“I told you, it’s Gentheren country. Humankind stay off. Entry by invitation only.”
“I thought Thairy was a human colony,” I protested. “They told me in school it was.”
“It’s a human colony, down below, off the mesa. Plenty of room down there. The Gentherens don’t bother us, and we don’t need to bother the Gentherens.”
Soon the city was behind us, though the forested height went on for hours. I yawned, stretched, yawned again, fell into a doze. Later I woke and looked down to see the far edge of the continental mesa approaching. On this side it ended abruptly in a sheer cascade of black stone that flowed all the way down to the sea.
There, on the narrow shore between precipice and beach, was a town, a ribbon city only two or three streets wide but endlessly long. Directly below us, a hook of land extended into the sea, a curving extrusion covered with walls, squared-off fields, streets, structures, all of them as rigidly angled and paralleled as ruled lines.
The Escort pointed down. “Fort Point Zibit.”
“The academy?”
“Right. Now, Naumi, that’s your name, right? Naumi, I’m going to let you in on a secret. When you get there, some snotty cadet is going to ask you your name. You say, ‘Naumi on X, sir.’ The joke is, while you’re on Academy grounds, you’re ‘on X-zibit.’ That’s because the upperclassmen watch everything the younger ones do and the officers watch the upperclassmen. Every cadet is somebody on exhibit.”
“That’s silly,” said I, flushing.
“Well, do it or don’t do it,” said the Escort. “But if you don’t, you’ll wish you had. Weathereye said you had louts back there in Bright.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Naumi, there’s louts here, too. The difference is, these louts have to play by rules, but sometimes they make the rules, and they can lout you to death if you don’t play by the same rules they do, silly and otherwise. I’m telling you this because that friend of yours, Weathereye, asked me to.”
The flier landed on a strip of paving by the sea, and when I stepped down onto it, the sun made a glittering road of light stretching from the sea edge at my feet to the great orange orb hanging only a finger’s width above the ruled rim of the horizon. I had left in the morning, without breakfast. I had come all the way west to the sea, and now I was hungry. It had been a long day.
“You Noomi?” called a voice from beyond the fence.
I started to say yes, then stopped. The person there had an unmistakably loutish look to him. I picked up my light pack and plodded across the yard until I was only an arm’s length away.
“Nah-ow-me on Ex,” I said very quietly.
“What kinna name’s that?” the stranger asked.
“Any kind at all,” said I.
“Well, I don’t like it,” said the other. “I think I’ll rename you noomi. That’s a kind of worm.”
“That could work both ways,” I offered, with a level stare into the other’s eyes. “Them as names, get named.”
“Grangel!” someone yelled. “Quit slopping about and bring the new cadet over here.”
Grangel turned slightly red and spun on his heel. “Yes, sir,” he called, then, over his shoulder, “This way, noomi.”
I followed him at a sufficient distance to avoid being either tripped or elbowed. As we approached, the uniformed officer at the controls of the hovercar got out and stood erect. Though I was untutored in what might be expected, Mr. Weathereye had always said that civility could not possibly be resented by any civilized person; that if resentment were offered, it was a sure sign of loutdom.
“Naumi Rastarong, sir,” I said, bowing slightly.
“Welcome, cadet,” said the officer. “I’m Captain Orley. Pile yourself in the back there. You’ve had a long trip, and I imagine you’re hungry.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, salivating. “Very.”
“Then we’ll leave the civilities for another time. Grangel, you have post duty this shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, I’ll let you go on over to the gate. No need to go all the way back into the Point, then turn around and come back. You did have early mess?”
“Yes, sir,” grudgingly.
Grangel was left to plodding while I was whisked, the captain giving a running commentary as we went. “These are the main gates. Post duty is guard duty, standing watch at the gates. All cadets do it sometimes, but most of the time it’s done by what we call black-checkers, those who accumulate black checks on their record for fighting, harassing, disobeying orders, or showing disrespect to officers.”
The gates fled by, huge stone pillars flanking metal grilles on wheels—open—and half a dozen statue-stiff cadets standing guard. “Sometimes the black-checkers get tired of being idiots and shape up. Sometimes they get tired of being punished for being idiots and quit. We don’t care which, quite frankly. Too many cadets are children of privilege who think we’re here to serve them instead of the other way round. I know you’re not, so I can say this without fear you’ll quote me to your parents.” The vehicle turned into a wide street that ran straight toward the sea. “This street is called The Parade. That’s the armory to your right, to your left is the officers’ residence, then the officers’ dining room. Right is the cadet mess. That means dining room, too, but officers get to use fancier words. Same food, both places. Now, that’s First Cadet Row going off to the right, men’s and women’s houses on the left, classrooms on the right. Four streets, First Row for first years, Second Row for second years, and so on.”
By the time we reached the fourth street, I could see that it was shorter by far. “Not as many fourth-year cadets, sir?”
“Not so many, no. The big break comes at the end of years one and two. Most everyone who gets into third year goes on to finish, including some of those children of privilege I mentioned earlier. People send their children here because they can’t do
