Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [1]
That was the normal way of birth on Sparta.
Chapter 2
THAT WAS THE NORMAL WAY of birth on Sparta—but wherever in the universe there is intelligence there are also abnormalities.
Achron looked at his wristwatch, the instrument and ornament that marked him as something more than a common helot, as almost the social equal of the members of the military caste. He said, "I have to be getting along. I'm on duty at the crèche at 2400 hours."
"I hope you enjoy the diaper changing and the bottle feeding."
"But I do, Brasidus. You know that I do." His rather high voice dropped to a murmur. "I always feel that one or two of them might be . . . yours. There are a couple in this new generation that have your nose and eyes."
Brasidus put a large, investigatory and derisory hand to his face. "Impossible. I've still got them."
"Oh, you know what I mean."
"Why not keep a lookout for your own offspring, Achron?"
"It's not the same, Brasidus. In any case, it's not often I'm called upon to contribute . . ."
The two friends walked back to the Club House, but did not go farther inside than the cloakroom. Brasidus watched Achron slip into his tunic and sandals, then, on an impulse, Brasidus followed suit. Somehow he was no longer in the mood for the dance, and his prominent nose wrinkled a little at the acrid smell of perspiration, the sweet-sour reek of vomit and spilled wine that drifted into the anteroom from the main hall. The thudding of bare feet on the polished floor, in time to the drums and the screaming, brassy trumpets, usually excited him, but this night it failed to do so, as even did the confused shouting and scuffling that told him that the inevitable brawl had just broken out. On other occasions he had hurled himself gleefully into the press of struggling, sweating naked bodies—but this, too, had lost its attraction for him.
More and more he was feeling that there was something missing, just as there had been something missing when he had been a guest at Achron's club. He had thought, at the time, that it was the boisterous good fellowship, the hearty food and the strong, rough wine. Now he had sated himself with all of these, but was still unsatisfied.
He shrugged his heavy shoulders, then tugged the hem of his tunic down to its normal midthigh position. He said, "I'll stroll down to the crèche with you, Achron. I don't feel like going back to the barracks just yet. And, anyhow, tomorrow's my free day."
"Oh, thank you, Brasidus. But are you sure? Usually you hate to leave while there's any wine left in the jars."
"Just don't feel like any more drinking or dancing. Come on."
It was dark outside the building. The sky, although clear, was almost starless, and Sparta had no moons. The widely spaced streetlamps on their fluted columns seemed to accentuate the blackness rather than to relieve it, and the glimmering white pillars of street-fronting buildings appeared to be absorbing rather than reflecting what little light there was. In their shadows there was furtive movement, but it was no more than the scavengers going about their appointed tasks. Then, overhead, there was the drone of engines.
Brasidus stopped abruptly, laid a detaining hand on Achron's upper arm. He looked up, staring at the great, shadowy bulk that drove across the night sky, its course set for the blinking beacon atop the Acropolis, its tiers of ports strings of luminous beads, its ruby and emerald navigation lights pendants at the end of the necklace.
Achron said impatiently, "Come on. I don't want to be late clocking in. It's only the night mail from Helos. You must have seen it dozens of times."
"At least," agreed Brasidus. He fell into step again beside his companion. "But . . ."
"But you always wanted to join the Air Navy yourself, Brasidus. But you're too big,