Tandle had time to enter the revised agenda before the first of the staff members arrived: Horgy Endure, trailing his trio of girlies. If Dern had no objection, he murmured to Tandle, they could sit along the wall and observe. Dern had, as usual, no objection, said Tandle.
“Another of your usual beauty pageants?” commented a chill voice as Jamice Bend stalked from the door to the: table, flicking a dismissive finger at the pile of papers before her chair. She moved like some creature from a jungle, all sinew and grace and predatory intention. Her red hair was wound tight on top of her head, the knot pierced by two Phansuri spirit rods, which gleamed green with cabochon gems. Whenever Tandle saw them, she gritted her teeth at the arrogance which could stick millennia-old artifacts in its hair. Nonetheless, the effect was striking—as emerald-eyed, ochre-skinned Jamice well knew.
“Morning,” tolled the third member of the meeting, slouching across the room and into his chair, not looking at anyone, his ugly face made plainer yet by its pained expression, lank beige hair dangling across his rippled forehead, his lithe, long-muscled form twisted into a tortured skein. Spiggy’s eyebrows, which could be clownish, were this morning raised at the center like a mask of tragedy. “Morning,” Spiggy tolled again, his voice a dolorous bell rung across watery meadows.
Tandle sighed. When Spiggy was up, he was delightful, though wearing. When Spiggy was down, he drained energy from a room as though someone had pulled the plug. Abruptly, the day seemed dim. Tandle sighed again and turned up the light and heat. By the time this meeting was over, Dern would be fit for nothing but escape. He said having Spiggy around during a depressive cycle was like giving a continuous blood transfusion.
Of course, Spiggy could have been treated. Any of them in the room, Tandle often thought, should have been treated, including Dern himself. The technician in charge of the CM medical center was totally competent to straighten Spiggy out, but Spiggy’s parents had been Thyker Baidees, High Baidees, a sect which rejected all psychotropic intervention because (supposedly, though Tandle had her doubts) the prophetess had commanded so. Spiggy wasn’t a Baidee observant. He held to no other tenets of the faith—most certainly not the elaborate dress or the complex and difficult food taboos—but this one canon he was adamant about.
“Am I late?” Zilia Makepeace asked from just inside the door. “I was afraid I was late.” She knew she wasn’t. Dern wasn’t present yet, so she couldn’t be late. It was her way to start each conversation with an apology, so she could be offended when the apology was accepted. The response she expected now was, “Yes, you’re late, Zilia. Only a little.” At which she would be annoyed, pointing out that Dern was not yet present.
“No, not in the least,” said Tandle offhandedly. “In fact, you’re a little early, but then, so is everyone else.”
“Come on in, Zilia. Don’t hover,” sneered Jamice, totally wiping out any good Tandle’s stratagem might have accomplished.
“I wasn’t aware,” Zilia responded in a defensive voice verging upon anger, “that I was hovering.”
So much for peace and tranquility.
Sam had been waiting outside until the staff assembled. Now he strode to the table, his tall, vital presence making the rest of them seem juiceless and pale, even Jamice, even Horgy—poor Horgy, who surprised a couple of calculating glances thrown Sam’s way by Horgy’s very own new brunette.
Tandle subvocalized into her corn-link that everyone was present, and Dern came through the door smiling, nodding to each of them, asking about this and that, giving Sam a firm hand on the shoulder, skipping over Spiggy the moment he looked at his face, kissing Zilia’s hand, admiring Jamice’s hair, slapping Horgy on the shoulder, smiling at the wide-eyed row of trainees along the wall, being the good fellow all round, finally seating himself at the head of the table to reach for the piled papers topped by the revised agenda.
“Spiggy,” he said in an interested tone, after they had all settled down, “we’ve asked Sam to come in today to talk to us about the shortfall at Settlement One. What’s your final count?”
Spiggy pulled himself together, barely, took a small, battered memorizer from one pocket, leaned across the table until he was half-lying on it, and said in a half-moan, “Settlement One had a thirty percent shortfall on projections.”
Sam felt blood rising in his neck.
Dern said, “That much?”
Spiggy sighed. “Oh, all in all, it doesn’t make that big a difference.” He tapped the memorizer, frowning at the figures which floated to its surface. “It only makes a two or three percent difference overall, somewhere in there. Two point four, I think …” His voice trailed off, then began again, as he began a recital of production statistics and what it meant to the transport crews on the recipient planets.
Dern fought down a yawn. Sam looked at his hands, annoyed, wondering why he’d been asked to come here when Spiggy was doing all the talking.
“Quit going on about the transport crews,” demanded Jamice in a nasty voice. “They’re not the problem. The problem is the actual shortfall. That and a breakdown in morale.”
“What do you mean, breakdown in morale?” Horgy had been leaning back, alternately smiling with enormous forbearance at his colleagues and throwing knowing little glances toward the girls along the wall, but now he came suddenly alert, glaring at Jamice. “What breakdown in morale?”
“Personnel matters,” Jamice said crisply. “I’ve had reports of interteam hostilities at Settlement One.”
Sam felt his neck get even hotter. He did not like meetings. He particularly didn’t like meetings where his settlement was being discussed in this way.
Horgy leaned back, relaxed, smiling, the brows raised once again as though to say, well, is that all. “Jamice, sweetheart, for a minute there, I thought there was a problem. Now, don’t tell me there’s a week goes by you don’t have
