First Command by A. Bertram Chandler

minute or so, thinking that Doctor Heraklion or one of his colleagues might be attracted by the uproar—but, after all, such noises were common enough in the créche.
    But neither Heraklion nor anybody else appeared in the long, dimly lit corridor, and Brasidus decided to venture further afield. He was barefooted, so could walk silently. He was wearing a civilian tunic, which was advantageous. Should anybody who did not know him see him, his appearance would be less likely to cause alarm than if he was in uniform.
    Cautiously he advanced along the corridor. His own was the only movement. If there were any sounds, he could not hear them for the bawling behind him. On either side of the corridor there were numbered doors. Storerooms? Laboratories? Cautiously he tried one. It was locked.
    He continued his prowl. It was a long corridor, and he did not wish to get too far from the ward—yet this was a golden opportunity to find something out. He came to a cross passageway, hesitated. He saw that a chair was standing just inside the left-hand passage. Presumably it had just been evacuated—there was a book open, face down, on the seat, a flagon and a mug beside it. A guard? If so, not a very good one. No doubt he had some pressing reason for deserting his post—but he would never have done so, at no matter what cost to personal dignity, had he been a member of the military caste. A helot, then—or even a doctor? Heraklion? Brasidus did not know what the man’s hours of duty were, but they could coincide with or overlap Achron’s.
    He picked up the book, looked at the title. Galactic Spy, by Delmar Brudd. Yet another of those odd double names. He turned to the title page, saw that the novel had been published by the Phoenix Press, Latterton, on the planet of Latterhaven. So this was a sample of the manufactured goods exported by that planet. But why should these books not be put into general circulation? If it were a question of freight, large editions could easily be printed here on Sparta.
    He was suddenly aware that a door was opening. He heard someone say, “I must leave you, dear. After all, it is my turn for sentry duty.”
    A strange voice replied. It was too high-pitched, held an odd, throaty quality. Yet it was oddly familiar. What—who—did it remind Brasidus of? Even as he slid silently back around the corner—but not before he had replaced the book as he had found it—he had the answer. It sounded like the voice of the Arcadian, Margaret Lazenby. It was certainly not the voice of any native of Sparta.
    Still, Brasidus was reluctant to retreat. He continued to peer around the corner, ready to jerk back in a split second. “I prefer you to the others, Heraklion,” the Arcadian was saying.
    “I’m flattered, Sally. But you shouldn’t have come to me. It’s very dangerous. If Orestes found that I’d deserted my post, there’d be all hell let loose. And besides . . .”
    “Besides what?”
    “Only last night—or, rather, yesterday morning—that revolting young pansy Achron had his boyfriend with him in the ward—and this same boyfriend is a police sergeant. A dumb one, luckily. Even so, we have to be careful.”
    “But why, Heraklion, why? You’re priests as well as doctors. You control this planet. It would be easy for you to engineer a rough parity of the numbers of men and women—and then just let Nature take its course.”
    “You don’t understand . . .”
    “That’s what you’re always saying. But you saw to it that we were educated and drew some farfetched analogy between ourselves and the hetaerae of ancient Greece. I know that we’re petted and pampered—but only within these walls. We’ve never seen outside them. Is that how women live on Latterhaven, on Terra, on all the Man-colonized planets?”
    “You don’t understand, Sally.”
    “No. Of course not. I’m only a woman. And it’s obvious that you don’t want me, so I’m getting back to my own quarters. To the harem.”