Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

He turned back to Clarey. “Do you think you can pick up some of those what-do-you-call-’ems—ulerins—for us, too, or is there a tabu of some kind?”

“Not ulerins,” Clarey corrected, “uleran. And you can walk up to any marketplace and get as many as you like—providing you have the cash, of course.”

“I told you the job had musical overtones. I’ll bet that makes up for some of the discomforts and privations.”

“It’s not too uncomfortable.”

“There speaks a true patriot!” Spano approved.

Han measured Clarey with her eyes. “You’re quiet, Secretary,” he said nervously. “You used to talk a lot more.”

Blynn stared at him. She smiled. “You’re the one who has things to tell now, Clarey.”

“And show,” the general said, almost licking his lips. “Every one of your tapes made my mouth fairly water. I trust you brought an ample and varied supply of those delicacies.”

Clarey’s smile was unforced this time. “I got your message and I brought along a large hamperful, but it’ll be hard to make the people back home keep thinking my aunt’s an invalid if she eats like a team of hax. My wife baked some pastries, which I especially recommend to your attention.”

“I think we ought to get business over before we start on refreshments,” Han suggested.

“Yes,” Spano agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you had better be deep-probed first, Clarey.... Not even one taste beforehand, Han?... Well, I suppose not.”

Clarey tensed. “You’ve got a probe on the ship?” he asked, as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

“That’s right,” Han Vollard said. “It’s an up-to-date model. The whole thing’ll take you less than an hour, and we’ll have the information collated by morning.”

“I—I would prefer not to be deep-probed. You never can tell: it might upset all the conditioning I’ve received here; it—”

“Let us worry about that, Clarey,” she said.

He didn’t sleep that night. He sat looking out of the window, knowing there was nothing he could do. Embelsira was in danger—her people were in danger—and he couldn’t lift a finger to save them.

When he came down to breakfast, he saw that the reports had been collated and read. “So your wife suspects, does she?” the general asked. “Shrewd little creature. You must have picked one of the more intelligent ones.”

Clarey struggled on the pin. “Wives often have strange fancies about their husbands. You mustn’t take it too seriously.”

“How often have you been married, Clarey?” Han asked. “Or even linked in liaison? How many married people did you know well back on Earth?”

There was no need to answer; she knew all the answers.

“I think Clarey did a rattling good job,” Blynn said stoutly. “It wasn’t his fault that she suspects.”

“Of course not!” the general agreed. “Feminine intuition isn’t restricted to human females. In fact, in some female ilfs it’s even stronger than in humans. The precognitive faculties in the grua, for example—”

“What are you going to do?” Clarey interrupted bluntly.

Han Vollard answered him: “Nothing yet. You’ve got us a lot of information, but it’s not enough. You’ll have to keep on as you are for another three years or so.”

It was all Clarey could do to keep from trembling visibly with relief.

“It doesn’t even matter too much that one of the natives suspects,” Han went on, “as long as she doesn’t definitely know.”

“She doesn’t,” Clarey said, “and she won’t. And she won’t tell anybody; she’d be afraid for me.” But he wasn’t all that sure. The Damorlanti didn’t hate Earthmen and they didn’t fear them, and so Embelsira wouldn’t think it was a shameful thing to be. He was glad he’d already been deep-probed. At least this thought would be safe for three years or so.

“At any rate, they don’t seem antagonistic toward Earthmen,” the general said, almost as if he’d read part of Clarey’s mind. “I think that’s nice.”

Han Vollard looked at him. “It’s not their attitude toward us that matters. They couldn’t do anything if they tried. It’s what they are that matters, what they will be that matters even more.”

“I take back what I said before!” Clarey flared. “You talk too damn much!”

There was a chilling silence.

“Nerves,” said Blynn nervously. “Every agent lets go when he’s back among his own kind. Nothing but release of tension.”

Several days later the staff ship was ready to go back to Earth. “Don’t forget to tell your wife how much I enjoyed the pies,” Spano said; then, “Oh, I was forgetting; you could hardly do that. But do see if you can work out something with the dehydro-freeze. I’d hate to have to wait three years before tasting them again. You can keep your marac rolls, though; I’ll take my smoke-sticks.”

“Try not to get any more involved, Clarey,” Han Vollard said as they stood outside the airlock. “Maybe you ought to move on—to a city, perhaps, another country—”

“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.