Yondering. Jack Dann

theirs. In the crew’s mess I found Ned and his friends, John Doe and D’Bridie. I took my tray over to their table.

      “Dear lady, you look a bit agitated,” John Doe said. “I hope nothing has happened to upset the even tenor of your days.”

      “You’re very perceptive,” I said.

      “Then speak to us of your angst,” Doe said. “You are amongst friends.”

      I wanted to talk to Ned by himself. But then I thought, bugger it, nothing’s private, the ship’s a hothouse, just as Montesquieu says. I might as well broadcast my feelings to all and sundry.

      “I’ve been talking to Flight Regulator Montesquieu,” I said.

      “A stalwart of the ship’s company,” John Doe said.

      “Her!” D’Bridie said. “A snapper. That’s what she is. She snaps. She’s as uptight as all get-out one minute, the next minute she’s snapped. Did she snap with you, Em?”

      “Almost. I told her to calm down.”

      “Far out.”

      “She’s one of my greatest fans,” Ned said. “She sent a memo to Lewis praising my many talents.”

      “She sent a memo to Lewis complaining bitterly about you,” I said.

      “Why’d Montesquieu complain about Ned?” D’Bridie said.

      “He is a menace to the good order of the ship,” I said. “He is the cause of mass hysteria.”

      “Alas,” John Doe said. “The saint is often cast out from the pigsty of his own eyeballs.”

      “What rubbish is that, John?” D’Bridie said.

      Doe started to say something, but I cut him off. “Listen, you arseholes, I’m on this ship because I want to go home. I want to get home in one piece. I want to pass the time until we arrive at Newharp just doing my job and being left alone. I don’t want to become involved in saving the whole social structure of the ship from total chaos. Got it?”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Ned said quietly. “We’ve got it, Em. No one’s going to involve you.”

      “Bloody Montesquieu already has,” I said.

      * * * *

      Ned Talking

      The Delegate went into orbit around Skyros and stayed there. Round and round we went. Rumors abounded, the bane of shipboard life. It was said that the Skyroans were asking an exorbitant fee to allow us to land. It was said that they were all suffering from some hideous new disease and we’d be mad to land. It was said that they weren’t prepared to accord Her Excellency the pomp and ceremony she deserved. Her Excellency was deliberately delaying things until her latest organ replacement was given the all clear. All sorts of things were said.

      * * * *

      One afternoon Lewis and I were working on our cycle of epic poems. I asked her what was going on. She said the problem seemed to be that there wasn’t a single Skyroan authority to deal with. The place was divided up into countries, fiefdoms, principalities, no-go areas, and they were all at war with one another. Also, there was a rash of civil wars: some entities were simply ripping themselves apart for the fun of it.

      “Best we give the place a miss,” I said.

      “It wouldn’t look good,” Lewis said.

      “It would look even worse if we took the runabout down and landed on a battlefield. Bang! Crash! Kaput!”

      “Good strong words,” Lewis said. “Let’s put them in the poem.”

      So we did. When we’d finished, that bit of the epic cycle read:

      Bang! Crash! Kaput! The Heavens shook.

      Kaput and Crash and Bang

      No love nor peace was with the rook.

      And the dove had fled the land.

      Lewis said, “There’s some little suzerain called New Stoke-on-Trent. It’s said to be reasonably peaceful. They’re prepared to let us talk to schools.”

      “Schools?” I said. “Not joint sittings of both houses of parliament?”

      “I’m not sure that they’ve actually got a parliament.”

      “What about shore leave for the crew?”

      “That might not eventuate.”

      “They’re not going to like that.”

      “Can’t be helped.”

      * * * *

      Em Talking

      They tricked us out, me and Ned, in ambassadorial robes. I looked like a dork. I felt a complete idiot. But I was excited all the same; the trip to this New Stoke-on-Trent place would be a change. We were about to get out of the spinning drum for a few days, breathe the air of a new planet, see new sights, hear new sounds. We went down to the Skyroan surface in the officers’ runabout. It was a damn sight more civilized than the crew’s runabout that we’d taken from Earth. There must have been about two dozen of us in the official party. I wasn’t thrilled to see that Montesquieu was in attendance. I was amazed to see that Ned’s friends D’Bridie and John Doe were included. John Doe was wearing his huge overcoat, D’Bridie was carrying a backpack.

      “How did those two get in on the act?”

      “Procurement,” Ned said.

      “What?”

      “John’s been here before. He knows people. He is going to get in a supply of new cutlery. So that everybody can eat properly. D’Bridie is his assistant. I fixed it with Lewis.”

      “What else did you fix?”

      “Not much.”

      We were met on the landing ground by some heavily armed militia folk, who ushered us straight into waiting troop carriers. If we thought we were going to see the sights on the way to the school we were wrong. The back of the troop carrier had no more windows than The Delegate.

      “I don’t reckon this place is quite as peaceful as advertised,” Ned said.

      “No kidding.”

      The noise in the troop carrier made conversation difficult, so we didn’t talk. The machine rattled and jolted and gave no impression of traveling on a made road. At one stage I thought I heard gunfire, but maybe I was mistaken. We arrived at the school and were hustled out of the troop carriers and into an assembly hall. It was a bog-standard school assembly hall. It could have been on Earth, it could have been on Newharp, there was nothing exotic about it at all. The place was packed; they must have bused in a heap of kids from surrounding schools. They were all talking as loudly as they could. Some of them were sitting on window sills. Scuffles and fights broke out. Teachers were trying to quieten them down, with no success. Our party was ushered onto a wide stage. We sat and looked at the kids. The kids largely ignored us. The proceedings proceeded. In both languages. Everything was translated by babbling translator folk, so everything took twice as long. Finally Ned and I were called to the microphone. Ned used the Skyroan language skills he’d picked up on Earth flogging replacement organs to refugees. He talked directly to the kids in a bastard version of their own tongue, reciting a translation of the epic poem cycle that he and Her Excellency had cobbled together. But the kids started to drum their feet. A slow handclap added to the noise. Ned started yelling, but now he was yelling limericks:

      There was a young lady from Skyros

      Who’s bum was like a rhinoceros.

      She sat on a mouse.

      Which shrieked like a louse

      And cursed the young lady from Skyros.

      I’d never heard such infantile drivel in my life. It was acutely embarrassing to be standing next to Ned.