Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

He was put through intensive indoctrination, given accelerated courses in the total secret agent curriculum: Self-Defense and Electronics, Decoding and Resourcefulness, Xenopsychology and Acting.

“There are eight cardinal rules of acting,” the robocoach told him. “The first is: Never Identify. You’ll never be able to become the character you’re playing, because you aren’t that character—the playwright gave birth to him, not your mother. Therefore—”

“But I’m only going to play one role,” Clarey broke in. “All I need to know is how to play that role well and convincingly. My life may depend on it.”

“I teach acting,” the robocoach said loftily. “I don’t run a charm school. If you come to me, you learn—or, at least, are exposed to—all I have to offer. I refuse to tailor my art to any occasional need. Now, the second cardinal rule....”

Clarey was glad he could absorb the languages and social structure of the planet through the impersonal hypno-tapes. He had to learn more than one language because the planet was divided into several national units, each speaking a different tongue. Inefficient as far as planetary operation went, but advantageous to him, Han Vollard pointed out, because, though he’d work in Vangtor, he would be supposed to have originated in Ventimor; hence his accent.

“Work?” Clarey asked. “I thought I was going to be an undercover agent.”

“You’ll have a cover job,” she explained wearily. “You can’t just wander around with no visible source of income, unless you’re a member of the nobility, and it would be risky to elevate you to the peerage.”

“What kind of a job will I have?” Clarey asked, brightening a little at the idea of possibly having something interesting to do.

“They call it librarian . I’m not exactly sure what it is, but Colonel Blynn—he’s our chief officer on the planet—says that after indoctrination you ought to be able to handle it.”

Clarey already knew that jobs on Damorlan weren’t officially assigned, but that employer and employee somehow managed to find each other and work out arrangements themselves. Sometimes, Han now explained, employers would advertise for employees. Colonel Blynn had answered such a job in Vangtor on his behalf from an accommodation address in Ventimor. “You were hired sight unseen, because you came cheap. So they probably won’t check your references. Let’s hope not, anyway.”

The trip to Damorlan was one long aching agony. Since luxury liners naturally didn’t touch on Damorlan, he was sent out on a service freighter, built for maximum stowage rather than comfort. Most of the time he was spacesick. The only thing that comforted him was that it would be ten years before he’d have to go back.

They landed on the Earthmen’s spaceport—the only spaceport, of course—at Barshwat, and he was hustled off to Earth Headquarters in an animal-drawn cart that made him realize there were other ailments besides spacesickness.

“Afraid you’re going to have to hole up in my suite while you’re with us,” Colonel Blynn apologized when Clarey was safely inside. “The rest of the establishment is crawling with native servants—daytimes, anyway; they sleep out—but they have orders never to come near my quarters.”

He looked interestedly at Clarey. “Amazing how the plastosurgeons got you to look exactly like a native. Those boys really know their stuff. Maybe I will have my nose fixed next time I go Earthside.”

Clarey glared venomously at the tall, handsome, dark young officer.

“Don’t worry,” Blynn soothed him. “I’m sure when you go back they’ll be able to make you look exactly the way you were before.”

He gave Clarey a general briefing and explained to him that the additional allowance he’d be receiving—since he couldn’t be expected to live on a Damorlant salary—would come from an alleged rich aunt in Barshwat.

“Where’ll you get the native currency?” Clarey asked.

“We do some restricted trading with the natives, bring materials that’re in short supply; salt, breakfast cereals, pigments, thread—stuff like that. Nothing strategic, nothing they could possibly use against us ... unless they decide to strangle us with our own string.” He guffawed ear-splittingly.

One rainy evening a couple of Earth officers hustled Clarey into a hax-cart. A little later, equipped with a native kit, an itinerary, and a ticket purchased in Ventimor, he was left a short distance from a large track-car station.

He was so numb with fright he had to force himself to move in the right direction leg by leg. He gained a little confidence when he was able to find the terminus without needing to ask directions; he even managed to find the right chain of cars and a place to sit in one of them. He didn’t realize that this was something of an achievement until he discovered that certain later arrivals had to stand. He wondered why more tickets were issued than there were seats available, then realized the answer was simple—primitives couldn’t count very accurately.

Creakily and slowly, the chain got under way. Clarey’s terror mounted. Here he was, wearing strange clothes, on a strange world, surrounded by strange creatures. They aren’t really repulsive, he told himself; they look like people; they look like me.

Some of the natives seemed to be staring at him. His heart began to beat loudly. Could they hear it? Did their hearts beat the same way? Was their hearing more acute than his? The tapes had seemed so full of information; now he saw how full of holes they’d been. Then he noticed that the natives were staring at each other. His heart quieted. Only a local custom. After a while, little conversational groups formed. No one spoke to him, for he spoke to no one. He was not yet ready to thrust himself upon them; he had enough to do to reach his destination successfully.

He tried to follow the conversations for practice and to keep his mind off his fears. The male next to him was talking to the male opposite about the weather and its effect on the sirtles. The three females on his other side were telling each other how their respective offspring were doing in school. Some voices he couldn’t identify with owners were complaining how much sagor and titulwirt cost these days. I don’t know why the government is so worried, he thought; they’re not really very human at all.

The chain had been scheduled to reach the end of its run in three hours. It took closer to five. He got off at what would have been around midnight on Earth, and the terminus where he was supposed to take the next chain was almost empty of people, completely empty of cars. Although it was still a few minutes before his car was due, he was worried. Finally, he approached a native.

“Is this—is this not where the 39:12 to Zrig is destined to appear?” he asked, conscious as he uttered Vangtort aloud for the first time that his phrasing was not entirely colloquial.

The native stared at him with small pale eyes and bit his middle finger. “Stranger, eh?” he asked in a small pale voice.

“Yes.” The native waited. “I come from Ventimor,” Clarey told him. Nosy native, he thought furiously; prying primitive.

“You don’t hafta shout,” the native said. “I’m not deef.”

Clarey realized what he hadn’t noted consciously before—the natives spoke much more softly than Earthmen. Local custom two.

“You’ll be finding things a lot different here in Vangtor,” the native told him. “Livelier, more up to date. F’rinstance, do the cars always run on time in Ventimor?”

“Yes,” Clarey said firmly.

“Well, they don’t here. Know why? That’s because we’ve got more’n one chain of ‘em.” He made a noise like a wounded turshi. He was laughing.