Genetically determined insensitivity? she wondered, staring at Jim. She refused to believe it. Kontrin geneticists had never worked in terms so ill-defined as the ego and the emotions: and, Meth-maren, she knew the labs better than most. No, there had to be specific biological changes, unless betas knew something Kontrin did not, and she refused to believe that: there had to be something, some single, simple alteration, unaided by majat.

Less sensitivity to physical pain? She could conceive how that might be done, and it would have psychological consequences…advantageous, within limits. The biological self-destruct in-built in azi evidenced some beta expertise with gene-tampering.

Jim intrigued her suddenly, in that monomaniac way that she filled her days, even important ones, with distractions. She found herself thinking of home, and of comforts, and of Lia’s human warmth; and ordinarily she would have stopped herself at this point, dead-stopped, but that there was a distance possible this day, in this place, and she felt, suddenly, that life owed her something of comfort, some last self-indulgence, some…

And there the thoughts didstop. She turned them cold, and made the question merely intellectual, and useful, the matter of gaining knowledge. Jim was a puzzle, one fit for the time—not easy. She had the strange realisation that they were a puzzle she had never wondered about, the azi—a presence too useful and ordinary to question; as she wore clothing, and never perceived the technical skills involved in its making, until she had chanced to desire a cloak made, and had stirred herself to visit a place that might manage it. She had discovered by that, a marvellous workshop of threads and colours and machines, and an old beta who handmade things for the joy of them, who found pleasure in the chance to work with rare major silk. There was behind the production of the cloth an entire chain of ancient arts, which had quite awed her—at distance: there were gifts and gifts, and hers was not creative.

It was that manner of insight with the azi, had been so from the first night of the game, although it was only now she realised why the game had mattered: she had filled her time with it, and gained occupation—anesthetic for the mind, such occupations, a near-at-hand focus, a work of art to analyse and understand.

The highest one, perhaps. Weaving, sculpting, the composing of poetry—what more than this, that Kontrin left betas to practice? They made men.

His face was surely not unique: there would be others identical to him, at various ages, scattered across the vicinity of Andra. They would be high types, as he was: technicians, house-officers, supervisors, foremen, guards, entertainers—the latter a euphemism on jaded Meron, where anything could be done; a great many of his doubles were likely majat azi, for majat prized cleverness. That he was also pleasant decoration to an establishment would not occur to the majat, whose eyes could not determine that, but it obviously occurred to Andra Lines. All the serving-azi were of that very expensive class, although no two of them were alike. Obviously they were to please the passengers in capacities outside the salon, and Jim seemed to have had some experience of such duties. It was wasteful, as the elaborate decor of the ship was wasteful and extravagant, to settle the most sensitive and capable of azi to tasks far beneath their mental capacity. But that was typical of beta-ish ostentation: if one could pay, one bought and displayed, even if it was completely senseless.

Jim finished his breakfast and sat, staring at the plate between his hands, probably unsure what to do next, but looking distressingly like a machine out of program.

Many, many azi weremachinelike, incapable of even basic function when diverted from their precise series of duties, or taken from the specific house or factory to which they belonged. A few even went catatonic and had to be terminated if they could not be shocked out of it and retrained. But Jim, had he won the wager, could have passed for beta…save for the tattoo; he was capable of living on his own: he was of that order, as mentally alert as any born-man.

Lia had been such.

Jim looked up finally, perhaps conscious of her concentration on him. There was again that sadness…the same that she had met in the night, a deep and unreachable melancholy, the same that had faced her mirror-wise across the gaming table: suspicion, perhaps, that some games were not for winning, even if they had to be played out.

“You don’t ask questions,” she said.

He still did not.

“We’re going to Istra,” she said.

“I’ll leave with you, then.”

That sounded like a question. She realised the drift of his previous thoughts, and leaned back, still studying him. “Yes. You should be well-accustomed to travelling, oughtn’t you? Haven’t you ever wanted to go downworld? I should think you might have had some curiosity about the ports this ship touches.”

He nodded, with an infinitesimal brightening of the eyes.

“You can buy,” she said, “whatever you like. My resources ceased to amuse me…long ago. I pass the curse on to you: anything you want, any extravagance. There would have been a limit to your funds had you won. But with me, there’s none. There are hazards to my company; there are compensations too. If there’s anything on this ship you’ve ever wanted to have, you’re free to buy it.”

That only seemed to confuse him. He had seen betas come and go, richly dressed, ordering fine food and indulging in ship-board pleasures: the limit of his experience in avarice, no doubt. Any beta so invited could have imagined something at once.

“Why don’t you go change again?” she suggested. “You don’t belong in ship’s uniform any longer. See how the clothes suit you. Then you might think about packing. We’ll be docked by noon. I have some business to attend, but when it’s done, then we’ll amuse ourselves, have a look at the world, commit a few extravagances, see if there’s not some society to disarrange. Go on, go on with you.”

He looked no less confused, but he rose from table and turned to the bench to sort through the packaged clothing. He spilled a stack onto the floor, gathered it up again, only to spill another, clumsiness that was not like him. He knelt and collected everything into groups, hesitating in his movements, finally made his selections and restored order. The sight disturbed her, hit her like a blow to the stomach. Azi. Motor confusion, brought on by too much strangeness, too many changes at once. She held her tongue. A sticking-point in the clockwork: it was like that. Intervention would make it worse.

She thought of Lia, and pushed Lia out of her mind.

He went off with his armful of packages, into the bedroom.

She became aware of subdued chatter from the viewer, and rose to cut it off. Depression returned the more forcefully, the more she tried to ignore it.

I could apply to Cerdin, she thought. I could beg Moth and Council for shelter. I could go on living, among Kontrin, home again. All I have to do is bow to Council.

That was always, she reckoned, all it required. And she would not, not now.

She started about her own packing, opening lockers and chests in search of forgotten items.

The room lights flared red suddenly, the whole suite bathed in the warning glow.

“Sera?” Jim was out of the bath in an instant, his voice plaintive with alarm.

Raen crossed the room in four strides and punched in the emergency channel, foreknowing.

MAJAT PASSENGER, the screen read, NOW MOVING. SECTION 50 PLEASE SECURE YOUR DOORS AND REMAIN INSIDE. PLEASE CALL STATION 3 IF YOU FEEL YOU NEED ASSISTANCE.

She punched 3. “Security, this is 512. I’ve noticed your alarm. Would you kindly key us out? Thank You.”

Room light went normal white again. Jim still hovered in the doorway, looking frightened.