lumbering downsteps after him. Everyone brought up short, and the dus edged down a step to rumble a warning.
“Niun,” the old man said. “I was coming to look for you.”
“There is a ship,” Niun began.
“No news here,” said Dahacha.
“Hazan
is back. Yai! Come on up, young one. You are missed.”
Niun followed, a great joy in him:
Hazan—
command ship for the zone; and high time it came, among regul panicked and retreating in disorder. There was resolution in the regul after all, some authority to hold the disintegrating situation under control.
And
Hazan!
If
Hazan
came, then came Medai—cousin, fellow kel’en, home from human wars and bringing with him experience and all the common sense that belonged to the fighting Kel of the front.
He remembered other things of Medai too, things less beloved; but it made no difference after six years, with the world falling into chaos. He followed Dahacha up the winding stairs with an absolute elation flooding through him.
Another kel’en.
A man the others would listen to as they would never listen to him, who had never left the world.
Medai, who had served with the leaders of regul and knew their minds as few kel’ein had the opportunity to know them—kel’en to the ship of the bai of Kesrith zones.
Chapter Five
The door was locked, as it was at every unpermitted period. Sten Duncan tried it yet another time, knowing it was useless, pounded his fist against it and went back to the old man.
“They refused to answer,” said Stavros. He sat in the desk-chair, with the console screen at his left elbow a monotone grey. He looked uneasy, unusual for Stavros, even at the worst of times.
They were down, onworld. That was unmistakable.
“We were to dock,” said Duncan finally, voicing the merest part of the concern boiling in his mind.
Stavros did not react to that piece of observation, only stared at him dispassionately. Duncan read blame into it.
“If there’s been a change in plans, something could be wrong either on the station or onworld,” Duncan said, trying to draw the smallest reassurance from the old man, a denial of his apprehensions—even outright anger. He could deal with that.
And when Stavros gave him nothing at all in reply he sank down at the table, head bowed against his hands, exhausted with the strain of waiting. It was their night. It was halfway through that night.
“Perhaps they’re sleeping,” Stavros said unexpectedly, startling him with a tone that held nothing of rancor. “If they chose to keep ship-cycle after landing, or if we’re in local night, bai Hulagh could be asleep and his orderlies unwilling to respond to us without his authority. The regul do not inconvenience an elder of his rank.”
Duncan looked back at him not believing the explanation, but glad that Stavros had made the gesture, whether or not he had another in the back of his mind that he was not saying. It did not ease his feelings in the least that Stavros had never said anything to him in the matter of the encounter with the mri, had only asked quiet questionsof what had happened there in the mainroom: no blame, no hint of what had passed in Stavros’ mind. Nor had Stavros said anything when they were shortly afterward presented with another schedule, their hours of liberty cut in half, a regul youngling constantly watching their door and following at a distance when he left the room.
The retaliation fell most heavily on himself, of course, confining him more closely, while that did not much concern Stavros; but for their safety and for the future of regul/human cooperation it augured ill enough. The regul’s official manner did not change toward them. There was still the formal manner, still the salutations in the day’s messages. Characteristic of the regul, there had been no direct mention of the incident in the hall, only the notification, without explanation, that their hours had been changed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Duncan volunteered at
“Niun,” the old man said. “I was coming to look for you.”
“There is a ship,” Niun began.
“No news here,” said Dahacha.
“Hazan
is back. Yai! Come on up, young one. You are missed.”
Niun followed, a great joy in him:
Hazan—
command ship for the zone; and high time it came, among regul panicked and retreating in disorder. There was resolution in the regul after all, some authority to hold the disintegrating situation under control.
And
Hazan!
If
Hazan
came, then came Medai—cousin, fellow kel’en, home from human wars and bringing with him experience and all the common sense that belonged to the fighting Kel of the front.
He remembered other things of Medai too, things less beloved; but it made no difference after six years, with the world falling into chaos. He followed Dahacha up the winding stairs with an absolute elation flooding through him.
Another kel’en.
A man the others would listen to as they would never listen to him, who had never left the world.
Medai, who had served with the leaders of regul and knew their minds as few kel’ein had the opportunity to know them—kel’en to the ship of the bai of Kesrith zones.
Chapter Five
The door was locked, as it was at every unpermitted period. Sten Duncan tried it yet another time, knowing it was useless, pounded his fist against it and went back to the old man.
“They refused to answer,” said Stavros. He sat in the desk-chair, with the console screen at his left elbow a monotone grey. He looked uneasy, unusual for Stavros, even at the worst of times.
They were down, onworld. That was unmistakable.
“We were to dock,” said Duncan finally, voicing the merest part of the concern boiling in his mind.
Stavros did not react to that piece of observation, only stared at him dispassionately. Duncan read blame into it.
“If there’s been a change in plans, something could be wrong either on the station or onworld,” Duncan said, trying to draw the smallest reassurance from the old man, a denial of his apprehensions—even outright anger. He could deal with that.
And when Stavros gave him nothing at all in reply he sank down at the table, head bowed against his hands, exhausted with the strain of waiting. It was their night. It was halfway through that night.
“Perhaps they’re sleeping,” Stavros said unexpectedly, startling him with a tone that held nothing of rancor. “If they chose to keep ship-cycle after landing, or if we’re in local night, bai Hulagh could be asleep and his orderlies unwilling to respond to us without his authority. The regul do not inconvenience an elder of his rank.”
Duncan looked back at him not believing the explanation, but glad that Stavros had made the gesture, whether or not he had another in the back of his mind that he was not saying. It did not ease his feelings in the least that Stavros had never said anything to him in the matter of the encounter with the mri, had only asked quiet questionsof what had happened there in the mainroom: no blame, no hint of what had passed in Stavros’ mind. Nor had Stavros said anything when they were shortly afterward presented with another schedule, their hours of liberty cut in half, a regul youngling constantly watching their door and following at a distance when he left the room.
The retaliation fell most heavily on himself, of course, confining him more closely, while that did not much concern Stavros; but for their safety and for the future of regul/human cooperation it augured ill enough. The regul’s official manner did not change toward them. There was still the formal manner, still the salutations in the day’s messages. Characteristic of the regul, there had been no direct mention of the incident in the hall, only the notification, without explanation, that their hours had been changed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Duncan volunteered at
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