GAIA-S

1.

Sura Novi stepped into the control room of the small and rather old-fashioned ship that was carrying Stor Gendibal and herself across the parsecs in deliberate Jumps.

She had clearly been in the compact cleaning room, where oils, warm air, and a minimum of water freshed her body. She had a robe wrapped about her and was holding it tightly to herself in an agony of modesty. Her hair was dry but tangled.

She said in a low voice, “Master?”

Gendibal looked up from his charts and from his computer. “Yes, Novi?”

“I be sorrow-laden—” She paused and then said slowly, “I am very sorry to bother you, Master” (then she slipped again) “but I be loss-ridden for my clothing.”

“Your clothing?” Gendibal stared at her blankly for a moment and then rose to his feet in an access of contrition. “Novi, I forgot. They needed cleaning and they’re in the detergent-hamper. They’re cleaned, dried, folded, all set. I should have taken them out and placed them in clear sight. I forgot.”

“I did not like to—to—” (she looked down at herself) “offend.”

“You don’t offend,” said Gendibal cheerily. “Look, I promise you that when this is over I shall see to it that you have a great deal of clothing—new and in the latest fashion. We left in a hurry and it never occurred to me to bring a supply, but really, Novi, there are only the two of us and we’ll be together for some time in very close quarters and it’s needless to be—to be—so concerned—about—” He gestured vaguely, became aware of the horrified look in her eyes, and thought: Well, she’s only a country girl after all and has her standards; probably wouldn’t object to improprieties of all kinds—but with her clothes on.

Then he felt ashamed of himself and was glad that she was no “scholar” who could sense his thoughts. He said, “Shall I get your clothes for you?”

“Oh no, Master. It be not for you—I know where they are.”

He next saw her properly dressed and with her hair combed. There was a distinct shyness about her. “I am ashamed, Master, to have behaved so improper—ly. I should have found them for myself.”

“No matter,” said Gendibal. “You are doing very well with your Galactic, Novi. You are picking up the language of scholars very quickly.”

Novi smiled suddenly. Her teeth were somewhat uneven, but that scarcely detracted from the manner in which her face brightened and grew almost sweet under praise, thought Gendibal. He told himself that it was for that reason that he rather liked to praise her.

“The Hamish will think little of me when I am back home,” she said. “They will say I be—am a word-chopper. That is what they call someone who speaks—odd. They do not like such.”

“I doubt that you will be going back to the Hamish, Novi,” said Gendibal. “I am sure there will continue to be a place for you