and clammerdumm. Also meat: dacoims, jackrat, and portleg in particular.
The scientists were engaged in Operation Cereb, developing a mind-evaluator. The first phases of this complex scanning device had been researched during the final years of the ship’s journey, in an effort to understand what precisely had gone wrong mentally with those who had lapsed into insanity. It was only here, in the bowels of the old ship, the
New Worlds,
that computers were allowed.
The project appeared to be going well, although never speedily enough for the great Astaroth. The scientists showed him, cringingly, the model-in-progress they had rigged up for the occasion.
After the inspection, a feast was held for the researchers on the M-E, along with their families and those who worked for them. A spirit of jollity prevailed. Astaroth, with Aster close at hand, and his Waabee clan stood to one side, looking on haughtily with barely disguised contempt for human weakness and the pleasures of the flesh.
A middle-aged man, a cleaner, came up with a plate of the golden busk and offered it with smiles to the leader.
“Go away,” said Astaroth. “Give it to the peasants. I do not eat.”
Sports were held. The highlight was billed as the Kontest. In a small rectangular arena two piles of small stones were arranged, no stone bigger than fifty millimeters in diameter. One pile was painted red, one blue. These were the weapons of the two contestants.
On this occasion, the contestants were both black, by name Chankey and Gragge. They fought naked to the death. Each might hurl stones only of their own designated color, blue or red. They might hurl the stones or punch each other. This was Kontesting.
And Fremant was the referee. His main duty was to see that Chankey and Gragge kept within the rectangle, and to announce when one contestant was truly dead.
Dunk!
went the flung stones on flesh.
Dunk! Dunk!
The crowd cheered every stone that found its target. Gragge went down on one knee after a red struck his shin. Before he was up again, another red hit his shoulder. He was swift to recover. He flung a blue that missed and then a second that caught Chankey in the ribs.
Chunk!
Soon both men were reduced to crawling on the ground, both suffering serious injury. Snarling like wild beasts, they took ahold of each other. Each tried to throttle his opponent or to tear his throat out. Chankey managed to heave Gragge’s upper body onto one of the stones. Grabbing another stone, a red, he began to bash his opponent’s skull in.
Crack! Craaack!
The audience cheered and laughed.
Gragge lay dead and broken, his brains spilling on the ground. Fremant waved his flag.
He helped Chankey to his feet. Blood poured down Chankey’s torso. He collapsed, unconscious. A day or two later, Fremant happened to hear that Chankey had not died of his wounds and was making a slow recovery.
As Fremant left the field, Astaroth clapped him on his shoulder.
“You made a good showing, lad. I am keeping my eye on you!”
High praise, Fremant thought. Or was it a warning? He hated Astaroth for encouraging the brutal entertainment of the Kontest.
A S A STAROTH RODE OFF AHEAD in his chariot, Aster came up to Fremant. She pulled her hood aside, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. “I have decided to forgive you for what you did, you brute.”
“Oh, why’s that?” he asked coldly.
“Because I love you.” She ceased to hold the hood in order to demonstrate with a flutter of hands how like a flame that love was. “Burning, burning love!”
He struggled with his emotions. Stygia City was so full of suspicion and secrets that he wondered if this woman might not be the one who would sink the Clandestine dagger into his heart.
“I’ll buy you a glass of wine, Aster. Then we can talk it over.”
She fell in beside him. He thought, as they walked, that wherever they went, people would see them. Word would get back to Astaroth. Better to take
The scientists were engaged in Operation Cereb, developing a mind-evaluator. The first phases of this complex scanning device had been researched during the final years of the ship’s journey, in an effort to understand what precisely had gone wrong mentally with those who had lapsed into insanity. It was only here, in the bowels of the old ship, the
New Worlds,
that computers were allowed.
The project appeared to be going well, although never speedily enough for the great Astaroth. The scientists showed him, cringingly, the model-in-progress they had rigged up for the occasion.
After the inspection, a feast was held for the researchers on the M-E, along with their families and those who worked for them. A spirit of jollity prevailed. Astaroth, with Aster close at hand, and his Waabee clan stood to one side, looking on haughtily with barely disguised contempt for human weakness and the pleasures of the flesh.
A middle-aged man, a cleaner, came up with a plate of the golden busk and offered it with smiles to the leader.
“Go away,” said Astaroth. “Give it to the peasants. I do not eat.”
Sports were held. The highlight was billed as the Kontest. In a small rectangular arena two piles of small stones were arranged, no stone bigger than fifty millimeters in diameter. One pile was painted red, one blue. These were the weapons of the two contestants.
On this occasion, the contestants were both black, by name Chankey and Gragge. They fought naked to the death. Each might hurl stones only of their own designated color, blue or red. They might hurl the stones or punch each other. This was Kontesting.
And Fremant was the referee. His main duty was to see that Chankey and Gragge kept within the rectangle, and to announce when one contestant was truly dead.
Dunk!
went the flung stones on flesh.
Dunk! Dunk!
The crowd cheered every stone that found its target. Gragge went down on one knee after a red struck his shin. Before he was up again, another red hit his shoulder. He was swift to recover. He flung a blue that missed and then a second that caught Chankey in the ribs.
Chunk!
Soon both men were reduced to crawling on the ground, both suffering serious injury. Snarling like wild beasts, they took ahold of each other. Each tried to throttle his opponent or to tear his throat out. Chankey managed to heave Gragge’s upper body onto one of the stones. Grabbing another stone, a red, he began to bash his opponent’s skull in.
Crack! Craaack!
The audience cheered and laughed.
Gragge lay dead and broken, his brains spilling on the ground. Fremant waved his flag.
He helped Chankey to his feet. Blood poured down Chankey’s torso. He collapsed, unconscious. A day or two later, Fremant happened to hear that Chankey had not died of his wounds and was making a slow recovery.
As Fremant left the field, Astaroth clapped him on his shoulder.
“You made a good showing, lad. I am keeping my eye on you!”
High praise, Fremant thought. Or was it a warning? He hated Astaroth for encouraging the brutal entertainment of the Kontest.
A S A STAROTH RODE OFF AHEAD in his chariot, Aster came up to Fremant. She pulled her hood aside, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. “I have decided to forgive you for what you did, you brute.”
“Oh, why’s that?” he asked coldly.
“Because I love you.” She ceased to hold the hood in order to demonstrate with a flutter of hands how like a flame that love was. “Burning, burning love!”
He struggled with his emotions. Stygia City was so full of suspicion and secrets that he wondered if this woman might not be the one who would sink the Clandestine dagger into his heart.
“I’ll buy you a glass of wine, Aster. Then we can talk it over.”
She fell in beside him. He thought, as they walked, that wherever they went, people would see them. Word would get back to Astaroth. Better to take
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