"Report," Prime Cornelian demanded from his bed, casually.
Pynthas had never been so frightened, and approached with quaking knees. He had eaten not an hour before and felt his stomach about to give up its contents. He found that when he attempted to open his mouth, only a dry rasp came out.
"Speak up!" Prime Cornelian said. One slim metallic limb fell languidly from the side of the tank, dripping lubricant onto the blindingly reflective floor. The deck, octagonal walls, and sectioned, domed ceiling of the sleeping chamber were covered in mirror: this in itself, without the aid of bad news, made Pynthas ill whenever he entered. He felt as if he were inside a kaleidoscope, with blue, green, and red bits of Prime Cornelian hovering around him like vicious bees.
"Well?" Prime Cornelian said, moving a slitted eye to stare at Pynthas from a thousand vantage points.
Pynthas felt dissected.
"Bad news, High Leader," Pynthas croaked out.
"Really? Why don't you let me be the judge?"
Pynthas knew that the only thing going in his favor was the fact that the High Leader was still groggy from his rest. Floating like a June bug in his huge tub, which resembled a halved sphere on a rodded pedestal, polished to high brilliance, Prime Cornelian would still be under the effects of his lubricant bath, which renewed and sustained him while he slept. Pynthas had never seen the High Leader eat, but without his monthly rest and renewal, Prime Cornelian would tighten and lock like a rusty hinge—as well as go mad.
"Yes, High Leader," Pynthas managed to force out hoarsely.
"I rather like that term—don't you Pynthas? High Leader sounds so . . . high."
Prime Cornelian chuckled listlessly, pulling his leg back into the bath and now stretching out all his limbs, which squeaked and hissed.
"Ahhh, that feels so good!"
Once more the High Leader opened an eye to stare at Pynthas from a hundred-times-ten vantage points.
"Report!" Prime Cornelian suddenly snapped, his harsh voice bouncing around the room like light.
"Yes!" Pynthas said, finding his voice. But still his knees knocked and his hands shook.
"Riots have b-broken out in Bradbury and Schiaparelli," Pynthas stuttered. "P-parts of W-Wells have been . . ."
"Yes?"
"T-taken over by government loyalists."
"Is that all? I expected that. What about response?"
"Marines have restored order in most areas, but last night there were bombings in many places. The central police station was destroyed in Schiaparelli and fifty-nine policemen killed. A Marine detachment was ambushed in—"
"Is that all you have to tell me? What about Venus?"
"Things have been quiet on Venus, High Leader. Our contacts on the ground there are monitoring the situation closely. They'll let us know of any change."
"Good."
"But the Terraformers have finished arming their plants and have threatened to destroy them at the first sign of trouble on the planet"
Prime Cornelian was silent for a moment. Pynthas closed his eyes and wished he were anywhere else on the planet—or better yet, on another planet.
But an explosion did not come. There was only the lap of lubricating fluid on the sides of the tank, the occasional drip of a rogue drop onto the polished floor.
Pynthas opened his eyes and saw a thousand slitted orbs regarding him from every corner of the room, making him feel like a bug under a lens.
"And do you have word of Senator Kris's daughter?" Prime Cornelian said, very quietly.
"No, High Leader. You realize how ... difficult it is to get word from that sector. Wrath-Pei—"
"Wrath-Pei will talk to me, if he has her. Of course, I will have to call him. But the call will be worth the temporary denigration of my pride." Prime Cornelian sighed, shifted in his bath to stand up.
Pynthas nearly gasped in fright at the horrible sight of the insect-man towering nearly to the ceiling as he stretched, golden sheets of oil flowing from his carapace, and the entire monstrous scene reflected hundreds of times
Pynthas's breakfast rose into his throat, and he gagged it back down.
"For heaven's sake, man—get yourself something to eat!" Prime Cornelian ordered.
"Y-yes, High Leader."
"And hand me a towel before you leave."
"Yes, High Leader."
Swallowing his regurgitated meal, nearly swooning, Pynthas reached to take an oil-slicked cheesecloth in the vague form of a robe from a rack next to the door. He walked through slick puddles of lubricant and handed it up to the High Leader, all the while wanting to faint.
"Thank you," Prime Cornelian said.
Pynthas nodded.
"Summon the provisional governors to my chambers, and also the various military heads. Perhaps they're not aware of what my instructions meant.
It's very important that we make this look like a domestic squabble —at least for the moment."
"Yes, High Leader."
"And if there is any news from Titan, I want it immediately."
"Yes, High Leader."
"That means immediately, Pynthas. No matter what I'm doing."
Head bowed in sickness, Pynthas mumbled, "Of course, High Leader."
"Pynthas, look up at me."
Stifling a groan, Pynthas lifted his gaze to look at the shrouded High Leader. The robe now covered Prime Cornelian's husk and had soaked the oil away like a sponge.
Prime Cornelian climbed from the tub like a spider, his six limbs keeping the rest of his body from reimmersing itself in the oil bath. He stood on the mirrored floor of the room and continued to dry himself, two limbs at a time working along the length of his other parts.
He paused and looked at Pynthas—his gaze, now mingled with Pynthas's own, locked in reflection around the room.
"You really should try it sometime," Prime Comehan said, nodding his head toward the tub, which at that moment slopped a wave of sickly scented lubricant over the side to splash on the floor.
Pynthas stumbled from the room, the harsh bleat of the High Leader's laughter ringing in his ears.
"Tabrel?"
It was a fairy-tale voice she heard. No one had ever spoken her name like that before. It was like musical chimes, like singing, like a breath of sweet wind telling poetry. It almost didn't sound like her name, but like someone else's—someone magical, worthy of song.
"Tabrel?" the minstrel's voice came again.
"Yes?" she heard herself saying, trying to sing, rising up out of her sleep.
She opened her eyes.
There was the minstrel standing over her.
She knew his face, though vaguely. He looked older than the picture she had of him in her mind, though he was still young. He had the face of a troubadour, from pictures she had seen of long ago.
But his eyes looked troubled.
"Tabrel, can you hear me?"
She could hear him, and tried to nod, but could not. She was slowly rising out of another place. There had been no dreams she could remember. It had been more like being unalive than asleep. She felt groggy and weak.
"You'll be all right," the troubadour said.
"Jamal?" she said weakly, and he nodded.
"Yes!"
"Ohhhhh . . ."
She tried to rise on her elbows and swooned back.
His hand was behind her head, helping to ease her back down.
"Now you must sleep," Jamal said. "When you have had real sleep, you will feel better."
Again she tried to rise, but it was pushing against a world weighing down on her.
"But my father and the others . . ."
His cradling hand, so soft on the back of her head, lay her gently down.
"Shhh, now. Go to sleep."
She nodded, already closing her eyes.
"Tabrel," she heard him say again in his singsong voice, and he sounded so pleased....
She awoke, from real dreams.
Startled, she sat up.
She was in a bed of sorts, and the room was dark. There were curtains, and a window opening out onto a soft evening. The curtains rustled with night breeze, which reached coolly to bathe her face.
She rose from the bed and walked barefoot to the window, feeling carpeted floor beneath her.
Above, there were stars, and something bright and startlingly close cutting at the western horizon like a scythe. Against this yellow light was outlined a skyline of trees and faraway structures.
As she watched, the massive yellow edge moved down from view, as if a clockwork were in motion pulling it away below the world.
In the sky, stars spread like an overlay, and there were two tiny round worlds, with phased faces.
In the near distance there was a body of water, and close by, a line of trees and a wooded hill; closer yet, a group of buildings close to the ground, grouped like a compound.
The coolness of the night felt good against her face.
Far off, an animal barked, sounding like a dog, and then there was another animal sound, like an Earth cock crowing.
The sky, she saw, was lightening in the east, but the stars still shone overhead, though less brightly as the distant Sun now rose, a small yellow orb, looking cold and inaccessible.
"Daylight on Titan," Tabrel whispered to herself, and now saw that lights were coming on in the distance, around the perimeter of the lake, which shone with silver brilliance; around the cluster of nearby buildings and at the horizon's skyline, where their massed luminescence washed out the stars overhead and made the edge of the world glow.
There came a soft knock on the door behind Tabrel, and the troubadour's voice sang her name.
Tabrel?
The door opened, and she beheld Jamal Clan, who entered the room tentatively, as if afraid to intrude.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Of course," Tabrel said, aware suddenly that she was dressed in a diaphanous nightgown and that the soft lights brightening the window behind her might outline her body through it.
Jamal stared at her, then looked away, which proved to her that this was true.
"There is a . . . robe in the closet," he said with embarrassment.
"And where is the closet?" Tabrel asked, amused at his reaction.
"It's . . ."
He reached behind him, fumbling for a switch—and then the room was flooded with light and they were both blinking.
Still blinking, Jamal Clan fumbled along the wall and found the crack of a door. His hand found the switch and the door slid smoothly open.
"In here, I think," Jamal said, pushing clothing back and forth on a rack before producing a dressing gown nearly as diaphanous as what Tabrel already wore.
"Oh . . ." Jamal said in consternation, holding it out for her inspection and making her laugh.
He was not as dreamlike or perfect as her first impressions had led her to believe. He was rather short; and he was burly in the chest and his hands were small. But his smile was beguiling, and his voice nearly as melodious as her stupored state had presented it to her.
"It's all right, I'm not cold," Tabrel said, turning back to the window."
"They turn on lights here during the day?" Tabrel asked.
"Oh, yes," Jamal said, daring to move closer to her. He still bore the dressing gown, and Tabrel turned to take it from him and put it on, to put him at ease.
"I should welcome you," Jamal said, standing by the window with her; outside, the world had come alive, with people leaving buildings to make their way from one end of the compound to the other. Out on the waved water a few sturdy-looking boats had set out, sails unfurled; in their midst a sleek powered craft shot over the waves, pushing water aside in a deep trough, becoming a tiny dot at the distant shore in a matter of moments, while in the sky the two Saturnian moons, now joined by a third, moved languidly among the lighter wash of stars.
"It all looks so ... peaceful," Tabrel said.
"For now," Jamal answered, a note of despondency entering his voice. "These are unsettled times, Tabrel. The people of Titan have many grave decisions to make. The Four Worlds are facing a serious crisis. With the changes on Mars—"
As if waking from a dream, Tabrel turned to regard him.
"How did I get here, Jamal? And what happened to Captain Weens?"
Jamal looked at her blankly.
"There was a navigator, and a pilot also, on the ship that was taking me here—what became of them?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Jamal answered.
"How did I get on Titan?"
"Wrath-Pei brought you to me; he said you had
been adrift in a derelict after an attack by pirates—"
"That's not true! There were others with me!" With a sincere look, Jamal shrugged and said,
"I'm afraid I don't know."
"Then I must talk with this Wrath-Pei. My father entrusted me to Captain Weens, and I have an obligation to see that he's all right."
Jamal frowned. "That is not something you would be wise to do."
"Then you must help me. And I wish to have news of Mars—and of my father. I claim these rights under diplomatic privilege."
Jamal studied her for a moment. Tabrel was not sure that he liked what he saw; she had the feeling that he was about to speak to her the way a parent speaks to a headstrong and foolish child.
"Tabrel," he said softly, in his beautiful voice, "you and I are betrothed. We are to be wed. Though I never laid eyes upon you until three days ago, I already feel close to you. Please listen to me when I tell you this: There is much about Titan that you do not know. We are an insular people, peaceful when left alone, fierce when stepped upon. Though originally of Mars, Wrath-Pei is.. . indicative of the Titan personality, only more so. He is larger than life, if you will. But one does not bother him. He comes and goes as he pleases; he does not bother us, we do not bother him. This is a tacit agreement—"
With barely contained fury, Tabrel said, "He is a pirate!"
Jamal took a deep breath. "Not a pirate, exactly. More of a free spirit. In fact, he has been very helpful with our pirate problem. In return we . . . leave him to his own devices."
Tabrel's anger had not flagged. "Do you pay him?"
Jamal Clan's manner suddenly resolved itself in Tabrel's eyes: He was acting like any diplomat in a tight situation. This Tabrel understood.
"Not in coin, so much . . ."
"What does he take, then?"
Flustered, Jamal threw up his hands and said, "Pretty much .. . anything he wants."
"So he rules Titan!"
Splitting hairs, Jamal said, "I . . . wouldn't say rules After all, that is my job. And my mother's. I would say rather that he . . ."
Again he shrugged.
"Leave me alone," Tabrel Kris commanded. Suddenly her diplomatic aura dissolved into frustration and disgust. "Get out of my sight! You are a coward, coming to me like this! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last slug on the underside of the last rock!"
"Tabrel. . ." Jamal Clan said soothingly, his melodious voice suddenly sounding slick, Unctuous. "You must understand the way things are done here—"
"I cannot believe .1 was betrothed to you! My parents must have been insane when I was born! The marriage will never take place!"
Jamal brought himself up to his full height and put a stern look on his face.
"Oh, we will definitely be married, Tabrel. Even if this union means little for Mars at the moment, it means a great deal for the future of Titan to have our two houses joined."
"Never! Our pact is hereby void!"
Jamal's face turned red. "It is very much in effect," he said coldly. "Only by decree of your father and my mother could the betrothal be broken."
"My father has already given his decree in this matter: He made the wedding my choice."
"My mother will never consent. The wedding will go forward."
As Tabrel searched desperately for something to throw at him, Jamal Clan turned and strode from the room, closing the door after him.
Too late, the dressing gown Tabrel had torn from her shoulders, wadded up, and thrown, hit the door.
When Tabrel Kris tried to open the door herself later on, the switch was inoperative, and she realized that she was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner.