Part 3 (1/2)
The door slid open.
Priscilla crossed the threshold on the boy's heels, then stopped and frankly stared.
Once again she was overwhelmed by s.p.a.ciousness. Shelf after shelf of booktapes, bound books, and music-tapes lined one wall. On another hung a tapestry worked in dark crimson, dull gold, jade, and azure, a twining geometric design at once restful and surprising. Below that was a unit bar; to one side of it was another shelf of tapes interspersed with bric-a-brac. Straight ahead, in the center of the room, two chairs faced a wooden desk supporting a computer screen and two untidy piles of hard copy. To the left of the desk was a closed door bearing a diagonal red stripe. A deep, hedonistic chair was placed at an angle to the corner; several books and a sketch pad were piled helter-skelter on the carpet nearby, while more books littered the nearer low table. The second of the set supported a chessboard. Seated on the edge of the sofa and bent over the board was a white-haired man in a dark blue s.h.i.+rt.
The captain was old. Priscilla found it somewhat easier to breathe.
Gordy Arbuthnot stepped to the table and cleared his throat. ”Cap'n?” he said in Terran. ”Here's Ms.
Mendoza, come to see you.”
”So soon? Pilot Dyson has outdone herself.” The man sighed and shook his head at the chessmen. ”I don't think this stupid position has a solution.”
He rose and came forward a few graceful paces be fore inclining his head. ”I'm Shan yos'Galan, Ms.
Mendoza.”
He was tall-a giant among Liadens. Silver eyes thickly fringed with black lashes looked directly into hers. Nor was he old-the frostcolored hair had misled her. His face was that of a man near her own age.
But, G.o.ddess, what a face! Big-nosed, jut-cheeked, wide-mouthed, with a broad forehead, triangular chin, and thin white brows set at a slant over the large eyes. Anything farther from the usual delicacy of Liaden features would be hard to find this side of the Yxtrang.
Recovering herself with a start, Priscilla bowed stiffly in the Terran mode. ”Captain yos'Galan,” she said with precision, ”I'm glad to see you.”
”Well, you'll be among the first,” he commented, and his accent was of Terra's educated cla.s.s, not of Liad at all. ”Though my family professes something of the sort. Of course, they've had time to get used to me. Gordy, Ms. Mendoza wants something to drink. Also, my gla.s.s is missing-and wherever it is, it's probably empty. What do I pay you for?”
The boy grinned and moved toward the bar. Pausing, he looked back at Priscilla. ”The red wine's best,”
he said seriously, ”but I think the white's probably pretty good. And there's brandy-I'm not sure about that...”
”What do you know about it at all?” the man demanded. ”Nipping my spirits while I'm not watching, Gordy? And who said the red's best? Your own trained palate?”
”You drink the red, Cap'n.”
”Unprincipled brat. You don't offer brandy to a person who's come for a job interview. Strive for some polish.””Yessir,” Gordy said, not noticeably abashed by this rebuke. ”Ms. Mendoza? There's red wine, white, canary, green, blue-I mean, misravot-and tea and coffee...”
Another alarming bubble of laughter was rising. Hysteria, thought Priscilla, and suppressed it firmly.
”White wine, please,” she told the boy, and he nodded, turning to the bar.
”Come sit down,” the captain invited, waving a big brown hand toward the chairs and the desk. Light glittered off the stone in his single ring-the large curved amethyst of a Master Trader.
Obediently, she followed him to the desk and sank gratefully into one of the chairs. Master Trader? This ugly, too-tall Liaden was a Master Trader? And captain, too? With an absent smile Priscilla took her drink from the cabin boy.
On Daxflan, Sav Rid Olanek-a mere Trader-and Captain yo'Vaade split administration of s.h.i.+p and crew between them. That had been the one thing about Daxflan that had followed the routine she knew from other s.h.i.+ps. Captain was a full-time job, after all; Trader, somewhat more than that. Yet here was a man supposedly doing both. And more. There were perhaps a double-dexon-twice a dozen dozen-of Master Traders in all the galaxy.
”Gordy.” His clear, rather beautiful voice held a mild note of exasperation. Priscilla brought her attention back to the present.
”Cap'n?” The boy froze in the act of handing the man his gla.s.s.
Shan yos'Galan sighed and laid a blunt forefinger on the grease-smeared sleeve. Gordy flushed and bit his lip.
”There's a matching one on your chin. Are we out of water? Or soap? Is there some atavistic or religious significance attached to going about with grease on your face? Maybe you put it there purposefully, after long thought, feeling that a little facial decoration would call Ms. Mendoza's attention to you more favorably? You hoped she would be so overcome by the artistry of the smear that she would fail to chide you for being late to meet her?”
”How did-” Gordy interrupted himself and raised his eyes to the man's face. ”I'm not Liaden, Cap'n.”
”I have independently noted the fact. No doubt you feel it has some bearing on the matter at hand.” He took his gla.s.s and leaned back in the chair.
”Yessir.”
”I'm intrigued. An explanation, please?”
”Yessir.” Gordy took a breath and squared his round shoulders. ”Liadens consider the face the-the seat of character. Because of that, Liadens don't use cosmetics on their faces, like Terrans might, to-to dress up or to make themselves more attractive.” He paused. The captain raised his gla.s.s and waved at him to continue.
Gordy nodded. ”Also, the face has an-erotic-significance to Liadens. There are certain social situations where it's okay to touch between Liadens where Terran code of behavior would forbid. But only extreme intimates-like family members-touch hand to face or face to face.” He took another breath. ”So it follows that Liadens would be particularly careful about keeping their faces clean.
Terrans, whose cultures don't include a strong facial taboo, are less strict.”There was a small pause while Shan yos'Galan raised the gla.s.s to his lips! ” 'Taboo' is rather strong,” he commented. ”I think perhaps 'tradition' does nicely. Liadens love tradition, while you're dealing in generalizations, Gordy.” He raised his gla.s.s again, and this time, Priscilla saw, he drank.
”As far as it goes, your grasp of the information seems sound,” he continued thoughtfully. ”However, I'm not sure your inferences are correct. That tends to happen when you extrapolate from general, rather than specific. In any case, I have found-again, through independent observation, not to say experience-that it feels nicer to be clean than it feels to be dirty. Also, I have found that I prefer looking at clean faces as opposed to dirty faces. This is, I believe, a personal preference. I may be wrong. Since I am captain of this s.h.i.+p, though, I think I have the rank to indulge in a few harmless eccentricities. So, for the fourth time: Gordon, I would very much prefer that you endeavor to keep your person as smear-free as possible.” He raised the gla.s.s again. ”The next time, I'll have to dock you. What do you think might be a reasonable sum?”
The boy looked down. He rubbed at his soiled sleeve, then looked up. ”Tenbit?”
”Fair enough.” The captain grinned. ”I detect the makings of a gambler in you. Or a Trader. We'll want lunch in half an hour or so.”
Gordy blinked. ”Lunch?”
”Yes, lunch. Did I use the wrong word? Cheese, fruit, rolls-that sort of thing. Speak to BillyJo; I repose all faith in her ability to resolve the matter for you. Now jet.”
”Yessir.” And he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.
Shan ybs'Galan shook his head. ”It's my fate to raise small boys.” He lifted his gla.s.s. ”Are you ready to be interviewed, Ms. Mendoza? Or have you changed your mind?”
Priscilla sipped her wine, then met his gaze straightly. ”I'm ready to be interviewed, Captain.”
”Brave heart.” He extended a long arm and flipped two switches set along the desk top. ”Your name, please, and planet of origin.”
”My name is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. I was born on Sintia. I am a Terran citizen.”
”Do you honor the G.o.ddess, then?” His face was sharp with interest. ”Hold to her teaching exclusively?”
”I did,” she said carefully. ”After all, She's part of everyday life... But I've been on trading s.h.i.+ps since I was sixteen. And the G.o.ddess isn't as powerful in the galaxy as She is on Sintia.”
”Since you were sixteen,” he repeated, abandoning the G.o.ddess abruptly. ”What do you know?”
She raised her brows. ”I know how to cook for a crew of twenty, how to wash up for a crew of thirty-three, how to decode messages, how to code messages. I can drive a jitney, calculate weight distributions, figure loading capacities. Whenever possible, I've pursued pilot training. My marksmans.h.i.+p rating is ninety percent accuracy at two hundred paces with a standard pellet gun. I speak Trade, Terran, Crenish, and Sintian. I understand Liaden better than I speak it. If I have to, I can shoot astrogation.”
He nodded. ”Your last position?”
”Cargo master on Daxflan, out of Chonselta City.”
”And you held that post how long?””Four months,” she said with determined serenity. ”I signed on at Tulon.”