And he went on with his condolences: “…and I do mean you, C’mell, to be the worthiest carrier of your father’s name. You are the one to whom we turn in this time of common sorrow. Who could l mean but you if I say that C’mackintosh never did things by halves, and died young as a result of his own zealous conscience? Good-by, C’mell, I go back to my office.”
She arrived forty minutes after he did.
2
He faced her straight away, studying her face.
“This is an important day in your life.”
“Yes, my Lord, a sad one.”
“I do not,” he said, “mean your father’s death and burial. I speak of the future to which we all must turn. Right now, it’s you and me.”
Her eyes widened. She had not thought that he was that kind of man at all. He was an official who moved freely around Earthport, often greeting important offworld visitors and keeping an eye on the bureau of ceremonies. She was a part of the reception team, when a girly girl was needed to calm down a frustrated arrival or to postpone a quarrel, like the geisha of ancient Japan, she had an honorable profession; she was not a bad girl but a professionally flirtatious hostess. She stared at the Lord Jestocost. He did not look as though he meant anything improperly personal. But, thought she, you can never tell about men.
“You know men,” he said, passing the initiative to her.
“I guess so,” she said. Her face looked odd. She started to give him smile No. 3 (extremely adhesive) which she had learned in the girly-girl school. Realizing it was wrong, she tried to give him an ordinary smile. She felt she had made a face at him.
“Look at me,” he said, “and see if you can trust me. I am going to take both our lives in my hands.”
She looked at him. What imaginable subject could involve him, a Lord of the Instrumentality, with herself, an undergirl? They never had anything in common. They never would.
But she stared at him.
“I want to help the underpeople.”
He made her blink. That was a crude approach, usually followed by a very raw kind of pass indeed. But his face was illuminated by seriousness. She waited.
“Your people do not have enough political power even to talk to us. I will not commit treason to the true-human race, but I am willing to give your side an advantage. If you bargain better with us, it will make all forms of life safer in the long run.”
C’mell stared at the floor, her red hair soft as the fur of a Persian cat. It made her head seem bathed in flames. Her eyes looked human, except that they had the capacity of reflecting when light struck them; the irises were the rich green of the ancient cat. When she looked right at him, looking up from the floor, her glance had the impact of a blow. “What do you want from me?”
He stared right back. “Watch me. Look at my face. Are you sure, sure that I want nothing from you personally?”
She looked bewildered. “What else is there to want from me except personal things? I am a girly girl. I’m not a person of any importance at all, and I do not have much of an education. You know more, sir, than I will ever know.”
“Possibly,” he said, watching her.
She stopped feeling like a girly girl and felt like a citizen. It made her uncomfortable.
“Who,” he said, in a voice of great solemnity, “is your own leader?”
“Commissioner Teadrinker, sir. He’s in charge of all outworld visitors.” She watched Jestocost carefully; he still did not look as if he were playing tricks.
He looked a little cross. “I don’t mean him. He’s part of my own staff. Who’s your leader among the underpeople?”
“My father was, but he died.”
Jestocost said, “Forgive me. Please have a seat. But I don’t mean that.”
She was so tired that she sat down into the chair with an innocent voluptuousness which would have disorganized any ordinary man’s day. She wore girly-girl clothes, which were close enough to the everyday fashion to seem agreeably modish when she stood up. In line with her profession, her clothes were designed to be unexpectedly and provocatively revealing when she sat down—not revealing enough to shock the man with their brazenness, but so slit, tripped and cut that he got far more visual stimulation than he expected.
“I must ask you to pull your clothing together a little,” said Jesto-cost in a clinical tone of voice. “I am a man, even if I am an official, and this interview is more important to you and to me than any distraction would be.”
She was a little frightened by his tone. She had meant no challenge. With the funeral that day, she meant nothing at all; these clothes were the only kind she had.
He read all this in her face.
Relentlessly, he pursued the subject.
“Young lady, I asked about your leader. You name your boss and you name your father. I want your leader.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, on the edge of a sob, “I don’t understand.”
Then, he thought to himself, I’ve got to take a gamble. He thrust the mental dagger home, almost drove his words like steel straight into her face. “Who…” he said slowly and icily, “is…Ee…telly…kelly?”
The girl’s face had been cream-colored, pale with sorrow. Now she went white. She twisted away from him. Her eyes glowed like twin fires.
Her eyes…like twin fires.
(No undergirl, thought Jestocost as he reeled, could hypnotize me.)
Her eyes…were like cold fires.
The room faded around him. The girl disappeared. Her eyes became a single white, cold fire.
Within this fire stood the figure of a man. His arms were wings, but he had human hands growing at the elbows of his wings. His face was clear, white, cold as the marble of an ancient statue; his eyes were opaque white. “I am the E-telekeli. You will believe in me. You may speak to my daughter C’mell.”
