The Sports-Clones' Tale

16 

The Sports-Clones’ Tale 

 

    Federation Day came and went on the third moon of Pkqwrd, with exactly the sort of celebrations, or to put it more accurately, drunkenness, that might have been expected and in fact had been expected. On Level Pink the great excitement of the day was the arrival of a whole team of sports-clones, travelling between one Big Match and another. Not one of the First League teams—no, or, clones though they were, they wouldn’t have been reduced to Level Pink. They were only Fourth League, though certain beings maintained that had it not been for the known prejudice of the Ref, they would have gone up to Third League at the beginning of this season. Perceiving that Didg was getting rather heated, Dohra and the Feeny-Argyllians agreed kindly with him, so BrTl didn’t bother to point out that unless some very Grade-A, super-duper, maxi-galaxy hanky-panky had been going on, the Ref couldn’t possibly have been anything but fair: it was an accredited Sport-Blobs Inc. blob, of course. According to Trff, it could have altered it so that no being—yeah, yeah. Nothing less than an it-being could’ve, though, so as it then admitted that no it-being had—

    Dohra was very interested to see that these clones were all sort of humanoid! Except that they had four arms. Ooh, would they be the same as the guard-beings on Gr—Oh. Well, they might’ve been!

    “No,” said Trff kindly. “They mightn’t have been, Dohra, because the original germplasm was humanoid. Sport-Blobs Inc. cultured it up to get the result they wanted: it thinks speed and flexibility—and what was that other one? Oh, yes, agility—were the major factors. Oh, BrTl thinks bat-handling, too. Nothing to do with huge, floppy, fluttery manga-bats that drop poison—Yes, of course you-it wasn’t thinking that for very long! The bat’s for hitting the ball into the bocket, that’s right!”

    “Trff, swiller,” croaked Didg: “they aren’t bocketball players!”

    “In that case, BrTl’s wrong,” it said severely.

    “Yes, I must be,” agreed BrTl cheerfully. “Not into sports—not in the two-legged leagues, sorry. Well, not at all, really, though I occasionally have a bet on the six-legged First League—don’t tell them I always lose, thanks, Trff!”

    After a moment it admitted: “It isn’t aware of any occasion on which he-it won, certainly.”

    “No,” he agreed mildly, over the choking and coughing fits of certain of the company.

    “So, they are all clones, are they?” asked Dohra eagerly.

    “Yes,” said Trff instantly.

    “Yes,” confirmed Forty-Four. “Professional sports-beings always are, Dohra.”—Didg opened his mouth but thought better of it.—“In the accredited leagues,” it added mildly, and he subsided altogether.—“I’m sure Didg can explain what sort of game they play.”

    “Uh—yeah,” he said lamely. “Thought you realised, Dohra. Goperball. That’s why they’ve all got that, uh, kinda—uh—”

    “Shallow depression,” said ZrMl kindly.

    “Thanks, ZrMl, that’s it, yeah. Not exactly a dent, more a shallow depression, in their foreheads: to head the goperball.”

    Dohra goggled at them, meanwhile feeling her own humanoid forehead dubiously. “Um, that’s one of those games without a bat, isn’t it?”

    “Yeah,” he croaked disbelievingly. “Don’t tell me ya don’t have it on C’T’rea!”

    “Um, I think it was on the Services. Well, my brothers were always more into bocketball. They used to play it at school. –All the Second Schools did in our Greater Urban District, Forty-Four, and we didn’t have any clones.”

    “No, that’s right, Dohra: that wasn’t in the professional accredited bocketball leagues. That would just have been Second School league.”

    “I see. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

    “Oh, very. Very typical of the majority of sentient lifeforms in the Known Universe,” the giant being said kindly.

    “Complication for complication’s sake,” elaborated ZrMl kindly.

    “I got that,” she said calmly. “So, would those be their uniforms?”

    Most beings were able to agree that those brilliant orange, mauve and pink garments would be their uniforms, yes: not the ones they wore on the field—and it was funny that it was called a “field” when it didn’t have any grass, yes—but the special ones they wore for travelling.

    Dohra looked at the large signs emblazoned, in fact glowing, lumo-blobs were in there somewhere, on the outer garments worn by the clones on the upper parts of the body. “So what’s UrGur? The name of their team?” 

 

    “Beer!” cried Budg. “‘UrGur for It, UrGur for Them, UrGur for Me!’”

    “He’s right: it’s a brand of beer,” said BrTl limply. “You must have seen those sim-ads!”

    “Possibly not, if she doesn’t watch the Sports Services,” noted Forty-Four. “That is right, Dohra: it’s a beer, not very different from Rwthwarian ale.”

    “It’s completely different!” gasped Didg in horror. “UrGur’s real beer!”

    Trff pointed an antenna at him for a split IG microsecond and the DorAvenian was seen to quail. BrTl began hurriedly: Let him belie—But too late.

    “Real reconstituted recycled water, real re-atomised departicalized beer flavouring and colouring, it could tell you-it the chemicals in them if you-it likes, real reconstituted alcohol, real Bub-Bub-Bub Bubbles, they’re a trade secret of UrGur Inc., but it could tell you-it what’s in them if you-it likes, and real reconstituted cloned, reparticalized hop plants, it means cloned, reparticalized cloned hop plants, in minute quantities.”

    After that no-one uttered for a discernible period, not even the yellow Flppu.

    Finally Didg said limply: “Swiller, that sounds like real beer to me,” and all beings present agreed groggily, though possibly Budg and the Flppu didn’t know why they were doing it.

    “Oh, does it? Well, whatever blobs you-it up!” it said brightly, and, alas, several beings collapsed in agonised splutters.

    “Sorry, Trff,” said Dohra limply, wiping her eyes. “It was the way you said it.”

    “It knows,” it said happily. “The clones won’t hurt you-it, Dohra, if you-it would like to take a closer look?”

    “Ooh, could we? Ooh, thank you, Trff!” she gasped, bounding up and holding out a hand.

     BrTl got up hurriedly as it bobbed up and took the hand with a tentacle.

    It won’t let them hurt her-it, Trff reassured him.

    What if they move so fast that it can’t stop them? They are sports-clones!

    All right, come.

    BrTl was coming anyway. They drifted casually across the pink ISLA bar…

    After quite some time Dohra whispered: “Can’t they talk?”

    It’ll send it, BrTl thinks it’s safer. They can talk. Enough to understand simple messages when they play their game, and simple orders when they’re off the field—field in the sports-playing sense, not in the “stretch of grass or similar low-growing vegetative matter” sense.

    Dohra goggled at it.

    And enough to ask for food or drink! added BrTl quickly. The teams’ owners don't encourage sports-clones to talk.

    That’s terrible!

    Trff was agreeing that in her terms it was, yes, so BrTl sent loudly: No, it isn’t! They’ve got all those other beings to look after them—see? Three Slgrs between the team—the three-legged beings carrying those towel things—and a servo-mech each, to keep track of their bags and equipment and carry the heavier stuff, and that tallish, greenish being, not an unattractive shade, I’d call it pzijlp, he’s in charge of them, and those six burly beings, not sure what they are—oh, mutant Meankers, really, Trff? A bit like the Muto being in Lu Rullan’s story, then—to do, um, that rubbing stuff that sports beings need.

    Massage, Trff supplied helpfully. Yes. Most of those beings are capable of ordering food or drink for them, and of sending them to bed at an appropriate time and, um, of carer-stuff, it thinks is how you-it’d conceive of it, Dohra. –Mothering them? Something to do with mammalian repro stuff, is that?

    “Um, no,” said Dohra feebly aloud. “I see, those other beings, like with the blasters on their hips and that, they’re there to look after them. That’s good.”

    “Yes. And to get them Pleasure Beings,” it added kindly as a heavily-muscled being clad in the same colours as the clones but with the message “TRAINER” on its chest rather than “UrGur,” came up with four very painted Pleasure Girls and a thin, somewhat mangy-looking being who was perhaps their master.

    “UrGur!” discovered Dohra in tones of relief as the being turned its back and the legend was displayed. “What? Oh, yes, that’s definitely their master, he’s going to hire them out. –I hope they’ll be good to them,” she added dubiously.

    The syntax of this remark could have caused a certain confusion if either of the ship-companions had been listening rather than reading her, but as it was, it didn’t. Trff must have got BrTl’s message because it said: “Oh, yes, they will, it’s sure, because they’re glad to have them.” As the clones were observedly greeting the Pleasure Girls with grins, grunts, mammalian head-nodding, and in the case of some, territorial growling, Dohra was able to agree with this. BrTl was about to suggest they go back, when she sent on a frantic note: But where are their ears?

    On each side of the head, replied BrTl’s literal-minded ship-companion.

    Under the skin. For their own protection. Goperball helmets aren’t meant to come off but if they do happen to, beings have been known to lose an ear—or even a nose, he admitted as she was seen to be gazing dazedly at a clone that was missing its. Most professional sports-clones don’t have too many flaps and stuff—safer not to.

    Why didn’t they take that poor being to a Full Surgeon? she asked indignantly.

    BrTl could have guessed but in this instance Trff could stick its metaphorical neck out and get its metaphorical head whacked off, thanks all the same.

    No need to: the being can still breathe. And cosmetic surgery’s quite expens—You-it’s right, Dohra, unfeeling is what the owners of sports teams are! it sent quickly.

    “Who owns them?” she demanded angrily, aloud.

    “Ssh!” hissed BrTl. “Uh—no idea.”

    Can’t you-it see that? asked Trff incredulously.

    Who from? replied BrTl acidly. The clones?

    No, the pzijlp being. –Tri-Galaxy Sports Holdings Limited owns them, Dohra.

    Tri? echoed BrTl in spite of himself.

    There is a phrase for that. It’s heard Jhl use it, it replied vaguely.

    Delusions of grandeur? –Dare we ask who owns Tri-Galaxy Sports Holdings?

    Many individual beings or small companies own forty-nine percent of its shares, and United Galaxies Beverages Limited owns the other fifty-one percent. And it’s owned by—Sorry. It will cut to the chase, yes. UrGur Inc. 

 

    Gee, fancy that!

    And of course it’s got owners, too—Doesn’t you-it? But you-it knows one of them.

    I do not!

    Yes. A certain Whtyllian Fleet Commander. Through one of his-its companies, of course.

    After a considerable amount of gulping BrTl managed to send: I definitely didn’t wanna know that! Uh—does Jhl know?

    No; she-it isn’t interested in that being’s companies.

    He took a deep breath. I’m never gonna drink UrGur beer again!

    Trff emanated airiness, took Dohra’s hand again and said: “Seen enough? Shall we go back?” so BrTl bent right down to its level, regardless of what that movement did to a dozen or so of his vertebrae, and said: “And?”

    “And UrGur Inc. owns Rolly’s Rwthwarian Ales Limited, BrTl,” it admitted.

    “All right, I’ll switch brands!” he snarled, his tail lashing.

    “BrTl, it’s not its fault if horrid companies own other companies and horrid beings own them all!” said Dohra crossly.

    “Uh—true.”

    “It doesn’t sound to me as if your Captain would ever want to give up being a captain and settle down with that Whtyllian being,” she then said kindly.

    “Uh—doesn’t it?” he croaked. “Good show.”

    And they tottered back to their usual corner and called for—Er, not ale, no. Or UrGur beer, thanks all the same, Didg, swiller. Plain qwlot. And just in case Trff had been going to send an emanation or two regarding that his way, BrTl sent an emanation or two of his own, and it shut up like a dendrion nut.

    And that was pretty much It for Federation Day on the third moon of Pkqwrd. Exciting, huh? 

 

   “Thrilling," agreed BrTl’s Captain drily.

    “Yeah.”

    “So what’s Trff up to?”

    “Gone back to Didg’s blobs. They’ve simmered enough and now it’s—well, I dunno. Brooding down there in the drive chamber, is as close as I can get.”

    “It’ll do,” she said drily. “How’s the pink being?”

    “Well, she finished her story,” reported BrTl temperately.

    “And?” asked Jhl with a laugh in her voice.

    “Trff was right all along, curse it for the asteroid-headed, literal-minded engineer that it is! Nothing happened. Anticlimax’d be the best word. Well, most of those humanoid beings got bond-partnered, or not IG-legally bond-partnered, now I come to think of it, but—Oh, you get it,” he said as her mind-message came through Trff’s re-cultured comm-blob. “But actually you’re wrong about that: I didn’t lose ten igs, because I was too fly to bet on any of those beings. And if ya really wanna know—” He stopped: his thoughts had reached her before his voice had and he could now hear her falling all over wherever she was, laughing herself silly.

    “Yeah,” he said with considerable satisfaction when she was at the mammalian nose-blowing stage. “Even I could see that that Meagraw being was never gonna take the S’draa being: it—sorry, I mean she—was too old to produce pups for him!”

    “Yeah,” said Jhl, blowing her nose again. “That’s done me good! –Dare I ask, didn’t it look?”

    “Can’t have!” replied BrTl cheerfully.

    Jhl had another choking, spluttering fit.

    “The vacuum-frozen Lirriot Queen won—”

    “I—got—that!” she choked helplessly.

    BrTl just waited until she seemed to be over it. “That’s it, really,” he said vaguely. “Oh—the place is full of clones. Sports-beings of some kind.”

    “Thrilling,” said Jhl blankly.

    “Yeah.”

    “What about that Thwurbullerian?”

    “Don't think it bets on the Big Ma—Oh! Um, sorry, Jhl. Well, it even got a story out of that meankoid Space Patroller a few days back, you were right about it. Um, well, it’s been keeping an eye on Dohra but there’s no indication of anything else. Yet,” he added cautiously.

    “Hm. And the DorAvenian? Picked up anything else about chiefs or fathers?”

    “Nothing specific. Trff reckons he-it—um, sorry—he was brooding over mothers the other day. Afternoon teas and mothers. Are they anything like fathers?”

    “Is that what it reckons?” she asked cautiously.

    “Yes,” admitted BrTl.

    “Well, it’s not far wrong,” she conceded. “Each humanoid has a mother and a father—stop me whenever it occurs that I’ve told you this a megazillion times before, BrTl—and they’re, uh, sort of the older layer of cognates. They all live together in a family group,”—she paused, but as expected her First Officer didn’t stop her—“something like a Maudur yoggr.”

    “Oh! Yeah, I know!”

    “When he was young,” said Jhl carefully, “Didg was his father’s and mother’s pup.”

    “Ugh. Um, think I get it. Well, enough. The afternoon teas usually have jam in them.”

    “Right, and where I come from, usually a few old great-aunties and plasmo-blasted tray-cloths sewn by their own gnarled appendages,” she noted through her mammalian teeth. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be obscure. Jam’d be right. Was the word ‘dainty’ bandied about in that connection?”

    “Um, I could ask Trff,” he said cautiously.

    “Don’t bother! I can see it all!” she admitted with a laugh.

    Ooh, so she could. BrTl goggled at the picture she was sending. Even the burly DorAvenian with the gold body-armour looked… Washed, for a start. Meek? Chastened? Cowed? They were all in there somewhere. “So mothers are like that.”

    “Mostly!” said Jhl with a sudden laugh. “Mum’s all right—bit like your pink being, actually!”

    “Um, Jhl, did you mean a bit of Feeny-Argyllian-ness to creep into what you sent?” 

 

    “Sure. Beings like this mother of Didg’s go in for dainty afternoon teas in the same way as they do, without being one megazillionth as well-meaning.”

    “That is clear!” said BrTl in a shaken voice.

    “Yep. Uh—oh. Sorry, keep forgetting you like the DorAvenian being.”

    “He is the same species as her,” he replied cautiously.

    “No, well, my money wouldn’t be on him or the turquoise being,” she noted drily. “If that’s a picture of the pink being feeling sorry for the plasmo-blasted clones, forget it! –Uh, what? Fleet Commander Vt R’aam owns what?”

    “Sorry. Didn’t mean to send that. Trff worked it out. It did say you-it wasn’t interested in that being’s companies.”

    “He’s just told me confidentially that All-Gal Haulaway are about to default on their contract to deliver Rolly’s Rwthwarian Ale around the Outer Rim,” she said between her teeth.

    “Ooh, really? Uh, hang on, we’d need something the size of a Bhylloblaster—”

    “And offered to fund a fleet of Oonoblasters!” she shouted.

    “In that case he’s got money in Oononia Construction Intergalactic Limited, as well. It sounds like a really good off—”

    “What do you imagine goes with it?” she screamed.

    “Uh—Oh,” he said lamely as he got the picture. The repro stuff, she was up for, he did get that: it was the servility and the gratitude stuff that she wasn’t up for. In quintupled 5-D triangles. –Nominal what? Oh; nominal Fleet Manager, right, right. While one of his own beings actually had all the responsibility and a fleet of his trader captains actually had all the fun. Goddit. “Due for Mullgon’ya,” he summarised.

    “He is if he ever expected for one megazillionth of an IG microsecond that that sort of offer’d appeal!”

    “Yeah. Uh—was that ambition in there somewhere? Can't know you at all,” he croaked.

    “No,” said Jhl with a sigh. “No, I don’t think he does. But he knows me slightly better now. –Forget it. He’s got time on his appendages to think up silly schemes, this must be one of the most boring worlds in the Known—I tell a lie, in the cosmos.”

    “You forget to whom you’re speaking,” said BrTl coldly. “Or at least where I'm standing!”

    “Sorry. Yeah, well, this dump has got grass and o-breather atmosphere!” she admitted with a laugh. “Listen, have you been able to work out when Trff thinks the ship’ll be ready?”

    “No,” he said glumly.

    “Right. Put it another way: did it give you the sort of intergalactic mok shit that could only give rise to the suspicion that it won’t be ready within the next IG year?”

    “No, it hasn’t been that bad.”

    “IG months?”

    “Um, from now?” he said cautiously.

    “YES, from now!” shouted his Captain.

    “I’ve already been here going on two IG months,” he reminded her. “Um, well, could be—yeah. On its past form—yeah. The thing is,” he said, as Jhl took a deep breath, “it’s happy, Jhl! It’s mucking about with the DorAvenian’s plasmo-blasted blobs and using his mutant to do Federation knows what—”

    “Yeah. Okay,” she said with a sigh. “At least it isn’t glum. But if you pick up an emanation or two about our ship’s blobs, I’d quite like a report!”

    “Of course. Um, can I ask you something?”

    Jhl could see as plain as plain it was something else about the plasmo-blasted pink being. For Federation’s sake! This was turning into another limping Bdeeg do, all right! He was shielding it from her—well, there was a shield there that she could have penetrated with almost no effort had she wanted to. “Go on.”

    “There’s no-one else to ask,” he said apologetically. “Well, I’m scared that anything I say to the Thwurbullerian’ll weaken my position if it comes to a showdown.”

    “Very wise.”

    “Uh—yeah. ZrMl’s not interested, and he doesn't know much about humanoids, anyway. And Didg is only interested in doing repro stuff with her.”

    “And?”

    “Um, it’s two things, really. Well, she's feeling sorry for the clones, like you saw, and I can see she wants them to come over and tell a story after dinner this evening, but the thing is, they can hardly talk, let alone send! Well, they can send to each other, because they’re cultured up to do that, but it’s only sports stuff, of course.”

    “Uh—so?” said Jhl groggily.

    “Well, um, do I let her ask them and make a fool of herself and get all upset when they can’t, or should I interpret? Um, Trff might give me a bit of help.”

    “Go for it,” said his Captain simply, without reference to free will or ethics or any other such concept that they frequently got reminded of from that quarter.

    BrTl gulped. “Oh—good,” he said limply. “Um, the other thing… Well, don’t say I’m due for Mullgon’ya before you’ve thought about it, okay?”

    “Okay,” said his Captain blankly.

    She heard him swallow. Then he said: “Before she left for Nblyteria blndreL said, um, quite casually, as if it was so obvious that it wasn’t worth mentioning, kind of thing, that for a wishful-thinking story, that story of Dohra’s wasn’t bad. So I said, do they have wishful-thinking stories on Nblyteria, and she said lots. Then we went down the moogletube and it went right out of her mind—and mine, actually: well, you know what moogletubes—Yeah. Only it’s come back to me, and I’ve been wondering about it. Well, I mean, would a full captain entrust a job like that to a little pink being like her?”

    “One uses the tools to hand,” said Jhl slowly. “If I’ve read you right, that was all pretty circumstantial.”

    “Well, yeah, that’s why I thought it must be true. And she is stuck here on the third moon waiting for her transfer, and she has come from Gr’mmeaya, I checked her dokko. But—uh—I mentioned it to Trff.”

     He felt her wince. “And?” she croaked.

    “First it said that most stories were wishful thinking. Then it said it meant in the sense in which I conceived of the phrase. Then—uh, well, I admit I shouted at it, even though it was doing its best. Then I had to apologise because it started to fluff itself—Yeah. Only then it said kindly it realised I was concerned for the pink being’s welfare, and while I was sort of getting over that, it slipped in the bit about Yes and No!”

 

 

    “Oh—mok shit,” muttered Jhl under her breath.

    “Right: hasn’t got the sense it was given at brood pen,” agreed BrTl gratefully. “So, um, then I bared the crunchers at it—Oh, would you? Oh, good! I finally got it to admit that although there was a lot of realism in the story, bits of it could be wishful thinking. Actually, it dawned that it wasn’t able to clarify which bits, so I didn’t get mad at it again: think it was all a bit much for it, poor old Trff. Well, it was very highly coloured, with hundreds of beings rushing about in strange garments all emanating humanoid emotions, and all that food and drink and the strange musical instruments—I mean, I picked up more than enough, but it would’ve got the lot!”

    Jhl gulped. “Yeah, see what you mean. Neural overload, eh? Um… mok shit. Look, I’m with Trff, I’m afraid, BrTl. Yes and no. I’d give you evens.”

    “As high as that?” he croaked.

    “Yeah. Does it matter?” she asked cautiously.

    “Um, well, not if Didg is too scared of the father being and the mother being—the senior cognates: right, thanks, let’s think of them that way! Too scared of the senior cognates to offer her bond-partnership—no. But he is very jealous of the turquoise being, and if most of it never happened, does he need to be?”

    After a moment it dawned that this was not a rhetorical question, so Jhl thought about it carefully. “I’d say he pretty much does need to be, because the fact that she could construct such a wishful-thinking story round the Friyrian means that she does fancy him. Hang on, though. Hmm… It’s possible she’s never really spoken to the being. I mean, if he’s a Friyrian captain and she’s only Third Cook—Acting Chef, granted, but still… And it’s a fair-sized ship, isn’t it? Put it like this, if she made most of it up, there’s nothing real between them for Didg to be jealous of, but when mammalian humanoid psychology’s involved, especially the female variety, that doesn’t mean he’s any closer to being in there with a chance.”

    “Vvlvanian curses,” he muttered.

    “BrTl, I honestly don’t think, if he did take her back to DorAven and give her a house and pups, that she’d be happy!” said Jhl urgently. “Not in a restrictive feudal society like that! That picture you gave me before of her wearing long curls and being there to meet him whenever he deigned to come home was spot-on!”

    After a moment he said cautiously: “Did you look it up on the Encyclopaedia?”

    “Yeah. Well, nothing better to do here. Didn’t you?” she said with a smile in her voice.

    “Um, yeah, but if a being doesn’t grasp half the concepts it doesn’t give you the full picture!”

    “Surely not?”

    “Hah, hah. Um, well, how can I find out if the story was just wishful thinking or not?”

    “Uh… mok shit. Given that if you could find a Full Surgeon on the third moon of Pkqwrd you still wouldn’t want to cosy up to the being… Um, find a humanoid with decent mind-powers?” she said limply.

    “I thought Didg was! Well, he is a Pilot!” he reminded her crossly.

    “Mm. Not used to bothering with emotional stuff,” she murmured. “Added to which, the jealousy’ll be clouding his judgement. Well, sorry, BrTl, that really is my best shot.”

    “Look, not to be anything-ist, I know there are quite a few humanoid planets, but what’s the likelihood of meeting another one of at least Pilot level on the third moon of Pkqwrd?”

    “Leaving aside the claim that if a being’s stranded there long enough every being in the two galaxies will pass before its visual organs or whatever it uses, would this be? Um, well, Vvlvanian-cursed low. You’d be far more likely to meet a Friyrian or another Nblyterian, especially since Nblyteria’s relatively close. Doubt if they’d be interested, though.”

    “Couldn’t you give it a go? Supposing I fetched her and you spoke to her?”

    “Uh—look, I know Trff’s hypered up that comm-blob of yours, but I’m not that good! Not at this sort of range with a being I've never met! And in any case, BrTl, the essential point is that Didg is right to be jealous.”

    A gloomy silence came over the comm-blob connection. Finally he said: “Yes. And I don’t think that DorAven’s the sort of place where Dohra would be happy, either. Um, blndreL seemed to think she was pretty young in humanoid years: is that right?”

    “Yes, very young, there’s lots of time for her to be looking round for a bond-partner. And I’d say her emotions aren’t even fully developed, yet.”

    “Oh, good. And she’s not going to run out of eggs?”

    Jhl managed to take this one in her stride. “I think you’re thinking of Lirriots, or female lorpoids. Humanoid females do eventually run out of eggs, but it takes a good few IG years longer than it does with those species. I can promise you,” she added with a smile in her voice, “that it’s not gonna happen while you’re both still stuck on the third moon of Pkqwrd!”

    “Oh, good! Um, where do you keep them?” he groped.

    Kindly she sent him a picture.

    “Oh, is that what those things are for! They’re very small eggs, aren’t they?”

    Somewhat weakly she sent him a mind-picture of the next few stages in the human reproductive process.

    “Ugh! Uh—yeah, I remember now: like Lirriots, what’s the word? Viviparous.”

    “Yeah,” she croaked, though aware he’d have forgotten by this time next IG week. Or even sooner. “Uh—that It, then?”

    “Yes. Well, I’d like to know for sure if the story was all wishful thinking, but I take your point about Didg’s green emotion. –Xathpyroids don’t do that,” he added.

    “No sexual jealousy? Well, no.”

    “Not just that: no jealousy, really. –No, I meant mix up real happenings and wishful thinking.”

    “Lucky you,” said Jhl with a smothered sigh. “Humanoids do it all the time. Um… how can I put this? I’m not saying that nothing you do or say will make any difference, because as we’ve agreed, if you let that Thwurbullerian have its way, it plasmo-blasted-well will make a difference! Uh… just don’t agonise too much over Dohra’s feelings, okay? She’s at the growing stage. Um, not quite like when the immature cognates’ neck-hair starts to lengthen, but—uh, well, not dissimilar, certainly. She won’t get as silly as they do, because this is a later stage for her. She’s probably gonna imagine herself in love with about a dozen or so other males—feelings even stronger than the ones you’ve picked up—before she chooses one she wants to bond-partner with, or just share a dwelling with. –I suppose I’d better go, it’s time for a plasmo-blasted diplo lunch here.”

    “A growing stage. I get it. That limping Bdeeg was very mixed up, even for a Bdeeg, wasn’t it? And I can see Dohra isn’t all that mixed up, for a humanoid. Thanks, Jhl. It’s much clearer now: I thought you’d be able to take an unprejudiced look at it and clear it up a bit for me! I’d better let you go. —Eh? Uh, yeah, I'd have a qwlot before a diplo lunch in any case.—BrTl out.”

    “Captain out,” she croaked, tottering off in search of a very large qwlot. 

 

    Since ZrMl had decided to nip up to Level Blue for a quick one before dinner, BrTl nipped up to join him. The Squadron Commander was discovered with both elbows propped comfortably on a xathpyroid-height portion of the blue ISLA bar. BrTl looked round a trifle dazedly: this bar was also bursting with clones!

    “Yeah, there’s some sort of tournament they’re all headed for,” explained the Zr-cognate. “Fluorogas and qwlot?”

    “You talked me into it. –Thanks,” he sighed as the servo-mech behind the bar produced a bubbling xathpyroid-size tumbler of it. “Through the hatch.”

    “Through the hatch,” agreed ZrMl, raising his second, or possibly third.

    … “Aaah!” they both sighed. BURP!—BURP!

    “Feel better?” asked ZrMl solicitously.

    “Yeah, don’t you?”

    “Not that!” he said with a laugh. “Got onto your Captain, didja?”

    “Eh? Oh: yes. Nothing to worry about, I knew she'd be right on top of the humanoid psychology mok shuh—uh, stuff.”

    “All their minds are like that: full of coloured pictures and garments and weird emotions, not to be anything-ist, signifying,” said ZrMl, blowing a green bubble gently so that it drifted across to the servo-mech and balanced on that pointy thing on its top without breaking, a considerable feat even when sober, which he wasn’t, very, it was beginning to dawn, “very little.”

    “Jhl’s isn’t!” he said indignantly.

    “Not her, she's a Pilot, for Federation’s sake! Besides, you already told me she’s more like a xathpyroid,” he reminded him.

    “Mm?” BrTl was trying to breathe on a bubble so that it drifted gently—Blast! “Oh, yes, so I did. Yes, she is, thank the Federation. She gave me a very just summation of the position. The pink being’s at a growing stage.”—ZrMl looked down at his own neck-hair in a startled way. Fortunately these ISLA bars were really solid.—“Not quite that, but something not dissimilar. Can you manage another one on me and still get yourself down to Level Pink for dinner?”

    “Yeah, thanks, BrTl.”

    The servo-mech produced two more bubbling tumblers.

    … “Aaah!” BURP!—BURP!

    “Dinner and the clones’ stories, wasn't it?” said ZrMl. “She sort you out on that as well?”

    “Told me to go for it.” He registered the Zr-cognate’s stunned reaction with considerable pleasure. “I knew you didn’t believe me when I said she was much more like a xathpyroid than a humanoid! Drink up!”

    ZrMl drank up and ventured amiably as they headed slowly for the lift-blobs: “Is any being gonna believe these plasmo-blasted clones are actually telling a story besides the pink being?”

    “The yellow Flppu?” suggested BrTl mildly after some thought.

    “Doubt it, it was too fly to bet on the S’draa being in the plasmo-blasted story,” he reminded him.

    Shaking slightly, BrTl said: “How true!”—BURP!—“The mutant?”

    “You're right!”—BURP!—“Look, would you rather I gently implanted the suggestion that the clones would much rather not tell a story?”

    BrTl had a sort of feeling that Jhl would sort of almost definitely mention the phrase “free will” in that connection. Though, possibly due to the effect of the fluorogas, he couldn’t define the essential ethical difference between that and him and Trff deceiving Dohra by helping the clones to tell a story.

    “No, thanks all the same.”—BURP!—“Might as well get it over with. Well, she might not insist.”

    “Yeah, and Vvlvania might freeze over, but it won’t be today!” returned ZrMl with a laugh.

    Vvlvania didn’t freeze over and once 401, 62, 18, 272, and 310 had eagerly joined them and settled back comfortably with suitable refreshment in the huge appendages that were capable of closing almost entirely round a goperball—BrTl himself could barely manage it—together with TRAINER, call it H’ree, and TRAINER, call it Musho, and a couple of the muscly massagers that didn't seem to have personal appellations, leaving the rest of the team and their attendants to enjoy their drinks and Pleasure Beings at the far side of the bar, they began. Sort of. About halfway through it penetrated to BrTl’s consciousness that Trff didn’t have a notion in Federation what goperball actually was and that most of the technical detail was down to Didg. 

    An’ he’s on the twenny-four IG fluh line an’ Hannaffry Red Winger 790 an’ Hannaffry Red Winger 12 are bearing down—Look out for that Hannaffry Red defender, 401!—An’ HE'S GOIng For it, An’ he scores, IZZA GOAL! UrGur Blue sevenny-five, Hannaffry Red fifty-nine, YAY TEAM!

    Kill the ref, kill the ref, Kill the ref! UrGur Blue sevenny-five, Hannaffry Red eighty-two, GET HIM OFF THE FIELD!

    An’ he’s on the thirty-six IG fluh line an’ he’s gonna pass—yes—no—PASS IT TO 62, YA USELESS HUNK OF SPACE GARB—An’ he passes, 62’s got the ball, he’s going for it—watch out for that Hannaffry Red defend—FOUL! FOUL, FOUL, FOUL! Get him off the field! …Decision! H’it’s a foul! That’s Hannaffry Red Defender 817 going off the field, folks, that’s the last we’ll see of that intergalactic clown for a while, it’ll be the penalty—YAY! 817’s in the penalty box! Now watch 62 take the free kick… He’s in position, look at that clone’s shoulders, folks! He’s raising the boot… He kicks! Watch that ball! IZZA GOAL! TEAM, TEAM, TEAM!

    H’it’s down to the wire, now, folks, three IG min left in the game, all square at hunnert an’ three each, can UrGur Blue pull it off again? An’ 18’s coming up on the outside, PASS, PASS, PA—An’ he passes, 18’s heading it, is he gonna take the sho—He's taking the shot! IZZA GOAL! Headed in to put UrGur Blue at hunnert an’ fifteen an’ top of the ladder for this season, can that clone head or can that clone head!

    Play of the season, UrGur Blue’s last Big Match against Rolly Bollybeer Yellow: UrGur Blue 272 an’ 310, they make a flanking move, the Rolly Bollybeer Yellow pack are moving in for the kill, watch that ball move from 310 to 272! The pack’s in disarray, UrGur Blue 56 is moving up on the outside, WATCH THIS PASS! UrGur Blue 56 is off like the wind down the moogletube, see that clone run! The Rolly Bollybeer Yellow back line’s thundering into play—He’s down—BUT WATCH 272 AND 310! THEY’VE STILL GOT THE GOPERBALL! THAT WAS ONLY A FEINT! An’ they’re streaking in to the goal, the way’s clear—SPLAT! 310’s handed off Rolly Bollybeer Yellow 89! SPLUDGE! 272’s passed the ball and with a lightning move he’s flattened Rolly Bollybeer Yellow 14—AND 310 TAKES THE KICK! IZZA GOAL! GO, URGUR! YAY, TEAM! UrGur for It, UrGur for Them, UrGur for ME! 

 

    As Dohra put it, it was really exciting. Just like on the Services! And so Hannaf, um, Hannaffry and Rolly Bollybeer would be drinks, too, would they? Oh, Hannaffry Limited sold sports gear, did they? Well, that was logical!

    Jhl called back late that night, just as BrTl was nodding off. “Br’l here,” he mumbled.

    “Are you awake?”

    “No,” he said definitely.

    “Sorry. Keep forgetting this vacuum-frozen FW dump isn’t on IG time! Listen, forget most of what I said this morning, local time. –Before lunch.”

    “Eh? Oh, yes, you were just going off to it,” he recalled hazily. “Why?”

    “I was all het up at the realisation that that offer from the sparf-laden Whtyllian had even more strings attached, not to say kick-backs within kick-backs, than I’d suspected.”

    “Eh? Oh, the nominal Fleet Manager thing, yeah.”

    “Yeah. Added to which I was facing the prospect of sitting bang across the table from him for a three-hour lunch.”

    “Ugh! Uh—I thought your advice was good. Very fair. Bit like a Ref, really.”

    “Eh? Oh, the sports-clones! That looks good; well done, that xathpyroid sports commentator! No, well, there was a—er—giant point overlooked in the excitement of the moment.”

    At this there was definite giggle from the background and BrTl realised that she was not alone. It was probably a Nblyterian in her/s male stage: she tended to pick those up when drunk at diplo lunches, diplo dinners, diplo receptions—diplo anythings, really.

    “Go on, what was it?” he sighed.

    “Ask her.”

    “Eh?”

    “If you want to know whether the pink being’s story was only a story, BrTl, ask her!”

    BrTl’s comm-blob emanated silence for some time, in response to the breathing, giggling and whispering from the other end. “Would she tell me the truth, though?” he said at last.

    “Why not?” said Jhl cheerfully. “Ooh! –Goddit? Good! Captain out!”

    “BrTl out,” he said slowly. He looked dubiously at Dohra, curled on the flop couch, snoring. Uh—would she? And could she? Did humanoids, having told very long, complex stories with all those characters and garments and stuff, actually know which parts of them were true? And would he, BrTl, be able to tell if she was telling the truth or, if she wasn’t, which bits were factual and which she’d made up, given that as of this moment he couldn't…

    Er, the xathpyroid paranoia was definitely getting the upper hand. He’d sleep on it.

    …Three hours across from the sparf-laden Whtyllian? Poor Jhl, no wonder she was drunk!