wonder.
Bordering the parks section were cafes and restaurants where, Ethan calculated, if he only ate once a week he might dine, and hostelries where patrons who could afford the restaurants four times a day dwelt. And theaters, and feelie-dream booths, and an arcade which, according to its directory, offered travelers the solace of some eighty-six officially established religions. Athos's, of course, was not among them. Ethan passed what was obviously the funeral procession of some philosophic person who spurned cryogenic storage in favor of microwave cremation—Ethan, eyes still full of the endless dark beyond the trees, thought he could understand a preference for fire over ice—and some mysterious ceremony whose principals, a woman wrapped in red silk and a man in spangled blue, were pelted with rice by giggling friends who then tied dozens of strings around the pair's wrists.
Coming to the core of the section, Ethan got down to business. Here were the consuls, embassies, and offices of commercial agents from a score of planets who shipped through the nexus of Kline Station's local space. Here, presumably, he would get a lead on a biological supplier who could fulfill Athos's needs. Then buy a ticket for the chosen planet, then—but Kline Station itself was sensory overload enough for one day.
Dutifully, Ethan at least peeked into the Betan Embassy. Unfortunately, its commercial directory computer interface was manned by what was obviously a female expediter. Ethan withdrew hastily without speaking to her. Perhaps he'd try later, during another shift. He pointedly ignored the collection of consuls representing the great syndicated houses of Jackson's Whole. Ethan did resolve to send House Bharaputra a stiff note of complaint, though, later.
Passing back through from this direction, Ethan's chosen hostel did indeed look staid. He estimated he'd walked a couple of kilometers through various levels from the luxury docks, but a curiosity that grew rather than faded with each new sight and discovery drew him out of Transients' Lounge entirely, into the Stationers' own sections. Here the decor diminished from staid to utilitarian.
The odors from a small cafeteria, tucked between a customized plastics fabricator and a pressure suit repair facility, reminded Ethan suddenly that he hadn't eaten since leaving shipboard. But there were a great many women within. He reversed the impulse and withdrew, feeling very hungry. A random walk led him down two more little tubes into a narrow, rather grubby commercial arcade. He was not far from the docking area by which he'd entered Kline Station. His wanderings were arrested by the smell of overused frying grease drifting from one doorway. He peered into the dimly-lit interior.
A number of men in a kaleidoscope of Stationer work uniforms were lounging at tables and along a counter in attitudes of repose. It was evidently some sort of break room. There was no women present at all. Ethan's oppressed spirits lifted. Perhaps he could relax here, even get something to eat. He might even strike up a conversation. Indeed, remembering his instructions from the Athosian Department of Immigration, he had a duty to do so. Why not start now?
Ignoring a queasy subliminal feeling of unease—this was no time to let his shyness rule him—he entered, blinking. More than a break room. Judging from the alcoholic smell of the beverages, these men must be off-duty altogether. It was some sort of recreational facility, then, though it resembled an Athosian club not at all. Ethan wondered wistfully if one could get artichoke beer here. Being Stationer, it would more likely be based on algae or something. He suppressed a homesick twinge, moistened his lips, and walked boldly up to a group of half-a-dozen men in color-coded coveralls clustered around the counter. Stationers must be used to seeing Transients far more bizarrely dressed than his plain casual Athosian shirt, jacket, trousers, and shoes, but for a moment he wished for the doctor's whites he wore at the Rep Center, all clean and crisp from the laundry, that always lent him their reassuring sense of official identity.
'How do you do,' Ethan began politely. 'I represent the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization of the Planet Athos. If I may, I'd like to tell you about the pioneering opportunities for settlement still available there —'
The sudden dead silence of his audience was interrupted by a large worker in green coveralls. 'Athos? The Planet of the Fags? You on the level?'
'Can't be,' said another, in blue. 'Those guys never stick their noses off their home dirtball.'
A third man, all in yellow, said something extremely coarse.
Ethan took a breath and began again, valiantly. 'I assure you, I am indeed on the level. My name is Ethan Urquhart; I am myself a doctor of reproductive medicine. A crisis has arisen recently in our birth rate—'
Green-coveralls gave a bark of laughter. 'I'll bet! Let me tell you what you're doing wrong, buddy—'
The coarse one, from whom alcoholic esters were wafting in high concentration, said something depressingly one-track. Green-coveralls chortled and patted Ethan familiarly on the stomach. 'You're in the wrong store, Athosian. Beta Colony's the place to go for a change-of-sex operation. After that, you can get knocked up in no time.'
One-track repeated himself. Ethan turned to him, his outrage and confusion taking refuge in stiff formality. 'Sir, you seem to have some sadly narrow preconceptions about my planet. Personal relationships are a matter of individual preference, and entirely private. In fact there are many communes, strict interpreters of the Founding Fathers, who take vows of chastity. They are highly respected—'
'Yeech!' cried Green-coveralls raucously. 'That's even worse!' A roar of laughter went up from his co- workers.
Ethan felt his face flush. 'Excuse me. I am a stranger here. This is the only place I've seen on Kline Station that is free of women, and I thought some reasonable discourse might be possible. It's a very serious—'
One-track made a loud remark in the same vein.
Ethan wheeled around and slugged him.
Then froze, horror-stricken at his own dreadful breach of control. This wasn't the behavior of an ambassador—he must apologize at once—
'Free of women?' One-track snarled, scrambling back to his feet, his eyes red and drunken and feral. 'Is that why you came in here—bloody procuring? I'll show you—'
Ethan found himself secured abruptly from behind by two of One-track's burlier friends. He trembled, suppressing a terrified impulse to struggle and break free. If he stayed cool maybe he could still—
'Hey, fellows, take it easy,' Green-coveralls began anxiously. 'He's obviously just a transient—'
The first blow doubled Ethan over, his breath whistling between clenching teeth. The two pinioning him straightened him up again.'—what we do to your type,' wham! 'around here!'
Ethan found he had no breath left with which to apologize. He hoped desperately One-track wasn't going to make a very long speech. But One-track continued, punctuating Ethan regularly.
'—bloody—damned—nosing around our—'
A light, sardonic alto voice interrupted. 'Aren't you a little worried by the odds? What if he gets loose, and gangs up on the six of you?'
Ethan twisted his head around; it was the mercenary woman, Commander Quinn. She bounced lightly on her feet, head cocked alertly.
Green-coveralls swore reverently under his breath; One-track just swore. 'Come on, Zed,' said Green- coveralls, laying a hand on his comrade's arm, although never taking his eyes from the woman's face, 'That's enough, I'm thinking.'
One-track shook himself free. 'And what's this dirt-sucker to you, Sweetie?' he snapped.
One corner of the woman's carved mouth twisted up; Blue-coverall's lips parted in entrancement. 'Suppose I say I'm his military advisor?' she said.
'Fag-loving women,' One-track swore, 'are worse than the fags themselves—' and continued in crudeness.
'Zed,' muttered Blue-coveralls, 'can it. She's not a tech, she's a troop. Combat vet—look at her insignia—' There was a stir in the back of the room, as several neutral observers made prudent exits.
'All drunks are a pain,' drawled the woman to the air, 'but aggressive drunks are just plain disgusting.'
One-track shoved toward her, mouthing confused obscenities. She waited in stillness until he crossed some invisible boundary. There was a sudden buzz and a flash of blue light. Ethan realized as the weapon spun in her hand and melted soundlessly back into its holster that the pause had been for stunner nimbus; all others in the group were out of range and untouched.
'Take a nap,' she sighed. She glanced up at the two men still holding Ethan. 'That your friend?' she
