Part 45 (2/2)

And yet, Gailet found herself suddenly recalling a time, back when she was living on Earth, when she had met a certain neo-dolphin-an elderly, retired poet-who told her stories about occasions when he had swum in the slipstreams of great whales, listening for hours on end to their moaning songs of ancient cetacean G.o.ds. She had been flattered and fascinated when the aged 'fin composed a poem especially for her.

Where does a ball alight, Falling through the bright midair?

Hit it with your snout!

Gailet figured the haiku had to be even more pungent in Trinary, the hybrid language neo-dolphins generally used for their poetry. She did not know Trinary, of course, but even in Anglic the little allegory had stuck with her.

Thinking about it, Gailet gradually came to realize that she was smiling.

Hit it with your snout, indeed!

The sleeping form next to her snored softly. Gailet tapped her tongue against her front teeth and pretended to be listening to the rhythm of drums.

She was still sitting there, thinking, some hours later when the door slid open with a loud bang and light spilled in from the hall. Several four-legged avian forms marched in. Kwackoo. At the head of the procession Gailet recognized the pastel-tinted down of the Servitor of the Suzerain of Propriety. She stood up, but her shallow bow received no answer.

The Kwackoo stared at her. Then it motioned down at the form under the blankets. ”Your companion does not rise. This is unseemly.”

Obviously, with no Gubru around, the Servitor did not feel obligated to be courteous. Gailet looked up at the ceiling. ”Perhaps he is indisposed.”

”Does he require medical a.s.sistance?”

”I imagine he'll recover without it.”

The Kwackoo's three-toed feet shuffled in irritation. ”I shall be frank. We wish to inspect your companion, to ascertain his ident.i.ty.”

She raised an eyebrow, even though she knew the gesture was wasted on this creature. ”And who do you think he might be? Grandpa Bonzo? Don't you Kwackoo keep track of your prisoners?”

The avian's agitation increased. ”This confinement area was placed under the authority of neo-chimpanzee auxiliaries. If there was a failure, it is due to their animal incompetence. Their unsapient negligence.”

Gailet laughed. ”Bulls.h.i.+t.”

The Kwackoo stopped its dance of irritation and listened to its portable translator. When it only stared at her, Gailef shook her head. ”You can't palm this off on us, Kwackoo. You and I both know putting chim Probationers in charge here was just a sham. If there's been a security breach, it was inside your own camp.”

The Servitor's beak opened a few degrees. Its tongue flicked, a gesture Gailet by now knew signified pure hatred. The alien gestured, and two globuform robots whined forward. Gently but firmly they used gravitic fields to pick up the sleeping neo-chimp without even disturbing the blankets, and backed away with him toward the door. Since the Kwackoo had not bothered to look under the covers, obviously it already knew what it would find there.

”There will be an investigation,” it promised. Then it swiveled to depart. In minutes, Gailet knew, they would be reading Fiben's ”goodbye note,” which had been left attached to the snoring guard. Gailet tried to help Fiben with one more delay.

”Fine,” she said. ”In the meantime, I have a request. . . . No, make that a demand, that I wish to make.”

The Servitor had been stepping toward the door, ahead of its entourage of fluttering Kwackoo. At Gailet's words, however, it stopped, causing a mini traffic jam. There was a babble of angry cooing as its followers brushed against each other and flicked their tongues at Gailet. The pink-crested leader turned back and faced her.

”You are not able to make demands.”

”I make this one in the name of Galactic tradition,” Gailet insisted. ”Do not force me to send my pet.i.tion directly to its eminence, the Suzerain of Propriety.”

There was a long pause, during which the Kwackoo seemed to contemplate the risks involved. At last it asked. ”What is your foolish demand?”

Now though, Gailet remained silent, waiting.

Finally, with obvious ill grace, the Servitor bowed, a bending so minuscule as to be barely detectable. Gailet re- turned the gesture, to the same degree.

”I want to go to the Library,” she said in perfect GalSeven. ”In fact, under my rights as a Galactic citizen, I insist on it.”

65 Fiben Exiting in the drugged guard's clothes had turned out to be almost absurdly simple, once Sylvie taught him a simple code phrase to speak to the robots hovering over the gate. The sole chim on duty had been mumbling around a sandwich and waved the two of them through with barely a glance.

”Where are you taking me?” Fiben asked once the dark, vine-covered wall of the prison was behind them.

”To the docks,” Sylvie answered over her shoulder. She maintained a quick pace down the damp, leaf-blown sidewalks, leading him past blocks of dark, empty, human-style dwellings. Then, further on, they pa.s.sed through a chim neighborhood, consisting mostly of large, rambling, group-marriage houses, brightly painted, with doorlike windows and st.u.r.dy trellises for kids to climb. Now and then, as they hurried by, Fiben caught glimpses of silhouettes cast against tightly drawn curtains.

”Why the docks?”

”Because that's where the boats are!” Sylvie replied tersely. Her eyes darted to and fro. She twisted the chronometer ring on her left hand and kept looking back over her shoulder, as if worried they might be followed.

That she seemed nervous was natural. Still, Fiben had reached his limit. He grabbed her arm and made her stop.

”Listen, Sylvie. I appreciate everything you've done so far. But now don't you think it's time for you to let me in on the plan?”

She sighed. ”Yeah, I suppose so.” Her anxious grin reminded him of that night at the Ape's Grape. What he had imagined then to be animal l.u.s.t that evening must have been something like this instead, fear suppressed under a well-laid veneer of bravado.

”Except for the gates in the fence, the only way out of the city is by boat. My plan is for us to sneak aboard one of the fis.h.i.+ng vessels. The night fishers generally put to sea at”-she glanced at her finger watch-”oh, in about an hour.”

Fiben nodded. ”Then what?”

”Then we slip overboard as the boat pa.s.ses out of Aspinal Bay. We'll swim to North Point Park. From there it'll be a hard march north, along the beach, but we should be able to make hilly country by daybreak.”

Fiben nodded. It sounded like a good plan. He liked the fact that there were several points along the way where they could change their minds if problems or opportunities presented themselves. For instance, they might try for the south point of the bay, instead. Certainly the enemy would not expect two fugitives to head straight toward their new hypershunt installation! There would be a lot of construction equipment parked there. The idea of stealing one of the Gubru's own s.h.i.+ps appealed to Fiben. If he ever pulled something like that off, maybe he'd actually merit a white card after all!

He shook aside that thought quickly, for it made him think of Gailet. d.a.m.n it, he missed her already.

”Sounds pretty well thought out, Sylvie.”

She smiled guardedly. ”Thanks, Fiben. Uh, can we go now?”

He gestured for her to lead on. Soon they were winding their way past shuttered shops and food stands. The clouds overhead were low and ominous, and the night smelled of the coming storm. A southwesterly wind blew in stiff but erratic gusts, pus.h.i.+ng leaves and bits of paper around their ankles as they walked.

When it started to drizzle, Sylvie raised the hood of her parka, but Fiben left his own down. He did not mind wet hair half as much as having his sight and hearing obstructed now.

Off toward the sea he saw a flickering in the sky, accompanied by distant, gray growling. h.e.l.l, Fiben thought. What am I thinking! He grabbed his companion's arm again. '”n.o.body's going to go to sea in this kind of weather, Sylvie.”

”The captain of this boat will, Fiben.” She shook her head. ”I really shouldn't tell you this, but he's . . . he's a smuggler. Was even before the war. His craft has foul weather integrity and can partially submerge.”

Fiben blinked. ”What's he smuggling, nowadays?” Sylvie looked left and right. ”Chims, some of the times. To and from Cilmar Island.”

”Cilmar! Would he take us there?” Sylvie frowned. ”I promised Gailet I'd get you to the mountains, Fiben. And anyway, I'm not sure I'd trust this captain that far.”

But Fiben's head was awhirl. Half the humans on the planet were interned on Cilmar Island! Why settle for Robert and Athaclena, who were, after all, barely more than children, when he might be able to bring Gailet's questions before the experts at the University!

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