shifted, like the swarming dances of butterflies. “I don’t know,” Jerred muttered after a while. “Somehow it always seemed to me that I’d have to leave. Maybe they wouldn’t keep on liking me there, if they found out — I don’t know.”
The gentle voice said,
“These questions are not asked to annoy you, nor to make you engage in introspection which might conceivably be painful. In order for the Craftsmen to prepare you for your chosen goal they must know what, in general terms, you think about it.”
“And who are the Craftsmen?”
“Those who are to prepare you for your chosen goal. The demand is there, and it is we who meet it. It is our profession.”
“And Lady Mani’s — ?”
“No …
The voice was gentle as ever, not condemning her, not reproaching him. It might have belonged to one of those men the storytellers told about, men who were not men but man-like machines, “in the days of old, and in former years;” “ …
not Lady Mani’s. She is merely aware of it, and receives her fee.”
Well enough. This was Pemath. Nothing was ever done for nothing in Pemath. Although it was so pleasant lying here and doing nothing but watching the kaleidoscopic colors in the turning globe and dreaming wishful dreams. He rolled off the contoured couch and got to his feet. “I can’t stay here forever, you know,” he said.
“No. Of course not. We must begin.”
Nothing in the voice altered. It gave nothing away. But Jerred Northi felt a sudden certainty that if he had not done exactly what he had just done and done it just exactly then, that he very well might have stayed there forever. Or, at least, that he would never have gone anywhere else.
• • •
“That’s me for sure,” he said.
Some of the mirrors were actually mirrors and some were 3D cameras and screen. Wherever he looked he saw himself, naked and alone. Life-sized, front and back and sidewise. Twice life-size, half life-size, all to scale, looking down views and angled views at level. A man in his late twenties, presumably, and in good health. Too dark of hair and skin to be Pemathi; too tall, as well. Tending to stoop, perhaps from an unwitting attempt to diminish his height to the average, perhaps influenced by the tendency of so many Pemathi to stoop even when not bowed by present and physical burdens; but not tending to stoop very much. Hazel eyes, mouth sullen more often than not, hairy in the usual places but not shaggy. In no way an outstanding body, but one familiar to him, one which had served him well enough.
And, “That’s me for sure,” a voice said, voice recognized after a moment as his own voice. Voice was well enough, too. Northi didn’t know what others might make of it, but in it he recognized traces of all the nations and at least some of the other worlds who (for one) spoke InterGal and (for another) contributed to the population of the Two Ports; plus the subtle but unmistakable — at any rate, to him — influences of both Pemathi and the chopchop dialect which served as lingua franca. “That’s me for sure” — loudly. “ — me for sure” — softly.
Yes. Him for sure. And, unless he gave the word, him never again more. Forever after his eyes would see someone else, his ears hear someone else, “Jerred Northi,” in this physical identity, would have ceased to exist, and a stranger would take his place — a stranger to whom the man inside would have to become accustomed. Did he like the image of “Jerred Northi” enough to cling to it? He could, if he wanted to. He could then return to Lady Mani and be provided with papers and passage to Tannil or Mallasa or Ludens, Ran or Gor or Thonish, or any city or colony of Lermencas, Baho, or where he pleased. Anywhere at all. Only not Tarnis. Tarnis had never seen the body or heard the voice of “Jerred Northi” but was yet intent that it would never see or hear it. Tarnis he never knew. Did he want to know it enough to do this? To sentence
The gentle voice said,
“These questions are not asked to annoy you, nor to make you engage in introspection which might conceivably be painful. In order for the Craftsmen to prepare you for your chosen goal they must know what, in general terms, you think about it.”
“And who are the Craftsmen?”
“Those who are to prepare you for your chosen goal. The demand is there, and it is we who meet it. It is our profession.”
“And Lady Mani’s — ?”
“No …
The voice was gentle as ever, not condemning her, not reproaching him. It might have belonged to one of those men the storytellers told about, men who were not men but man-like machines, “in the days of old, and in former years;” “ …
not Lady Mani’s. She is merely aware of it, and receives her fee.”
Well enough. This was Pemath. Nothing was ever done for nothing in Pemath. Although it was so pleasant lying here and doing nothing but watching the kaleidoscopic colors in the turning globe and dreaming wishful dreams. He rolled off the contoured couch and got to his feet. “I can’t stay here forever, you know,” he said.
“No. Of course not. We must begin.”
Nothing in the voice altered. It gave nothing away. But Jerred Northi felt a sudden certainty that if he had not done exactly what he had just done and done it just exactly then, that he very well might have stayed there forever. Or, at least, that he would never have gone anywhere else.
• • •
“That’s me for sure,” he said.
Some of the mirrors were actually mirrors and some were 3D cameras and screen. Wherever he looked he saw himself, naked and alone. Life-sized, front and back and sidewise. Twice life-size, half life-size, all to scale, looking down views and angled views at level. A man in his late twenties, presumably, and in good health. Too dark of hair and skin to be Pemathi; too tall, as well. Tending to stoop, perhaps from an unwitting attempt to diminish his height to the average, perhaps influenced by the tendency of so many Pemathi to stoop even when not bowed by present and physical burdens; but not tending to stoop very much. Hazel eyes, mouth sullen more often than not, hairy in the usual places but not shaggy. In no way an outstanding body, but one familiar to him, one which had served him well enough.
And, “That’s me for sure,” a voice said, voice recognized after a moment as his own voice. Voice was well enough, too. Northi didn’t know what others might make of it, but in it he recognized traces of all the nations and at least some of the other worlds who (for one) spoke InterGal and (for another) contributed to the population of the Two Ports; plus the subtle but unmistakable — at any rate, to him — influences of both Pemathi and the chopchop dialect which served as lingua franca. “That’s me for sure” — loudly. “ — me for sure” — softly.
Yes. Him for sure. And, unless he gave the word, him never again more. Forever after his eyes would see someone else, his ears hear someone else, “Jerred Northi,” in this physical identity, would have ceased to exist, and a stranger would take his place — a stranger to whom the man inside would have to become accustomed. Did he like the image of “Jerred Northi” enough to cling to it? He could, if he wanted to. He could then return to Lady Mani and be provided with papers and passage to Tannil or Mallasa or Ludens, Ran or Gor or Thonish, or any city or colony of Lermencas, Baho, or where he pleased. Anywhere at all. Only not Tarnis. Tarnis had never seen the body or heard the voice of “Jerred Northi” but was yet intent that it would never see or hear it. Tarnis he never knew. Did he want to know it enough to do this? To sentence
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