So she was, but she was still wearing a wrapper over a frilly nightgown. It suited her, with her hair down; in fact, she looked quite pretty, and Giyt could see why doubling up was not a hardship for the New Zealander.
She did not, however, seem pleased to see Giyt. "Yes?" she said frostily. And she remained frosty while Giyt told her his shadowy suspicions about Hoak Hagbarth.
The New Zealander was listening intently. When Giyt finished he said, "What've I always told you, Emelia? It was a mistake to let Tupelo be an all-American project."
Patroosh gave him a tolerant look. "But that's only temporary, Jemmy. America's where Ex-Earth has been getting all its funding, so naturally America has a special interest. But they say they're definitely going to open it up to the rest of the world real soon now."
The New Zealander gave her a skeptical look. "I think we ought to listen to what this man has to say."
"Ah, Jemmy," she said crossly, "don't you think we've got enough on our plate? We've got to bring up the question of exchanging ambassadors again, and that's going to be a long, hard fight."
"But it's important," Giyt put in.
She shook her head. "Listen, Giyt," she began, and then hesitated. "Well," she said at last, "I guess you ought to know. Hagbarth's pretty down on you. Says he misjudged you. Doesn't think you're the right kind of person for the colony. And he has some stories about your wife—"
Giyt's expression hardened. "I know what he says about my wife."
"I don't really care what he says about your wife. But it makes a problem. If the Ex-Earth rep and the mayor are feuding, it complicates things here."
"But if the Ex-Earth rep is committing a crime—"
"Depends on what kind of crime it is, Giyt," she said kindly. "The UN can't do anything about embezzlement out here, can it?"
"I don't know that's what it is," he said obstinately. "It could be anything. It could be something that damages relations with the other planets."
"Yes, it could," she agreed, "but we don't know that, do we? As far as I can see, we don't know anything at all." She meditated for a moment, then sighed. "Giyt, I'll tell you what I'll do. When I'm back on Earth I'll ask Interpol a few discreet questions. If they know anything, I'll try to follow up."
Giyt, torn between knowing he ought to thank her, wanting more action: "When will that be?"
"A while. The ambassador-exchange thing is going to take time. Maybe a couple of weeks, even. But that's the best I can do. If you wanted me to do anything here, you'd have to have more evidence. Now will you please leave us alone so I can get dressed?"
More evidence? All right, Giyt thought, I'll give her more evidence. And when he got back to his home he asked Rina, "Do you think you'd be all right by yourself if I went to the Pole for a day or two?"
XXIV
Welcome, welcome, and welcome to our wonderful visitors from good old Mother Earth! And a special welcome to our dear old friend. Dr. Emilia Patroosh, who we all fondly remember from her visit here just a few months ago when she came to investigate the problems with the new generator system planned for Energy Island. And I've got some really good news for everybody, because tonight's the night! Our own dear Hoak and Olse Hagbarth are having a cookout at their home and all six of our honored guests have graciously consented to be present to meet you. Everyone's invited! And I don't Have to tell you that a grand time will be had by all when we partake of that famous Olse Hagbarth hospitality! See you there!
—SILVA CRISTL'S BROADCAST
The decision to go to the Pole was made. Implementing the decision was harder. The first thing Giyt tried was polling the other mayors about revising the passenger list for the polar rocket.
He didn't get very far. The mayors weren't hostile, exactly, but they were clearly unwilling to get into a dispute between Earth humans. Even Mrs. Brownbenttalon was no help. "Could gladly give to you Centaurian seats if available, Large Male Giyt," she said, "but fact is, got no Centaurians going this trip or not next trip either, too. Wait. I maybe try Kalkaboos."
What she tried was to call the Kalkaboo High Champion on her own to see if he could be got to turn a seat loose. That didn't work, either. Downcast, she reported: "New Kalkaboo High Champion no better than old Kalkaboo High Champion. Talk much, do little. Say always permanently willing helping out good friend and assassin of predecessor who has made amends therefore, Earth-human Giyt, but not in this particular case. Say friend Giyt surely aware delegation of high persons from home planet presently present here and maybe would not be approving."
"Well, he could ask them," Giyt said.
"Certainly could. I spoke so also. He say not advisable, could cause problem. What sort problem he mean," she added, "is maybe home planet bosses might be annoy, could think stinky new Kalkaboo High Champion not as good as stinky old one. Stupid, you think? Sure. But what you going do? Is how Kalkaboos are, mostly. Now let me try Delts."
The Delts weren't helpful, either. When Giyt had to report failure to his wife she was warmly sympathetic. "Look on the bright side, hon. Here are all these people that aren't even human, and they do their best to help you—some of them, anyway."
"A very few of them," he grumbled. "And what the Delt said was that he'd do it in a minute, but the Slugs would have a fit because they're naturally scum. I hate the way these people talk about each other."
"Why? It's just talk, Shammy."
"It's not the kind of talk I'm used to," he insisted.
She sighed. "You've led a sheltered life, hon. When I was a kid in Newark, Mom was always making little jokes about the drunken Irish and the dumb Poles, and we all talked mean about the Protestants, and we and the Protestants never had a good word to say about the Afros or the Asians. Didn't mean much. We kids all played together, and our parents all got together for the Fourth of July parade and the Christmas baskets for the poor. The eeties just talk that way, hon. They get along. They've been doing it for hundreds of years, you know, and never any big fights. Which is a lot more," she added ruefully, "than you can say about any of our countries back on Earth,"
Giyt considered trying to stow away on the rocket—impossible—or just showing up at the launch pad and trying to bully his way aboard—just as impossible. Then he faced up to reality. He only had one alternative left. He had to swallow his pride and ask Hagbarth for help.
That wasn't easy, and what made it harder still was that he couldn't get Hagbarth on the screen; his personal access didn't respond, and when Giyt tried the one for the Hagbarth house, it was jammed up. He would have to do it in person.
When he got to Hagbarth's house he saw what the problem was. The cookout reception for the delegates was in full swing. He had to abandon his cart half a block away, because hundreds of people were swarming around the house. As he tried to pick his way through the crowd he got surprised looks from nearly everyone, some uneasily reluctant to meet his eyes, some staring at him with frank loathing. He was still a dozen meters from the front door when Hagbarth himself came steaming up. "What are you doing here, Giyt?" he demanded.
"I want to go to the Pole," Giyt said.
Hagbarth didn't laugh. He barely smiled—well, "sneered" might have been a better word, though he spoke mildly enough. "Can't be done. Don't you follow the weather reports? They had this big blizzard at the Pole. They're still digging out. No time to have tourists."
"I'll take my chance."
"Well, Giyt, you won't. Not this time. There's no room on the rocket. Don't you pay any attention at the commission meetings? You guys allocated us two seats, and they have to go to highly qualified technicians just waiting for a ride; we need them on duty there, Giyt. The factory might break down without them. Maybe next time."
"Which is when?"
"Well," Hagbarth said reasonably, "how can I tell? You never know when some of these home-planet people might take it into their heads to bump everybody and go up and take a look for themselves. Maybe next week, maybe not. Now I've got guests to attend to."
br /> In the end, it wasn't Hagbarth or any of the eeties he'd asked who gave Giyt help. It was Rina.
"Hon?" she said, coming into where he was bent over his screen again, sounding doubtful. "I don't know if it's such a good idea. It wouldn't be comfortable, that's for sure—"
"What wouldn't?"
"Well, my friend—you know, the Petty-Prime female, the one that's married to the horticulturist? You've seen her over here. Anyway, she says they've got space reserved for their whole family on the rocket. They're willing to wait. So if you're sure you really want to go there . . ."
XXV
The polar power plant was primarily Delt, in both construction and operation. The mines were largely Kalkaboo, though the Centaurians and the Slugs had combined on the lab work that made possible the processing of the ores. The factories were everybody's.
In its original form, the polar complex began with three structures set at the vertices of an equilateral triangle. One of the structures is for the Centaurians, one is for the Slugs and the Kalkaboos combined, and the third common to all three for shipping and warehousing; it is near this third building that the landing and launch pad for the suborbital rocket is located. Two kilometers away is the dock for the robot submarines, which carry heavy cargo to the island settlement. This is kept ice-free by waste heat from the power plant, though the structures themselves are often banked high with drifts.
Earth's single structure is one of four hived off from the original Centaurian structure, the other three being an additional dome for the Centaurians and two that are the property of the Petty-Primes.
—BRITANNICA ONLINE, "TUPELO."
The opening session of the six-planet meeting wasn't scheduled to begin for nearly three hours, but a lot of the delegates and their staffs were roaming the town. In the cart to the lakefront Giyt saw clumps of them wandering around like any tourists anywhere, taking pictures, getting souvenirs. Giyt wasn't paying much attention to them. He was preoccupied with the prospect of making a polar flight under the conditions the Petty-Primes' generosity made possible, while Rina wasn't looking at the visitors at all. She was withdrawn and worried. It wasn't until they were getting into the boat for the ride across to the launchpad on the far side of the lake that she glanced at the other passengers and said in consternation, "They've all got heavy coats, Shammy! You don't even have boots. It's winter up there!"
Giyt had noticed the same thing, but tried to reassure her. He wouldn't be out-of-doors at all, he promised. It didn't satisfy Rina. "No, Shammy," she announced, "you need somebody to take care of you. I'm going to come along."
She very nearly did board the ship at the last minute, as a matter of fact. Very likely would have done it, too, in spite of everything, if there had happened to be an available unoccupied seat in the Pole rocket.
But there wasn't. "No more seats, certainly none at all, definitely not any, no," the Delt at the door announced morosely. "Two seats remain open now for Earth-human persons, yes, but taken. Persons are late, too! Persons better damn come soon so captain get this vehicle back in time for watching of opening ceremonials, otherwise captain be damn mad!"
"I'll be taking the Petty-Prime space," Giyt informed him.
The Delt gave him the benefit of a concentrated stare from both eyes; "You say what?"
"It's all right. The Responsible One gave his permission for the switch."
"Ho!" the Delt snarled. "Responsible One? Gave permission? That very sweet, but, tell me, is Responsible One perhaps person who must now have task of to remove Petty-Prime seating structures from vehicle, so as to make physically feasible space for person your volume and mass to occupy? Still more not to be forgiven injustice!" As he turned to enter to do the job he flung over his shoulder, "For female Earth-human person, still no. Not possible at all."
Giyt turned to Rina. "So you see there's no room. But I'll be all right."
"Maybe so," she granted dubiously, "but also maybe not. What if these other people don't show? Then there'll be room, won't there?"
But that was a faint hope, quickly dispelled; the sound of a motor from across the lake was what dispelled it. A boat was speeding toward them, and as it was slowing down to touch shore Giyt saw who was in it. There was a driver, and two men huddled in parkas behind him. "Damn!" Giyt muttered. The men were Wili Tschopp and Hoak Hagbarth.
When the driver got out it turned out to be Olse Hagbarth, unctuously friendly. "Came along to see your hubby off?" she asked, chummy enough to make a cow puke. "Me too. Isn't that always the way for us wives? We stay home with the housework while our men go off—what? You go along with him? Oh, no, hon, you mustn't think about going along. Even if there was space for you. The acceleration in that rocket is fierce! Not so bad for a healthy man, maybe, but do you have any idea what it might do to that precious little baby inside you?"
Giyt's big fear was that his wife would punch Olse Hagbarth in the face, but she didn't. Rina allowed herself to be led morosely away across the charred surface around the pad, and Giyt hoisted himself into the entry door as the Delt mechanic brushed past him. He paused to speak to Giyt, half apologetic, half aggrieved. "Is now as good as can make it, which not in fact specially good, you know? You having nasty ride. Do not later speak didn't tell you so."
When Giyt tried to strap himself in he had to agree. The space intended for eight Petty-Primes was, in fact, large enough to hold an adult human male, but only if the human squeezed himself into the fetal position, knees almost touching his chin. As the Slug pilot came by, checking everyone's fastenings, he made a sound of reproach at Giyt. "Not proper stowage!" he slurped. "Can cause most grave discomfort in delta-vee conditions. Urgently you lie quite still in both ac- and deceleration modes, otherwise potential for snapping of structural members. Not ship's, yours."
Giyt prepared himself for the worst, his thoughts on this new development. What was he to do about the presence of Hagbarth and Tschopp on the suborbiter? They could have only one reason for this last-minute decision to come along. That was to keep an eye on him, and that he could not allow. He would have to lose them somehow.
Then there was no more time to think. The Slug pilot extruded himself to the front of the vessel—actually, in its erected takeoff position, to its top. In the surveillance mirror over the pilot station, Giyt could see the Slug taking his place at the controls. He didn't have a seat, exactly. All the other passengers, except Giyt, had custom-tailored sitting (or perching) places. All the pilot had was a sort of rubbery bowl.
As it turned out, that made good sense. The pilot didn't bother to warn the passengers when he. started the engines. He didn't have to. Giyt heard the rolling thunder of the rockets beneath him. The craft began to shake. The noise grew louder until it was all but unbearable, and then the ship slowly began to lift. Then it picked up speed. . . .
That was when Giyt saw the wisdom of the form-fitting chairs. He knew perfectly well what G-forces were supposed to be like, because everybody did. At least he had thought he did, but he had not anticipated how hard the platform he was resting on would become, or that his chest would be compressed until it was hard to breathe, or that the keycard in his hip pocket and the clasp of suspenders at the small of his back would suddenly feel like knives thrusting into his flesh. He could not see how the other passengers were faring, but in the overhead surveillance mirror he could catch glimpses of the Slug, now compressed into a sort of thick pudding in the bowl, his eye stalks pulled back into his body, a few tendrils stretched toward, but not quite reaching, the toggle controls.
Then the noise stopped.
The pressure was gone. The rocket was in the ballistic portion of its flight now, with no thrust at all and no weight. Giyt took a deep breath, savoring the pleasure of breathing freely again. He glanced toward the passengers next to him, the pair of male Delts who were already twisting their heads to check the condition of their mates behind a pair of similarly packed Kalkaboos. Everyone was chattering away—incomprehensibly to Giyt, beca
use somewhere along the acceleration the translation button had been pulled out of his ear by the G-forces.
While he was hunting for it he heard peremptory gurgling from the Slug and looked up. The pilot, restored to three dimensions, had hoisted himself out of his cup and was growling at Hoak Hagbarth. Who had unstrapped himself and was floating free, coming toward Giyt, "I know, I know," Hagbarth snapped at the pilot. I'll get back when I have to." And then to Giyt: "Damn that Tschopp! He always gets airsick, and he never gets to the bag in time. Look at me!"
He was dabbing at his knee, where there was a definite smear of something on his pants that smelled nasty. Giyt could hear the sounds of Wili Tschopp busily vomiting in the seat just above him.
Giyt didn't answer him. He managed to stretch an arm to retrieve the translation button he had just spotted on the floor. He didn't trust himself to speak. Hagbarth hesitated on his way to the toilet. "I guess you're wondering why we're here, with the six-planet meeting going on and all."
"Actually," Giyt said, "I'm not." And replaced the button in his ear as he closed his eyes. And didn't speak to Hagbarth again.
Corning back to the surface wasn't worse than the takeoff, but it wasn't appreciably better, either. If Giyt wasn't having the breath squeezed out of him quite as much, there was instead a whole hell of a lot more shaking and bouncing about as they reentered the atmosphere. Then the ship danced around a bit on its rockets as the pilot finally did in fact do a little piloting, making sure it was centered on the polar factory pad before he let the craft drop onto its massive shock absorbers for the last half meter or two.
Then they were there. They had to wait, strapped in their seats—waiting, Giyt supposed, while people outside foamed the ground the landing rockets had broiled. Then everyone began getting into their cold-weather gear—those that had it, anyway, which is to say everybody but Evesham Giyt. A moment later, responding to some cue from outside, the Slug pilot slithered down past the passengers, bulky in his rubbery cocoon of electrically heated fabric. He wrenched the door open and, without saying a word, left the ship.