said the stranger conversationally when he saw that Vykor recognized the symbol he had made. “You and I haven’t run into each other before because we’re in different ends of the movement. But we happen to need some information and advice, and you can give it to us and you happen by a stroke of luck to be involved with the movement already.”
“What is it you want to know?” said Vykor. He had been dimly aware that there was more to the revolutionary movement in the Cathrodyne empire than the limited area he had covered; he had, though, not the least idea what the responsibility of other branches might be.
“That’s all right,” said Larwik, picking up his mug again and waving it toward Vykor’s plate. “Eat your meal. I should prefer to talk alone with you, afterwards.”
He didn’t speak again, merely watched with his sharp, bright gaze as Vykor ate.
At length. Vykor found he could not force anything more into his reluctant belly; he shoved the plate aside and made to get up. “I’m ready,” he said.
"Fine,” murmured Larwik, and swigged, the last of his liquor before also getting up. “Over to the elevators, please.”
Vykor half suspected the kind of place to which he might be being taken even before he got into the car with Larwik and saw him press buttons on the selector—contriving to shield the exact combination with his body. So there were many other elevators, besides the one he took to Raige’s office from the reception hall, which went to peculiar places if one pressed the right combination of buttons. Where would this trip take him?
As it proved, not far—certainly within the confine of the Majko sector, if the car had obeyed normal physical laws during its trip. They spent only a moment waiting for the door to open, and they stepped out into a room with no other exit, a room as absolutely square as a box. Its walls were lined from floor to nearly ceiling level with rough-finished crates, and the floor was covered with tiny bits of dark brown, crisp stuff, like fallen leaves.
A slight stinging puzzled Vykor as he stepped out into the room; then he placed what it was: a static curtain, to keep dust from entering the elevator car.
Larwik waited until the car had been called to an errand on some other level, and then turned briskly to face Vykor. “Sit down,” he said, and hitched himself up on the only furniture available—a stack of the crate^.
Vykor copied him, sniffing. There was a pungent aroma in the air, which he couldn’t identify, but which seemed individual.
“Recognize it?” Larwik demanded after a pause. Vykor shook his head, and Larwik shrugged. “Well, tell you later, then—I suppose I’ll have to. Right now, I want that information you can give me.
“Who or what is this man Lang?”
Lang againl If the entire retinue of the Suprema of Pagr, every member of which was habitually able to wear out three Pag males before finally giving in and letting herself be ravished by a fourth, had descended on Waystation, it would hardly have caused more impact than the coming of this one man. Vykor counter-questioned.
“I’I1 tell you what I know—which isn’t much—but first, please tell me: what’s special about him? My Glaithe contact wants to know about him; everyone seems to be interested.” Larwik bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “Is that so, now?” he said. “News has already been round the station about him—but we put it down to the fact that he’s out of eye- range, and was therefore a distinguished visitor. At least, we hoped that that was all it was due to. It could have been due to something rather disastrous.”
“Such as what?”
Larwik hesitated. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll have to tell you anyway, I guess.” He bent to one side and slipped the lid off one of the crates. Underneath was a mass of short brown twigs, with little needle-leaves on them, packed tightly together. At once the smell grew stronger.
Larwik pulled out
“What is it you want to know?” said Vykor. He had been dimly aware that there was more to the revolutionary movement in the Cathrodyne empire than the limited area he had covered; he had, though, not the least idea what the responsibility of other branches might be.
“That’s all right,” said Larwik, picking up his mug again and waving it toward Vykor’s plate. “Eat your meal. I should prefer to talk alone with you, afterwards.”
He didn’t speak again, merely watched with his sharp, bright gaze as Vykor ate.
At length. Vykor found he could not force anything more into his reluctant belly; he shoved the plate aside and made to get up. “I’m ready,” he said.
"Fine,” murmured Larwik, and swigged, the last of his liquor before also getting up. “Over to the elevators, please.”
Vykor half suspected the kind of place to which he might be being taken even before he got into the car with Larwik and saw him press buttons on the selector—contriving to shield the exact combination with his body. So there were many other elevators, besides the one he took to Raige’s office from the reception hall, which went to peculiar places if one pressed the right combination of buttons. Where would this trip take him?
As it proved, not far—certainly within the confine of the Majko sector, if the car had obeyed normal physical laws during its trip. They spent only a moment waiting for the door to open, and they stepped out into a room with no other exit, a room as absolutely square as a box. Its walls were lined from floor to nearly ceiling level with rough-finished crates, and the floor was covered with tiny bits of dark brown, crisp stuff, like fallen leaves.
A slight stinging puzzled Vykor as he stepped out into the room; then he placed what it was: a static curtain, to keep dust from entering the elevator car.
Larwik waited until the car had been called to an errand on some other level, and then turned briskly to face Vykor. “Sit down,” he said, and hitched himself up on the only furniture available—a stack of the crate^.
Vykor copied him, sniffing. There was a pungent aroma in the air, which he couldn’t identify, but which seemed individual.
“Recognize it?” Larwik demanded after a pause. Vykor shook his head, and Larwik shrugged. “Well, tell you later, then—I suppose I’ll have to. Right now, I want that information you can give me.
“Who or what is this man Lang?”
Lang againl If the entire retinue of the Suprema of Pagr, every member of which was habitually able to wear out three Pag males before finally giving in and letting herself be ravished by a fourth, had descended on Waystation, it would hardly have caused more impact than the coming of this one man. Vykor counter-questioned.
“I’I1 tell you what I know—which isn’t much—but first, please tell me: what’s special about him? My Glaithe contact wants to know about him; everyone seems to be interested.” Larwik bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “Is that so, now?” he said. “News has already been round the station about him—but we put it down to the fact that he’s out of eye- range, and was therefore a distinguished visitor. At least, we hoped that that was all it was due to. It could have been due to something rather disastrous.”
“Such as what?”
Larwik hesitated. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll have to tell you anyway, I guess.” He bent to one side and slipped the lid off one of the crates. Underneath was a mass of short brown twigs, with little needle-leaves on them, packed tightly together. At once the smell grew stronger.
Larwik pulled out
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