Downbelow Station

And Marsh moved through their midst, sat in their sessions, regarded them in private with a bruised, disheveled look, without their moral support… because to ask reasons or offer comfort was to breach the silence which was their defensive wall. Why? Ayres had written once on a plastic tabletop by Marsh’s arm. In the oil of his fingertip, something he trusted no lens could pick up. And when that had gained no reaction: What? Marsh had erased both, and written nothing, turned his face away, his lips trembling in imminent breakdown. Ayres had not repeated the question.

Now at length he rose, walked to Marsh’s door, slid it open without knocking.

Marsh sat on his bed, fully clothed, arms locked across his ribs, staring at the wall, or beyond it

Ayres walked over to him, bent down by his ear. “Concisely,” he said in the faintest of whispers, not sure even that would fail to be heard, “what do you think is going on? Have they been questioning you? Answer me.”

A moment passed. Marsh shook his head slowly.

“Answer,” Ayres said.

“I am singled out for delays,” Marsh said, a whisper that stammered. “My assignments are never in order. There’s always some mixup. They keep me sitting and waiting for hours. That’s all, sir.”

“I believe you,” Ayres said. He was not sure he did, but he offered it all the same, and patted Marsh’s shoulder. Marsh broke down and cried, tears pouring down a face which struggled to be composed. The supposed cameras… they were eternally conscious of the cameras they believed to be present

Ayres was shaken by this, the suspicion that they themselves were Marsh’s tormentors, as much as Union. He left the room and walked back into the other. And swelling with anger he stopped amid the room, turned his face up to the complicated crystal light fixture which was his chiefest suspicion of monitoring. “I protest,” he said sharply, “this deliberate and unwarranted harassment.”

Then he turned and sat down, watched the vid again. His companions had reacted no more than to look up. The silence resumed.

There was no acknowledgment of the incident the next morning, in the arrival of the day’s schedule, carried by a gun-wearing ma

Meeting 0800, it informed them. The day was starting early. There was no other information, not topic nor with whom nor where, not even mention for arrangements of lunch, which were usually included. Marsh came out of his room, shadow-eyed as if he had not slept “We don’t have much time for breakfast,” Ayres said; it was usually delivered to their quarters at 0730, and it was within a few minutes of that time.

The light at the door flashed a second time. It opened from the outside, no breakfast, rather a trio of the ma

“Ayres,” one said. Just that, without courtesies. “Come.”

He bit back a reply. There was no arguing with them; he had told his people so. He looked at the others, went back and got his jacket, playing the same game, taking time and deliberately irritating those waiting on him. When he reckoned that he had delayed as long as made the point he came alone to the door and into the custody of the young guards.

Marsh, he could not help thinking. What was their game with Marsh?

They brought him down the corridor in the correct direction for the lift, through the lift-sequence and halls without marking or designation, into the conference rooms and offices, which relieved his immediate apprehensions. They entered a familiar room, and passed through into one of the three interview rooms they used. Military this time. The silver-haired man at the small circular table had metal enough studding the pocket-flap of his black uniform to have made up the ranks of the last several he had talked to combined. Insane pattern of insignia. No knowing what, precisely, the intricate emblems represented… amusing on one level, that Union had managed to evolve so complex a system of medals and insignia, as if all that metal were meant to impress. But it was authority, and power; and that was not amusing at all.

“Delegate Ayres.” The gray-haired man… gray with rejuv, by the scarcely lined vigor of the face, a drug entirely common out here… available on Earth only in inferior substitutes… rose and offered his hand. Ayres took it solemnly. “Seb Azov,” the man introduced himself. “From the Directorate. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The central government; the Directorate was, he had learned, now a body of three hundred twelve: whether this related to the number of stations and worlds in some proportion, he was not aware. It met not only on Cyteen but elsewhere; and how one got into it, he did not know. This man was, beyond doubt, military.

“I regret,” Ayres said coldly, “to begin our acquaintance with a protest, citizen Azov, but I refuse to talk until a certain matter is cleared up.”

Azov lifted bland brows, sat down again. “The matter, sir?”

“The harassment to which one of my party is being subjected.”

“Harassment, sir?”

He was, he knew, supposed to lose his composure, give way to nervousness or anger. He refused either. “Delegate Marsh and your computer seem to find difficulty locating his room assignments, remarkable, since we are inevitably lodged together. I rate your technical competency above that. I am unable to name it anything but harassment that this man is kept waiting hours while alleged discrepancies are sorted out. I maintain that this is harassment designed to lessen our efficiency through exhaustion. I complain of other tactics, such as the inability of your staff to provide us recreational opportunity or room for exercise, such as the inevitable insistence of your staff that they lack authorizations, such as the evasive responses of your staff when we make an inquiry regarding the name of this base. We were promised Cyteen. How are we to know whether we are speaking to authorized persons or merely to low-level functionaries of no competency or authority to negotiate the serious matters on which we have come? We have traveled a far distance, citizen, to settle a grievous and dangerous situation, and we have received precious little cooperation from the persons we have met here.”

It was not improvisation. He had prepared the speech for an occasion of opportunity, and the visible brass presented the target. Clearly, Azov was a little taken aback by the attack. Ayres maintained a front of anger, the best miming he had yet done, for he was terrified. His heart hammered against his ribs and he hoped his color had not changed perceptibly.

“It will be attended,” Azov said after a moment.

“I should prefer,” said Ayres, “stronger assurance.”

Azov sat staring at him a moment. “Take my word,” he said in a tone that quivered with force, “you will be satisfied. Will you sit, sir? We have some business at hand. Accept my personal apology for the inconvenience to delegate Marsh; it will be investigated and remedied.”

He considered walking out, considered further argument, considered the man in front of him, and took the offered chair. Azov’s eyes fixed on him with, he thought, some measure of respect

“On your word, sir,” Ayres said.

“I regret the matter; I can say little more at the moment There is a pressing matter regarding the negotiations; we’ve come upon what you might call… a situation.” He pressed a button on the table console. “Kindly send in Mr. Jacoby.”

Ayres looked toward the door, slowly, betraying no strong anxiety, although he felt it. The door opened; a man in civilian clothing came in… civilian, not the uniforms or uniform-like suits which had distinguished all who had previously dealt with them.

“Mr. Segust Ayres, Mr. Dayin Jacoby of Pell Station. I understand you’ve met.”

Ayres rose, extended his hand to this arrival in cold courtesy, liking it all less and less. “A casual meeting, perhaps; forgive me, I don’t remember you.”