Stewards of the Flame by Sylvia Engdahl

evidently troubled her. He’d sensed concern beneath her elation during dinner last night. Perhaps the hacking she’d done might still be uncovered—even today, she wasn’t being quite open with him.
    Something was hidden. Something she knew of this group had not been mentioned. Yet to be with her, he’d blocked that out; he’d noticed only their friendliness. How odd, when he did not even know their full names. . . .
    It was still odder that no one had been introduced by a full name. He looked at Carla, her dark hair resting against a window, half-covering a face that was by now, to him, unforgettable. She had not even told him hers!
    She turned and smiled at him. “We’re very informal,” she said. “A lot of us like to escape from the city; we hate to think of the world outside during offshifts. So we’ve made a sort of rule about conversation, the opposite of what we’d follow at home—we don’t ask questions about what people do. Am I making any sense?”
    “Maybe I’d better get it straight before we land,” Jesse said forthrightly. “We don’t know where in the world we are. We don’t know each other’s full names. We don’t know what anyone does in the city. And yet we’re all close friends.”
    “You’ve got it,” said Carla, not elaborating.
    And do we know who’s married and who’s not? Jesse wondered. Probably we don’t. Okay, that should be clear enough. He had never been a swinger, and had not taken Carla for one; but there was something going between these people beyond mere friendship. He could feel a tension between them even now. It was hardly cause for suspecting anything sinister. What the hell, this could be a fun offshift—though with Carla, he’d hoped for more.
    After several hours they touched water and taxied across the wide bay of an island that seemed deserted. It had rocky outcroppings, with thick trees down to the shore, willowy green trees he knew had been planted by the terraforming team that originally prepared Undine for settlement. There was a long dock with a pole from which a windsock flew alongside a bright red pennant. Other seaplanes and some small boats were tied up there. Only one building was visible, a sprawling stone structure backed by more trees. It seemed too large for a private house; it looked more like a hotel of some kind.
    He followed them up the path to the wide porch. It was a rustic place, built partially of natural wood. Jesse had never seen its like; onworld, he’d known only cities. “Does this place have a name?” he asked, as they mounted the steps.
    “Officially it’s Maclairn Lodge, after the owner,” said Carla. “But we just call it the Lodge. Sometimes there are lots of people here, but it will be quite empty this time. We’ll have to fix our own meals.”
    The heavy wooden door led into a spacious room occupied by nine or ten more attractive young people who were introduced to him. It had no furniture except a few tables with benches, but in the center, large comfortable floor cushions surrounded a huge circular stone fireplace, above which was suspended a hammered-metal hood and chimney. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows. Nobody seemed to be doing anything in particular. They were simply relaxing. They looked as if they felt at home.
    “I’ll find you a bed,” said Peter, “and some clothes. That Fleet outfit you’re wearing can’t be comfortable.”
    It was, by Fleet standards, but it was warm; everyone else wore bright, flimsy shirts outside casual pants. Jesse went with Peter into a hallway. The rooms opening off it were, to his astonishment, bunkrooms, with two double-tiered bunks in each. Peter followed his glance and said, “We have cottages, but since no couples are here today, we’ve not bothered to open them. I suppose starship captains rate private quarters, but I take it you don’t mind?”
    “Of course not,” said Jesse, somewhat stunned. God, he thought, do we not even pair off? Is it