Donald Moffitt - Genesis 01

know any of them by name, but he recognized two or three faces from Penser’s earlier gatherings.
    He considered saying something to the Nar attendant, but that being was busy with other passengers, and besides, there was really nothing definite Bram could say. At any rate, the stopover at Lowstation would last at least a couple of hours, and there would be time to find out more.
    “This way,” Orris said.
    They joined the rivulet of mostly Nar passengers heading rimward. There might be a temporary jam of human stopovers bound for the Juxt One tree, but Lowstation still carried its usual quota of intrasystem traffic and traffic to Ilf and the moons of the lesser sun’s system.
    At the heads of the drop chutes, friction mittens had thoughtfully been provided for human transients. The Nar had ten braking surfaces to alternate with, but human beings had to make do with hands and feet unless, of course, one panicked and wrapped oneself completely around the pole.
    Orris made a protective fuss over Marg, though the implanted blastocyst that she was host-mothering could scarcely have been causing her any inconvenience yet. But she would have none of it. She jumped into the tube without hesitation, caught the central pole with her mittened hands, and drifted blithely downward, her opulent body buoyed horizontally against the air resistance. Orris gave Bram a proud smile and jumped in after her.
    At the quarter-g level they transferred to a bucket and rode the rest of the way sedately to the rim. The passenger lounges were near the spokes, fortunately. The gradient in the artificial gravity caused by the difference between a spinning hexagon and a spinning wheel could be a bit disorienting for a human being; besides, there was that uphill walk back to the spoke just when one was in a hurry and trying to get out.
    The lounge was a dramatic slice of the thousand-foot triangle, rising all the way to the hub, with a cliff of solid wood for one wall and two window walls looking out on space. Seating was arranged in tasteful conversational groups—multipedestals for Nar, banquettes for humans.
    “We’re not going to get into the canteen,” Orris said. “Look at that howling mob around the entrance.” He scanned the lounge. “There’re some empty seats over there next to the vertex. Why don’t you two grab them? I’ll see if I can fight my way through to the service font and bring back some refreshments for us.”
    He scurried off. Bram smiled at Marg and steered her over to the vacant banquette. Halfway there she stopped and put a hand on his arm.
    “Look,” she said. “Isn’t that Kerthin?”
     
    Bram’s smile froze in place. He looked across the crowded lounge and saw her, standing next to the group with the oddly shaped luggage.
    “Yes,” he said, hiding his dismay. “She must have made it, after all. You go on ahead and claim those seats. I’ll go get her.”
    Marg gave Kerthin a broad, unreturned wave and proceeded onward. Bram, feeling hollow, walked with a heavy step over to where Kerthin was standing.
    “What are you doing here?” he said.
    She gave him a sullenly defiant stare. “I left about an hour after you did. I didn’t think there’d be this jam at Lowstation. I thought I’d see you at the tree and everything could be explained then.”
    “Explained? Explain what?”
    “Relax, Brammo,” a detested voice cut in. “You’re right on schedule. When Kerthin told us you’d be coming up to the tree under your own power, it saved us the trouble of coming to get you. We’re going to need a biological technician.”
    Bram whirled to face him. He wouldn’t have recognized Pite at a casual glance. The short blond beard had been shaved off. Pite looked a lot older, with a tight little V-shaped mouth and a pair of deep lines coming down from the corners of his nose.
    “I’m having nothing to do with any of your schemes. Penser promised to drop them, whatever they were. Where is he? Is he here?”
    “You don’t have any choice, gene brother,” Pite said softly. “You’ve been conscripted. So have your friends over there, though they don’t know it yet.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bram said. “But a man’s dead back in the Quarter, and there’s not going to be any more violence. I think the Lowstation authorities need to know you’re here.”
    One of the Penserites, a large man carrying a long cylindrical parcel with a bulge at one end, moved closer and put