The Captain

CHAPTER 13

“A drink, sir?” inquired the stewardess.

Tuvo Ausonius looked up at her, instantly noticing that the top button on the high collar of her jacket was undone.

“Sir?” she inquired.

Surely she must realize what was wrong?

It was warm in the cabin. The air conditioning was laboring, and enjoying little success. The gases were weak, the system less than tight. The motor itself could be heard. It had required two manual restarts in the past hour. Surely the procurement office could obtain parts for such devices, and services for them. Citizens were entitled, surely, to at least such minimal consideration. But it was not easy to obtain parts, or even the necessary gases, these days.

It was different, not even so long ago.

And communications were difficult, sometimes impossible.

Certain worlds had been out of touch for months, for example, Tinos, far off in the eighty-third imperial provincial sector.

It was not necessary, surely, for her to lean forward in that fashion.

“No,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

The stewardess turned away.

“You are out of uniform,” said Ausonius, after her.

She turned back, surprised, to face him.

“The upper part of your neck can be seen,” he said. “It is bare.”

She lifted her fingers to her throat.

“Button your collar,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Sir?” she asked, puzzled.

“Button it,” he said.

“It is very warm, sir,” she said.

Ausonius was irritated with this reply, that she should attempt to so mitigate her lapse, that she should attempt to excuse her provocative disarray, seizing upon so obvious a pretext as the temperature in the cabin. “That is no excuse,” he said.

“Are you an inspector?” she asked, frightened.

“I am a civil servant,” he said, modestly, dryly, leaving the nature of his duties menacingly obscure.

He had boarded at Miton. That is not one of the original Telnarian worlds, but it does lie within the first provincial quadrant. More than a million functionaries on ten thousand worlds would have gladly changed places with Tuvo Ausonius, to have a post so close to the heart of the empire.

“Ah,” she said, relieved. The line was a private one. “But one not without some importance,” he said. Private lines, of course, were licensed by the empire, and dependent on the empire for their routes.

There were also, incidentally, many imperial lines. The empire regarded it in its own best interest to maintain her own systems of communication and transportation, public as well as military.

The stewardess turned white.

Tuvo Ausonius conjectured that she was of the humiliori. “I am afraid I shall have to report you,” he said.

“No!” she said, quickly. “Please, no!”

Some other passengers looked in their direction.

Tuvo Ausonius, from her alarm, conjectured, to his satisfaction, that she was indeed of the humiliori. To be sure, that was almost certain from her position on the vessel.

Tuvo Ausonius drew out a notebook and pen.

“What is your name, and employment number,” he asked.

She fumbled with the top closure of the collar.

Ausonius regarded her.

Then, in a moment, the collar was fully fastened, the final closure pulling it up tightly under her chin.

She looked at Ausonius, pathetically.

“Please,” she said.

“Shall I call for the superintendent?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “No!”

“Sesella,” she said. “Sesella Gardener.” She then gave him the number he had requested.

She looked down at him. He now had a hold over her. It was as though he had her on a chain.

“May I speak to you privately?” she asked, urgently.

“Certainly,” smiled Tuvo Ausonius.

He followed her to a small area on the ship, in the nature of a tiny galley, which was closed off by opaque curtains from the main cabin.

In the galley she turned to face him, tears in her eyes.

He regarded her.

She wore the uniform of the line, the dark jacket and trousers, and the tight-fitting cap which kept her hair hidden. The uniform was supposedly designed to be appropriate for sames, a uniform that might with equal felicity, or, better, lack of it, conceal sexual differences. Supposedly it was designed to hide bodies. But Tuvo Ausonius’s lip curled. How he despised the line! How disgusting it was, really. There could be no doubt that the pretense of concealment was rankly hypocritical. The cabin attendant was clearly female. That could be told from the curves within the garment. Too, her face had the sweet delicacy of that of a female. Indeed, even her lips suggested the slightest tincture of lipstick. Surely she had not dared to apply cosmetics!

She looked up at him, pathetically.

“Do not report me,” she begged.

He regarded her, impassively.

“Please, do not!” she said.

He took his thumb and, to her horror, wiped it heavily across her lips. He looked down at the reddish stain on his thumb, with disgust. She had indeed been wearing lipstick, though perhaps the slightest hint of it. Yet there was no mistaking the smudge now, running from her smeared lips, to the left side of her chin. She looked up at him with misery. He held his hand out and she hurried to seize a tissue, and wipe it clean. Then she tried to cleanse her own lips and chin of the mark.

“What a profligate, wicked creature you are,” he said.

“Please, please,” she said.

His expression was impassive.

“Do not report me,” she begged. “I will do anything.”

She drew away the cap she wore, and let her hair, which was darkly lovely, fall about her shoulders.

“Wicked creature!” said Tuvo Ausonius.

“Please,” she begged.

“Perhaps you would look well on your knees,” he said.

She looked at him, wildly. Surely he was not such a man. He had not taken her by force, and put a chain on her.

“No!” she whispered.

He was surely not the sort of man before whom a woman kneels, and knows she must obey.

“How can you want that? How can you ask that? You are of Miton!”

“I only said, ‘Perhaps,’ “he said.

“But you are a same,” she said, “superior to nature, above sexuality, beyond such things, a noble, tender, sensitive, caring nonman, the truest of men!”

“It was merely an observation,” he said.

“No, no,” she whispered.

He regarded her, impassively.

She fell to her knees, before him.

“I am at your mercy,” she said. “I will do anything.”

“I will give you my address, on the summer world,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “I shall be there for a few days.”

He turned back to look at her. She was still on her knees. She held the bit of paper in her hand, with the address written on it, in a careful, precise script.

“I will take that drink now,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“There will be no charge,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

“No, sir,” she said.

“And wipe your face,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Tuvo Ausonius then returned to his seat. He gave his attention, for a time, to his notebooks, but then, after a little while, looked out the porthole, at the blackness of the night, and the brightness of the stars.

He saw his face reflected in the glass, and then returned his attention to the interior of the cabin.

He flicked on the viewer fixed in the back of the seat in front of him, but there was nothing there to interest him, and he turned it off.

Tuvo Ausonius was an executive in the finance division of the first provincial quadrant, and was posted on Miton. He was a level-four civil servant. There were several imperial employees under his supervision. He was also, of course, as were most imperial civil servants, of the honestori. Indeed, to the disgust of Tuvo Ausonius, appointments in the civil service, above the second level, carried the honestori status with them, whether the employee’s antecedents warranted it or not. More importantly, Tuvo Ausonius was of the minor patricians, being related in the 103rd degree to the original Ausonii. He was as yet unmarried, having to date successfully resisted various pressures brought to bear upon him both privately by superiors and publicly by directives of the imperial administration. The numbers of the imperial aristocracy, over the past several generations, doubtless for several reasons, and doubtless all quite understandable and acceptable, had tended to decline. This was, however, a source of concern to the senate and to the imperial administration. Ausonius was not clear on why he had been called to the summer world, and not the capital world, particularly at this time in the fiscal year. He feared it might have to do with appearing before a mating board, perhaps one appointed by the empress mother, he and hundreds of others, in their turn, expected to explain their prolonged bachelor status. It is not that Tuvo Ausonius had never been involved in such matters. Indeed, that fact would surely constitute his best defense against the challenges of such a board. Once, credentials having been examined on both sides, careful, mutual, detailed inquiries completed, and even pictorials exchanged, arrangements, to the weariness and disgust of Tuvo Ausonius, had been finalized. The fortunate young woman, for she was far beneath him, being related only in the 105th degree to the Auresii, was a court officer on Terennia, a position which she had occupied in virtue of the influence of her mother, a judge in a small city in the northern hemisphere of that world. Also lending her assistance to the arrangements was another significant personage of the same city, its mayor. Matters had proceeded quite far. The prospective bride had even, reportedly, embarked for Miton, from Terennia, on an imperial cruise ship, the Alaria. The Alaria, however, had never appeared in orbit about Miton. Its fate was obscure. It was speculated that an explosion on board had damaged the ship irreparably, or that, perhaps, due to detector malfunctions, it had encountered a meteoric rain of such an extent that evasive maneuvers were ineffective and of such force that the shields and hull had crumbled beneath the impacts. As the reader knows, the fate of the Alaria was other than as these conjectures would have it. Its fate, of course, in general terms, had been clear to the imperial ships which had responded to her distress calls, but, until later, it was not understood, even on certain high levels, precisely what had occurred. It had not been thought necessary, in the interests of retaining public confidence, to inform the public that the loss of the Alaria might be explained in terms other than those of accidents, for example, that its loss might be attributable to the activities of unwelcome intruders. In any event, Tribonius Auresius, for that was the unlikely name of the prospective bride, had not arrived on Miton. This eventuality was greeted with some relief by Tuvo Ausonius, but also, interestingly, with some irritation, as he had invested a great deal of time in inquiries and a not inconsiderable expense in negotiations. Tribonius Auresius was, of course, a masculine name, though its bearer was anything but masculine, as she later learned. That name had been bestowed upon her by her mother, doubtless in the interests of assisting her daughter to remain true to the upper-class ethos of Terennia, which was, we note, not unlike that of Miton. Indeed, Miton, for just such reasons, was one of the worlds on which the judge, and her colleague, the mayor, both of whom hoped to considerably improve their fortunes through the young woman’s marriage, conducted their matrimonial and economic searches. The daughter, as it might be recalled, from an earlier account, was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of voyaging to Miton and becoming the bride of Tuvo Ausonius. She had already despised him, and had resolved to make his life miserable, even to the extent of ridiculing him in public and squandering his resources. To be sure, given an assemblage of circumstances, she, doubtless fortunately for Tuvo Ausonius, never received the opportunity to put these plans into effect. Due to the same assemblage of circumstances, she was no longer of either interest or value in the marriage market, though, to be sure, she might have figured in, and would quite possibly have been found of some interest or value in, markets of other sorts.

“Your drink, sir,” said the stewardess.

“Thank you,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

The stewardess looked at him, frightened.

“Seven in the evening, on the first day after debarkation,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

That would give him time to make the necessary arrangements.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“It will begin then,” he said.

“‘Begin’?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Also,” he added, “you will come suitably prepared, suitably garbed, perfumed, adorned, made-up, you understand.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.