until his hand, with one finger extended, had subtended a full quadrant of the sky.
“This foddle is normally resident in the special sanctuary allocated to its kind on the nearby moon, which you see up there. Oh, it must have gone down. Now, in order for the creatures to maintain their health and keep in good general overall nick, they are obliged to return at intervals to the bracing rigors of a gravitational field approximately equal in strength to the one in which their species evolved. It’s a sort of holiday for them.”
“That’s as may be, mate, but what’s this one doing in my park?”
Ben regarded the strangled outburst with astonishment. “But this is a travelling stock reserve.”
“Don’t try to put one over on me, mate, this is a municipal park and I’ve been working for the council for eighty-seven years this July.”
“Then I take it you’ll be acquainted with the Lands Appropriation and Uses Act of 2853 (amended 3102)?”
“Eh?” The man drew back a step, suddenly wary.
“The provisions of the Act make it mandatory and binding on all councils to provide a stopping place for livestock of not less than two hectares and such stock as are watered there are to be adequately protected at the council’s expense. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.”
“What are ya, a high court judge or something?”
“I have a working knowledge of the law and I cannot too strongly advise you not to molest my animal. This planet was built on foddle dung, you know.”
The keeper muttered off, a temporary respite at least.
Ben’s good humor collapsed. Rotten, rotten whore.
§
The ferry slid on its modest laminar lift-field over the darkening water, the vast squat tower of the Teleport Authority swinging astern behind the rail’s scrollwork, blotting out a distant section of twinkling affluence in Rose Red, the margins of dormitory bureaucracy.
After the long day’s humid swelter, the harbor was finally cooling. Waves slipped dark and oily under the ferry’s bows. The clang and rush of an autonomic cleaner emptying its foaming tank from the stern of a loading surface freighter came sullenly through the soupy air.
Theri leaned her head against Kael’s neck and smelt the sand and salt in his hair, her shoulders burning slightly under the weight of his arm.
Turning, hoisting herself up on the rail, she let her head fall back until she was peering into the gray whistling vault of the sky. It was thick with skites, neatly tracking their beams, lofty empyrean godlings with no part or interest in the nautical sphere which she and Kael skimmed.
“Do you suppose Anla will be back yet?”
“Tomorrow’s more likely.”
“What are we going to do with the foddle?”
“Take it back to the moon, I suppose.”
If we can’t even murder a foddle, Theri thought, what chance do we have against an Empire? But surely that was to look at the matter from the wrong end. Or was it? It was easy enough to predict sweet-and-gentle Kael’s view of the matter, but she would rather hear Anla’s.
The ferry docked tidily above the softly slapping wavelets at the foot of El Cheapo Street. They jumped ashore before the gap between vessel and wharf had quite closed. The utterly minimal potential for self-destruction in this act did not prevent phobic groans and tuts from several of their presumably much older fellow passengers.
As the ferry pulled away once more, three leatherlace vested goons at the distant top of the hill activated anti-friction shields and hurled themselves head first and belly down in its direction, providing more ghastly thrills for the cautious centenarians on board.
One of these louts slammed past centimeters from Kael’s leg, hooting the while. There was some satisfaction in seeing him overshoot at the wharf, zip briefly across the filthy water, and sink like a stone.
White petals of some nameless fragrant tree hung over the rented terrace’s fence. A skite of similar hue crunched down angrily opposite the tree.
“The sculptormobile?”
“Probably. Uh-huh.”
Anla tripped lightly across the pavement and entered the house ahead of them. The skite rose jerkily, going whence it had come.
At the foot of the hill, the body-skier’s helplessly guffawing companions were guiding out a buoy.
§
Anla, Ben and Catsize formed an engaging tableau in the kitchen. Ben glanced up from his diligent library-vidding to note the arrival of Kael and Theri, grunted a form of greeting, returned to his studies. This was clearly a more expansive welcome than his wife had been privileged to receive.
Anla threw herself into a chair with resigned aplomb. “Hello, you two.”
“Hello, Anla petal, come back to us have you?” Kael, trying his hand at banter. “Thought you’d run away, did you? Our little holiday home wasn’t good enough for you, is that it? And after all we’ve done for you, Working and slaving to give you some of the things we could never afford ourselves. That’s your way of showing gratitude, is it? But you come back smart enough when you want a good feed, don’t you?”
Anla smiled blandly, while Ben concentrated on his library display with the intensity of a recluse; the atmosphere clung denser than ever. Blithely unaffected by her spouse’s rejection, the unease of her friends, Anla continued her placid chair-sitting.
Catsize filled a vessel with milk, placed it squarely in the center of the kitchen floor, opened the back door. The foddle uttered a glad ejaculation and fell on the liquid, lapping like a dog.
“What the hell’s that?’
“Allow me to introduce Mr. William Wool, our dinner.”
“Charioteers, you go away for a day and they turn the place into a zoo.”
Catsize caught Theri’s eye, gave Kael the nod. The three enskited, off for a buzz or two in a public house, to find a party, to stay clear of the house for some time.
§
Anla put her feet on the table and considered her Ben. Were she to go to bed first he would sleep in his chair, but if he preceded her it would be beneath his dignity to allow anything so insignificant as his spouse to cause him to move.
She watched his somber bearded face as he bent over the tiny dancing sigils. He seemed set for the night. She listened to the steady hum of the old clock. The tired hoot of some night-embarking craft rose from the harbor.
Anla stood up and silently made a pot of tea, placing a mug at Ben’s elbow, and returned to her chair. Ben let the tea cool, abandoned the library at length and walked to the cold-field. He poured himself a tot of chilled milk, picked up a hardcopy of some Sinese poems Catsize had left lying around, sat down at the kitchen bench.
Anla started to doze. She tried to keep herself awake by
