Ascending

to wake him?'

She lifted her head, meeting my gaze with large brown eyes. 'How?' she asked.

'In stories,' I answered, 'it is customary to slap the face. Beginning lightly, then with increasing force.'

'I don’t want to do that,' Lajoolie said.

'Yow would rather he stayed unconscious?'

'I’d rafter he woke on his own. There’s no hurry, is there? You said we’ve escaped from the Shaddill. And Starbiter doesn’t need to be piloted — once you stopped giving her direct orders, she automatically adjusted her course toward New Earth. The heading was preprogrammed: I checked. So we’re going home and we can take our time.'

'But waiting is irksomely tedious. It is better when you make the next thing happen right away.'

Lajoolie stared at me a moment, then shook her head. With a slight smile, she hugged herself tighter to the unconscious little criminal and closed her eyes.

She was obviously doing this to vex me. Rather than stay and watch her pretend to be patient, I stomped out of the room to explore the ship.

Obstinate Doors

I did not do so well as an Explorer. There was only one way to leave the bridge: down the long tubular corridor whose floor had those corduroy ridges over bluish-white skin. The corridor led back to the room where I had landed after sliding down the throat… and I could see no other direction to go from there. Uclod said the Zarett had eighteen rooms, but I did not know where they were.

'Starbiter,' I said aloud, 'we are friends now, are we not? We have ventured together into the sun… and far from home, in a place of lava, we nestled together for comfort. Therefore you know I am trustworthy, and you may safely open concealed doors to reveal your hidden depths.'

Silence.

'You may open them any time now, Starbiter. My comrade. My ally in times of distress.'

But nothing happened. I did not think my bouncing bleating friend would completely ignore me so soon after we had shared precious moments of closeness on an alien plain; more likely, she just could not hear me speaking. Few of us, after all, have ears in our lungs. If I wanted the Zarett to admit me to her inner recesses, I would have to find the proper places to rub my hand or tap my foot.

Therefore I experimented with rubbing the walls at random: palpating the soft mushiness, leaving fingerprints all over the yellow fungus that lit the room. From the first, I felt most foolish… but as time went on without success, I could not help a sense of betrayal — as if Starbiter was deliberately shutting me out like some unwanted cast-off.

That made me very sad. Besides the standoffish Zarett, the only people within lightyears were in the other room, deliberately being husband and wife together… which was a most appalling spectacle of Married Sentimentality, and I would never want a person to sit at my feet, nor would I willingly sit at someone else’s. But I did not enjoy being all by myself inside a large creature’s lung. I did not even have the Explorer jacket I had brought from Melaquin; it was back in the bridge, and I refused to go get it. What would I say as I entered the room? 'Excuse me, I wish something to hug for I am feeling glum?'

So I seated myself in the middle of the floor and squeezed my legs tight to my chest. I did not cry, not even a single tear; but I kept my eyes tight shut. My eyelids are a lovely silver, almost the only parts of my body that are opaque… and at that moment, with my face pressed against my knees, I did not wish to see anything.

(My legs act as distorting lenses. Sometimes, when I look through them, the world appears most strange and threatening indeed.)

One Does Not Expect Hauntings To Occur Inside Lungs

Something brushed my shoulder. I jerked in surprise — I had heard nobody approach. When I turned, I expected to see Uclod or Lajoolie, or perhaps some icky polyp protruding from the wall and trying to attach itself to me for unknown alien purposes.

I did not expect to see a ghost.

It was a thing made of mist, like the spooky patches of fog that form in hollows at sundown. Unlike out milky-white FTL field, this mist had no color: clear as a spray of water, and thin enough for me to see right through to the wall on the far side. But this was no random vapor wafting through Starbiter’s lungs like breath on a winter’s day; it had a vaguely human shape, with legs and arms and head. Nothing was distinct — the feet had no toes, the hands had no fingers, the face had no features at all — but this was definitely a coherent entity leaning over me. It had touched my shoulder with its barely substantial hand… and I could not help flinching, swatting the hand away.

My swat passed through the thing’s arm with no resistance: like sweeping my fingers through smoke. Though the mist looked like fog, it felt dry, and neither cold nor hot just a tiny bit gritty, like dust.

'Go away, ghost,' I told it 'Go haunt someone else.' I waved my hand through its chest, trying to scatter it to bits. The particles of its body, droplets or ashes or soot, swirled on the wind of my movements, but did not fly apart. As soon as I stopped stirring up breeze, the thing drifted back to its original shape, a person leaning over me.

'Sad woman… sad woman…'

The words were a whisper, coming from the entity’s entire body: not just from its mouth area, but resonating completely from head to foot. 'What is wrong, sad woman?' the creature whispered. 'What hurts you?'

'Nothing hurts me,' I answered. 'But I am easily annoyed by intrusive beings of unknown origin. What are you?'

'The ship’s mate…'

'What?' I said in outrage. 'I was forced to drive this ship myself when there was a high-ranking crew member aboard? Were you incapacitated by the stick-ship’s weapon?'

'No,' the entity replied, 'but I know nothing about… flying Starbiter. She would surely… not obey me… if I tried. I am not…a crew member; I am… the ship’s mate.'

For a moment I just glowered at him. Then I realized what he was saying: that he was Starbiter’s spouse. The male of her species. Her lover. Which suggested that some or all of the tiny particles making up his body were Zarett seed — designed to fertilize whatever eggs Starbiter produced.

Quickly, I wiped my hands off on the floor.

Conversing With A Cloud

'What are you doing here?' I demanded. 'We are in the lungs. Should you not be in another organ altogether? Doing whatever foul things a cloud man does to make babies?'

'I visit every organ on a regular basis,' the ghostly entity answered. 'In addition to my… husbandly duties…' (he sounded most amused) '…I am also what you might call… a veterinarian. Or perhaps the ship’s engineer. I patrol my mate’s airways and bloodstream in search of… metabolic imbalances…' The misty figure gestured in my direction. 'Which led me to you.'

'I am not a metabolic imbalance!'

The cloud man pointed to the place I was sitting. 'You’re creating a hot spot,' came the whisper. 'And I sensed the presence of… unfamiliar chemicals…'

'My chemicals are very familiar! Have you never heard of glass?'

'There ate many kinds of glass,' the cloud said, 'and you’re none of them. Your skin is… an amalgam of transparent polymers, serviced by an army of… sophisticated agent-cells… that perform general maintenance and… ward off external microbes. There are also… trace fluids on your exterior, the purpose of which I can’t identify. Not conventional perspiration — possibly just a light body wash to prevent you from caking with dust… possibly something more complicated. All such… biochemical compounds are cause for concern, given the slight but real chance they may have a detrimental effect on my… patroness.'

'Do not be foolish,' I told him. 'You can see I have had no detrimental effect — Starbiter is healthy and happy.'

'At me moment, yes,' he answered. 'But you’re a stranger with an alien biochemistry, and I find that troubling.'

'I am not a stranger,' I said, 'I am Oar. An oar is an implement used to propel boats, Who are you, you poop-head cloud?'

'Nimbus,' he replied. 'Or if you want the complete mouthful from the Bloodline Registry books, Capella’s Coronal Nimbus of Lee-Thee Five.' His mist suddenly went blurry… as if every particle of him was shuddering with distaste. 'In my grandfather’s day,' he said, 'Zarett males were called Sky or Fogbank or Rain Cloud; but then our owners made contact with Homo sapiens and picked up the Earthling fondness for giving thoroughbreds ridiculous names. My previous mate was called Princess Fly-in-Amber Heliopause, whatever that means. The person who christened her didn’t speak a word of any Terran language, but he gave her a gobbtedygook title to impress human buyers.'

The cloud man’s voice had gradually risen from a whisper to normal speaking volume, His new tone sounded a good deal like Uclod… as if Mr. Zarett had taken the little orange criminal’s voice as a model. I also noticed Nimbus was no longer hesitating between phrases. When he spoke his first words, Sad woman, it seemed be knew almost no English; now he spoke it over-fluently. Perhaps Starbiter carried Ingenious Language Devices such as a mist man might employ to learn a new tongue within seconds. If so, it was most unfair — I put in weeks of diligent work to acquire my English, and disapproved of persons who bypassed the wholesomely tedious education process by using mechanical aids.

'I do not care about Zarett names,' I told him, 'but if you dislike what people call you, choose something else.'

'It doesn’t work that way,' he answered. 'We Zaretts have an unshakable instinct to defer to our masters, even when we’d clearly love to do otherwise. The compulsion is too strong to overcome, no matter what the rational part of us thinks about it. Being a good and obedient slave is hardwired into my genes.'

'You are not good and obedient if you complain about your master to someone you have just met. Do you think I will now go to Uclod and say, ‘Please change Nimbus’s name to Fluffy’?'

'It wouldn’t matter,' the mist man replied. 'Uclod isn’t my owner. He’s just renting me… for stud purposes.'

I suspect he added that last part just to provoke a reaction in me. His tactic succeeded; I stood up angrily and said, 'This is not the type of talk I enjoy. I cannot tell if you are deliberately trying to appall me, or if you are just a foolish creature who knows no better. Perhaps if I were compelled to follow the sordid profession of gigolo, I too would speak lightly of foul things. But I do not.' Turning sharply awayfrom him, I headed for the corridor back to the bridge. I glared at him over my