to kick him into a pit of fear.
He had known Mouse as early as their Academy days. They had
shared their moments then, both in training and the play typified
by sunjammer racing in the wild starwinds of an old supernova. They
had crewed their sunjammer victoriously, and had shared
celebrations during leave. But they had refused, persistently, to
become anything more than acquaintances.
Friends were strange creatures. They became responsibilities.
They became walking symbols of emotional debits and personal
obligations.
He was getting too close to Mouse. Growing too fond of the
strange little man. And he suspected that Mouse was having the same
trouble.
Friendship would be bad for their professional detachment. It
could get them into trouble.
The Bureau had promised that they would not be teamed again
after the operation on The Broken Wings. The Bureau had lied. As it
always did. Or this really was a critical, hurry-up, top-man
job.
He wondered. The Admiral apparently would do or say, or promise
anything to get the work done.
Always there was a rush but he had no good reason to complain.
Hurry was inherent in the modern social structure. Change came
about so swiftly that policy, operational, and emotional
obsolescence developed overnight. Decision and action had to be
sudden to be effective.
The system shuddered constantly under the thundering impact of
precipitous error.
BenRabi was now involved in one of the Bureau’s few old,
stable programs. Catching a starfish herd had been a prime mission
before his birth. He suspected it would continue to be one long
after his death.
He might die of boredom here. He now saw little hope that he and
Mouse would be recalled early. The presence of Sangaree altered all
the rules.
He had abandoned all hope of enjoying the mission.
Somehow, sometimes, because of the Sangaree woman or otherwise,
he or Mouse would get hurt.
A clang rang through the shuttle. The vessel shuddered. BenRabi
ceased flaying himself with the tiny, dull knives of the mind.
The lighter nosed into its mother ship like a piglet to a
sow’s belly. Moyshe followed the crowd moving to board the
starship. He worked his way close to the pale Seiner girl. Could he
pick up where he had left off?
He wondered why she intrigued him so. Just because she had been
kind?
Guides led the way to a common room where several high-powered
command types awaited them.
Another lecture
, Moyshe thought.
Some
more shocks set off by a lot of boredom
.
He was half right.
Even before they were comfortable, one of the heavy-duty lads
said, “I’m Eduard Chouteau, your Ship’s
Commander. Welcome aboard Number Three Service Ship from
Danion
, a harvestship of Payne’s Fleet.” That
was enough ceremony, evidently. He continued, “We’ve
contacted you as emergency replacements for technicians
Danion
lost in a shark attack two months ago. Frankly,
Fishers haven’t ever liked or trusted outsiders. That’s
because outsiders have given us reason. But for
Danion
’s sake we’ll do right by you till we
get our own people from the. schools. All we ask is that you do
right by us.”
BenRabi felt that little feather tickle again. Half-truths were
fluttering around like untamed butterflies. The man had something
on his mind. There was a smoke screen rolling tall and wide, and
behind it something he and Mouse just might find interesting. He
made a mental note.
The Seiner schools were unique. Most ground-siders knew a little
about them. They made romantic, remote settings for holonet
dramas.
Those shows, naturally, had borne little relation to
reality.
The Seiner creches were hidden in dead planetoids somewhere in
deep space. The old and the young of the Fisher fleets dwelt there,
teaching and learning. Only healthy Seiners of working age spaced
with the fleets and hazarded themselves against disasters of the
sort that had overtaken
Danion
.
Unlike Confederation parents, Starfishers yielded their children
to professional surrogates
He had known Mouse as early as their Academy days. They had
shared their moments then, both in training and the play typified
by sunjammer racing in the wild starwinds of an old supernova. They
had crewed their sunjammer victoriously, and had shared
celebrations during leave. But they had refused, persistently, to
become anything more than acquaintances.
Friends were strange creatures. They became responsibilities.
They became walking symbols of emotional debits and personal
obligations.
He was getting too close to Mouse. Growing too fond of the
strange little man. And he suspected that Mouse was having the same
trouble.
Friendship would be bad for their professional detachment. It
could get them into trouble.
The Bureau had promised that they would not be teamed again
after the operation on The Broken Wings. The Bureau had lied. As it
always did. Or this really was a critical, hurry-up, top-man
job.
He wondered. The Admiral apparently would do or say, or promise
anything to get the work done.
Always there was a rush but he had no good reason to complain.
Hurry was inherent in the modern social structure. Change came
about so swiftly that policy, operational, and emotional
obsolescence developed overnight. Decision and action had to be
sudden to be effective.
The system shuddered constantly under the thundering impact of
precipitous error.
BenRabi was now involved in one of the Bureau’s few old,
stable programs. Catching a starfish herd had been a prime mission
before his birth. He suspected it would continue to be one long
after his death.
He might die of boredom here. He now saw little hope that he and
Mouse would be recalled early. The presence of Sangaree altered all
the rules.
He had abandoned all hope of enjoying the mission.
Somehow, sometimes, because of the Sangaree woman or otherwise,
he or Mouse would get hurt.
A clang rang through the shuttle. The vessel shuddered. BenRabi
ceased flaying himself with the tiny, dull knives of the mind.
The lighter nosed into its mother ship like a piglet to a
sow’s belly. Moyshe followed the crowd moving to board the
starship. He worked his way close to the pale Seiner girl. Could he
pick up where he had left off?
He wondered why she intrigued him so. Just because she had been
kind?
Guides led the way to a common room where several high-powered
command types awaited them.
Another lecture
, Moyshe thought.
Some
more shocks set off by a lot of boredom
.
He was half right.
Even before they were comfortable, one of the heavy-duty lads
said, “I’m Eduard Chouteau, your Ship’s
Commander. Welcome aboard Number Three Service Ship from
Danion
, a harvestship of Payne’s Fleet.” That
was enough ceremony, evidently. He continued, “We’ve
contacted you as emergency replacements for technicians
Danion
lost in a shark attack two months ago. Frankly,
Fishers haven’t ever liked or trusted outsiders. That’s
because outsiders have given us reason. But for
Danion
’s sake we’ll do right by you till we
get our own people from the. schools. All we ask is that you do
right by us.”
BenRabi felt that little feather tickle again. Half-truths were
fluttering around like untamed butterflies. The man had something
on his mind. There was a smoke screen rolling tall and wide, and
behind it something he and Mouse just might find interesting. He
made a mental note.
The Seiner schools were unique. Most ground-siders knew a little
about them. They made romantic, remote settings for holonet
dramas.
Those shows, naturally, had borne little relation to
reality.
The Seiner creches were hidden in dead planetoids somewhere in
deep space. The old and the young of the Fisher fleets dwelt there,
teaching and learning. Only healthy Seiners of working age spaced
with the fleets and hazarded themselves against disasters of the
sort that had overtaken
Danion
.
Unlike Confederation parents, Starfishers yielded their children
to professional surrogates
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