Or was it simply that Gailet did not want to bear the burden of their decision all by herself, when the time came?

Certainly Fiben knew a lot more about Galactic civilization than before his capture. Perhaps more than he had ever wanted to know. The intricacies of a three-billion-year-old culture made up of a thousand diverse, bickering patron-client clan lines, held together loosely by a network of ancient institutes and traditions, made Fiben’s head swim. Half the time he would come away cynically disgusted — convinced that the Galactics were little more than powerful spoiled brats, combining the worst qualities of the old nation-states of Earth before Mankind’s maturity.

But then something would crystallize, and Gailet would make clear to him some tradition or principle that displayed uncanny subtlety and hard-won wisdom, developed over hundreds of millions of years.

It was getting to the point where he didn’t even know what to think anymore. “I gotta get some air,” he told her. “I’m going for a walk.” He stepped over to the coatrack and grabbed his parka. “See you in an hour or so.”

He rapped on the door. It slid open. He stepped through and closed it behind him without looking back.

“Need an escort, Fiben?”

The chimmie, Sylvie, .picked up a datawell and scribbled an entry. She wore a simple, ankle-length dress with long sleeves. To look at her now, it was hard to imagine her up on the dance mound at the Ape’s Grape, driving crowds of chens to the verge of mob violence. Her smile was hesitant, almost timid. And it occurred to Fiben that there was something unaccountably nervous about her tonight.

“What if I said no?” he asked. Before Sylvie could look alarmed he grinned. “Just kidding. Sure, Sylvie. Give me Rover Twelve. He’s a friendly old globe, and he doesn’t spook the natives too much.”

“Watch robot RVG-12. Logged as escort to Fiben Bolger for release outside,” she said into the datawell. A door opened down the hallway behind her, and out floated a remote vigilance globe, a simple version of a battle robot, whose sole mission was to accompany a prisoner and see that he did not escape.

“Have a nice walk, Fiben.”

He winked at Sylvie and affected an airy burr. “Now, lass, what other kind is there, for a prisoner?”

The last one, Fiben answered himself. The one leading to the gallows. But he waved gaily. “C’mon, Rover.” The front door hissed as it slid back to let him emerge into a blustery autumn afternoon.

Much had changed since their capture. The conditions of their imprisonment grew gentler as he and Gailet seemed to become more important to the Suzerain of Propriety’s inscrutable plan. I still hate this place, Fiben thought as he descended concrete steps and made his way through an unkempt garden toward the outer gate. Sophisticated surveillance robots rotated slowly at the corners of the high wall. Near the portal, Fiben came upon the chim guards.

Irongrip was not present, fortunately, but the other Probationers on duty were hardly friendlier. For although the Gubru still paid their wages, it seemed their masters had recently deserted their cause. There had been no overturning of the Uplift program on Garth, no sudden reversal of the eugenics pyramid. The Suzerain tried to find fault in the way neo-chimps are being uplifted, Fiben knew. But it must’ve failed. Otherwise, why would it be grooming a blue card and a white card, like me and Gailet, for their ceremony?

In fact, the use of Probationers as auxiliaries had sort of backfired on the invaders. The chim population resented it.

No words passed between Fiben and the zipsuited guards. The ritual was well understood. He ignored them, and they dawdled just as long as they dared without giving him an excuse to complain. Once, when the claviger delayed too long with the keys, Fiben had simply turned around and marched back inside. He did not even have to say a word to Sylvie. Next watch, those guards were gone. Fiben never saw them again.

This time, just on impulse, Fiben broke tradition and spoke. “Nice weather, ain’t it?”

The taller of the two Probationers looked up in surprise. Something about the zipsuited chen suddenly struck Fiben as eerily familiar, although he was certain he had never met him before. “What, are you kidding?” The guard glanced up at rumbling cumulonimbus clouds. A cold front was moving in, and rain could not be far off.

“Yeah,” Fiben grinned. “I’m kidding. Actually, it’s too sunny for my tastes.”

The guard gave Fiben a sour look and stepped aside. The gate squeaked open, and Fiben slipped out onto a back street lined by ivy-decked walls. Neither he nor Gailet had ever seen any of their neighbors. Presumably local chims kept a low profile around Irongrip’s crew and the watchful alien robots.

He whistled as he walked toward the bay, trying to ignore the hovering watch globe following just a meter above and behind him. The first time he had been allowed out this way, Fiben avoided the populated areas of Port Helenia, sticking to back alleys and the now almost abandoned industrial zone. Nowadays he still kept away from the main shopping and business areas, where crowds would gather and stare, but he no longer felt he had to avoid people completely.

— Early on he had seen other chims accompanied by watch globes. At first he thought they were prisoners like himself. Chens and chimmies in work clothes stepped aside and gave the guarded chims wide berth, as they did him.

Then he noticed the differences. Those other escorted chims wore fine clothes and walked with a haughty bearing. Their watch globes’ eye facets and weaponry faced outward, rather than upon the ones they guarded. Quislings, Fiben realized. He was pleased to see the faces many chim citizens cast at these high-level collaborators when their backs were turned — looks of sullen, ill-concealed disdain.

After that, in his quarters, he had stenciled the proud letters P-R-I-S-O-N-E-R on the back of his parka. From then on, the stares that followed him were less cold. They were curious, perhaps even respectful.

The globe was not programmed to let him speak to people. Once, when a chimmie dropped a folded piece of paper in his path, Fiben tested the machine’s tolerance by bending over to pick it up …

He awoke sometime later in the globe’s grasp, on his way back to prison. It was several days before he was allowed out again.

No matter. It had been worth it. Word of the episode spread. Now, chens and chimmies nodded as he passed storefronts and long ration lines. Some even signed little messages of encouragement in hand talk.

They haven’t twisted us, Fiben thought proudly. A few traitors hardly mattered. What counted was the behavior of a people, as a whole. Fiben.remembered reading how, during the most horrible of Earth’s old, pre-Contact world wars, the citizens of the little nation of Denmark resisted every effort of the Nazi conquerors to dehumanize them. Instead they behaved with startling unity and decency. It was a story well worth emulating.

We’ll hold out, he replied in sign language. Terra remembers, and will come for us.

He clung to the hope, no matter how hard it became. As he learned the subtleties of Galactic law from Gailet, he came to realize that even if peace broke out all across the spiral arms, it might not be enough to eject the invaders. There were tricks a clan as ancient as the Gubru knew, ways to invalidate a weaker clan’s lease on a planet like Garth. It was apparent one faction of the avian enemy wanted to end Earth’s tenancy here and take it over for themselves.

Fiben knew that the Suzerain of Propriety had searched in vain for evidence the Earthlings were mishandling the ecological recovery on Garth. Now, after the way the occupation forces had bollixed decades of hard work, they dared not raise that issue.

The Suzerain had also spent months hunting for elusive “Garthlings.” If the mysterious pre-sentients had proven real, a claim on them would have justified every dime spent here. Finally, they saw through Uthacalthing’s practical joke, but that did not end their efforts.