Naturally, such modesty only increased everybody else’s interest, and Horza occasionally became angry with humans who exhibited

the

sort of fawning respect the Culture’s quasi-technological sexuality so often engendered. Coming from Kraiklyn, it didn’t

surprise him a bit. He

wondered if the Man had had some cheap, Cultureimitative surgery himself. It wasn’t uncommon. It wasn’t

safe, either. Too often such

alterations were simply plumbing jobs, especially on males, and made no attempt to uprate the

heart and the rest of the circulatory system—at

least—to cope with the increased strain. (In the Culture, of course, that

high performance was genofixed in.) Such mimicking of this symptom of

the Culture’s decadence had, quite literally, caused

a lot of broken hearts.

I suppose we’ll hear about those wonderful drug glands next,

Horza

thought.

“… Yeah, and they have those drug glands," Kraiklyn went on, eyes still unfocused, nodding to himself. “Supposed to be able

to take a hit of

almost anything, any time they want. Just by thinking about it. Secrete stuff that makes them high." Kraiklyn

stroked the flask he held. “You know,

they say you can’t rape a Culture woman." He didn’t seem to expect an answer. Horza

stayed silent. Kraiklyn nodded again. “Yeah, they’ve got

class, those women. Not like some of the shit on this ship." He shrugged

and took another snort from the flask. “Still…"

Horza cleared his throat and leaned forward in his seat, not looking at Kraiklyn. “She’s dead now, anyway," Horza said, looking

up.

“Hmm." Kraiklyn said absently, looking at the Changer.

“The Culture woman," Horza said. “She’s dead."

“Oh yes." Kraiklyn nodded, then cleared his throat and said, “So what do you want to do now. I’m sort of expecting you to

come along on

this temple caper. I think you owe us that, for the ride."

“Oh yeah, don’t worry," Horza said.

“Good. After that, we’ll see. If you shape up you can stay; otherwise we’ll drop you off somewhere you want, within reason,

like they say. This

operation should be no problem: easy in, easy out." Kraiklyn made a dipping, flying motion with his flattened

hand, as though it was the model

of the

CAT

which hung somewhere over Horza’s head. “Then we go to Vavatch." He took another gulp from the fumes in the snifflask. “Don’t

suppose you play Damage, hmm." He brought the flask down, and Horza looked into the predatory eyes through the thin mist rising

from the

flask’s neck. He shook his head.

“Not one of my vices. Never really got the chance to learn."

“Yeah, I guess not. It’s the only game." Kraiklyn nodded. “Apart from this…" He smiled and glanced about, obviously meaning

the ship, the

people in it and their occupation. “Well," Kraiklyn said, sitting up, “I think I’ve already said welcome aboard,

but you are welcome." He leaned

forward and tapped Horza on the shoulder. “So long as you realize who’s boss, eh." He smiled

widely.

“It’s your ship," Horza said. He drank what remained of the flask’s contents and put it on a shelf beside a portrait holocube

which showed

Kraiklyn standing in his black suit, holding the same laser rifle which was mounted on the wall above.

“I think we’ll get on just fine, Horza. You get to know the others and train up, and we’ll knock the shit out of these monks.

What do you say."

The Man winked at him again.

“You bet," Horza said, standing and smiling. Kraiklyn opened the door for him.

And for my next trick,

thought Horza as soon as he was out of the cabin and walking down to the mess,

my impression of… Captain

Kraiklyn!

During the next few days he indeed got to know the rest of the crew. He talked to those who wanted to talk and he observed

or carefully

overheard things about those who didn’t. Yalson was still his only friend, but he got on well enough with his

roommate, Wubslin, though the

stocky engineer was quiet and, when not eating or working, usually asleep. The Bratsilakins

had apparently decided that Horza probably wasn’t

against them, but they seemed to be reserving their opinion about whether

he was

for

them until Marjoin and the Temple of Light.

Dorolow was the name of the religious woman who roomed with Yalson. She was plump, fair skinned and fair haired, and her huge

ears

curved down to join onto her cheeks. She spoke in a very high, squeaky voice which she said was pretty low as far as

she was concerned, and

her eyes watered a lot. Her movements were fluttery and nervous.

The oldest person in the Company was Aviger, a smallish, weather-beaten man with brown skin and little hair. He could do surprisingly

supple things with his legs and arms, like clasp his hands behind his back and bring them over his head without letting go.

He shared a cabin

with a man named Jandraligeli, a tall, thin, middleaged Mondlidician who wore the scar marks from his homeworld

on his forehead with

unrepentant pride and a look of perpetual disdain. He ignored Horza devoutly, but Yalson said he did

this with every new recruit. Jandraligeli

spent a lot of time keeping his old but wellmaintained suit and laser rifle clean

and sparkling.

Gow and kee-Alsorofus were the two women who kept themselves so much to themselves and were alleged to

do things

when alone in

their cabin, which seemed to annoy the less tolerant of the Company males—that is, most of them. Both women

were fairly young and had a

rather poor grasp of Marain. Horza thought maybe that was all that kept them so isolated, but

it turned out they were pretty shy anyway. They

were of average height, medium build, and sharpfeatured in gray skin, with

eyes that were pools of black. Horza thought perhaps it was just as

well they didn’t look at people straight too often; with

those eyes it could be an unsettling experience.

Mipp was a fat, somber man with jet-black skin. He could pilot the ship manually when Kraiklyn wasn’t aboard and the Company

needed

close support on the ground, or he could take over at the shuttle controls. He was supposed to be a good shot, too,

with a plasma cannon or

rapid projectile rifle, but he was prone to binges, getting dangerously drunk on a variety of poisonous

liquids he procured from the autogalley.

Once or twice Horza heard him throwing up in the next stall in the heads. Mipp shared

a cabin with another drunkard, called Neisin, who was

more sociable and sang a lot. He had, or had convinced himself he had,

something terrible to forget, and although he drank more steadily and

regularly than Mipp, sometimes when he’d had a bit more

than usual he would go very quiet and then start crying in great, sucking sobs. He was

small and wiry, and Horza wondered

where he put all the drink, and where all the tears came from inside his compact, shaved head. Perhaps

there was some sort

of short circuit between his throat and his tear ducts.

Tzbalik Odraye was the ship’s self-styled computer ace. Because he and Mipp together could, in theory, have overridden the

fidelities

Kraiklyn had programmed into the

CAT

’s non-sentient computer and then flown off in the ship, they were never allowed to stay on the craft

together when Kraiklyn

wasn’t aboard. In fact, Odraye wasn’t that well versed in computers at all, as Horza discovered through a little close but

apparently casual questioning. However, the tall, slightly hunchbacked man with the long yellow-skinned face probably knew

just about enough,

Horza reckoned, to handle anything that went wrong with the ship’s brains, which seemed to have been designed

for durability rather than

philosophical finesse. Tzbalik Odraye roomed with Rava Gamdol, who looked as though he came from

the same place as Yalson, judging from

his skin and light fur, but he denied this. Yalson was vague on the subject, and neither

liked the other. Rava was another recluse; he had

boarded off the tiny space around his top bunk and installed some small

lights and an air fan. Sometimes he spent days at a time in this small

space, going in with a container of water and coming

out with another full of urine. Tzbalik Odraye did his best to ignore his roommate, and

always vigorously denied blowing the

smoke from the pungent Cifetressi weed, which he smoked, through the ventilation holes of Rava’s tiny

cubicle.

The final cabin was shared by Lenipobra and Lamm. Lenipobra was the youngster of the Company; a gangly youth with a stutter

and garish

red hair. He had a tattooed tongue which he was very proud of and would display at every possible opportunity.

The tattoo, of a human female,

was in every sense crude. Lenipobra was the

CAT

’s best excuse for a medic and was rarely seen without a small screenbook which contained