The Far Shore of Time

“Not in this case, no. She has no language you could understand. Some of the other species do, and if one comes here, I will tell you. Now I will show you how to work the picture bowl.”

Turning the picture bowl on was easy, once you knew how. I had been looking for controls on the bowl itself, but there weren’t any. They were in the desk. You moved a section of the top aside in the right way, and it uncovered a sort of clockface, tiny holes arranged in a circle with what might have been numbers inscribed over each. The numbers were meaningless to me. The little holes weren’t much help at first, either. Pirraghiz showed me how they worked by delicately extruding a claw to poke into them, but I didn’t have a claw.

The first thing Pirraghiz showed me in the bowl was the planet we were on. It appeared like a globe, in three dimensions, in the bowl, and she showed that it could be rotated or zoomed in. “This is where we are,” she announced, pointing with a lesser arm.

It looked like a park, seen from above. I recognized the familiar hexagonal patterns that had been enforced by the Beloved Leaders’ energy walls, imprisoning each group of us in our own little space. Now those walls were vanished, but lines of abrupt discontinuities in the kinds of vegetation showed where they had stood.

Some of the plants looked to be in bad shape, and when I said as much to Pirraghiz, she said, “Of course, Dannerman. When the shield was down the radiation killed many things, and not simply plants.” There had been nine captive species in the zoo of the Beloved Leaders. Some of them had come from worlds with a higher concentration of oxygen than this place, and so extra allotments had been routinely pumped into their enclaves. When everything broke down the oxygen stopped, and one whole species-Pirraghiz called them Tree-Livers-had gasped and died. Two others had needed extra humidity for their health, which had been supplied in the same way. Most of those species had survived. “But they are not comfortable away from their own areas,” Pirraghiz informed me. “So you will not see them here.”

I stared at the picture of the planet. Outside of the enclaves everything around was the rust-colored, arid rock and sand. It was not an attractive planet. “Why do you suppose the Horch bothered to take this place over?” I asked.

Pirraghiz sighed. “I do not know. The Horch do not tell us everything. Simply because the Others had it, perhaps.”

“And why did the Beloved Leaders have it in the first place?” I asked, covering a yawn.

“Perhaps because it is so hostile to living things. Apart from their preserves, there was no place on it for the captive species to escape to,” she said, but she hadn’t missed the yawn. “Are you overtired again?” she asked fretfully. And then, “Hold still.”

She pinched a fold of my belly flesh in her surprisingly gentle paws, the claws considerately retracted. The results made her give a disapproving lip-smack. “You must gain more body fat, Dannerman. You must eat more.”

“I’m getting pretty tired of corn chips and spaghetti Bolognese,” I complained.

She said defensively, “I added water and heated it, precisely following the instructions on the container.” I shrugged. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned off the picture bowl. She opened some of the food containers that had come from the Starlab store and, one by one, fished out a tiny crumb from each. She tasted them experimentally.

“I see,” she said at last. “Wait for a moment, Dannerman.”

She was gone for a lot more than a moment, and when she came back all six arms were carrying packets and clumps of strange-looking vegetable things. “Taste this,” she ordered, holding out an object that looked like a small, sky-blue corncob with the kernels removed.

I looked at it with skepticism. “How do I know it won’t poison me?” I demanded.

She gave me a surprised stare. “But did you not see me analyzing your food? These are quite compatible with your dietary needs. Also I am right here, in case there is any unexpected adverse effect.”

Actually, it wasn’t bad, tasting a little like a very mild onion. She opened up a pot of thick stuff the consistency of honey and advised me to dip the cob into it; it was peppery and rather good.

Becoming adventurous, I reached for a fruit she had split open, spiky on the outside, round and reddish within, but she snatched it out of my hands. “One moment, Dannerman. Wait.”

Then I saw another way in which those little retractable talons were useful. The fruit was full of tiny greenish seeds. She quickly coaxed them out with her claws, one after another. Then she handed the fruit to me. It was moist and cool, and it tasted vaguely of roasted chestnuts. Pirraghiz looked approving. “Now it is safe, Dannerman, but you must never eat the seeds. The other one of you did, by accident. Perhaps he would have lived if he had not. Now try this-“ handing me a sort of lemon-colored potato, “it will make you sleepy, and so you will rest.”