Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [31]
"But are these Arcadians in the crèche crew members of visiting ships?"
"What else can they be? They must have got here somehow." Diomedes looked long and hard at Brasidus, but there was no censure in his regard. "However, I am not displeased by the way in which things are turning out. You are getting to know something about these . . . . things. These Arcadians. And I think that you are strong enough to resist their lure . . . Now, what have we for you? This evening, I think, you will visit your friend Achron at the crèche. Keep your eyes and ears open, but don't stick your neck out. Tomorrow I have an assignment for you that you should find interesting. This Margaret Lazenby wishes to make a sightseeing trip, and she especially asked for you as her escort."
"Will Lieutenant Commander Grimes be along, sir?"
"No. He'll be consorting with the top brass. After all, he is the commander of Seeker and, to use spaceman's parlance, seems to pile on rather more G's than the master of a merchantman . . . Yes, Brasidus, have yourself a nice visit with your boyfriend, and then report to me here tomorrow morning at 0730 hours, washed behind the ears and with all your brasswork polished."
* * *
Brasidus spent the evening with Achron before the latter reported for duty. It was not the first time that he had been a guest at the nurse's Club—but it was the first time that he had felt uncomfortable there. Apart from his own feelings, it was no different from other occasions. There were the usual graceful, soft-spoken young men, proud and happy to play host to the hoplites who were their visitors. There was the usual food—far better cooked and more subtly seasoned than that served in the army messes. There was the usual wine—a little too sweet, perhaps, but chilled and sparkling. There was music and there was dancing—not the strident screaming of brass and the boom and rattle of drums, not the heavy thud of bare feet on the floor, but the rhythmic strumming of lutes and, to it, the slow gyrations of willowy bodies.
But . . .
But there was something lacking.
But what could be lacking?
"You are very thoughtful tonight, Brasidus," remarked Achron wistfully.
"Am I?"
"Yes. You . . . you're not with us, somehow."
"No?"
"Brasidus, I have to be on duty soon. Will you come with me to my room?"
The Sergeant looked at his friend. Achron was a pretty boy, prettier than most, but he was not, he could never be, an Arcadian . . .
What am I thinking? he asked himself, shocked. Why am I thinking it?
He said, "Not tonight, Achron."
"But what is wrong with you, Brasidus? You never used to be like this." Then, with a sort of incredulous bitterness, "It can't be one of the men from the ship, can it? No, not possibly. Not one of those great, hairy brutes. As well consort with one of those malformed aliens they've brought with them!" Achron laughed at the absurdity of the idea.
"No," Brasidus told him. "Not one of the men from the ship."
"Then it's all right."
"Yes, it's all right. But I shall have a heavy day tomorrow."
"You poor dear. I suppose that the arrival of this absurd spaceship from some uncivilized world has thrown a lot of extra work on you."
"Yes. It has."
"But you'll walk with me to the crèche, won't you?"
"Yes. I'll do that."
"Oh, thank you. You can wait here while I get changed. There's plenty of wine left."
Yes, there was plenty of wine left, but Brasidus was in no mood for it. He sat in silence, watching the dancers, listening to the slow, sensuous thrumming. Did the Arcadians dance? And how would they look dancing, stripped for performance, the light gleaming on their smooth, golden skins? And why should the mere thought of it be so evocative of sensual imaginings?
Achron came back into the hall, dressed in his white working tunic. Brasidus got up from the bench, walked with him out into the night. The two friends made their way through the streets