had been when a mixed platter of fresh greens and fruits was set before him. He glanced up at Andrew in confusion. Andrew’s dark eyes were frankly amused.
“The waiter asked you twice what you’d like. I ordered it for you, the second time you didn’t hear him.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind.”
“No contract yet?”
“Actually, that’s not the problem. I’ve got a client.”
“Good one?”
John shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it.
“Then what’s the problem?”
John hesitated, wondering how much, if anything, he wanted to tell Andrew. But Andrew’s own face darkened and he set his cup down with a thump. “It’s Connie, isn’t it? Damn, John, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I swear I didn’t know when I recommended her.”
“So you’ve said,” John answered, content to let the conversation wander down this channel for a while.
“So. What’s she done?” Andrew leaned forward, ready for a choice story.
“Exactly what she’s told, and no more,” John informed him grimly. He reflected it wasn’t exactly a lie. Tug had undoubtedly sent her out on her latest ill-advised errand.
Andrew looked confused. “So?”
“So tell me what the rumor was?”
Andrew looked acutely uncomfortable. “It was only a rumor, John. I heard it from Luis, and you know what he’s like. I wouldn’t give it much credit, except …” Andrew hesitated.
“Spill it,” John advised him. He took a thin slice of taro root from the plate, seasoned it, and crunched into it.
“Well, you know how she’s always muttering to herself?”
John didn’t, but he nodded to let Andrew continue.
“Well, Luis says that when a person has had really intensive Readjustment, they do that. It’s part of the hypnotherapy. They give the person set dialogues that kick in to relieve stress, you know, built-in pep talks from the subconscious.”
“I’ve heard of it,” John admitted.
“Yeah, well, Luis said he overheard enough to know it wasn’t the standard stuff. He had the bunk right above hers; you know we don’t get separate awake quarters like you’ve got on the Evangeline. He said it sounded to him like she’d been involved in, uh, some kind of violence. Something bloody. And after Connie left the Trotter, and Luis got more open about talking about it, Trey said she’d used to live in the same building as Connie, back when she was a shoresider. She’s not positive it was Connie, because she didn’t really know her then, but someone got taken out of the building one afternoon by emergency personnel. It wasn’t the kind of thing to be too curious about, but Trey said there was a lot of blood on whoever they took out, and the room was a mess with it.”
Andrew paused breathlessly, waiting for John’s reaction. John didn’t have one to give him. Instead he sat silently, thinking of how Connie clasped stillness and disappeared herself into it. He tried to picture her in violent motion, energetic, engaged in some passionate act. He couldn’t. Then he tried to picture her as the recipient of violence, as the stunned victim of some unadjusted person’s wrath. He winced. He said softly, “Don’t they do a Readjustment sometimes on a person who’s been badly hurt? You know, traumatized by violence?”
John watched Andrew absorb the idea, saw the flickering of emotion over his boyish face. “Damn,” he said softly. “I’ll bet.” After a moment he asked, “You going to keep her on?”
John took another bite of taro root, to give the appearance of considering the question. In reality, he didn’t have time to do anything about Connie except keep her. Hiring a new crewman would take time. Time spent in port was time vulnerable to the Conservancy; and Earth Affirmed had stressed that a speedy departure was essential. He had no choice but to keep her. No damn choice about anything anymore.
“I’ll just have to be careful of her,” he said, and only when Andrew nodded did he realize he’d spoken aloud.
“Just don’t put much pressure on her, and she’ll probably do fine. She did okay on the Trotter. And the Evangeline is a lot quieter than the Trotter. Less stress. She’ll do fine.”
“Probably,” John agreed glumly, thinking of Tug and their present mission. Less stress. Sure. He took a sip of stim, watching Andrew over the rim of his mug. “Ever think about getting off?” he asked seriously.
“What?”
“You know. Get off the Beast. Retrain. Get a real job, a real life, one that goes day to day, where you have neighbors and friends….”
Andrew shifted uncomfortably. “No,” he said shortly.
“Why not?” John asked.
“Are you serious?” And when John nodded, Andrew frowned. “Because, as frustrating as it all is, it’s still as close as I’m ever going to get to the real thing. The old dream, you know, the freedom of the stars. I doubt any man will ever really ‘captain’ a Beastship, or any other interstellar ship. The ancient technology that we once thought would get us to the stars: it was too messy, too inefficient. Too damn slow. And even it’s been lost. The Arthroplana have it all sewed up. Beastships are the only practical method of interstellar travel. And whatever they are, neither you nor I are equipped to really captain one. So we’re along for the ride. And it’s frustrating, and sometimes it’s humbling, but it’s still as close as I’m ever going to get. So we take the crumbs and are grateful. But sometimes we stop and wonder, What does that make us?”
John closed his eyes for one aching instant, and wished Andrew hadn’t been able to verbalize it so well. But it was true, and once in a great while, the Humans who worked the Beastships would speak of it. Quietly. Bitterly. Crumbs. They got only crumbs, but they’d cling to them fiercely. Because it was as close to the dream as they’d ever get. “Human,” he told Andrew softly. “It makes us Human.”
4
TUG FINISHED THE SEARCH of his archives. He signaled Evangeline to retract the memory filaments that served as his records and withdrew into himself to contemplate. Montemorossi. There was simply no record of him, anywhere in Tug’s library. Not even the most teasing reference. And yet John’s latest acquisitions had seventeen poems ascribed to him. More baffling still was that Tug’s extensive knowledge of linguistics couldn’t pin the poet’s work down to a particular time. Late nineteenth century, Earth-reckoned date, was his tentative decision, but then again, there were certain idioms used in the work that hadn’t come into common usage until the twenty-second century. It was totally baffling, and therefore totally delightful.
Boredom was Tug’s greatest enemy. As an enBeasted Arthroplana his intellect should have developed beyond the point where mere solitude could bore him, yet he had welcomed this diversion that John had unwittingly provided during the first twenty-seven years of their trip out from Delta toward Terra. After John and Connie had secured their Human quarters and settled into Waitsleep, Tug had occupied his time well. First, there had been the relatively minor matter of deciphering the language-based lock John had placed on his personal library access reader. That done, he had plundered the latest collection of ancient poetry that John had stored in the reader’s immediate memory. And since then there had been the methodical storage, referencing, and cross-referencing of the new material into his library, along with lavish notations on possible interpretations of the works. It had been an enjoyable, if brief, entertainment. But now it was time he turned his attention to his Human charges. He reared up from his customary perch over the section of Evangeline’s nerve trunk that ran through his chamber, and moved to where he could monitor the Human’s Waitsleep. They should be in their dreaming cycles right now.
Raef moved slightly in his womb, a shuddering, twitching movement that was a response