Dushau

"I'm not trained for this!" protested Jindigar.

"You've a supreme talent, though. It runs in your family, and I've seen your farfetch test," argued Grisnilter. "You'll never go episodic, Jindigar. You're too stable."

Into Jindigar's anguished silence, Grisnilter said, "You'll still be able to work Oliat. Your conscious mind will have no access until you are trained."

Krinata, intrigued but impatient, interrupted, "You can do whatever it is after we escape."

"No, Krinata, you don't understand," said Jindigar. "Grisnilter is dying. The strain of this ordeal is too great."

"Don't get dramatic now!" commanded Grisnilter. "It's a perfectly natural phenomenon, death. Even Ephemerals do it. But I've a responsibility. I must not die until I've passed the Archive."

It finally penetrated. Dying. Had she caused this attack by her anger that one time? She took the old Dushau's hand, capturing his eyes. "I'm sorry I was so rude on the refugee's ship. I didn't mean it, and I've no excuse except I was worried about Jindigar. I hope what I said didn't make you ill. I've been meaning to apologize."

"I haven't been so polite, myself, child. You may not have meant it, but you were absolutely correct to call me down. I've treated Jindigar shamelessly."

She wanted to hug him, but instead she just patted his hand. "Rest now. We're going to get you out of this."

Jindigar, rising and steering her away through the press of Dushau bodies shielding their elder, said, "He knows it's unlikely we could steal a lander and make it to Truth with a semi-invalid in tow. After what he'd been through before we rescued him, that rescue itself, the affair with the seeker craft, now this—even if we got him back to Arlai's sickbay, there's a frighteningly high probability his memory will be impaired and he won't be able to give the impression."

"Impression?" interrupted Krinata.

"I told you, remember? Grisnilter's an Archivist, carrying our Compiled Long Memory. If he dies without having impressed that memory on a younger Historian, it will be lost. But I'm the only one here who has a chance of taking the impression, even though I'm no Historian."

This, the Historian's profession, was what Jindigar had been desperate to avoid all along. It might even be his reason for exiling himself from Dushaun.

"Wouldn't Arlai have a better chance of helping him than any doctors at the prison?"

"He can't make it," said Jindigar, his voice heavy with defeat. "I've fought him as long as I can. There are loyalties– like your loyalty to the Allegiancy—to one's species, to one's civilization, to life itself, that take precedence over personal loyalties."

She looked up into his eyes. He doesn't believe that. Yet he was pleading for her understanding without realizing that, in the bitter aftermath of her disillusionment with the Allegiancy, she was on the verge of repudiating the very part of herself capable of loyalty to an impersonal idea. She'd thought she'd understood him, with his intense loyalty to individuals who had proved their worth. She'd never been capable of that before meeting him. And now she had nothing else. Looking up into his eyes, she realized Grisnilter had called him to serve abstract, unjudgeable future generations of Dushau, not real stood before her, broken, pleading for her approval so he wouldn't hate himself quite so much for abandoning them.

His nailless fingers were on her cheek, and she knew his fear in her bones. He doesn't believe he's immune to going episodic. But she also knew his determination. She said, "You don't have to wire this bus for us. We can manage. Do what you must. I understand."

"I'll come to help, if I can. After Grisnilter's had his way with me. But I warn you, there might not be much of me left." Head bowed, he went back through the screen of Dushau.

She went back to the front of the bus, ignoring the grating sound of Desdinda's voice as she issued her final warning to Jindigar. It was as if the woman felt he, Grisnilter, and the others who helped them, were committing a sacrilege. Perhaps they were, but from what she'd gleaned of this whole situation, Jindigar was taking the first step toward purifying his reputation among his people. She wished she understood why he didn't want this. Certainly, it was more than the fear of going episodic. He might be evolved prey, but he didn't lack for courage, and that was something she had to emulate now.

Reaching the front, she called with forced cheerfulness, "Well, Jindigar can't spare the time right now, so who else has an idea how to do it?"

Trassle gave it a try, with Terab kibitzing.

A spark leaped, and Trassle was thrown back into the watching crowd. The vehicle ground to a halt. Nothing they could do after that would cause the doors to open.

The air began to go stale very quickly. The Dushau also wilted. She never saw what Grisnilter did to Jindigar, but her last memory before she passed out—sure she was already dead—was Jindigar huddled in on himself, clutching his head and moaning softly. She didn't have the strength to crawl to him and hold him as she had in the imperial antechamber.

She woke up in a long barracks building. The roof overhead was a parabolic curve. The bed under her was scratchy and hard with a lumpy contoured sag under her ribs. The air was hot. She heard water ru

Head spi

She got to her feet and essayed the long, long walk toward the ru

He turned it off, looking at her without recognition. She remembered, There might not be much of me left.

"Grisnilter's dead, Krinata. He was right. He must have been right. It must be that I've been wrong—"

Dear God! His mind! Her own brain still foggy, she made a snap decision, remembering how he could always pull himself together when others depended on him. "Look, Prince Jindigar, you made me a promise, and you're going to keep it. We're stuck in a rat trap with no hope, but you still owe me transportation to a nice safe planet where I and my progeny, if any, can live in peace, freedom and security. I need an Oliat officer to accomplish that, not an Historian!"

Her indignation, by the time she finished, was genuine.

He stood silently before her, naked, dripping, amazed. Then he threw his head back and let out a cry neither sob nor laugh. Two steps, he scooped her up and spun her around, his wet nap soaking her turquoise suit. "Krinata, oh, you are so real! Of course, I'll keep my promise. Don't I always?"

But over the next days, Krinata barely saw Jindigar. The Dushau protected him fanatically, as if he were an invalid in critical condition. Lonely as she was, she had no success thawing the others toward her. Days later she found out why. She was using the shower stall in a corner, and had turned off the water to dry herself when the four humans came in, the two women moving toward Krinata and the men away. One of the women was saying, "They think he's going to die, that's why they won't let her near him."

"If Gibson's right, and she's sleeping with him..."

"How could he be wrong, after she came out of his cabin like that?"

"Even so, Gibson oughta keep his mouth shut. Now all the Dushau know because he let Desdinda find out, and it's clear enough she hates Jindigar. Now the rest of them think Krinata harmed him. Imagine, they think a little natural could do any harm. I warrant that's what the man needs!"