“OK. Sorry. Go on," Horza said, waving one hand.

“I’ve forgotten what else I was going to say," Yalson grinned, looking at the three fingers she had extended as though they

would give her a

clue. She looked at Horza. “I think that about covers it. I’d advise you to keep your head down and your

mouth shut until we get to Marjoin, where

this temple is, and still to keep your head down once we get there, come to think

of it." She laughed, and Horza found himself laughing with her.

She nodded and picked up her spoon again. “Assuming you come

through OK, people will accept you more once you’ve been in a firefight with

them. For now you’re the baby on the ship, no

matter what you’ve done in the past, and regardless of Zallin."

Horza looked at her doubtfully, thinking about attacking anywhere—even an undefended temple—in a second-hand suit with an

unreliable

projectile rifle. “Well," he sighed, spooning more food from his plate, “so long as you don’t all start betting

on which way I’ll fall again…."

Yalson looked at him for a second, then grinned, and went back to her food.

Kraiklyn proved more inquisitive about Horza’s past, despite what Yalson had said. The Man invited Horza to his cabin. It

was neat and tidy,

with everything stowed and clamped or webbed down, and it smelled fresh. Real books lined one wall, and

there was an absorber carpet on

the floor. A model of the

CAT

hung from the ceiling, and a big laser rifle was cradled on another wall; it looked powerful, with a large battery

pack and

a beam-splitter device on the end of the barrel. It gleamed in the soft light of the cabin as though it had been polished.

“Sit down," Kraiklyn said, motioning Horza to a small seat while he adjusted the single bed to a couch and flopped into it.

He reached

behind to a shelf and picked up two snifflasks. He offered one to Horza, who took it and broke the seal. The captain

of the

Clear Air

Turbulence

drew deeply on the fumes from his own bowl, then sipped a little of the misty liquid. Horza did the same. He recognized the

substance but couldn’t remember the name. It was one of those you could snort and get high on or drink and just be sociable;

the active

ingredients lasted only a few minutes at body temperature, and anyway were broken up rather than absorbed by most

humanoid digestive

tracts.

“Thanks," Horza said.

“Well, you’re looking a lot better than when you came on board," Kraiklyn said, looking at Horza’s chest and arms. The Changer

had almost

resumed his normal shape after four days of rest and heavy eating. His trunk and limbs had filled out to something

approaching their fairly

muscular usual and his belly had grown no larger. His skin had tautened and taken on a golden-brown

sheen, while his face looked both firmer

and yet more supple, too. His hair was growing in dark from the roots; he had cut

off the yellow-white lankness of the Gerontocrat’s sparse

locks. His venom-teeth were also regrowing, but they would need

another twenty days or so before they could be used.

“I feel better, too."

“Hmm. Pity about Zallin, but I’m sure you could see my point."

“Sure. I’m just glad you gave me the chance. Some people would have zapped me and thrown me out."

“It crossed my mind," Kraiklyn said, toying with the flask he held, “but I sensed you weren’t totally full of crap. Can’t

say I believed you about

this aging drug and the Idirans, at the time, but I thought you might make a fight of it. Mind you,

you were lucky, right." He smiled at Horza, who

smiled back. Kraiklyn looked up at the books on the far wall. “Anyway, Zallin

was sort of dead weight; know what I mean." He looked back at

Horza. “Kid hardly knew which end of his rifle to point. I was

thinking of dropping him from the team next place we hit." He took another gulp of

the fumes.

“Like I say—thanks." Horza was deciding that his first impression of Kraiklyn—that the Man was a shit—was more or less correct.

If he had

been going to drop Zallin anyway there was no reason for the fight to be to the death. Horza could have bunked down

in the shuttle or the

hangar, or Zallin could have. One more person wouldn’t have made the

CAT

any more roomy for the time it took to get to Marjoin, but it wouldn’t

have been for all that long, and they weren’t going

to start using up all the air or anything. Kraiklyn had just wanted a show. “I’m grateful to you,"

Horza said, and raised

the flask toward the captain briefly before inhaling again. He studied Kraiklyn’s face carefully.

“So, tell me what it’s like working for these guys with the three legs," Kraiklyn said, smiling and resting one arm on a shelf

at the side of the

couch bed. He raised his eyebrows. “Hmm."

Ah-hah,

thought Horza. He said, “I didn’t have much time to find out. Fifty days ago I was still a captain in the marines on Sladden.

Don’t

suppose you’ve heard of it." Kraiklyn shook his head. Horza had been working on his story for the past two days, and

knew that if Kraiklyn did

check up he would find there was such a planet, its inhabitants were mostly humanoid and it had

recently fallen under Idiran suzerainty. “Well,

the Idirans were going to execute us because we fought on after the surrender,

but then I was hauled out and told I’d live if I did a job for them.

They said I looked a lot like this old guy they wanted

on their side; if they removed him, would I pretend to be him. I thought, what the hell. What

have I got to lose. So I ended

up on this Sorpen place with this aging drug, impersonating a government minister. I was doing all right, too, until

this

Culture woman shows, blows my whole bloody act and nearly gets me killed. They were just about to bump me off when this Idiran

cruiser

came in to snatch her. They rescued me and captured her and they were making their way back to the fleet when they

got jumped by a GCU. I

got stuffed into that suit and thrown overboard to wait for the fleet." Horza hoped his story didn’t

sound too rehearsed. Kraiklyn stared into the

flask he held, frowning.

“I’ve been wondering about that." He looked at Horza. “Why should a cruiser go in by itself when the fleet was just behind

it."

Horza shrugged. “Don’t really know, myself. They hardly had time to debrief me before the GCU showed up. I guess they must

have wanted

that Culture woman pretty badly, and thought if they waited for the fleet to show, the GCU would have spotted

it, picked up the woman and made

a run for it."

Kraiklyn nodded, looking thoughtful.

“Hmm. They must have wanted her awful bad. Did you see her."

“Oh, I saw her all right. Before she dropped me in it, and afterward."

“What was she like." Kraiklyn furrowed his brows and played with the flask again.

“Tall, thin, sort of good-looking, but off-putting as well. Too damn smart for my liking. I don’t know…. Not much different

from any Culture

woman I’ve seen. I mean, they all look different and so on, but she wouldn’t have stood out."

“They say they’re pretty special, some of these Culture agents. Supposed to be able to… do tricks, you know. All sorts of

special

adaptations and fancy body chemistry. She do anything special you heard of."

Horza shook his head, wondering where all this was leading. “Not that I know of," he said. Fancy body chemistry, Kraiklyn

had said. Was the

Man starting to guess. Did he think Horza was a Culture agent, or even a Changer. Kraiklyn was still looking

at his drug flask. He nodded and

said:

“About the only sort of woman I’d have anything to do with, one of these Culture ones. They say they really do have all these…

alterations,

you know." Kraiklyn looked at Horza and winked as he inhaled the drug. “Between the legs; the men have these

souped-up balls, right. Sort of

recirculating… And the women have something similar, too; supposed to be able to come for

fucking hours…. Well, minutes, anyway…"

Kraiklyn’s eyes looked slightly glazed as his voice trailed off. Horza tried not to

appear as scornful as he felt.

Here we go again,

he thought. He

tried to count the number of times he’d had to listen to people—usually from third- or low fourthlevel societies,

usually fairly human-basic, and

more often than not male—talking in hushed, enviously admiring tones about how It’s More Fun

in the Culture. Perversely coy for once, the

Culture played down the extent to which those born into it inherited such altered

genitalia.