Settled

20

Settled

    Three months had passed since they’d got back from the two galaxies. Over on the eastern boundary Ccrainchzzyllia’s and Dohra’s house was nearly finished—Jhl having summarily ordered the estate workers to use all the blobs available, since there was no point in saving them. The family had already moved in. Shank’yar hadn’t raised any objections, although recognizing they probably wouldn’t be very comfortable, with the builders finishing the place off: he could see that they all needed to be in their own place. It was now full summer, the hottest part of the year, and as usual a gloriously fine morning. Like most of the settlers the Vt R’aam household had got into the habit of getting up very early in summer, doing as many tasks as possible, and then having a long break in the middle of the day, finishing the day’s work in the late afternoon and early evening, and dining very late. This morning, therefore, after a very light breakfast of fruit and k’fi, Leader Vt R’aam sat down to his correspondence as usual.

    Text-blobs from R’jt and Wm, would they never learn? He blinked at R’jt’s. “Dear Feather, Is there any mews a boat replacements for the blibs yet? We're having grtttt dbbbbclltttyy finding replllllxxxxsss for vvvvbbbbjjkkk....”

    “Intergalactic IDIOT!” shouted R’jt’s father, hurling the thing across the room.

    He turned to Wm’s text-blob. It didn’t say anything at all.

    Grimly he looked at the rest, which were at least on paper. An agriculture report from the tropical zone. It should go to Athlor: he set it aside. A detailed report about the contents of the treasury from the Finance Minister. Not entirely relevant at this point in history—no. “Blob-head,” said Shank’yar grimly under his breath. A detailed complaint from his daughter H’lln about Federation-knew-what in her electorate. Some personal rights issue, with a petition attached with fifty or so signatures. “Sort—it—out!” said her father tightly. He picked up his pen and dashed off a very stiff note to that effect. The next was a detailed—very detailed—report from Alternative Energy Development (New Whtyll) Limited. Fortunately it had an Executive Summary attached. All in gobbledegook, the being who’d written it was clearly ex-IG CivS, but it amounted to no news. He threw it at the empty fireplace.

    Jhl came in around morning teatime to find him scowling into space. “Anything up?” she said mildly.

    “Nothing more than usual. I am surrounded,” said Shank’yar evilly, “by intergalactic blob-heads!”

    “I heard there were a couple of text-blobs from R’jt and Wm, yes.” She picked up the remaining report on his tray. “Mok shit,” she decided, chucking it at the fireplace.

    “What was it about?” he asked weakly.

    “Does it matter? It was from G’gg’s local mayor, if you must know, complaining about him wasting trees building that boat-thing of his. –They are his trees,” she added calmly.

    One of G’gg Smt Wong’s current projects was the construction of a large boat, on the lines of his little sailing yacht only larger, which would enable beings, particularly large beings such as xathpyroids, to travel between the two continents. Because, as his local council presumably hadn’t noticed, they had no way of getting to the southern continent without blobs!

    “Don’t get excited!” she said quickly as the predicted smoke began to come out of her bond-partner’s ears. Well, not literally, but she could almost feel it. “I’ll write him a plasmo-blast.” She picked up a pen and scrawled a few lines. “Where’s that stamping thingo Vt R’aam Nineteen made for you?”

    “The official seal,” said Shank’yar somewhat feebly, producing it from his desk drawer.

    Jhl plonked it into his dish of kinkerberry ink and splattered it down onto her sheet of paper. “Right!” Vt R’aam Forty-Nine!

    The butler shot in and she handed him the note—not bothering to fold it up: Shank’yar winced but didn’t say anything—and ordered him to send it off, ASAP. If Vt R’aam Sixty-One had managed to ride that rhoofer he reckoned he could tame, he could take it. Vt R’aam Forty-Nine assured her that the assistant gardener had managed it, the rhoofer was in his shed right now and he’d send him right away, madam!

    Shank’yar waited until the man had exited; then he said: “Shed?”

    “His potting-shed, Shan. He had lot of blobs in it, restrainos and seeding-blobs and stuff, but Vt R’aam Twenty-Four told him to get rid of them, so he knocked the shelves down and there was room for his rhoofer, you see. He’s called it Brownie—it is sort of brown.”

    “I was under the impression that we had a large stable block standing empty,” he noted.

    Jhl glared. “I’ve turned it into something useful.”

    “Not another grqwary-egg shed?” he groaned.

    “NO!” shouted the Bluellian angrily.

    “Er—office space for more transcribers? Darling, I agree the work needs to be done, but the estate won’t manage to provide lunch for more, not on a regular basis.”

    “I know. Um, ’tis offices,” she muttered. “Not all that many beings.”

    He got up, suppressing a sigh. “You’d better show me. I promise I won’t blow up.”

    “It’s not all offices, exactly,” said Jhl on a hopeful note as they neared the handsome single-storeyed stone structure.

    “Mm,” he replied mildly, registering that the Whtyllian stable half-doors had either been replaced by ordinary doors or had their top halves turned into windows. His bond-partner led him in by what used to be the main door, opposite the tack room. The tack room’s door and front wall had been removed, it had been thrown into one with the neighbouring loosebox, and the enlarged space was full of... He stared.

    “They call them tri-pedallers,” said in his bond-partner in a remarkably small voice. “Um, well, the being who invented them—well, developed them, I suppose, strictly speaking, they use them for recreation on her world—um, she called them tri-velocipedes, but Vt R’aam Thirty-Two said it was a bit unwieldy. You sit on that seat, and, um, pedal the thing with your—”

    “Hind appendages, one presumes,” he said faintly.

    “Mm.”

    Shank’yar broke down in a horrible fit of the sniggers.

    “Ssh!” she hissed. ‘They’ll hear you!”

    He mopped his eyes. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry! So that’s what it is, eh? A place for developing these,”—he gulped, but managed to get it out—“tri-pedallers.”

    “No, this is just the workers’, like, vehicle paddock. They were afraid they might rust if they left them outside. Not in summer, but when it rains. It’s some of the new metal.”

    “Oh, our own steel?” he said with interest.

    “Not yet, no,” said Jhl in an agonised voice. “Iron. All those settlers from nuThoomyyPonderavvi have been contributing marvellously, with their knowledge of smelting techniques, even though most of them never worked in the foundries or even the mines before, it would’ve been their parents or grandparents, but, um, steel’s a lot harder to make, Shan. At least, good steel, that won’t break under pressure.”

    The picture in her mind was extremely clear, she had most certainly grasped the concepts of stresses and strains, but as usual she had no vocabulary with which to express them. He patted her shoulder lightly. “I see, sweetheart.”

    “What was that patronising pat for, your Leadership?” replied Jhl suspiciously.

    “Not meant to be, Jhl, darling! Only because I love you the way you are! And admire you—most of us mere humanoids need words with which to interpret concepts.”

    “Are you comparing me to Dohra?” she croaked incredulously.

    “Only a very little bit. BrTl’s picked it up, too—from the very first, I think. That’s why he’s always liked her,” he finished with a little smile.

    “I’m speechless,” she confessed.

    “Good! I’ll just read you! ...Oh, Federation,” he concluded, swallowing. “They haven’t made much progress with the steel, have they?”

    “No. Never mind, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two says that for everyday purposes iron’ll do. Well, cartwheels, that sort of thing, Shan. Um—agricultural implements: Athlor says that his researchers have discovered that lots of primmo worlds use iron agricultural implements—have done for IG millennia.”

    “Our people will be reduced to the status of peasants,” said the Whtyllian numbly.

    “Eh? Oh that Whtyllian word again. If you mean farm workers, yeah. So what?” said the Bluellian farmer’s daughter sturdily. “It’s better than starving!”

    He put his arm round her. “Mm. Literacy will be more important than ever, darling.”

    “There’s no need to humour me,” said Jhl with a sigh. “Not that you’re not right. I’ll speak to Meeran about it: the schools are on holiday, of course, but her lot at the Education Department can pull their fingers out and concentrate on producing stuff for the kids to write on and developing classes that won’t need blobs. Um, the Encyclopaedia had an awful lot of pictures: we haven’t managed to crack that one, yet,” she added uneasily.

    “Darling, you need artists!”

    “Eh?”

    “Artists,” he repeated, sending her a mind-picture.

    “You mean all that space junk in the Intergalactic Art Museum was done by the appendages of actual beings?” she gasped. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

    “Er—not all, but most—yes. I suppose it was a such a given, to me, that it never occurred—no, very well, darling, it was remiss of me.”

    “Well, um, tramp round the city asking beings if they can do art stuff?” she groped.

    “I’d start with the design studios,” he said mildly.

    “Eh?”

    Shank’yar took a very deep breath. “Jhl, what was Su wearing this morning?”

    “Uh—well, it was hideous but all the kids seem to be wearing that sort of stuff. I think she got it at one of the plasmo-blasted recycling boutiques the kids go to, Shan.”

    “Mm. What was the pattern on it, darling?”

    “The pattern? Uh—looked like spiny ban-ban-ban flowers to me,” she said cautiously.

    “Yes. And?”

    Jhl squirmed. “Those little pale green flowers? Best guess, kinkerberry flowers—but they don’t flower at the same time, do they? Well, I'm probably wrong.”

    “No, you’re right, they were kinkerberry flowers. –Think about it!” he urged.

    After quite some time his bond-partner produced: “We could grow them over on the western pastures, I suppose, but I thought you and Vt R’aam Thirty-Two had decided we need that area for the grpplybeasts?”

    “Yes. Not that. Where did the design come from?” he said heavily.

    “As opposed to the actual garment? Well, dunno.”

    “Jhl, an artist designed it!” he cried.

    “That right? The being must be colour-blind,” she muttered. “Still, it takes all sorts—”

    “Just think, you intergalactic idiot!” he cried. “How many artists in the two galaxies would incorporate kinkerberry flowers into a design?”

    Since his mind was prompting her, loud and clear, NONE, Jhl said kindly: “None?”

    “You’re not THINKING!” he bellowed.

    Suddenly a being popped out from the adjoining passage. “Everything all right? Galloping herds of— Sorry, sir!” it gasped, disappearing.

    “I sincerely hope she didn't pick up that guilt from you,” said Shank’yar grimly.

    “Nuh—uh, I don’t think so. Well, a bit. Look, I can’t tell what you’re getting at.”

    “No. I didn’t mean to shout, darling. I know you don’t understand anything even vaguely related to art. –Thank the Federation I wasn’t born on Bluellia,” he muttered. “Only a local artist would use our local flora in a design, Jhl.”

    “Oh, right! You mean we’ve got some!” she said happily. “Should’ve just said so, no need to go on about flowers! –The ban-ban-bans are ripe, by the way.”

    “Oh, good,” he said mildly. “Where is Su today?”

    “Um, well, just along here, actually.”

    “Good. She may not know who designed the pattern, but it’s a place to start.” He took her arm and led her down the passage.

    The looseboxes had been turned into offices, some of them the original size and some thrown together. Shank’yar didn’t remark on the transparent polretrolux walls and doors lining the narrow corridor, even though the planet was fast running out of the stuff and the Chemo Team had as yet had no luck in figuring out how to produce it without blobs. The beings in the offices looked up as they passed, smiled as they saw Jhl and then, to a being, emanated shock and consternation on realising who it was on her farther side. Shank’yar just smiled and nodded nicely.

    His daughter was in a small office with two other beings, near the far end. She emanated the same emotions.

    “Stand up, please, Su,” sad her father without emphasis.

    Su glared but got up, and the two other beings shot to their feet.

    “No, no, please sit,” he said nicely, smiling at them. “I merely want to look at the floral design on Su’s garment.”

    They sank onto their chairs emanating bewilderment and relief, as Su croaked: “Why?”

    “Do you know who designed that pattern, Su-Su?”

    Su goggled at hum. “Uh—yeah. Sallu from Sallu Designs. –She’s all right!” she added quickly.

    “I’m sure she is—in fact she’s a very talented being,” he murmured.

    Su just goggled, as her mother croaked: “I thought you thought it was hideous?”

    “It’s not to my taste, no—too bright, with the pink-to-orange shades of the spiny ban-ban-ban flowers against that very bright turquoise—but as a design it’s excellent. Look at the way the flowers interact and the way the pattern repeats across the fabric!” he urged.

    Jhl looked, but remained blank, and Su peered down at herself, but was also blank.

    “No, very well,” he sighed. “Do you know where this Sallu Designs firm is, Su-Su?”

    Su stood on one leg. “Um, sure; um, ’tisn’t very big,” she muttered.

    “Yes?”

    “Um, well, I’m not sure of the name of the street, um, but I know where it is!”

    “Good, you can take us there. Your mother’s just about to explain what all you beings are doing,” he said blandly.

    Su gulped and looked plaintively at her mother.

    “Su and her friends, here, are just transcribing,” said Jhl. “And copying.”

    All three young beings looked at him plaintively. The others were as luridly dressed as his daughter, though one was a Nblyterian—no, part Nblyterian, he realised: she was female, not female-tended; and the boy was, talking of nuThoomyyPonderavvi, half Human var. Rhumman, half Whtyllian.

    “Jolly good. Please, carry on, Blndry—Ponicho K’mr,” he said smiling nicely, and concealing a wince: Blndry was not a Nblyterian name, though blndreL certainly was, and K’mr was a very old and respected Whtyllian family name, in fact he’d known Lord Chr’kndry K’mr very well, back in the two galaxies.

    “Dad, no-one calls him Ponicho here!” objected Su. “His name’s Rollo!”

    “No, that’s quite all right, sir!” he gasped, in agony. “It is the Rhumman term of address!”

    “Of course. –It won’t do to forget one's heritage, Su,” said Shank’yar mildly. “Come along, Jhl, show me the rest, and then we’ll pop back and collect Su. –Yes, lunch in town as well, Su-Su,” he added, since he was broadcasting a loud hope to that effect.

    Su reddened and sank back onto her chair as her parents went out.

    After quite some time Rollo K’mr offered: “At least it should be a slap-up lunch!”

    “You have it, then,” replied Leader Vt R’aam’s daughter sourly.

    A period of brooding silence passed. Then Blndry ventured: “Well, at least they don’t smother you, like Dadda tries to! I mean, they don’t mind if you work, and they don’t try to make your lunch every day, and bawl if you’re late home, eh?”

    Su smiled weakly. “No, that’s true. Oh, well, I s’pose all families have their good and bad points, eh? Come on, better get back to it!”

    And the pink-crested head, the dark green-brown shaven head, and the curly blonde head bent over their desks again.

    It all became strangely clear as they reached the last offices. The last loosebox had been thrown into one with the end of the passage, and on the polretrolux door facing them was emblazoned: “Deputy-Leader Vt R’aam Thirty-Two.”

    “So?” said Jhl defiantly. “The being was doing the job!”

    “Mm. What was it, a unanimous parliamentary decree?”

    “And?”

    He sighed a little. “Nothing, darling. At least you got them to agree on something. Well, perhaps we shouldn’t disturb him. –Is that S’zzie with him?” he realized, smiling. “That’s good, making use of her brains, mm?”

    “Yes,” said Jhl limply. “Of course we can disturb them, they’d be upset if we didn’t.”

    “Very well, darling.” He tapped on the door, smiling, and the two beings jumped sharply. Vt R’aam Thirty-Two then shot to his feet and bowed them in. S’zzie also shot to her feet, emanating a strong need to salute.

    “So here you both are!” said Shank’yar genially. “Don’t mean to disturb you, my dear boy, just popped in to say hullo. And I thought we might take Su-Su off to lunch—had an idea about utilising the design studio beings she knows, you see. Use their artistic talents. Initially to make schoolbooks for the children, I think.”

    “Yuh— Yes!” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two with a startled blink. “That’s a wonderful idea, sir! Federation, there are so many things we could use them for—!”

    “Mm. Oh, been using engineers, have you? Yes, well, all very well for specifications, that sort of thing—yes, the tri-pedallers as well, eh? Jolly good! But we don’t need beings with technical skills for a lot of stuff, y’know!”

    “No, of course. There are all the medical texts as well,” he said dazedly.

    “That’s okay,” said Jhl quickly: “I’ll speak to M.O. Hallbokken.” –Stop it, Shan, you've known he’s a Dalgiddian for a megazillion light-years!

    Dalgiddium was a closed world, though, true, its inhabitants were humanoid. As was the case with many closed worlds they were not known for their initiative.

    “My Lord, if I may say so,” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two respectfully, “Chief Medical Officer Hallbokken must have considerable initiative to have left his home planet. I think he’d take this plan on board very happily: it’ll free up his staff for more practical duties.”

    “Of course, my boy, quite right! Now, okay if I kidnap Su-Su?”

    “Yes, certainly!” he smiled.

    “What in the Asteroids of Hhum is she copying for you?” asked his Lordship.

    He could have looked—they were all aware of that. Vt R’aam Thirty-Two refrained from smiling. “Outgoing correspondence, my Lord, so as we can have a record of what we’ve said.”

    “By the three-tongued blurryankers of Trypthfymia! Plasmo-blasted good idea! Well done, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two: doing a very good job! Er—these tri-pedallers.”

    “Yes, sir?” said the ex-clone on a nervous note.

    His Lordship cleared his throat. “Rather fancy the idea. Don’t suppose we could buy a few for the estate, eh? No, well, of course your workers must come first!” he added quickly.

    “We are gradually issuing them to all CivS personnel who need to travel any distance to work, sir. We thought the outlying estates should be next—well, after the newspaper carriers. You won’t need to pay, it seems pointless at the moment. All the outlying estates and cottages will be issued with them.”

    “Excellent!” he beamed. “We’ll look forward to it! Carry on, my dears!” And with a gracious smile, he whisked Jhl away.

    In his wake Vt R’aam Thirty-Two and S’zzie looked at each other and frankly sagged.

    “This is it,” said Su in a small voice, a strenuous half-hour later—her father had insisted on borrowing some tri-pedallers. The office workers naturally hadn’t dared to refuse him.

    The little side street was dusty and almost deserted, apart from a flower-seller’s cart, the colourful blooms already wilting in the heat. Shank’yar had embarrassed his daughter hideously by buying not only neat circlets of flowers for her and her mother, which he’d personally fastened round their necks, smiling, but also three large multicoloured garlands for himself. As he was aware that almost anything he did would embarrass her, he hadn’t let it worry him. The garlands now dangled on his chest, looking, in his daughter’s opinion, plasmo-blasted silly below the thin circlet of gold centred with a large Willunian sapphire with which his Lordship had seen fit to ornament his throat this morning. The effect was all the more ludicrous in that he was wearing a gauzy narrow Whtyllian blouse and the usual lightweight baggy Whtyllian pants, both originally white but now pale pink. A somewhat splotchy pink: something had gone drastically wrong with the household wash and not only several outfits of his but half the servants’ garments were now splotchy pink. The up-market jewellery also looked plasmo-blasted stupid with the wh’h flax hat: not made of thread woven from the flax, no. Fresh flax leaves. Normally such artefacts were worn only by the most elderly of the estate workers, who made them themselves.

    I am elderly, he sent mildly. Su gave him a glare. “Well, shall we go in?” he murmured. “Su-Su, darling, they’ll be embarrassed whether I ‘come the gracious World Leader’, as you so infelicitously put it, or not.”

    “Yes. Better than looking down his Whtyllian nose at them,” said Jhl. “Lead the way, Su!”

    The shrinking Su led the way.

    Sallu Designs was on the second floor. Its door was opened to Su’s knock by a small, freckled boy, aged perhaps ten in Whtyllian years. Shank’yar looked at him with interest: freckles were unusual here, with most of the humanoid population having Whtyllian blood. Oh, part New Rthfrdian, eh? That would explain it.

    “Hullo, Frttzi,” said Su glumly, as both her parents gave her mind-prods. “Is Sallu in?”

    “Yes, but she’s in a mood, ’cos she reckons she’s useless!” he chirped.

    “She’s certainly not that,” said Shank’yar kindly.

    “Yeah, I told her that, only she keeps bawling.”

    “Dad—” began Su uncomfortably.

    “No, my darling, this will cheer her up.”

    “Don’t think nuffink can, but you can come in,” said the little boy.

    This time Jhl gave her daughter a physical prod in the small of the back, and they went in.

    Sallu was a tall, thin young woman with the amber eyes and fair hair that were typically New Rthfrdian. The hair was in a long plait, rather like those worn by upper-class male-tended Friyrians, or Shank’yar’s youngest son: Jhl bit her lip. The clothes weren’t calculated to endear her to his Leadershipness, either, she noted with a certain wry enjoyment, as Sallu turned from the window she’d been staring out of and said dully: “Oh—hi, Su.” Her skirt was the narrow wrap-around strip of cloth that the so-called “peasants” from the warmer parts of Whtyll wore, according to Shan’s mind-pictures of same. Above it she was wearing what could only be called a tit-snuggler! Two half-globes of cloth, linked by a narrow string, which she’d tied at her back. The skirt was in bright shades of coral-pink, blue and yellow. The tit-snuggler was scarlet. Even Jhl could see that that clashed. Sallu’s neck was ornamented with a circlet of mauve flowers—wrong again, certainly according to that wince of Shank’yar’s. A long earring of multicoloured beads dangled from a hole in her right earlobe. Jhl was now almost used to the sight of this primmo mutilation favoured by Su’s contemporaries: she managed not to swallow.

    “Hi, Sallu,” said Su in an agonised voice.

    Then silence fell.

    “It’s not a job, I s’pose?” said Sallu at last, sounding very glum.

    “Um—sort of, I think! They want to talk to you!” she gasped in an agonised voice.

    Sallu brightened. “Oh—right! Come and sit down. –Hang on, only got the one visitor’s chair. Here, take this,” she decided, pulling her own chair out from behind the large work table which occupied a goodly portion of the small room, and thrusting it at Shank’yar. “Hey, Frttzi, grab the kitchen chair for Su, eh?” she added, and the little boy shot out to the adjoining room.

    At this point it dawned on Jhl that the being hadn't recognised his Leadershipness! She felt, to use an old Bluellian saying, as if all her Galaxy Days had come at once!

    Sallu perched on a corner of her table. “Um, I gotta tell you, if it’s a commercial job, most of the printing firms have shut down, and the fabric printers: they all reckon they can’t figure out a way to copy the designs without blobs. –I told plasmo-blasted New World Fabrics I could jack up a team to do it by hand, but they reckoned they couldn’t pay us!” she noted in a sour aside.

    “Very short-sighted of them,” said Shank’yar smoothly as the little boy came back with a chair for Su but said aggrievedly: “Where can I sit, Mum?”

    “Ya got three choices. One, stand there till ya legs wear out. Two, sit on the table. Three, sit on the floor. Or fourthly you could just shove off. –Go in the kitchen,” she ended tiredly.

    “There’s nothing to EAT!” he shouted angrily.

    She sighed. “Shut up, Frttzi. It’s not lunchtime yet, and there’s plenty of flat-breads.”

    He pouted, but sat down on the floor.

    “Sorry,” she said tiredly to the visitors. “It’s school holidays, ya see.”

    “You said we could go to the zoo!” Frttzi reminded her bitterly.

    “Frttzi, it’s a whole half super-ig for the two of us. And it’s mainly jooghers and rhoofers anyway, you’ve seen megazillions of those. Just shut up. –Sorry,” she growled.

    “Please don’t mention it, we quite understand,” said Shank’yar nicely. “It is a job, but not quite like your usual commissions. –Su-Su, I really think you’d better introduce us.”

    “Um, yeah. This is Mum and Dad,” she mumbled.

    Poor Sallu went bright red and just about fell off her table. “Sorry! I didn’t realise!” she gasped.

    “No reason you should,” said Jhl mildly. “Sit down again, Sallu. Shank’yar’s got an idea for using your artist skills. –Oy, you are intending to pay her, I hope?” she added in steely tones.

    “Of course, darling! Standard CivS rates.”

    “You mean I’d get as much as a civil servant?” gasped Sallu. “It’s not a volunteer job, like the transcribing?”

    “No, no: of course you’d be paid,” he said kindly.

    To the consternation of all present, Sallu burst into snorting sobs.

    “Don’t bawl, Mum!” cried her little boy anxiously. “It’s good, it’s a job!”

    Give her one of your pristine hand-ironed pieces of cloth, Shan! ordered Jhl fiercely.

    Shrugging very slightly, he produced a Whtyllian Lordship-style handkerchief from his pocket. Certainly it was mn-mn silk, but it was also splodgy pink.

    Sallu snuffled and blew for some time, but finally looked up and said shakily: “Thanks. Sorry. –Bad dye job, eh?” she added.

    “Mm? Oh, the pink!” said Shank’yar with a laugh. “No, a disaster with the wash, I’m afraid. The washer’s blob died.”

    “Yeah. We think that a contributing factor might’ve been a bright red garment of Su’s,” added Jhl drily.

    “Sounds likely!” the designer replied with a weak laugh. “Well, um, how can I help you?”

    Shank’yar explained briefly, adding with a little smile: “You can draw, I presume?”

    “Sounds like copying to me,” noted Su.

    “Shut up, Su.” He looked expectantly at Sallu.

    “Yes, of course,” the artist replied dazedly. “I could copy something for you now, if you like, sir. Or—or do an original drawing.”

    Apparently this would be lovely, and he asked her to do a bust of Jhl. Jhl looked down at herself dubiously. “Eh? But I’m not flat—I mean, not two-dimensional.”

    His shoulders shook, but the mobile mouth refused to laugh. “Hush. You’ll see.”

    Forthwith Sallu produced a quick sketch of Jhl’s head and shoulders.

    Shank’yar beamed. “Excellent, my dear! –Look, Jhl, she’s just caught your expression!”

    Jhl looked at it dubiously. “Flat,” she murmured.

    “I’m afraid she’s incapable of appreciating two-dimensional art,” he apologized for her. “Su’s just as bad.”

    “I am not! I love this dress fabric!” she cried indignantly.

    “Yes, of course you do. –May I keep this, Sallu?” The artist nodded numbly and he thanked her effusively and decided to have it framed and keep it on his desk. “Now, let me see,” he added. “Would this be fair?” He handed her two super-igs.

     Sallu turned positively purple. “It’s far too much, sir!”

    “Nonsense! ‘The artist is worthy of his remuneration’, as we say back on Whtyll!” he said gaily. “Now, you’ll be in touch about the details of the job, won’t you, Jhl?”

    “Yes, tomorrow—oh, no, it’s the weekend. Day 1 of next week,” she promised.

    “Yuh-yes; thank you, Captain!” gulped Sallu.

    Shank’yar then asked very nicely if Sallu might have a “portfolio” he could look at. From the mind-picture Jhl concluded it was some sort of book, but if he meant the being had stored her art in one of those instead of a blob, he was in for— Oops, no: Sallu was opening a cupboard and producing several. Jhl looked limply at Su. Su shrugged.

    “I see,” said Shank’yar with great interest. “You trial the designs on the actual fabric.”

    “Yes: it means I can test the dyes, you see.”

    Words like “colourways” and “line” and “block” and “mass”—nothing to do with physics as generally recognised in the Known Universe—then began to fly thick and fast. Jhl and Su just switched their minds off, Jhl for one trying to ignore her rumbling tum.

    They did finally get away, though first Shank’yar had to embarrass the poor young woman horribly by giving the little boy a half super-ig “to take your Mum to the zoo”, plus ten igs for himself, to spend there.

    “Now don’t pretend,” he said with a laugh as they emerged onto the dusty, sunny street, “that you weren't desperately trying to think of some way to do that without embarrassing the poor girl to death!”

    Jhl glared.

    “I s’pose beings expect to be embarrassed, acksherly,” Su admitted.

    “Quite!” he said with a laugh, resuming the green flax hat. “Now for a nice lunch!”

    “Shan, I’m awfully hungry, and so’s Su,” said Jhl uneasily.

    “Yeah, can we not pedal ten IG glps to all those fancy restaurants you’re broadcasting pictures of?” sighed Su. “Just for once?”

    “Very well, my darlings: somewhere local!” he said gaily. “Now, where— Ah! I know! Come along!”

    Resignedly they let him lead the way.

    “Here?” gulped Su, two streets away. Jhl just gulped.

    “Absolutely!” Courteously Shank’yar ushered them into Monti’s Monpettihor Eatery. The place was about a quarter the size of their family dining-room. Which didn’t altogether matter, it was three-quarters empty.

    A plump, elderly male humanoid in an apron ushered them to a window table with a view of the place’s dusty, deserted pavement tables under their shabby awning and the quiet, dusty street, empty in the midday heat. He could do them anything on the menu—proffering large sheets of creased, handwritten paper—though as sir said, it was their off-season, of course! At about this point Jhl and Su registered with thuds of relief that he hadn’t a clue who they were. They didn’t entirely stop cringing, however—though Su did visibly relax. His Lordship ordered for them all, but as it wasn’t worth arguing with him and they didn’t have a clue what the stuff on the menu was, they let him. With the mental proviso that it was all gonna be too down-market for his Lordship and he would doubtless soon be broadcasting as much.

    They were wrong, however. Jhl’s and Su’s first course was a sort of meat thing, a slice each. A bit like a sausage in texture. With some wholemeal bread. Jhl looked at the latter gratefully, though Su scowled. Their relative had something different—it looked revolting, but serve him right. They tried the meat thing unwillingly, Jhl broadcasting loud and clear: Couldn’t I just have a salad? And Su broadcasting: Ugh! Shank’yar watched sardonically as their eyes went very round and they swallowed convulsively.

    “Heck!” gasped Su. “It’s galaxious! It’s the best meat thing I ever, ever tasted, Dad!”

    He looked smug. Jhl then made the mistake of asking him what was in it and he replied that it was duck livers: yes, Whtyllian duck livers, since that was what we raised here, but these had undoubtedly been grain fed. Plus some herbs, and brandy—no, not the famous Monpettihor rose brandy, Jhl, darling, just a grape brandy— By this time they’d both stopped listening and were just eating. Eventually Jhl, having finished her helping, felt so much better that she sat back with a sigh and asked him what his was, but as he looked smug and replied that it was young grpplybeast brains in a black butter, she took a silent vow not to ask another thing.

    Fortunately the next course was visibly duck, so she didn’t have to. It was cold, in a sort of red jelly—not sweet. A light red wine: a grape wine: you’re drinking it, he sent. Jhl managed to ignore that. It was served with two cold vegetable dishes. His Lordship provided the intel, unasked, that the thin yellow vegetables were Monpettihor sallies, the being probably grew his own: a winter vegetable, which he’d preserved and re-cooked in blah-blah, space garbage, not a liqueur, but—Jhl and Su weren’t listening, they were eating. The other vegetable was fornish, which Jhl had had before, if she remembered? (No.) A kind of fungus. Su stopped eating.

    “You liked it before you knew it was a fungus,” he said tiredly. “Very well, leave it.”

    “Not plasmo-blasted likely!” Jhl reached over, grabbed her offspring’s plate and scraped the remains of the fornish and its yummy sauce onto hers. Shank’yar didn’t bother to object: at a neighbouring table seating a small humanoid family the father had just done the same with the eldest offspring’s salad of New Rthfrdian carrots. Su was broadcasting: Ugh! I hate carrots!

    Your loss, he replied smoothly.

    A salad course was next. Not to her bond-partner’s surprise, Jhl didn’t inform them that she’d have been happy with just that, though the thought had been very clear in her mind when he first ordered. Hers was blue endive. Su hadn’t wanted a salad but he’d ignored her. Hers was choo lettuce. Shank’yar was having it, too: he considered the bitter taste of blue endives, though pleasant in the right context, too strong after Monpettihor jellied duck. Jhl tasted hers eagerly. Su pouted and took one small piece of leaf. They chewed. Their eyes went very round and they swallowed convulsively.

    “This can’t just be choo lettuce salad!” gasped Su.

    “What’s in it?” asked Jhl tensely. “Could First Cook do it?”

    “Oil, wine vinegar, a mild mustard, and salt. And no.”

    “Shan, that’s exactly what she puts in her salad dressings!”

    He looked smug. “Nevertheless.”

    His relatives glared at him but didn’t fail to eat their salads with sighs of appreciation.

    He didn’t bother to tell them that the gooey cheese, accompanied by a white wheat bread with what they both considered was a strange crisp crust, was made from Whtyllian cows’ milk, not grqwaries’ milk as they were assuming while they lapped it up with beaming smiles. He ate a small portion: it was excellent Monpettihor-style cheese, but very fattening.

    Jhl sighed deeply, pushing her empty plate away. “Thank you for bringing us here, darling.”

    “Yeah, thanks, Dad!” breathed Su. “It’s out of this universe!”

    He replied smugly: “Good Monpettihor cuisine is,” but they were both so happy that they didn’t even notice the smugness.

    Jhl didn’t fancy pudding after that and nor did he, so he had a cup of strong Whtyllian k’fi and they both had a brandy, but he let Su have the meringues. They came sandwiched together with cream and rose petal jam, and a little rose petal brandy mixed into both the meringue mixture and the cream. Out of this universe—quite. That was most young beings’ reaction to their first taste of genuine Deurangel Rose Brandy from Monpettihor.

    “Why isn’t the place full?” croaked Jhl as they finally emerged onto the pavement, blinking in the sun of late afternoon.

    Shank’yar shrugged. “The food isn’t spicy. Too many of the locals have hidebound Whtyllian tastes.”

    Their jaws dropped and they gaped at him.

    “Contrary to your assumptions, I am not hidebound,” he said lightly.

    “No! Apparently not!” agreed Jhl with a laugh.

    “No,” said Su numbly. “Um, thanks for not letting on to Monti who you are, Dad.”

    “Su,” said her father heavily, “this is who I am.”

    Jhl hugged his arm. “When you drop the mok shit, yeah. Most of it’s social conditioning, I do recognise you can’t help it.”

    “I s’pose you’re right,” discovered Su. “Acksherly, there can’t be many beings who grew up in a plasmo-blasted palace like that dump on Whtyll that would genuinely enjoy a place like Monti’s.”

    “You got it!” agreed Jhl with a laugh. “Must be why I agreed to bond-partner with him! Tell you what, let’s not pedal home, let’s get round to Athlor’s office and grab a ride with BrTl!”

    “Good,” agreed Shank’yar. “Leave the tri-pedallers, Su-Su. I’ll get Athlor to send some beings to collect them.”

    This was, of course, perilously near his leadership mok shit, but both of his relatives managed to overlook that. He’d done pretty good, on the whole! They walked slowly through the dusty streets of downtown New Z’therabad, arms linked, smiling.

    Jhl of course was aware that her bond-partner was a more complex being than just the man who’d wholeheartedly enjoyed the meal at the obscure little restaurant. And Shank’yar was aware that she knew it. But they both felt genuinely happy at the thought, which Su was broadcasting happily, that none of them would ever need to think about the two galaxies or all their associated diplo mok shit ever again, and they could all just settle down to a simple life.

Next chapter:

https://theadmirableclone-sf.blogspot.com/2023/11/without-benefit-of-blobs.html