Chapter III

Noting his bearings carefully, he hobbled painfully westward, with thirty pounds of money on his back. He would intersect the major North-South Intercontinental highway by at least noon.

Two hours later, he came to a small plastic cabin in a clearing at the edge of a forest.

Wincing now with each step, he made his way to the door. He knocked.

There was a long wait.

The door opened. A girl stood before him in a dressing gown. She frowned and asked, “Itsil obwatly jer gekompilp?“

Hearing Itraian spoken by a native in the flesh had a powerful emotional impact on Shamar the Worker.

Stumblingly, he introduced himself and explained that he was camping out. During the previous night he had become lost and injured his ankle. If she could spare him food and directions, he would gladly pay.

With a smile of superiority, she stepped aside and said in Itraian, “Come in, Chom the Worker.”

He felt panic, but he choked it back and followed her. Apparently he had horribly mispronounced his own name. It was as though, in English he had said Barchestershire for Barset. He cursed whatever Professor had picked that name for whatever obscure reason.

“Sit down,” she invited. “I’m about to have breakfast. Eggs and bacon--” the Itraian equivalent--”if that’s all right with you. I’m Garfling Germadpoldlt by the way, although you can call me Ge-Ge.”

The food was quite unpleasant, as though overly ripe. He was able to choke down the eggs with the greatest difficulty. Fortunately, the hot drink that was the equivalent of Earth coffee at the end of the meal, was sufficiently spicy to quiet his stomach.

“Good coffee,” he said.

“Thank you. Care for a cigarette?”

“I sure would.”

He had no matches, so she lit it for him, hovering above him a moment, leaving with him the fresh odor of her hair.

The taste of the cigarette was mild. Rather surprisingly, it substituted for nicotine and allayed the sharp longing that had come with the coffee.

“Let’s look at your ankle,” she said. She knelt at his feet and began to unlace the right shoe. “My, it’s swollen,” she said sympathetically.

He winced as she touched it and then he reddened with embarrassment. He had been walking across dusty country. He drew back the foot and bent to restrain her.

Playfully she slapped his hand away. “You sit back! I’ll get it. I’ve seen dirty feet before.”

She pulled off the shoe and peeled off the sock. “Oh, God, it is swollen,” she said. “You think it’s broken, Shamar?”

“Just sprained.”

“I’ll get some hot water with some MedAid in it, and that’ll take the swelling out.”

When he had his foot in the water, she sat across from him and arranged her dressing gown with a coquettish gesture. She caught him staring at the earring, and one hand went to it caressingly. She smiled that universal feminine smile of security and recklessness, of invitation and rejection.

“You’re engaged,” he noted.

She opened her eyes wide and studied him above a thumbnail which she tasted with her teeth. “I’m engaged to Von Stutsman--” as the name might be translated--”perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s important in the Party. You know him?”

“No.”

“You in the Party?” she said. She was teasing him now. Then, suddenly: “Neither am I, but I guess I’ll have to join if I become Mrs. Von Stutsman.”

They were silent for a moment.

Then she spoke, and he was frozen in terror, all thoughts but of self-preservation washed from his mind.

“Your accent is unbelieveably bad,” she said.

“I’m from Zuleb,” he said lamely, at last.

“Meta--Gelwhops--or even Karkeqwol, that makes no difference. Nobody on Itra speaks like you do. So you must be from that planet that had the Party in a flap several years ago--Earth, isn’t it?”

He said nothing.

“Do you know what they’ll do when they catch you?” she asked.

“No,” he said hollowly.

“They’ll behead you.”

She laughed, not unkindly. “If you could see yourself! How ridiculous you look, Shamar. I wonder what your real name is, by the way? Sitting with a foot in the water and looking wildly about. Here, let me fix more coffee and we can talk.”

She called cheerily over her shoulder, “You’re safe here. No one will be by. I’m not due back until Tuesday.”

She brought him a steaming mug. “Drink this while I dress.” She disappeared into the bedroom. He heard the shower running.

He sat waiting, numb and desperate, and drank the coffee because it was there. His thoughts scampered in the cage of his skull like mice on a treadmill.

When Ge-Ge came back, he had still not resolved the conflict within him. She stood barefoot upon the rug and looked down at him, hunched miserably over the pan of water, now lukewarm.

“How’s the foot?”

“All right.”

“Want to take it out?”

“I guess.”

“I’ll get a towel.”

She waited until he had dried the foot and restored the sock and shoe. The swelling was gone. He stood up and put his weight on it. He smiled wanly. “It’s okay now. It’s not broken, I guess.”

She gestured him to the sofa. He complied.

“What’s in the field pack?” she asked. “Money? How much?” She moved toward it. He half rose to stop her, but by then she had it partly open. “My,” she said, bringing out a thick sheaf of bills. She rippled them sensuously. “Pretty. Very, very pretty.” She examined them for texture and appearance. “They look good, Shamar. I’ll bet it would cost ten million dollars in research on paper and ink and presses to do this kind of a job. Only another government has got that kind of money to throw around.” She tossed the currency carelessly beside him and came to sit at his side.