Today it was a deputation from a society of heretics wishing to hitch a ride, when I depart! They would send missionaries into the Hominid Realm, spreading word of the "Stratos Way." Cultural contamination that is directed outward is always seen as "enlightenment."
I explained my ship's limited capacity, and they were little mollified by my offer to take recordings. Not that it matters. In a few years, or decades, they will get to deliver their sermons in person.
When I was sent to follow up remote robot scans of this system, I expected iceship launches to await receipt, my report. But the Florentina Starclade wasted no time. Cy informs me that her instruments have picked up the first iceship already. It appears the Phylum will arrive sooner than even I expected, sealing permanent reunion, making moot all of the sober arguments by councillors and savants about preserving their noble isolation.
Presently, despite their decaying instrumentalities, the savants of Stratos will know as well, and start demanding answers.
Better that I tell them first.
Before that, another matter must be dealt with . . . my worsening mental and physical health.
It is not the gravity or heavy atmosphere. Periodically, I suffer spells when my symbionts struggle, and I must rest in my quarters for a day or two, unable to venture outside. These episodes are few, fortunately. For the most part, I feel hale and strong. The worst problem facing me is psychoglandular, having nothing to do with air or earth.
As a summertime male visitor, unsponsored by any clan, my position in Caria has been ambiguous. Even those clans who approve of my mission have been wary in late. It would be too much to fancy they might treat me like those favored males they welcome each aurora time.
No one wants to be the first risking accidental pregnancy with an alien whose genes might perturb the Founders' dream.
That near-paranoiac caution had advantages. The chill had helped restrain my dormant drives. Even after long voyages, I have never sought the attentions of women, save those who cared for me.
With autumn's arrival, however, attitudes are softening. Social encounters grow warmer. Women look, converse, even smile my way. Some acquaintances I now tentatively call friends — Mellina of Cady Clan, for instance, or that stunning pair of savants from Pozzo Hold, Horla and Poulain, who no longer bristle, but actually seem glad of my presence. They draw near, touch my arm, and share lighthearted, even provocative, jests.
How ironic. As my isolation lessens, the discomfort grows. By the day. By the hour.
Iolanthe, Groves, and most of the others seem oblivious. While consciously aware that I function differently than their males, they seem unconsciously to assume the autumnal diminishment of Wengel Star also damps my fires. Only Councillor Odo understands. She drew me out during a walk through the university gardens. Odo thinks it a problem easily solved by visiting a house of ease, operated by one of those specialist clans who are expert at taking all precautions, even with a randy alien.
I'm afraid I turned red. But, embarrassment aside, I face quandaries. Despite the female-to-male ratio, Stratos is no adolescent's moist fantasy come true, but a complex society, filled with contradictions, dangers, subtleties I've not begun to plumb. The situation is perilous enough without adding risk factors.
I am a diplomat. Other men — envoys, priests, and emissaries through all eras — have done as I should do.
Risen above instinct. Exercised professionalism, self-control.
Yet, what celibate of olden times had to endure such stimulation as I do, day in, day out? I can feel it from my raw optic nerve all the way down to my replete roots.
Come on, Renna. Isn't it just a matter of sexual cues? Some species are turned on by pheromones, or strutting displays. Male hominoids are visually activated — chimpanzees, by rosy, estrous colors; Stratoin men, by festival lights in the sky. Old-fashioned human react to the most inconvenient incitement cues of all — incessant, perennial, omnipresent. Cues women cannot help displaying, whatever their condition, or season, or intent.
No one is to blame. Nature had her reasons, long ago. Still, I am increasingly able to understand why Lysos and her allies chose to change such troublesome rules.
For the thousandth time … if only a woman peripatetic had drawn this mission!
Dammit, I know I'm rambling. But I feel inflamed, engulfed by so much untouchable fecundity, flowing past me in all directions. Insomnia plagues me, nor can I concentrate at the very time I must keep my wits about me. And when I shall need all of my skills.
Am I rationalizing? Perhaps. But for the good of the mission, I see no other choice.
Tomorrow, I will ask Odo … to arrange things.
The bitchies are gettin' impatient," Naroin commented, peering at the tiny screen. "I caught sight o' their prow a second time, an' a glint o' binocs. They're just holdin' back till the right moment."
