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!
