Chapter 2:______Naiad

The glider moved on. It could not come in too low or close, lest it lose its airstream and have to land. But it had done its job of breaking up the harassment. Had the youths not scattered, it could have dropped tear gas, forming a cloud that would have changed the nature of the activity quickly enough. Rioting was a waste of energy, subject to immediate penalty.

Unfortunately Shetland had forgotten to cut out the compressor when the craft started nudging down. Now he had lost too much buoyancy, and could not regain altitude. He was dropping steadily toward the ground.

He stopped the compressor now, and the blimp shot ahead as his full pedal power returned to the fan. He valved more gas into the chamber, but it filled slowly: another built-in waste-reduction measure. Finally he leveled off with the help of his plane, barely twenty feet from the ground.

Only it wasn't ground. It was water. Preoccupied with the harassment and elevation, he had not paid attention to direction, and the wind had taken him over a small reservoir. He was lucky he hadn't gotten dunked!

Still, it was bad enough. Sailboats were crossing the water, their masts rising above his own present elevation. Each sail bore a large L: these were learners, practicing maneuvers before risking the open waterways traffic. They would not be adept at avoidance. He was headed for one now. He didn't want his bubble punctured by the crossbar!

He worked his vanes and guided around, hardly hearing the Bailsman's angry

"Waster!" shout.

The blimp was finally rising. The stiffening wind was carrying it directly toward another hazard. On a rocky promontory extending from a small beach was a Darrieus hoop, a large modern windmill. Its shaft was vertical, with three ribbonlike loops of thin metal anchored at top and bottom. These were twisted to scoop the wind, making the whole structure rotate on its upright axis. In fact, it most resembled a thirty-foot-tall inverted eggbeater-going at full speed.

His little balloon was headed right for those flashing blades. Not only would they cut it to pieces-they would perform the same service for his body.

He could not rise above it in time. He veered to the side, but a sudden stronger gust of wind bore him straight into it anyway. The storm was developing!

Then he remembered to use his plane. The insulting youths had used their planes to swoop down quickly. Such motion required effort, as it was necessary to peddle strenuously, and the effect was temporary, but at least it was fast.

He angled his plane down sharply-and offbalanced himself. These forces had to be applied cautiously!

He was not sure precisely what maneuver he performed, but he found himself skimming the water barely to one side of the eggbeater. He had cleared it, somehow! But now he was too low, out of control, and too close to the beach.

People were on the shore, throwing themselves out of the way as he zoomed toward them.

His pedal framework snagged on the sand as he swept to shore. The blimp nosed forward and down, like a man tripping, and Shetland landed face down in the sand. His harness kept him seated, but his plane snapped off and his knees were dragging painfully.

Hands grabbed him, halting the rampaging blimp. Dazedly he saw girls: half a dozen nude nymphs, sunbathers. Every one was slender and pretty in an elfin way, as if newly formed from coalescing froth.

Oceanids, he thought. No, those were sea nymphs. These were freshwater. He flipped the pages of his mental dictionary, that had not been disturbed by the shakeup or the angle of his head, searching for the appropriate term, but couldn't find it.

Of course not, he reminded himself impatiently; he had to know what word he was looking for first. Dictionaries went from term to definition, not vice versa.

"Are you all right, blimper?" a worried girl inquired. She had sunbleached light brown hair, and the skin around her eyes was pale where habitual sunglasses had interrupted the tan. That was the only place on her body where her natural pure-white skin color showed through; she had probably been razzed about it, though she was at least three years older than the Miscegenation Act. Well, two years, perhaps. One, certainly. At what age did girls develop, these days? Possibly she felt an affinity to him, the "purebred" of another color.

"Shaken up," he muttered as she reached around him, unfastening the straps. It was necessarily an awkward position, but her tanned small breasts pressed against his side with more than casual force. Nymph she was, indeed; what was the specific term?

With inspiration, he looked up "Oceanid." Sure enough, its definition mentioned its complement, the freshwater nymph: naiad. "Naiad!" he exclaimed.

"What?" She paused, arms around him. She had a pleasant sunbaked smell, and her skin was soft.

"Naiad. Nymph of the lake and fountain. A fair young maid, mythologically.

That is my impression of you."

She smiled. "Really? That's neat! And you're a handsome black devil. Would you like to sex me?"

Caution! The rapidly changing sexual mores of Earth could be disastrous for him. The costume-girl Sosthenna had already shown him that, telling him that he had to be able to strip in mixed company. He had known that such conventions were developing in members of the same race, since they could not marry within it, but this girl was of a different race. But young; what was the minimum age limit now? To "sex" her, as she put it-would that be tantamount to betrothal? Opposite races were under strong pressure to marry.

She evidently thought he was a regular native, a dashing blimpedaler. Better to beg off, politely.

"I would like to sex you all," he said gallantly to the group of girls.

"But in my present state I lack the capacity."

One of the brown nymphs laughed, her breasts jiggling. ''Well spoke, bach!" To be a bachelor was now a mark of respectability, for it was assumed that he wasn't reproducing.

"But we could make it a groupie affair," another girl said brightly, running her left hand down the outside of her thigh as she rotated her hips, and sliding it up on the inside. The gesture had a potent effect on him. Oh, didn't they learn the sexual signals early today!

The others exclaimed with merry agreement, jumping and clapping their hands. Young but eager!

Joking or serious? Shetland wasn't sure. He was normally a lusty man, and this group of seemingly willing nymphs barely into their teens was very like some of his space-haul erotic fancies. He was sure now: age had become no barrier. Any individual who desired sex and possessed the physical indications of maturity was entitled to it, provided the proposed partner was amenable and there was no force or pain. All the girls would have been treated at menarche to prevent conception. These were fresh and clean and wholesome creatures, and there was no question of multiple marriage-though who could tell what the standard might be by the time of his next leave?! But after the harassment by the young men, he took nothing for granted. He could not enter into this under false premises.

"Ladies, I must make a confession," he said gravely, and they tittered with pleasure at the adult address. Observing the quivering motions of their pert mammaries as their pleased embarrassment manifested, he wondered whether he had just discovered the true origin of the term "titter." Tit-titter-titillate ... of course his mental dictionary said that last word derived from the Latin titillo, tickle. But who could say where the tickling might be done?

"I am of space."

All six young faces froze, eyes staring at him with that dainty fixity typical of shocked nymphs. In the past decade they might have reacted similarly had he confessed to being a pederast or a truant officer. Today pederasty was socially acceptable, even popular; school, less so. But not space travel.

Finally the naiad, the friendly white girl, spoke with difficulty. "I suppose someone has to go to space. When you get drafted, you just have to go, or-"

"I was drafted," he said. "But after my compulsory tour, I re-spaced. I am a career officer."

They were visibly torn between awe and horror. Space still had its fascination, perhaps because of its traditionalistic military aspects, but the phenomenal waste of energy associated with it dominated the popular conception.

"We should have let him drag," a black-haired nymph said bitterly.

"Let's be fair," a dark brown maned one said. "He landed here by accident.

That wasn't his fault. He told us the truth when he didn't have to, so we wouldn't prok with a waster. We can't really blame him."

Prok-that word again. But this time it was in context. Prok-proc-procreation. A new four-letter term, signifying illicit reproduction, similar to the one he had been raised with. A word of many purposes, ambition mixed with negation. Sex was no longer suspect, but procreation was, especially between members of the same race. Since many people still opposed the Miscegenation Act, the only guaranteed good sex was sterile sex. Or so the polite-society myth went.

"We sure can't really praise him either!" another exclaimed. "A prokin'

spacer^

The white girl blushed, victim of her companion's lewd language. There was a brief silence.

Then the brown nymph, adept at compromise, said brightly: "Let's give him a five-second head start."

Smiles flashed. Recent improvements in nutrition and prophylaxis had given them all perfect teeth. "That's fair!" they agreed.

Shetland glanced around. Two of them held his blimp, their combined weight too much for it despite the tug of wind, though there were scuffly marks in the sand where gusts had made their feet drag. The storm was developing, blowing the girls' hair across their faces attractively.

Three others were stooping, gathering handfuls of sand and what stones they could find. Only the naiad remained aloof, gazing at him with such disappointment that he was sorry for her. Even one-minute heartbreaks were keen at that age. To find a kindred soul, to have the chance to engage in genuine adult sex with him, the dream of proclaiming afterward "I had it with a full-grown man, forty at least, and totally opposite race!"-and then to lose him to something as stupid as this! Shetland understood, for he shared the feeling, whether straight or mirror-image. Now she would have to participate in the witch-hunt, lest she suffer ostracism by her companions, and it might be months before she had another such chance. But condemnation by her peers was, of course, beyond her capacity to tolerate.

Would they try really to hurt him? If it was to be merely a matter of tackling him, getting him down, stripping him, rubbing sand in his hair, and perhaps playing a game of "Samson" by holding him down while they took turns playing with his genitals and concluding with a "rape" by the chosen nymph before they let him go ... well, he had heard of such things, and would be willing to submit. But he had no assurance that they would not instead punish him truly, beating him as hard as they dared without killing him. That, too, he knew of.

He was a man in fit physical condition; they were freshly nubile girls. He could fight, using his training to knock them out in rapid order. He doubted that all six together could stand effectively against him if he chose that course. But he didn't want to attack these lovely little nymphs-especially if their intent was merely to play with him, in whatever manner.

That left only one safe and feasible course: the one suggested. The chase.

He leaped for the blimp. The two were too quick for him. Laughing, they let the craft go. Unburdened, it shot into the air, its broken plane dangling.

He made a grab for it, but a yellow nymph blocked him, getting her illicit thrill as his body thrust against hers. Then the blimp was out of reach.

"You have wasted the balloon!" the naiad cried, horrified. "That's just as bad as what he-"

But Shetland's motion had started the clock. "One, two," the girls chanted in place, clapping their hands in the measured cadence. "Three, four, FIVE!"

He ran. The sand gave way under his feet, costing him traction.

Barefooted, the girls were better off. A stone caught him in the back. It didn't hurt; it was too small, and lacked force. They weren't really trying to harm him, then, just to chastise him. It was a demonstration they had to make, to prove how they hated space. The waste of space!

Had he made a mistake, then, in running? Had he even advanced on them menacingly, they probably would have scattered in panic. All except the naiad, perhaps. But he, too, had a demonstration to make: that in no case would he hurt them. If he became certain that they were only playing, he might allow them to catch him, and he would submit with only token resistance to their

"punishment." He had seen the forbidden longing in the naiad's face. Not merely sexual: one day she might even go to space herself, having seen the human side of it. There was so much he could tell her, in the guise of a casual erotic encounter. So much he might gain from her innocent but genuine attention. Her feelings were mixed but genuine.

He charged down the beach toward the Darrieus rotor. A mistake; there was no path beyond it, just the open water-and these nude girls could surely swim better than he could in his clothes. He would be caught in a drown-or-be-drowned situation, for their frenzy was building like the storm, becoming genuine. Water could be an excellent site for sexual games, but it was also entirely too dangerous. Already other naked sunbathers were joining in, male and female, and the naiad was falling back. That was the signal of the deteriorating nature of the chase. The pursuers had the land cut off; there was nowhere to go but toward the windmill.

Maybe that was their intent, if a forming mob could be said to have intent: to drive him into the rapidly moving blades of the mill. Then the people would be anonymous and blameless; it would be called accident or suicide. Murder was still a crime, for it was the wasting of human life, but suicide was legitimate so long as it did not destroy anything else of value.

The murder of a spacer would rouse the enforcement agencies, and retribution would be severe; the suicide of the same person would not occasion much alarm on Earth.

The fair nymphs had been ready to engage in group sex with him. Willingly, joyfully, perhaps imaginatively, with the very human excitement of first significant experience, and perhaps some mind-to-mind camaraderie slipped in, as it were illicitly-the very kind of experience he craved. These girls were too young to possess the emotional control of the mature woman; their joys and hurts were openly expressed. Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut? He could have had it all, and gone his way anonymously. All seven participants would have benefited.

But of course he had the answer. It would have been dishonest to accept their ministrations under a false pretense. Though he liked genuine sexual interplay, integrity was fundamental. This was not a position many people understood or appreciated, but he knew he would never alter it. If he ever found a woman with a similar attitude . . .

Actually, he had found one, once. She had been, if anything, yet more set in this matter than he. She had even-No, no! Block it out! Forget, bury, hide!

He was panting now, but he had outdistanced the pursuit. His footwear gave him an advantage here on the rocky projection; their bare feet slowed them. He was a powerful man, with unusual endurance; that came of exposure to sustained high-gee acceleration. He also had inflexible determination, and could push himself, physically and mentally, much beyond the normal limits of others.

He was, however, coming up against natural limits now. The blades barred his further progress, and the lake on either side of the promontory limited maneuvering. No police glider was in sight this time. He would have to choose between his propensities for disabling hand-to-hand combat and his inclination to offer no resistance at all. The former was more likely, now that the group of girls had been supplanted by a different kind of throng, but also more complicated. He would be held accountable for any person he hurt, and the image of the Space Service would suffer yet another blow. But if he did not resist, he could get himself maimed or killed.

Now he saw that the mill rotor was set up on a substantial pedestal-in more than one respect, considering this culture's newfound worship of "free"

power-in order to bring the blades into the wind properly. He would have to leap up to touch the dangerous part. That was fortunate, because the wind was now increasing to near-gale strength, with stronger gusts, making the blades sing with their special melody of force. The mill was in its element, literally; it was built to withstand hurricane-force winds, and Shetland knew that the power to be drawn from that wind varied with the cube of its velocity. A storm was excellent news for this mill!

And bad news for Shetland. His predicament remained. The waves of the reservoir were now whipping up high; he dared not trust himself to that.

Unless the storm scattered the throng-but this did not seem to be happening.

Rather, it urged them into abandoned excitement; they might do anything.

He passed under the hoop and came up against the central tower of the windmill. Beyond this, he remembered, the escarpment dropped down into the water. He could go no farther.

The pursuers swarmed in. The intensifying storm had thinned out the gentler elements, leaving the most aggressive males. They were forging into the opposing wind, their eyes slitted, their hair flattened back. They were now beyond reason; they were governed by the blood-lust of the mob. There could be no submission; that would lead only to a quicker demise.

"I am of space!" he cried. "There will be an accounting!" But this threat, quite valid, was wasted in the howl of the wind. They could not even hear him.

He had to fight.

Again, belatedly, he wished he had lingered for the briefing at the Station. He would surely have been warned of this type of encounter, and told how to avoid it. Perhaps they would have provided him with a better blimped route, one that did not pass high buildings or beaches or windmills.

Shetland braced his back against the stone and concrete wall and raised his hands, prepared to defend himself. He was now out of the wind, while it still half blinded his pursuers. But when they came close to the tower, they would be shielded from it too.

"Come in, Captain," a deep voice said almost behind him.

Shetland jumped, startled. His head snapped about.

A large yellow man stood in a doorway that had opened in the base of the Darrieus structure. He was pure Mongoloid, therefore another racial outcast, and he was smiling. Shetland glanced at the oncoming crowd, and decided to accept the proffered hospitality. He stepped rapidly to the door.

The yellow man closed it behind them, and the fury of the storm abruptly cut off. The host set an old-fashioned wooden bar across the inside. The door was stout, as befitted the fixtures of a hurricane-proof domicile; no one would break through it barehanded.

"The weather will now disperse them," the man said. His voice was beautiful: not merely extraordinarily low, but possessed of special tonal qualities that made it fascinating. Some deep voices Shetland had heard were coarse, but this one was almost musical, like the lowest pitch of the base strings in an orchestra. The effect was heightened by a certain subtle oriental accent; undoubtedly the man had been brought to this section of the world by one of the tremendous migratory currents spawned by the Miscegenation Act.

"Thank you. I am-Kerr Shetland," he gasped. That pursuit had become as dangerous as any threat in space! "No Captain; my level is Commander. But it is true I am of space."

He waited for the negative reaction, but it did not come. "I am Somnanda."

They shook hands gravely. It occurred to Shetland that a formal bow might be more in keeping with this man's heritage. But it would be artificial to attempt that here. "I was aware of your approach," Somnanda said.

"The whole beach was aware of it!" Shetland agreed ruefully.

"I refer to prior information." Somnanda half turned. "I have prepared a meal; you are in hunger." He showed the way to a small central compartment, more by a nod of the large head than by any perambulatory motion, for the space here was as crowded as that of a shuttleship. A compact table rising only inches off the floor was set for two.

"You really did know!" Shetland said. "Are you psychic?"

"Yes."

Shetland paused. He had spoken lightly, but the assent was completely serious. Unable to explore the ramifications of this response rapidly, he changed the subject. "Don't you have to tend to the mill during the storm? I should think there would be adjustments, and I would not wish to distract you from your business."

"I am aware of the mill." That was all the explanation a psychic needed to provide, it seemed. "I favor the oriental ways. You will master chopsticks rapidly, for you have excellent coordination."

"Yes." Coordination was another necessity of space; no psychic information was needed for that insight!

They sat crosslegged on the floor on either side of the table and picked up their bowls. Sure enough, Shetland imitated his host and quickly got the hang of the sticks. The technique was to bring the bowl close to the face and manipulate the fingers quickly so that spillage was minimal even by inexperienced hands.

The food was a mixture of vegetables, spiced. It was strange but quite good.

"How is it that you do not object to the space effort?" Shetland inquired.

"You surely know how much energy it consumes."

"It is a necessary consumption, Captain. It-"

"Please, you embarrass me. I lack that status by two grades."

"I doubt that, Captain. I seldom make errors of that nature."

So much for psychic accuracy. Shetland let it go; he had had enough of dissension, and did not wish to antagonize his mysterious host. "I regret interrupting you."

"Space is the only avenue remaining for the possible salvation of our kind," Somnanda said gravely. Oh, that melodic voice that made even obvious statements seem to have special import! "Our critical need is for energy. Only in space is there hope of discovering new sources. It is true that this search requires tremendous expenditures of resources, but we appear to have no alternative. Soon the effort may be rewarded with phenomenal success. And your own part in it-"

"I am surprised that one who is psychic should manage a windmill,"

Shetland said. "The task would seem to lack challenge."

"It seems I am also lethargic, Captain. Perhaps that is the root of my ability. It is easier to economize on the expenditure of energy if one is aware of the larger framework. Watchmen are needed for the comparatively dull assignments like this one, for the mill as a channel of power has considerable value to the society, and full employment is guaranteed by the government."

"The Employment Act," Shetland agreed.

"It is largely a sinecure inherent in the system that allows us to relax.

I do, however, maintain the rotor in excellent operational form."

By being psychically aware of its needs? "I understand there are a number of such sinecures," Shetland said. "Many people, it seems, consider the entire Space Service to be of a similar nature."

Somnanda smiled, acknowledging the irony. He moved aside the empty bowls.

"Water, Captain?"

"If you please."

They took glasses of chill water, holding them momentarily high in the manner of a toast. After the spiced vegetables, the drink was most refreshing.

"Shall we play a game of chess, Captain?"

Shetland smiled. "You certainly are aware of my foibles! Do you have a board?"

"It is not necessary. Select your opening."

A dawning hope filled Shetland's breast. What he contemplated was fully as appealing as the sex proposed by the naiad, in its special way. "White: Pawn to King Four," he said.

"Black: Pawn to Queen Four."

"Sicilian," Shetland murmured, pleased. The opening intrigued him; but more than that, he appreciated the fact that Somnanda, like himself, could play mental chess. A rare discovery! "Do you also have eidetic memory?"

"No, Captain. I merely enjoy the game. It requires no physical effort."

That was certainly true, when no board or pieces were used! Delightful.

They played out the game. Shetland knew himself to be a strong if conventional player, because he had total recall and seldom made simple errors. He could review all the principal lines of strategy from his mental chess manuals. But Somnanda, playing in less orthodox fashion, defeated him roundly. The formidable power of the man's mind manifested obliquely through his strategy; moves that had seemed superfluous showed their rationale later in the game, when it was too late to counter them. Even here, there was an economy of concept, with brilliance serving in lieu of offensive force; a lazy man's mode. Shetland was aware that he was losing from the outset, but played it through because he was fascinated by the coordinated beauty of Somnanda's technique. Every time he tried to mount an offensive, he discovered that his opponent had anticipated it and set his pieces to foil the thrust. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, this meeting with an original and powerful mind.

"You are a most intelligent man," Shetland said, after conceding the game.

"I envy you that facility."

"Your envy, in this case, is misplaced. I am not intelligent; I merely divine your intent and counter it before it takes effect."

That seemed indeed to have been the case! "You beat me by being psychic?"

"Yes. I did not believe you would object."

"I don't object. I don't believe in the supernatural-no offense intended.

I feel you are merely an excellent player. I have not had a game like this in years." And without a board-oh, marvelous!

A phone sounded. "It is for you," Somnanda said, unmoving.

Surprised, for the man had not touched the instrument, Shetland reached across and picked up the receiver. "Commander Shetland speaking."

"I shall read these orders to you verbatim," the operator said, seeming unsurprised to have her party answer on this strange number. She had a sweet voice, as they all did. "KERR SHETLAND 0-5 SPACE SERVICE, PLANET LEAVE

CANCELED. REPORT TO ORBITAL STATION FOR DUTY ABOARD THE MEG II TIMESHIP AS

COMMANDING OFFICER. PROMOTION TO CAPTAIN 0-7 EFFECTIVE THIS HOUR." She paused.

"That is the message; please acknowledge."

Shetland sat openmouthed, unanswering.

"Acknowledged," Somnanda said loudly.

"Thank you-and congratulations, Captain," the operator said, and disconnected.

Shetland hung up the receiver and stared at Somnanda. "You really are psychic! I had no inkling of this!"

Somnanda nodded gravely.

"You kept calling me 'Captain,' and you knew the call was mine-yet my arrival here was random, and my garb outlandish." He glanced down at his bedraggled outfit. "No one could have anticipated-" He paused. "Yet the operator also knew-"

"I notified the local switchboard that you had arrived when I saw you on the beach," Somnanda explained. "I did not then know your name, for such specifics are not within my competence, but presumably there are not many space officers in this region at this moment. No mystery attaches there. It would also have been possible for me to gain notice of your new status when-"

"The Space Service does not read orders to strangers!" Shetland objected-then realized that he was arguing the case for psychic knowledge. He shook his head. "All this is entirely contrary to my mode of belief. I do not accept the supernatural as a valid force."

"Nor do I." The man smiled at Shetland's surprise. "I do not regard my psychic ability as other than natural, Captain. It is a special talent, similar to your photographic memory."

"Yes, but-I might as well place credence in a ghost!"

"Why not, Captain? I do."

Shetland shook his head again, but it did not clear the confusion. "I am an extremely pragmatic individual."

"This would seem to be the reason for your promotion."

Shetland, balked by the immensity of concept, focused on a detail. "You are not surel"

"I know what is, not why," Somnanda explained. "And my power does not generally apply to myself, except as I relate to others, as in playing chess.

I read your situation, then tailor mine to it. I do not know my own future, and I really do not know yours. I am merely aware of contemporary events as they relate to those people around me, such as your new assignment. That had been determined before we met. It seems that the message did not reach you before your leave commenced."

"Typical red tape," Shetland agreed. He reread the message now imprinted in his memory. "Duty aboard the Meg II Timeship as commanding officer. So they had to promote me to the minimum grade for that office, though they bucked channels-" He frowned. "What in space is a 'timeship'?"

"That would be a ship that travels in time."

"Paradox, therefore impossible."

"I should have thought so too. It seems we were mistaken."

"We can't be mistaken. There is no way a ship can travel in time-other than straight forward at the rate we all do. Time is inflexible. Consider the anomalies if we were to go five years into our own past-" He shook his head again and rubbed his sore knees. "Paradox!"

"I agree," Somnanda said. "Yet there is no error in your orders. You are to command a timeship-and I feel this will be crucially important to the welfare of our species."

"You mentioned a ghost. What is that?"

Somnanda frowned. "You mentioned it, Captain. I only concurred."

Shetland suppressed a tinge of annoyance. "Then what ghost do you know of, that brought that concurrence?"

"I do not know. Only that it relates to you in a transcendently important manner,"

Shetland stood with abrupt decision. "I must report to my new ship. I thank you for your hospitality and a fine chess game, and trust we shall meet again."

For once, Somnanda looked surprised. "Captain, you intend to have me drafted into the Space Service!"

"Oh, do I?" Shetland inquired, smiling. "If I discover that this ship, the Meg II, really can travel in time, or that there really is some kind of ghost, I am going to need the services of a really competent psychic."