Chapter 6
“COME IN, said John Grimes, pushing a button that opened another sliding door. “As a very dear friend of mine used to say, this is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”
“Cat?” asked Brasidus, ignoring an admonitory glare from Diomedes. “Bastard? What are they?” He added, “It’s the second time you’ve used that last word, sir.”
“You must forgive my Sergeant’s unmannerly curiosity, Lieutenant Commander,” said Diomedes.
“A healthy trait, Captain. After all, you are both policemen.” He smiled rather grimly. “So am I, in a manner of speaking . . . But sit down, both of you.”
Brasidus remained standing until he received a grudging nod from his superior. Then he was amazed by the softness, by the comfort of the chair into which he lowered himself. On Sparta such luxury was reserved for the aged—and only for the highly placed aged at that, for Council members and the like. This lieutenant commander was not an old man, probably no older than Brasidus himself. Yet here he was, housed in quarters that the King might envy. The room in which Johngrimes was entertaining him and Diomedes was not large, but it was superbly appointed. There were the deep easy chairs, fitted with peculiar straps, there was a wall-to-wall carpet, indigo in color, with a deep pile, there were drapes, patterned blue, that obviously concealed other doorways, and there were pictures set on the polished paneling of the walls. They were like no paintings or photographs that Brasidus had ever seen. They glowed, seemingly, with a light of their own. They were three-dimensional. They were like little windows on to other worlds.
Brasidus could not help staring at the one nearest to him. It could have been a typical scene on his own Sparta—distant, snow-capped peaks in the background, blue water and yellow sand, then, in the foreground, the golden-brown bodies of naked athletes.
But . . .
Brasidus looked more closely. Roughly half of the figures were human—and the rest of them were like this mysterious Margaretlazenby. So that was what he must look like unclothed. The deformity of the upper part of the body was bad enough; that of the lower part was shocking.
“Arcadia,” said Johngrimes. “A very pleasant planet. The people are enthusiastic nudists—but, of course, they have the climate for it.”
“We,” said Diomedes, turning his attention to the picture from the one that he had been studying, a bleak, mountain range in silhouette against a black sky, “exercise naked in all weathers.”
“You would,” replied Johngrimes lightly.
“So,” went on Diomedes after a pause, “this Margaretlazenby of yours is an Arcadian.” He got to his feet to study the hologram more closely. “H’m. How do they reproduce? Oddly enough, I have seen the same deformation on the bodies of some children who have been exposed. Coincidence, of course.”
“You Spartans live up to your name,” said Johngrimes coldly.
“I don’t see what you mean, Lieutenant Commander. But no matter. I think I begin to understand. These Arcadians are a subject race—intelligent but nonhuman, good enough to serve in subordinate capacities, but temperamentally, at least, unqualified for full command.”
“Doctor Lazenby was born on Arcadia. It’s a good job she’s not here to listen to you saying that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? H’m. What amazes and disgusts me about this picture is the way in which humans are mingling with these . . . these aliens on terms of apparent equality.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
“Here, even though we are all Men, we are careful not to be familiar with any but privileged helots. And these Arcadians are aliens.”
“Some time,” said Johngrimes, “I must make a careful study of your social history. It should be fascinating. Although that is really Peggy’s job.”
“Peggy?”
“Doctor Lazenby.”
“And some time,” said Diomedes, “I must make inquiries as to your system of nomenclature. I have heard you call this Margaretlazenby by his rank and profession, with the first part of his name missing. And I have heard you call him Peggy.”
Johngrimes laughed. “I suppose that it is rather confusing to people who have only one name apiece. We have at least two—the surname, or family name . . .”
“But there is only one family. The State.”
“On Sparta, perhaps. But let me finish, Captain Diomedes. We have the family name, which, with us, comes last, although some human races put it first. Then we have one, if not more, given name. Then we have nicknames. For example, Margaret, one word, Lazenby, one word. Peggy, which for some obscure reason is a corruption of Margaret. Of course, she could also be called Maggie or Meg. Or Peg. In my own case—John Grimes. But that ‘John’ can be changed to ‘Jack’ or ‘Johnnie’ by people who really know me.”
“Like Theo for Theopompus,” contributed Brasidus.
“Yes. Some of our nicknames are curtailments, like Margie or Margo for Margaret.”
“How many names has that being got?”’ exploded Diomedes.
“I’ve heard her called other things—and called her them myself. But you wouldn’t know what a bitch is, would you?”
“Doubtless some exotic beast you’ve run across on your travels. But, Lieutenant Commander, you keep on using these odd pronouns—’she’ and ‘her.’ Are they confined to Arcadians?”
“You could say that.” Grimes seemed to he amused by something. “Now, gentlemen, may I offer you refreshment? The sun’s not yet over the yardarm, but a drop of alcohol won’t kill us. Or would you rather have coffee?”
“Coffee? What’s that?”
“Don’t you have it here? Perhaps you would like to try some now.”
“If you partake with us,” said Diomedes cautiously.
“But of course.” Grimes got to his feet, went to his desk, picked up a telephone. “Pantry? Captain here. I’d like my coffee now, please. Large pot, with all the trimmings. Three cups.”
He took an oddly shaped wooden . . . instrument (?) off the desk top, stuffed a hollow bowl at the end of it with what looked like a dried brown weed, put the thin stem in his mouth, applied a flame from a little metal contraption to the open top of the bowl. He inhaled with apparent pleasure, then expelled from between his lips a cloud of fragrant fumes. “Sorry,” he said, “do you smoke?” He opened an ornamental box, displaying rows of slim cylinders obviously rolled from the brown weed.
“I think that one strange luxury will be enough for one day, Lieutenant Commander,” said Diomedes, to Brasidus’ disappointment.
The door to the outside alleyway opened. A spaceman came in, by his uniform not an officer, carrying a large silver tray on which rested a steaming silver pot, a silver jug and a silver bowl filled with some white powder, and also three cups of gleaming, crested porcelain each standing in its own little plate. But it was not the tray at which Diomedes and Brasidus stared; it was at the bearer.
He was obviously yet another Arcadian.
Brasidus glanced from him to the picture, and back again. He realized that he was wondering what the spaceman would look like stripped of that severe, functional clothing.
“Milk, sir? Sugar?” the man was asking.
“I don’t think that they have them on this planet, Sheila,” said Grimes. “There’s quite a lot that they don’t have.”