them yet. A friend of mine knows Guhak, the fellow who invented that new brake for the track car a few years ago.”
“We know about that brake,” Piq observed. “It stops a car so good, the chains are twice as late nowadays as they used to be, and you couldn’t strictly say they were ever on time.”
Everybody laughed again. Irik quivered with anger. “Guhak has invented a car that doesn’t need to go on tracks. It can run whenever it wants wherever it wants. And one car will be able to go faster than three hax teams.”
“That