Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

The first three years of Clarey’s marriage were happy ones. He and Embelsira got on very nicely together and, since he was fond of her mother, he didn’t mind her constant presence too much. Once a week he took a ulerin lesson from Rini. He practiced assiduously and made progress that he himself could see was sensational. He did wish that Rini would accept money; it would have been so much less of a nuisance than replacing the music books the boy stole from the library, but he couldn’t expect local customs to coincide with his own. The money, of course, didn’t matter; he still wasn’t living up to his allowance, although he was beginning to spread himself on elaborate custom-made cloaks and tunics. On Earth he had dressed soberly, according to his status, but here he felt entitled to cut a dash.

At the colonel’s request, on his next trip to Barshwat he brought his ulerin and taped some native melodies. “I like ‘em,” the colonel said, nodding his head emphatically. “Catchy, very catchy. Hope the X-Ts appreciate them; they don’t usually like music if it sounds at all human.” And, catching the look on Clarey’s face, “Well, you know what I mean. To them, if a tune can be hummed, it isn’t authentic.”

News of Clarey’s skill on the ulerin spread through the countryside. When he played in the temple concerts, people sometimes came from as far away as Zrig to hear him. Clarey was a little disturbed about this, because he didn’t subscribe to the local faith. But the high priest said, “My son, music knows no religious boundaries. Besides, when you play, we always get three times as much in the collection nets.”

At the time Clarey got word from Barshwat that General Spano and the staff ship were expected shortly, he had risen to the post of chief librarian. Embelsira had retired to keep dome and wait for the young ones who would, of course, never come. Clarey had hired a hixhead of an assistant from Zrig to assist him; he saw now why the village had originally been grateful to get even a foreigner of doubtful background for the job.

“I’m going to have to stay at least a week with Aunt Askush this time,” he told his wife. “Legal matters. I think she’s drawing up a will or some such,” he added, hoping that this would keep Embelsira happy and convinced.

Maybe it worked too well. “But why can’t I come with you? I’ve always wanted so much to meet her.”

“I keep telling you her illness is a disfiguring one; she won’t meet strangers. And don’t say you’re not a stranger—you’d understand, but she’s the one who wouldn’t. Please don’t nag me, Belsir.”

“Sometimes I think you’re a stranger, Balt,” Embelsira declared emotionally.

“Yes, dear, I’m a stranger, anything you say, but let me get packed.” He started folding a robe crookedly, hoping it would distract her into taking over the job.

But she leaned against the lintel, staring at him. “Balt, sometimes I wonder if you really have an aunt.”

The only thing he allowed himself to do was put down the robe he was holding. “Do you think I send expensive toilet sets to myself? You must think Piq’s right—I’m just plain crazy.”

“Piq doesn’t think you’re crazy any more. He and the other old ones say you have a woman in Barshwat. But I don’t believe that!”

“Maybe I do, Embelsira. A man’s a man, even if he is a librarian.”

“I know it isn’t true. I think it’s ... something else entirely. You’re so strange sometimes, Balt. How could somebody who comes only from the other side of the same world be so strange?”

He forced a grin. “Suddenly you’ve become very cosmic. What do you know of our—of the world? It’s a big place. And nobody else in Katund seems to be so impressed by my strangeness; they think a foreigner’s entitled to his queer ways.”

“Nobody in Katund knows you as well as I do. And I’ve seen foreigners before. They’re not different in the way you are.” She looked intently at him. “It’s not a shameful kind of strangeness, just a ... strange kind of strangeness. Fascinating in its way—I don’t want you to think I just married the first stranger who came along....”

“I’m sure you had many offers, dear. Come, help me fold this cloak or I’ll never make the bus.”

“You know what I’m reminded of?” she said, coming forward and taking the cloak. “Of the old tale about the lovely village maiden who marries the handsome stranger and promises she’ll never look into his eyes. And then one day she forgets and looks into his eyes and sees—”

“What does she see?”

“The worst thing of all, the greatest horror. She sees nothing. She sees emptiness.”

He laughed. “The moral’s clear. She shouldn’t have looked into his eyes.”

“But how can you help looking into the eyes of the man you love? Maybe that’s the moral—that it was an impossible task he set her.”

“In those tales it’s always the man’s fault, isn’t it? Not much doubt who made them up. Now, Belsir, please, I’ve got to finish packing. It’ll be just my luck to have today be the day the bus to Zrig’s on time.”

“A couple of weeks ago I was in Zrig shopping and I saw an Earthman,” she said, folding his cloak into the kit. “The way he walked, the way he moved, reminded me a little of you.”

It was a long moment before he could speak. “Do I look to you like a dark-faced, dark-haired, brown-eyed—”

“I didn’t say you were an Earthman! But if Earthmen can travel through the sky, they might be able to do other things, too; maybe even change the way a man looks.”

He snapped the kit-fastener. “If you really believe that, you should be careful. Creatures as clever as that might be able to pluck your words from my brain.”

“What if they did? I’m not ashamed. Or afraid, either.”

He reached out and patted her arm. Maybe she wasn’t afraid, but he was. For her. And for the people of Damorlan. If there was a deep-probe on the staff ship.... If only something could happen to him, so he could never reach Barshwat ... Spano wouldn’t know. He might guess, but he wouldn’t know. He’d have to start all over again—and maybe things would turn out better next time.

General Spano and his secretary were waiting in Blynn’s office. Clarey stretched out his foot in greeting, then recollected himself and reached out his hand. “You see, sir,” he said with a too-hearty laugh, “I’m really living my part.”

Spano beamed. “Damorlan certainly seems to agree with you, my boy. You look positively blooming. Doesn’t he, Han?”

She nodded grave agreement.

The general sniffed. “What’s that you two are smoking?”

“Marac leaves,” Clarey said. “A native product. Care to try one?” He extended his pouch to Spano.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the general said, taking a roll. “Which part do you light? And why don’t you offer one to Secretary Vollard?”

“Oh, sorry; I didn’t think of it. The women here don’t use it. Care to try one, Secretary?” As she took a roll, she looked at him searchingly. She was still beautiful in an Amazonian way, but he preferred Embelsira’s way. He could never imagine Han Vollard warm and tender.

“Well, Clarey,” Spano said, “you seem to be doing a splendid job. I’ve been absolutely enthralled by your reports.” He settled himself behind Blynn’s desk. “Pity the information’s top secret. It could make a fortune on the tri-dis.”

Clarey bowed.

“And those musictapes you sent back created quite a stir. We’ve brought along some superior equipment. The rig here is good enough for routine work, but we need better fidelity for this. And it would be appreciated if the colonel didn’t beat time with his foot while you played—no offense, Blynn.”