Charon: A Dragon at the Gate

CHAPTER SIX The High Road to Bourget

In the morning, Zala had no memory of the internal struggle I had witnessed, and she seemed surprised to see the goop still in the basin, practically accusing me of doing the deed.

“You did it—I watched you,” I assured her. “It’s for the best anyway.”

She stared at me in disbelief. “I did? You’re not just kidding me?”

“No, no kidding. Honest.”

She shook her head for a moment, as it trying to remember. Finally she just sighed and shrugged. “Well, let’s get on with it”

“At least packing’s easy,” I noted. “I hope they have more clothing at Bourget.”

We went down to breakfast, a fairly ample one as usual, but Garal, our host for this, our last morning, cautioned a few of us, Zala and I among them, to eat lightly. “You’re gonna have a long trip and traveling isn’t very smooth around here.”

Both of us took his advice. I was never much of a breakfast eater anyway, but I put away several cups of cafe, a very good hot caffeine drink, and a sweet roll.

When we were finished, Garal stood at the head of the table. “We will be going out individually or in small groups as transportation is available,” he announced. “The rain has stopped, which means that some of you will be flying, which is a good thing. Overland to some of your villages might take days.”

“Flying?” I couldn’t resist” voicing the surprise that everyone felt “I thought there were few machines here.”

“Well, we use the shuttle, for extremely long hauls—like intercontinental ones—but we have other means here as well,” Garal responded enigmatically. “Just hold on. You’ll find out soon enough.”

He reached down and checked his clipboard. “All right—take nothing with you except the clothes on your back. You’ll get everything you need when you get where you’re going.” He looked around at all of us and smiled a little evilly. “So far you’ve had it soft and easy. Now you’re going out into the real world there, and it’s gonna be a shock, I promise you. Keep your noses clean, take the advice of any locals, and take it real easy until you get the lay of the land, I warn you. That sounds like the usual advice, but it goes double here. Just remember that scrawny kid you knock down might be an apt who’ll get a little irritated and wrench your guts around or at the very least cast a spell on you. And don’t stare at the changelings! Just remember that anybody who happens to look funny or different got that way for a reason and the same thing could happen to you.”

This last meant little to us at the time.

As the morning wore on, official-looking men and women came by and called out a name, sometimes two, and out they’d go. We were not the last to be called, but in the bottom half, which made me start to regret how lightly I’d eaten.

Our initial transport was a small enclosed buggy pulled by a single toothy uhar. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the coach—very basic board and putty insulation—and we could feel every little bump in the very bumpy road. The uhar carts, no matter how fancy or plain, would take some getting used to; the big lizard’s gait tilted you first to one side, then to the other, rather quickly, while seeming to draw you forward in tiny and continuous fits and starts.

We quickly cleared the town, then took a branch road to the north. Zala and I said very little during the journey, for there was very little to say except to voice the anxiety we both felt. With her ego it was really bad; at least I not only had a full reservoir of self-confidence, but knew in what direction the future was leading. Never had two more dissimilar people started out on an epic journey together, I reflected.

We had broken through the rain forest to a vast clearing when Zala looked out her window and gasped. Frowning, I leaned over and looked out at what she was seeing—and did a little gasping myself.

I saw a great, sleek, jet-black body topped by a head that looked like an enormous black triangle, with an enormous hornlike bony plate going back from the top of that weird head to almost halfway down the body. The head itself seemed to consist of an enormous beak and a pair of huge, round eyes that appeared to be lidless. But the real stunning part of the creature was its wings, which were barely folded and ran almost the length of the body. The wings were supported, somehow, by an apparatus and guy-wires. The thing appeared to be eating something enormous and bloody, gulping it down easily. As our buggy pulled to a stop and two people ran to get the door for us, I heard an enormous belch.

We both jumped out of the buggy and stood there, transfixed by the sight. A young woman dressed in tight, leathery black clothes and boots approached, joined us, then turned and looked back at the beast. “Magnificent, isn’t she?” the newcomer enthused.

“That’s one word for it,” I responded. “What the hell is it?”

“They have a long scientific name, but we generally call ’em soarers around Charon. They’re very rarely found on the ground, because it’s so hard to get them alott again. They live up above the clouds around most of the planet, just floating there above the clouds and using surprisingly little energy.”

“Is the beast down here for the reason I think it’s down here?” Zala managed nervously.

The woman laughed. “Oh, yes. We use the soarers for transportation. They’re very useful, although only certain areas have enough clearing, wind, and elevation to get them alott again. They’re quite friendly and intelligent, if they’re raised from eggs.”

“I’ll bet,” I replied. “And it can get back in the air from here?!’

“Oh, sure. Silla’s an old vet to this kind of thing. Still, they’re not practical for mass transportation, and we use ’em mostly for the high-ups. You two’re gonna get a real treat Most folks never get to ride on one and the sight of one of ’em dropping through the clouds scares most folks silly.”

“The thought of riding on one doesn’t do wonders for me,” I said uneasily, no longer regretting the light breakfast a bit.

“What do we do—climb on her back?” Zala wanted to know.

The woman laughed. “Oh, no. See? The crew’s putting the passenger compartment on now. It’s strapped on tight and fits between bony plates just forward of the wings—see?”

We did see—a fairly substantial-looking compartment, like a small cabin, was being hoisted into position with a manual which. Two members of the ground crew, looking like tiny insects on that great body, positioned the contraption into place and then dropped straps to the ground, where others crawled under the beast and tied or buckled the straps together. A few sample pushes to make sure it was seated right and the people on top seemed satisfied and started down ladders on either side. The operation shifted forward, where a smaller compartment was being similarly mounted just in back of the thick neck.

“What do they eat?” Zala asked, still incredulous at the sight.

The woman shrugged. “Practically anything. They’re omnivores, like us. Actually, they need very little. They’re hollow-boned and amazingly light; once they catch the currents and get some altitude, they use very little energy. A ton of mixed stuff every two days or so is the usual—mostly the tops of trees, stuff like that along with whatever’s in ’em—but we give Silla extra, a couple of uhars or some other big animal, because of the energy take-off requires. They’re quite effective in controlling the wild animal population, thinning forests, you name it, and they fly in heavy rain as easily as in sunshine. The wild ones just about never land, but they do come in close. Don’t worry about ’em, though—they know better than to nab people, who generally don’t have enough meat on “em to be worth paying attention to, anyway.”

I was very happy to hear that. “How’s it flown—guided, I mean?” I asked her.

“The pilot—that’s me—sits up there in that control cabin. I’ve got basic navigation instruments there, and the floor on both sides opens up. The early pioneers tried bridles, but they don’t work and the soarers are smart anyway. A well-trained one like Silla knows what to do just from how I press my feet on which side of the neck, when to do it, and when to stop.” She paused a moment, then added, “Well, it’s a little more complicated than that—but I’ll be in complete control.”

Looking at her—she was no larger than I was and probably weighed less—and then at the soarer over there I was not reassured, but this wasn’t my party, not yet.

A crewman came running up to her. “Word is it’ll start pouring again in less than twenty minutes,” he told her. “Better get everybody aboard and away.”

She nodded.

“I thought you said it was fine in the rain,” I said.

“She is,” the pilot replied, “but taking off in those winds can turn us upside down at the very least. Better get on board.” She ran for the pilot’s cabin.

I looked at Zala, who looked nervously back at me. “Think you can take it?” I asked her.

“I’ll—try. If she can fly one, I can sure ride one.”

We walked quickly over to the creature, following the crewman. The ladder to the passenger compartment was still in place, and he steadied it as first Zala and then I climbed up and went through an open door.

The interior was actually quite nice—heavily padded, manufactured seats much like those on the shuttle, complete with seat belts; the whole thing was lined and carpeted with what looked like fur of some kind. Aft a small compartment was clearly marked as a rest room. Although it lacked lights, some sort of self-luminous chemical tubing ran all around giving off a sufficient glow to see by and we felt pretty comfortable.

We were not the only ones in the cabin. Although I hadn’t noticed earlier, an elderly woman and a tough-looking young man had climbed aboard. They were dressed in very fancy raingear, obviously of off world design. Following them were three ground crew people, two men and a woman, including the man who had taken us “aboard,” as it were. He pulled up the ladder, made a last check, then closed the door and spun a wheel locking it securely in place. The other crewman stood facing us, while the woman checked in back.

“Please fasten both lap and shoulder belts,” the man told us. “While the flight’s basically a smooth one, you never know what you’re going to run into. Keep them fastened at all times. If you have to walk back to the lavatory, hold onto the rail and strap yourself in even in there. The cabin is not pressurized, so be prepared for a pressure differential in the ears. We have gum and mints if that troubles you. Occasionally we have to fly very high to get by some bad weather, and in that case I’ll tell you to remove the oxygen masks under your seats and put them on. They are fed by manual pressurized tanks. Keep ’em on until I say it’s okay.”

A sudden violent lurch really shook us up; it was followed by the most chilling screech I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Both Zala and I jumped nervously; the crew and the two passengers took no real notice.

“Take-off positions!” the crewman yelled, and the three all strapped themselves into their seats very quickly. “Hold on, everybody! Here we go!”

At that moment I felt a sudden, violent lurch, and we were abruptly pushed against the back of our seats and simultaneously jarred up and down so hard it almost hurt. I suddenly realized that the damned thing was running. I glanced over at Zala, but she was all tightened up, eyes closed. Then I looked out the tiny round window to my left. It was possible to see the ground just ahead of that incredible wing, going up and down with that terrible bouncing, and then, all at once, the damned thing jumped off a cliff I hadn’t known was there—and sank like a stone, throwing us forward in our seats.

As a certified pilot, both air and space, I’d experienced far worse than this, which may be why I was holding up so well. But then I’d been in control of a machine whose properties were known. To be perfectly honest, in that moment of forward fall all I could think was “Well, Ms is it—you’re dead.”

But almost as abrupt as the plunge was the sudden and violent turn and rise. At that moment I could see, with a kind of horrible fascination, just how close we’d come to the ground below.

Now we were lifting, with an eerie, rocking motion that first threw us forward, then back, as the enormous, powerful wings took us up, then paused to rest on a current of air. In another minute or two we were in the ever-present clouds, getting really bounced about. I glanced around and saw that Zala, eyes still closed, appeared very, very sick; the two other passengers were sitting quietly with no real reaction, while the crew was very relaxed. One was eating a fruit of some kind.

That terrible bouncing seemed to go on forever. Finally, we broke free, above the clouds, and into bright sunshine. Within another minute or two the creature caught a comfortable current, adjusted its course, and settled down. The experience was really strange now—after such a violent upheaval, the ride was now as smooth as glass, and nearly silent.

I looked over at Zala. “You can open your eyes now, and catch hold of your stomach,” I told her. “It’ll probably be like this the rest of the way.” I just hoped and prayed this was an express.

One eye opened, then the other; she looked at me rather mournfully. “I’m sick,” she managed.

All I could do was be sympathetic. “Just relax, calm down, and don’t worry. That was a pretty rough take-off, but it’s going to be like this until we get where we’re going.”

She didn’t seem to be any more relieved. “I keep wondering what the landing is going to be like, if that was the take-off.”

Good point. How the hell would something this size brake to a stop? Still, I had to have confidence since the pilot and crew did this all the time and none of the crew seemed worried.

At one point one of the crewmen took out a small carton and offered us fruit. Zala turned green at its mere mention. I almost took one, then decided for her sake that I could spare her the sight of me eating for the duration which, the crewman told us, would be a little more than five hours if we didn’t run into weather problems. The thing managed an average airspeed in excess of 250 kph, a pretty respectable rate over the long haul for something this big.

The smoothness was interrupted every fifteen minutes or so by one or two sudden jolts, as those great wings compensated or switched currents, but that was about the only problem it presented.

The sky of Charon was nothing if not spectacular. Below were the dark, swirling clouds that seemed to never leave; above our clear place wasn’t the sky I’d been expecting, but an odd band of reds and yellows all swirling about, almost as active as the storm clouds below. Some kind of gaseous layer that acted as a protective filter, I guessed, allowing a human-tolerable temperature below. The sun, a great, bright glob in the sky, was hot and visible through the upper layer. I guessed that the upper layer rather than the clouds below prevented much surveillance from orbit and blocked transmissions to and from the planet. I wondered what the stuff was.

Aside from my ears popping every so often, and the occasional screech from the soarer as we passed another soarer somewhere near us—I never did get more than a vague glimpse of black so I didn’t get to see one in full flight—the voyage was uneventful. I took note of the other two passengers though—still fairly well-dressed even after removing their rain gear. They were obviously together, but the woman, who seemed to be going over some paperwork, rarely acknowledged or talked to the younger man. I smelted boss and bodyguard, but had no way of knowing just who they really were.

Even Zala managed to relax after a while, although she never did move during the entire trip and never really seemed to recover her color.

Finally my ears started popping a bit more regularly, and I saw that we were turning and descending very slowly. The crewmembers checked all their boxes and small hatches to make sure all was secure, then returned to their seats and strapped in.

I looked out at what I could see of the ground in front of the big wing, and was surprised to see breaks in the clouds not far off, and large patches of dark blue below. Hitting the clouds was similar to hitting them in an airship, and we experienced some rocking and a number of violent jerks as the wings worked harder to compensate for downdrafts, updrafts, and the like. The window showed moisture as we descended through a gray-white fog, then we broke suddenly into clearer air and the ground was visible below. Aside from seeing that it was green and somewhat mountainous down there, I couldn’t make out much of anything.

The soarer circled, slowing a bit each time, then dropped and put its wings at an angle, abruptly braking hard. There were three or four jolts as the wings suddenly beat hard, and then one big bang—and we were down and, incredibly^ motionless. For something this big, I had to admit it certainly could land much easier than it could take off.

I had to tap Zala and assure her we were down in one piece and that it was all over. She could hardly believe it, but finally opened her eyes and looked around. For the first time, she looked across me to the window and finally seemed to relax.

“Not as bad as take-off, was it?” I said cheerfully.

She shook her head. “I’ll kill myself before I get on one of these again, I swear it, Park.”

The wheel was spun, the hatch like door opened, and a blast of really hot, sticky air hit us. Still, after five hours in that hotbox of the cabin, it was welcome, and it didn’t seem to be raining.

The two other passengers gathered their things together and departed first. We followed, although Zala was more than a little shaky, and made it down the ladder.

I looked around the open field. A wagon was heading for the soarer with what looked like an entire butcher shop in the back—the fuel truck, I thought, amused. Off to one side, a small group of people and two coaches waited. Our fellow passengers had already reached one of them and were being greeted by very officious-looking men and women, some of whom bowed as they greeted the woman; others opened the coach door for her, while still others rushed to the soarer and retrieved what had to be baggage from a compartment under the passenger unit. Other cargo was also carried, and several buggies came right up to the soarer for it.

We just stood there, not quite knowing what to do. Finally I went over to the crewman who had been our host aboard. “Excuse me—but is this Bourget?” I asked him, praying that it was.

“Oh, yeah,” he responded. “This is where you wanted to go, wasn’t it? Our next stop’s Lamasa.”

“This is the place,” I assured him, then thanked him and turned back to Zala. “Well, I guess we go over to that group and see if anybody’s expecting us.”

We walked cautiously over to the second coach, then looked expectantly at a couple of the people standing around. One young man—hardly more than a boy—grasped our situation and came over to us. “You the new Accountant?” he asked.

I felt relieved. “That’s me. Park Lacoch.”

He looked over expectantly at Zala. “You?”

“Zala Embuay. I’m his—assistant.”

“Yeah, sure,” the boy responded knowingly. “Well, if you two’ll get into the coach there we’ll get you into town and squared away.” He looked around. “Any luggage?”

“No,” I told him. “We’re new to Charon. We’re going to have to pick up everything we need here.”

He seemed mildly interested. “Outside, huh? Funny they’d stick you here.”

I shrugged and climbed into the coach. “They gave me the job and I took it I wasn’t in any position to say no.”

We rode into town in silence, there not being much to say. The boy was not the driver, but stayed topside with him.

Bourget was not quite what I expected. A small village set against a very pretty bay, it was up and around low hills covered with trees. The buildings were all low and mostly painted white with reddish-brown roofs. There was nothing like the glassed-in sidewalks of Montlay or its more modern architecture. It was more like a small peasant village on one of the better frontier worlds, with the buildings made mostly of adobe and stucco of some kind, many with thatched roofs of that reddish-brown plant. Despite the clouds, it clearly didn’t rain as much here as farther north, which was well and good from my point of view. There were many boats in the harbor, most with masts.

But it was really hot, easily over 40 degrees Centigrade, and both Zala and I were sweating profusely. I didn’t know about her, but I needed a long, cold drink of something—anything.

Zala, however, was impressed. “Why, it’s really pretty,” she commented, looking out the window at the scene.

The town was organized around a central square that had a little park in the middle and four large multipurpose buildings—each a square block around although all two stories tall—which were obviously markets, shops, and stalls. The coach pulled up across from the one of the four buildings that had a more or less solid front and stopped. The boy jumped down, opened the door, and helped us both down.

The place was lively, I’ll say that. People rushing this way and that, stalls open to the outside displaying lots of fruits, vegetables, clothes, and handicrafts, and doing a fair business from the look of it.

“Come with me now,” the boy instructed, and we followed. I could see that Zala had completely recovered from her flight for she was showing some anticipation at touring the market.

We entered the solid-facade building and found ourselves in a wide entry hall with a large wooden staircase situated directly in the middle. Corridors led off in all directions with what were obviously offices along them. The boy stopped and turned to us. “You wait here. I’ll see if the Master is in.” And with that he bounded up the stairs and was off.

Zala turned to me. “Who do you think he means?”

“Probably the local wizard,” I replied. “Remember to be respectful to him. I want to get off on a good note.”

“Don’t worry.”

We waited for the boy to return. A few people walked here and there on unknown business, but none gave us more than a passing glance. Civil servants looked the same anywhere. The one oddity was that the place was cool—at least a lot cooler than it was outside. There was certainly some land of air circulation system at work, although what type I could not guess. Not regular air-conditioning, that was for sure—the temperature was down, but not the humidity.

Before long the boy was back. “The Master will see you,” he told us, and we followed him upstairs. It was a bit warmer there, as would be expected, and as we walked to the rear of the large building I was conscious of the temperature rising.

We were ushered into an office with nothing on the door. There was an antechamber, like a waiting room, with nobody behind the desk; we went straight back to a second door which the boy opened.

We felt a surprising blast of cool, dry air as we entered. The office was large and very comfortably appointed, with a huge carved wooden desk in the center. Behind that desk sat a rather large man with an enormous white beard, as if in compensation for his mostly bald head. He was smoking a pipe.

He smiled as we entered and nodded. “Please, take seats in front of the desk here,” he said pleasantly, gesturing. The chairs, large and high-backed, were modern and quite comfortable, although as the man surely knew, it’s impossible for a person sitting opposite anyone behind a desk to feel on an equal footing.

The bearded man looked at the boy. “That’ll be all, Gori. Shut the door on your way out.” The boy nodded and did as instructed. “A good lad, that,” the man commented. “Might make a good apt someday, if he gets over his hangup.”

I couldn’t imagine what the fellow was talking about, so I said, “Hang-up?”

“Yes. He wants to be a fish. Oh, well—I’m Tally Kokul, chief magician and high muckety-muck of this little speck of humanity.”

“Park Lacoch,” I responded, “and this is Zala Embuay.” He looked at Zala, and I saw a little puzzlement come over his face, but he recovered quickly. Whatever Korman had seen, though, Kokul had just seen as well.

“I knew you were coming, Lacoch, but nobody said anything about the lady here. I—” He was about to continue when there was a knock at the door. The boy Gori entered and placed a brief-pouch on his desk, then turned and left again. “I was wondering about this,” he muttered, as he opened it, removed two file folders, discarded one and opened and looked through the other. I could guess pretty well that those folders contained everything known on both of us, along with orders and recommendations from above. “Humph. I’m not sure I like your status, Madame Embuay,” he said almost to himself. He looked up at her. “Bourget is a pretty conservative village. Other than myself, you’re the only two people here not native to Charon.” Zala looked blank, so I hazarded a guess. “Religious?” He nodded. “Fifty, sixty years ago the Diamond had a near invasion of missionaries from all sorts of sects. The Confederacy more or less encouraged it—got the fanatics out of their hair and voluntarily exiled here for life. Bourget wasn’t much of anything then—it still isn’t all that much, although we now rate as a sort of local capital. This one group, the Unitites, were real fanatics and were pretty much run out of all the established towns. But their leader, a fellow named Suritani, was a real lady’s man who was also pretty well practiced in the Arts. He was able to get a pretty good following, mostly female, and came here and established Bourget as a religious colony of sorts. Most everybody here’s a cousin of everybody else.”

“Sounds pretty liberal to me,” I noted. Zala said nothing.

“Oh, it was—for the big man. But not for everybody else. The usual story. Understand, I’m the only one around who can get away with talk like this. You better respect the local beliefs so you don’t step on any.”

I nodded, and he went on.

“Well, anyway, you’ll find most everybody stops twice a day—at eight and six—and prays together for a couple of minutes. Men and women have clearly defined, but different jobs, very strict, and men can have up to three wives. We still have more women than men by a long shot.”

“Can a woman have three husbands?” Zala asked, seriously interested.

“No. I told you it was an old-style, almost throwback religion—one big god, who supposedly lives at the center of the universe, and assorted godlets who are the messengers between people and this one god. All very complex, and very strict.”

“Sounds like this isn’t a very good place for loyalty to the central government,” I noted. “Not with a woman as Lord of Cerberus.”

“You’re very perceptive, Lacoch. I can see why they sent you. You’re right—they simply don’t accept the prevailing politics, which is always a headache to me. One of several this sect gives me, frankly. Most of them just prefer to believe Aeolia Matuze has a man who does all the thinking for her, making her a bridge, like the godlets. So far that’s been okay, although there’ve been rumblings that our leader is going to declare her divinity and impose her own religion on the planet. If it comes to that, they may have to get a new population for Bourget, even the Company chiefs. I’m hoping that, at least, I can get a soft-pedaled exemption here.”

I sympathized with his problem, and it didn’t escape me that the chief sorcerer of Bourget was a ripe candidate for somebody like Koril.

“This religion is a hundred percent, then?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing’s ever a hundred percent. I’d say about half the people are really devout and really believe all of it, another thirty percent just do it because it’s the way they were raised, and another ten go through the motions just to avoid trouble.”

“That’s only ninety percent,” I noted.

He nodded. “The other ten are with the opposition.”

“The opposition?”

“Most religions have a devil, a demon, somebody who represents evil and on which everything bad can be blamed. This one’s no exception. It’s called the Destroyer. Some personalities are just naturally attracted to the side of evil in such a strict society. In addition, it’s a natural place for people in Bourget who chafe under the strict society—women, mostly, who have some or a lot of the Art, and know either by experience or direct knowledge that the rest of the worlds allow women not only equality, but occasionally superiority. It used to be pretty local, but lately similar cults have been cropping up all over Charon, and there’s some evidence that they’ve been co-opted by a political opposition to the rule of Matuze.”

“I’m familiar with the politics of the situation,” I told him. “Still, it seems funny that the logical order’s been reversed here. The establishment, which backs the existing order on Charon, is prejudiced against women in leadership positions yet has a woman at its head; the opposition, which wants women made equal like everywhere else, is falling in with a group designed to put a man back in power.”

Zala followed the conversation but said nothing. I had pretty well given her the entire outline of recent history on Charon, so she at least knew the players even if she didn’t seem quite able to understand the game.

“Well, it’s not that simple,” Kokul came back. “On most of Charon it’s different, although some towns have pockets with even crazier beliefs and systems than Bourget. What we have is a three-sided system here, as in most places. Our cult with its value system; the opposition, which ties into the overall opposition; and governmental authority—which right now is you and me and just about nobody else.”

I understood what he meant, and although it wasn’t comforting to me, I could well understand why I’d been sent to Bourget. The stricter the local social system, the more likely that the opposition—and Koril’s strength and agents—would be powerful and well-organized as well, particularly with its south-coast location and general isolation.

Although Kokul seemed casual and not a little cynical about Matuze, I was under no illusions that he could be trusted. Like me, he was from some other world and culture—and had been sent here for a reason. No matter how casual he was about the central government, there had to be the suspicion that they would hardly send a traitor or an incompetent to such a sensitive spot as Bourget.

“Enough about that,” the wizard decided. “As for Bourget—well, if you can tolerate the social structure, which really isn’t all that bad once you get used to it, the citizens are a pretty good, hard-working lot. We’re self-sufficient in food and building materials, have a lively local handicrafts industry, and generate a fair amount of surplus income through exports. Not bad for a village of less than 5000. The climate has two seasons—hot and hotter—so outside of official circles you’ll find dress ranges from little to less. We have good ground water, which is safe for all purposes, and back in the hills some really nice waterfalls, which we’ve harnessed as best we can for everything from cooling systems to pumps and the like—all direct mechanical, though. About the most modern machine you’ll find here is a solar watch, although we do generate some minor steam power for the big jobs, mostly out in the Companies. It’s surprising what good engineering will do, even without modern power sources.”

I accepted his point, since it was self-evident—early man had built some stunning empires on the most basic of power sources. “So what’s my job here?” I asked him. “And how do we get set up and get started?”

“Well, it’s basically supervision, but as you’re responsible for overall efficiency, the accuracy of all data and will be held accountable for any problems or errors, it’s very much a hands-on job. Within a day’s journey of Bourget are nine Companies, employing upwards of a thousand people and producing very valuable commodities. In town, there are thirty guilds which produce everything from clothing to handicrafts. All of them need things and I don’t just mean raw materials. You are, basically, the head of the local bank. The government’s syndicates meet four times a year in Monday and decide on a fair price and profit margin for everything, and you get the official rates in a big book. The job of your office is to maintain a balance between what they get and what they provide according to the set table of values. All Company orders come to you, as do orders for their products. The trick is to make sure the Companies get only what they have paid for in products, but receive enough to get by on. If there is an imbalance in their favor, they are paid in money.”

I nodded, “founds pretty direct. But who pays my salary, my staff, and my operating expenses?”

“Well, that’s simple. The bank takes ten percent of all transactions at the time of the transaction. Half of that is your take, split along mutually agreeable lines. Naturally, in good times you make more than in bad, with each employee getting a share. The rest gets sent on to Charon’s government.”

I nodded. “So the more I encourage business and make it easier, by advice, suggestion, whatever, to increase production, the more we all make. A very interesting system.”

“That’s about it,” he agreed. “If somebody’s got a real problem you can send for an expert to help—paid out of your overhead, though.”

That, perhaps, explained the elderly woman on the soarer. I wondered how somebody used to being the boss would like this culture, even for a short time. Still, I had a few more questions.

“Where will we live and how are we going to pick up the basics?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he responded. “The share account for the T.A. kept operating in the two months since the old one died, so there’s a fair amount in there now. You can draw on it downstairs—they’ll be expecting you. Then just buy what you need. A house goes with the job, already furnished—Tudy, that’s the boy who met you, will show it to you. It’s on the bay, an easy walk from here.”

“Out of curiosity—who pays you?” I asked him.

He laughed. “Oh, nobody. The last thing I need is money.” He grew more serious. “Now, the staff will break you in during the next few days—take it easy until you get the hang of it. Your first month you can use learning the ropes, since any minor mistakes can be blamed on the past two month’s vacancy. We open at eight each morning, the markets and stores at nine, and we close except for a night accounting staff at four. The businesses stay open until nine or ten, the cafes a bit later, but the nightlife’s pretty poor around here. For one thing, they drink only weak beer and light wines, and the entertainment’s mostly home-grown and not very good. We go for six days, then take three off, then go again.”

“I would guess a small town like this is full of gossip and rumor,” I noted. “I doubt if it’s going to take very long to get to know these people.”

“Oh, it’ll be easier than that. We’ll introduce the two of you at your wedding.”

“What!” That was Zala.

“I said it was a conservative place. You have no job, no means of support—and you’re quite attractive. I assume that you’d rather marry Park here, than be forced to marry some local with one or two others around.”

“I don’t want to marry anybody. I don’t believe in it.”

He sighed. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you believe. You’re not back on the civilized worlds now. You’re not even in some freewheeling town like Montlay or Cadura. Remember, you don’t have to take the ceremony very seriously since it’s just for the locals’ consumption.”

“Then why not just say we’re already married?” she wanted to know.

“Because this is the easiest way to get in with the locals. They’ll get to know you, will like you respecting their local customs and beliefs, and they’ll be much more likely to accept you. Just let me arrange it all, and go along. Other than that, just keep your mouth shut when you see something you don’t agree with. Antagonize these people and you can find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m the strongest and most feared wizard in these parts, but I’m hardly the only one who can cast spells and work magic. There’s a lot of home-grown talent around, and a lot more than can be bought. Some of them are pretty good. Unless you can develop your own powers, it’s best to go along with them no matter how backward or ignorant they may seem. This is literally the key to your survival—you have to live with these people and depend on them for your necessities. It can be pretty lonely if you antagonize them from the beginning.”

She seemed slightly unnerved, but a little chastened. “I’ll try,” was all she could promise.