comprehend, Percival urged them away from the hub hole and onto the moving surface of the disc that was a floor beneath them in their new perspective.
They plunged into a great pungent crowd of people who stared at them, threw questions at them, and impeded their progress. Percival grew agitated as he tried to pull them through the crowd. Finally, he stopped and shouted: "This is the Quiet One's business! Do not interfere!"
The people around them never lost interest but Percival kept shouting and the crowd at least parted for them.
Almost every word and breath brought more questions needing answers to Fidelity's mind, frustrating her and increasing her notion that this place was of great importance to everything. She was sure this world lay far outside the Union, yet was still connected to it in some way. She needed to know why. She was especially interested in why a slightly corrupted Twenglish seemed to be the main language here.
"Hurry now!" Percival urged. "We have to change wheels and the timing is good for the restaurant I have in mind."
The people in the crowds remained attracted to their group, for whom Percival's mention of the Quiet One seemed to make little difference. Obviously Percival had heard the voice of Milly, Fidelity thought, not the voice of a goddess. This environment provided many places from which a voice could be projected by hidden means. The omnipresent sound of music in the air also had no apparent source. The voice of Milly must therefore have a long and meaningful history behind it here.
Fidelity studied the faces, the clothing styles, the manners, the health, every outwardly noticeable characteristic of the citizens of this world, compiling the data as an anthropologist would. She formed preliminary impressions as some items stood out in this dense crowd. Large knives were carried conspicuously but she did not see any firearms. There were many older-looking people who - in the Union - would have been fewer in number due to anti-aging treatments and would also not have so many scars. Scars appeared on a majority of faces. Many suffered from other injuries or medical conditions that were rare in the Union. Most of them appeared content if not happy. Their clothing styles varied widely, often imitating some Union fad. They seemed well-fed but seldom overweight. The older people were well-mannered if not too friendly. So many children! Parents closely guarded children, most of the youngest ones tethered by a leash. There were few people who appeared old enough to need a Mnro Clinic. There were enough children to disqualify them from even having a Mnro Clinic! Did that mean the life expectancy in the Big Ball was short?
Travelling toward the disc's perimeter, they arrived at a junction of two discs. Like the static edge of the walkways, the outside edge of the disc did not try to propel them. They pulled the pedicab up a gently curving slope between the discs and onto the disc that had been a "wall" and was now a floor. On the disc they had left, people stood and walked horizontally to their new perspective, glued there by artificial gravity.
Fidelity felt like she was becoming lost, and tried to parse through her new data to assure herself that she could at least retrace the route of their journey. She also realized that she was studying the people and searching for patterns in all the artifacts of this strange civilization, as if she had been a professional anthropologist. She did not know of all the tools of that profession, yet she seemed to have access to that kind of knowledge. If she had the time, she felt she could teach herself the profession from the contents of her in-body data.
This disc-cube place of commercial concentration was a place of near-chaos to Fidelity. There was almost no repetition in how a business establishment presented itself to the public. If there were patterns or repetitions, they were those of the ancient bazaar. The merchandise appeared to come from every source, much of it from Union space, but some of it from places Fidelity could not identify. She knew the Union did not contain all of the human population in the galaxy: that had always been conventional wisdom; this place was proof. She supposed they were no longer inside the Union.
For all their two-hundred-year history the alien artifacts called transmats had often been called gates, but popular fiction and human imagination demanded something extra for a real gate. As miraculous as they were, transmats did not allow interstellar travel; they did, however, hint that interstellar jumps could be possible. That was the role for gates. Fidelity was certain she had experienced gate travel, or at least jumps that were not by transmat. If she was not dreaming all of this - or even if she was - this strange world of Twenglish-speaking humans could be very far away from Earth and the Union.
"My favorite place," Percival said, indicating the shiny metal building they approached. "This may be my last meal, so I deserve it."
Fidelity was startled from her thoughts to learn they had arrived where Percival had intended, and she was too preoccupied with everything else to wonder at what Percival had said about a "last meal." She knew they had arrived at an eating establishment by the pervasive aroma of cooking food. The eatery resembled an ancient vehicle with fake wheels, made of polished metal, with a door on each end and windows along its length.
Fidelity and Rafael started to help Daidaunkh out of the pedicab but he waved them off. "Just bring me something," he requested. "And park me where I don't get harassed by too many people." Unfortunately, they had to place him near a large container that was not sealed well enough to stop the leaking odors of rotting food waste.
= = =
Daidaunkh watched the scenery through a gap between the diner and the garbage bin. He tried to ignore the disconcerting view above him, where people's heads and business structures hung downward from the distant circular ceiling and rotated slowly. Like the paired pedestrian concourses that spanned this interior world, the surface of the discs made whatever stood on it move, yet the surface itself did not move.
Although Daidaunkh found the place startlingly interesting, he also knew he was not quite up to the challenge of it. It seemed preferable to close his eyes to the insanity and seek rest, if not sleep. He was tired enough from lack of sleep to almost ignore the throb of pain in his arm and leg.
Too soon his attempt at oblivion ceased, as sharp motion of the pedicab made pain flare in his limbs. Three children - teenagers? - had seized the pedicab, one of them trying to ride the saddle and peddle it. They wheeled the squeaky vehicle into the crowd. In just a few moments they injured an old woman who did not hear them and other angry adults confronted them. Daidaunkh heard distant whistles: obvious warning signals from the edge of the crowd. The crowd quieted and dispersed rapidly. The young boys ran off shouting rude Twenglish words that Daidaunkh understood.
Two men in black uniforms walked into Daidaunkh's view as the crowd had flowed widely around them. They were not police. Daidaunkh judged they were soldiers by the severe uniforms they wore, the decorative buttons glinting in the sunless sunshine of this enclosed world. They drew close, seeing the old pedicab and aiming for it. Daidaunkh felt his hackles rise at the threat the soldiers projected as they cast suspicious gazes over him and his rusty vehicle.
"What's your business here?" one soldier demanded. A scar at the corner of his mouth prevented certain vowels from being clearly expressed. Daidaunkh could not quite understand him because of the speech impediment. He had also not understood some of the Twenglish conversation with the young man who found them - Percival. He had been curious to know but too proud to ask for translation.
"You a performer?" the scarred soldiered jabbered at him.
It took Daidaunkh only a few seconds to translate the tone of the Twenglish words into a threat to his life. Even having delayed replying raised the threat level. Daidaunkh was sensitive to the arrogance of persons who wore uniforms. He once was one himself. "I wait for someone in the eating establishment," he replied in Standard. "I'm not a performer." Unfortunately, it seemed it was an insult to speak Standard to them.
"Up!" the soldier ordered, yanking Daidaunkh by the shirt, tumbling him out of the pedicab onto the floor of the wheel. The jolt of agony, especially from his broken arm, made
Daidaunkh emit an embarrassing whimper.
"Get up!" the other soldier demanded. Daidaunkh had landed at his feet. "What's wrong with you?" This other soldier was thick of body and blue-eyed. Fresh pink scars dimpled his pale face. Daidaunkh could recognize the untreated marks of brawling - and of not being very good at it.
"Break bones!" Daidaunkh forced the old English from clenched teeth. He understood Twenglish to a modest extent but never spoke more than a few popular words or phrases of it. He tried to rise and could only push himself to a sitting position. The soldier put a boot on his shoulder and shoved him flat on his back.
"Up!" Blue-eyes ordered again.
Daidaunkh spoke two words in a Rhyan language whose meaning and tone were always understood by any foreigner to the language. Scar-mouth kicked his broken leg in response. Daidaunkh sucked in breath but refused to utter a sound. He glimpsed the admiral rushing toward him from the diner. The yellow dress stood out in the crowd. The crowd had not fully withdrawn and people were gathering thickly at a respectful distance from the two soldiers, forming a wide circle around them.
"Name and occupation!" Scar-mouth ordered almost clearly. He was dark of eyes and skin and seemed packed