pink stucco home of the bird-limed saints, a weird dichotomy, this juxtaposition of faded paganism and stiff Catholicism. A whisper of cool breeze off the bay would set the paper lanterns bobbing. And I would be here again with evening. Watching the crowd and drinking bad Chianti with my cheap meal, watching the young lovers, two by two, leaning across the small tables toward each other, hands plaited together on white cloth, the candles between them guttering behind glass, dividing them each from the other and bathing their faces, their young eager faces, in a soft, restless, romantic glow…and I would think of Yakla with silver beads woven through the silk of her hair, the first time I saw her in the back alleys of Syrtis, her eyes like wet black jewels, the pure oval of her dusky face bathed in the intermittent glare of the landing jets of a satellite shuttle from Deimos Station… Yakla, Yakla! Kitten soft and tigress fierce, warm in the shadow of my arms, weaving her long hair up after love, her voice like liquid silver as she sang an old Drylands love ode… Yakla, who died horribly under the beta guns that night they broke our charge by the walls of ancient Niophar… Heaven and earth, must I remember?
“Citizen, pardon me. Aren’t you Ivo Tengren?”
Almost I had managed to forget them, when the low voice spoke from behind my chair. I turned not too swiftly and saw that there were three of them now: the saintly old gentleman with the weathered face and beautiful silverly hair; the big burly Slavic tough who had (I now noticed) a greasy skin and coarse pores; and a girl, stiff and starched and blond as summer wheat. She had a curious air about her, a way of looking obliquely at things, as if she highly disapproved of everything. I disliked her on sight, almost as much as I distrusted the big man with the sweat stains under his arms.
“I am.” I kept my voice cold and neutral and my face without expression. “It has been quite a while, gentlemen, since we had one of these little visits. You will be wanting to see my visa. It is in my flat; but it has not yet expired, as you can find out from the—”
“Ah… I think that you have us confused with someone else… I’m quite sure we have never met.” It was the old man who spoke. His voice was cultured, almost courtly.
I said nothing, did nothing, merely sat relaxed and watched him: waiting. He flushed, and then his face brightened.
“Oh, I think I understand… You are mistaken, Cn. Tengren, we are not from the political force. You must forgive me if I gave any such impression.”
“Then what do you want with me?” I asked. “If you are news people, I’m certain I must long since have ceased being copy.”
“Here, let me—” the big man said but his older comrade laid a frail gnarled hand on his arm and said, “I will do the talking, Bolgov.” The other subsided, and the quiet-voiced old man made a little half-bow to me and broke into the most charming smile.
“No, not news men either, Citizen! Merely, ah, private travelers like yourself. Permit me to make introductions. I am Dr. Josip Keresny, formerly of the Luna City Museum. My pilot and associate, Cn. Konstantin Bolgov. And my granddaughter Ilsa… I wonder if we might join your table for a few moments, to discuss a business arrangement which would be mutually advantageous?”
I didn’t feel in the mood for company, and besides, that chill little wind of apprehension was still whispering up my spine. But before I could think of anything to say, they took my silence for consent and sat down. We looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment, all except for the old man’s granddaughter, who was still ignoring the whole matter in her cool, irritating way. More or less for want of anything else to say, I remarked, “Josip Keresny. Keresny. Polish?” He shook his head with another of those utterly charming smiles.
“No, Citizen. Yugoslav, although I was raised in London. My father was a minister in the Exile Regime after the Second Counterrevolution of ’74.”
“My mother was a Yugoslav,” I remarked idly. “From somewhere around Zagorje, I think, although I haven’t the faintest idea where Zagorje is.”
“Zagorje! Why, my people—”
“Can’t we get on with it, Josip?” the big man growled. What was his name again?
“Kostantin Bolgov, was it?” I mused. “That sounds Russian…” I didn’t give a damn where they were from: why was I drawing this out—who was I trying to needle?
The Doctor, like most old people, was animated on the subject of family backgrounds. “Close, close, Cn. Tengren! But not quite, no, Konstantin here, his people are from the Ukraine, but he was raised in Paris, I believe; his family were ousted during the Time of Troubles too.… And you, I believe, are a West German?”
I nodded. “True. And raised in exile as well. We’re quite a little group of second-generation refugees, aren’t we?” I said sardonically. “A pocket version of the Associated Nations, in fact. We should get together and issue a White Paper or something.”
My feeble attempt at humor sounded pretty lame even to my own ears, but the Doctor laughed as heartily as if I were a famed stereo comic or someone of comparable glittering wit. Bolgov growled something under his breath (which was redolent of garlic, I could not help noticing) and cracked his knuckles with a sickening sound. The Doctor, now that we were on jovial grounds with the social amenities out of the way, tried to flag down a waiter without success. But Ilsa was getting restive.
“Please, Grandfather, Konstantin’s right. Get on with it,” she said in a pained voice that had the high-bred tones one acquires only in one of those expensive Swiss finishing schools for young gentlewomen.
So we got down to business.
“As I told you, Cn. Tengren, I was formerly associated with the Luna City Museum,” the old man said.
“That’s right, so you did, but you forgot to mention in what capacity.”
“Extraterrestrial archeology is my field,” he said.
“Which means Mars, I assume, unless the Lunarian Arachnidae have a culture somewhat higher than the science newscasts credit them with.” He nodded, smiling at my words. With a smile as gracious and warm as his, he was wasting himself in XT archeology; he belonged in the diplomatic corps.
“You’re right, of course, High Martian is my area. I am more of a research man than a field archeologist, I am afraid, although I have made two extended visits to the planet. The most recent was during your…ah…” I was wrong, he would be disastrous in diplomacy. I couldn’t help smiling as he fumbled for an inoffensive term; I finally supplied him with a rude one.
“During my war of revolution?” I offered sardonically. He flushed unhappily and then nodded, white locks wobbling seraphically.
“Ah, ah, yes, I suppose one could call it that,” he said in a flustered tone. “Well, at any rate, during my dig near the Thoth-Nepenthes canal complex to the south of Isidis Regio, I was fortunate enough to come upon a veritable treasure trove of Late Dynastic artifacts, including some subelectronic specimens of Early technology—”
I lifted my brows questioningly. “Near Thoth-Nepenthes? Hard to believe. The Nine Nations never got north of the Mare Tyrrhenum until way after the Late Period, according to their own sagas—”
He shook his head helplessly. “I know! That’s what makes it so incredible; but there is not the slightest doubt as to the era. Wait, wait, you have yet to hear the truly important news—” Dr. Keresny’s voice dropped to low, solemn tones, which trembled with excitement.
“The
