the system, had to iron out the imbalance.
Something about the way Raige had acted made Vykor feel that this was one of those times.
And Lang looked as though he was going to be the foreign organism.
Usually Vykor was glad to get away after reporting to Raige, to enjoy the company of the free Majkos in the Majko section of the station for a few precious days before he had to report back for duty at the ship. And he always begrudged the occasions—once every four trips—when he had to stand watch between docking and blast-off.
Today, however, was altogether different. He felt no urge to go in among his Majko friends—those odd people of a halfworld, owing allegiance to Majkosi as their home, but forever confined to Waystation because they had revolted against Cathrodyne rule and would never be able to go home until Majkosi was set free. Here they were under Glaithe protection, though even that sometimes failed. Elsewhere, they were doomed.
They were always half ashamed and half eager to seek the company of a Majko from outside—a member of a ship’s complement, a servant attached to the Cathrodyne staff, or, very rarely, a popular entertainer whose talent had lent him temporary immunity from Cathrodyne decrees and who was brought to Waystation to amuse his masters. They were eager because they were all permanently homesick, no matter how much they strove to conceal the fact under a superficial garb of flippancy; they were ashamed because they had achieved security for themselves at the cost of losing their chance to help in the struggle against the overlords at home. It was the same in the Lubarrian section, and in the Alchmid section; between them there was a sort of kinship, the fellowship of the condemned.
But Vykor knew that they tried to make up for their selfishness when they could; in fact, it was through Waystation’s colonies of free members of the subject races that the revolutionary movements on Lubarria and Majko were co-ordinated.
There were other couriers besides himself; there was no urgent task for him to do now until Raige gave him the answer to the dispatches he had delivered. He could go and relax with his friends, in comfort. And yet he lingered, when Raige and Indie let him go.
Pangs of hunger finally drove him to the Majko section’s restaurant, where the synthesizers—they too had been running since Waystation was abandoned by its builders—had been adjusted to their clients’ particular taste. He had chosen well as regards time; it was late evening on the local clocks, and there was no one present that he knew.
He took his order from the dispensers, presented his currency scrip for punching, and went across the hall to a table in an alcove where he would not be noticed. The low blue ceiling of the hall seemed somehow oppressive; the shiny white tables looked cold and impersonal; the squat chairs and stools were untidily arranged and irritated him in an indefinable way. He was in no mood for company; he realized that.
He was halfway through his meal when he raised his eyes from his plate to find a young man—in nondescript Majko leisure wear of drab cloth—sitting opposite him and staring at him fixedly. He held a mug of liquor in one hand, and his eye s were bright under bushy brows.
He was a stranger to Vykor, who therefore pointedly ignored him.
But the other wasn’t having any. After a period of silence he glanced around to make sure there was no one within earshot, and coughed mysteriously. “You’re Vykor, aren’t you?” he said.
“That’s right. And I came over to this comer to be alone.”
The other scowled. “Be alone later, if you like. Right now I have questions for you, and I want them answered.”
Vykor jerked his head upright and swallowed a mouthful of food. “You—” he began, and interrupted himself. The intruder had composed his hands into a casual-looking but meaningful pattern, leaving his mug standing aside on the table.
“My name’s Larwik,”
Something about the way Raige had acted made Vykor feel that this was one of those times.
And Lang looked as though he was going to be the foreign organism.
Usually Vykor was glad to get away after reporting to Raige, to enjoy the company of the free Majkos in the Majko section of the station for a few precious days before he had to report back for duty at the ship. And he always begrudged the occasions—once every four trips—when he had to stand watch between docking and blast-off.
Today, however, was altogether different. He felt no urge to go in among his Majko friends—those odd people of a halfworld, owing allegiance to Majkosi as their home, but forever confined to Waystation because they had revolted against Cathrodyne rule and would never be able to go home until Majkosi was set free. Here they were under Glaithe protection, though even that sometimes failed. Elsewhere, they were doomed.
They were always half ashamed and half eager to seek the company of a Majko from outside—a member of a ship’s complement, a servant attached to the Cathrodyne staff, or, very rarely, a popular entertainer whose talent had lent him temporary immunity from Cathrodyne decrees and who was brought to Waystation to amuse his masters. They were eager because they were all permanently homesick, no matter how much they strove to conceal the fact under a superficial garb of flippancy; they were ashamed because they had achieved security for themselves at the cost of losing their chance to help in the struggle against the overlords at home. It was the same in the Lubarrian section, and in the Alchmid section; between them there was a sort of kinship, the fellowship of the condemned.
But Vykor knew that they tried to make up for their selfishness when they could; in fact, it was through Waystation’s colonies of free members of the subject races that the revolutionary movements on Lubarria and Majko were co-ordinated.
There were other couriers besides himself; there was no urgent task for him to do now until Raige gave him the answer to the dispatches he had delivered. He could go and relax with his friends, in comfort. And yet he lingered, when Raige and Indie let him go.
Pangs of hunger finally drove him to the Majko section’s restaurant, where the synthesizers—they too had been running since Waystation was abandoned by its builders—had been adjusted to their clients’ particular taste. He had chosen well as regards time; it was late evening on the local clocks, and there was no one present that he knew.
He took his order from the dispensers, presented his currency scrip for punching, and went across the hall to a table in an alcove where he would not be noticed. The low blue ceiling of the hall seemed somehow oppressive; the shiny white tables looked cold and impersonal; the squat chairs and stools were untidily arranged and irritated him in an indefinable way. He was in no mood for company; he realized that.
He was halfway through his meal when he raised his eyes from his plate to find a young man—in nondescript Majko leisure wear of drab cloth—sitting opposite him and staring at him fixedly. He held a mug of liquor in one hand, and his eye s were bright under bushy brows.
He was a stranger to Vykor, who therefore pointedly ignored him.
But the other wasn’t having any. After a period of silence he glanced around to make sure there was no one within earshot, and coughed mysteriously. “You’re Vykor, aren’t you?” he said.
“That’s right. And I came over to this comer to be alone.”
The other scowled. “Be alone later, if you like. Right now I have questions for you, and I want them answered.”
Vykor jerked his head upright and swallowed a mouthful of food. “You—” he began, and interrupted himself. The intruder had composed his hands into a casual-looking but meaningful pattern, leaving his mug standing aside on the table.
“My name’s Larwik,”
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