yellow emblems of slipperiness, knowing that any misstep might send the little scoutship flipping violently toward a gaudy oblivion.
Somehow — he could tell — the peels sensed his loathing. Their boundaries seemed to shrink a little and solidify under his gaze.
“We do not require passionless observers for this kind of duty,” Wer’Q’quinn had explained when Harry joined the Observer Corps at Kazzkark Base.
“There are many others we could choose, whose minds are more disciplined. More detached, cautious, and in most ways more intelligent. Those volunteers are needed elsewhere. But on E Level, we are better served by someone like you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Harry had replied. “So, are you saying you don’t want me to be skeptical when I’m out on a mission?”
The squadron leader bowed a great, wormlike head. Rustling segment plates crafted words in ratchety Galactic Five.
“Only those who start with skepticism can open themselves to true adventure,” Wer’Q’quinn continued. “But there are many types of skeptical outlook. Yours is gritty, visceral. You take things personally, young Earthling, as if the cosmos has a particular interest in your inconvenience. On most planes of reality, that is an egregious error of solipsistic pride. But on E Level, it may be the only appropriate way of dealing with an idiosyncratic cosmos.”
Harry came away from that interview with oddly mixed feelings — as if he had just received the worst insult — and highest praise — of his life. The effect was to make him more determined than ever.
Perhaps Wer’Q’quinn had intended that, all along.
I hate you, he thought at the ridiculous, offensive yellow peels. On some level, they might be neutral twists of space, described by cold equations. But they seemed to taunt him by appearing the way they did, provoking an intimate abhorrence that Harry used to his advantage, piloting around the traps as if each success humiliated a real enemy.
His body grew sweaty and warm. A musty odor filled the cupola as one tense, cautious hour passed into the next.
Finally, with a nimble hop, he stepped his spindly vehicle away from the last obstacle, breathing a deep sigh, feeling tired, smelly, and victorious. Perhaps at some level the reef allaphors knew they had lost, for at that moment the “peels” began transforming from yellow and brown starfish forms into another shape, one with curls and spikes.…
Harry didn’t wait to see what they would become. He ordered the pilot program to hurry away from there.
It took a while to get past the green “sea monster,” ducking through a gap between two of its slowly undulating coils. The passage made Harry nervous, staring up at portions of that mammoth, living conceptual torso. But then he was free at last to race for open territory. The purple plain swept by as he aimed for the most promising vantage point — a stable-looking brown hillock, too barren and mundane to attract any hungry memoids. A place where he might settle down to watch his assigned patrol zone in peace.
The prominence lay quite some distance away — several miduras of subjective duration, at least. Meanwhile, the surrounding tableland appeared placid. The few allaphorical beings he did spy moved quickly out of the way. Most types of predatory memes disliked the simplistic scents of metal and other hard stuff intruding from other levels of reality.
Harry deemed it safe to go below and take a shower. Then, while combing knots out of his fur, he ordered something to eat from the autochef. He considered taking a nap, but found he was still too keyed up. Sleep, under such conditions, would be dream-racked and hardly restful. Anyway, it might be wiser to supervise while the ship was in motion. Pilot mode could not be counted on to notice everything.
The decision proved fortuitous. He returned upstairs to find his trusty vessel already much closer to its destination than expected. That’s quick progress. We’re already halfway up the hill, he thought, surveying the view from each window. This should offer an ideal surveillance site.
Several instruments on Harry’s console suddenly began whirring and chirping excitedly. Checking the telltales, he saw that something made mostly of solid matter lay just ahead, over the ridge top. It did not seem to be from any of the other sapiency orders, but showed all the suspicious-familiar signs he was trained to look for in a ship from the Civilization of Five Galaxies.
Oxies, he realized.
Gotcha!
Harry felt a thrill while checking his weapon systems. This was what he had trained for. An encounter with his own kind of life, moving through a realm of space where protoplasmic beings did not belong. He relished the prospect of stopping and inspecting a ship from some highfalutin clan, like the Soro or Tandu. They might even gag on the disgrace of being caught and fined by a mere chimpanzee from the wolfling clan of Terra.
You aren’t really here to fight, Harry reminded himself as the station’s armaments reported primed and ready.
Your primary mission is to observe and report.
Still, he was an officer of the law, empowered to question oxy-beings who passed this way. Anyway, preparing weapons seemed a wise precaution. Scouts often disappeared during missions to E Level. Being attacked by some band of criminals might seem mundane, compared to getting gobbled by a rampant, self-propagating idea … but it could get you just as dead.
The bogey’s not moving, Harry noted with some surprise. It’s just sitting there, a little beyond the hillcrest. Perhaps they’ve broken down, or run into trouble. Or else …
Among the worries flashing through his mind was the thought of ambush. The bogey might be lying in wait.
In fact, though, Harry’s sensors were specially designed for E-Level use, while the interlopers, whoever they were, probably had a starship’s generalized instruments. There was a good chance they hadn’t even detected him yet!
I might take ’em by surprise.
And yet, he began rethinking how good an idea that was, as more duras passed and pseudodistance to the target shrank. This’ continuum made most oxy-types edgy. Perhaps trigger-happy. Surprise might be an overrated virtue. Too late, he recalled that the station was still formatted like an arachnite! Spindle-legged and fierce looking as it took giant footsteps. The design offered a good view of his surroundings … and exposed him to crippling fire if things came down to a firefight.
Well, it’s too late to change now. Ready or not, here we go!
As he crested the metaphorical hill, Harry triggered the recognition transponder, boldly beaming symbolic references to his official status, commissioned by one of the high institutes of Galactic culture.
The intruder entered line-of-sight, filling a forward viewing panel — a squat oblong shape, resembling a fierce armored beetle, with formidable claws. Those tearing pincers swiveled toward Harry. Spindly emitter arrays waved like antenna-feelers above the beetle’s browridge, hurling aggressive symbolic replies to Harry’s challenge. Those writhing blobs of corporeal meaning sped rapidly across the narrowing gap between the two vessels. When the first one struck his forward pane, it made a splatting sound that resonated loudly, smearing and transforming into a shout that filled the little chamber.
“SURRENDER, EARTHLING! RESISTANCE IS USELESS! CAPITULATE OR DIE!”
Harry blinked. He stared for two or three duras, hand poised over the weapons panel while new threats pounded the window in quick succession.
“HEAVE TO AND SUBMIT! PREPARE TO MEET THY MAKER! DROP YOUR SHORTS! CRY UNCLE! GIVE UP, IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!”
Abruptly, Harry let out a low moan.
It must be Zasusazu … my replacement. Can it be time already?
Besides, who else would squat on a hillock in E Level, just hanging around in the open, but another damn fool recruit of Wer’Q’quinn?
More horrid cliches smacked against his windshield, making the cupola resound painfully until he answered with volleys of his own, serving Zasusazu salvo after salvo of rich Terran curses, satisfying his colleague’s appetite
