Tuf Voyaging

They paid him, of course.





IT WAS MORE habit than hobby, and it was certainly not anything acquired deliberately, with malice aforethought; nonetheless, it had undoubtedly been acquired. Haviland Tuf collected spacecraft.

Perhaps it is more accurate to say he accumulated spacecraft. He certainly had the room for them. When Tuf had first set foot upon the Ark, he had found there five black, rakish, delta-winged shuttles, the gutted hull of a big-bellied Rhiannese merchant, and three alien starships: a heavily-armed Hruun fighter and two much stranger craft whose histories and builders remained an enigma. To that ragtag fleet was added Tuf’s own damaged trading vessel, the Cornucopia of Excellent Goods at Low Prices.

That was only the beginning. In his travels, Tuf found other ships gathering on his landing deck much as dust balls gather under a computer console and papers gather on a bureaucrat’s desk.

On Freehaven, the negotiator’s one-man driveshift courier had been so badly scored by enemy fire while running the blockade that Tuf had been obliged to provide return passage in the shuttle Manticore—after a contract had been arrived at, of course. Thus he had acquired one driveshift courier.

On Gonesh, the elephant priests had never actually seen an elephant. Tuf had cloned them a few herds, and for variety had thrown in a brace of mastodon, a wooly mammoth, and a green Trygian trumpet-tusker. The Goneshi, who wished no commerce with the rest of humanity, had paid his fee with the fleet of decrepit starships their colonizing ancestors had arrived in. Tuf had been able to sell two of the ships to museums and the rest of the fleet to a scrapyard, but he had kept one ship on a whim.

On Karaleo, he had bested the Lord of the Burnished Golden Pride in a drinking contest, and had won a luxurious lionboat for his troubles, although the loser had ungraciously removed most of the ornate solid-gold trim before handing it over.

The Artificers of Mhure, who were inordinately proud of their craftsmanship, had been so pleased by the clever dragonettes Tuf had provided to check their plague of wing-rats that they had given him an iron-and-silver dragon-shuttle with huge bat-wings.

The knights of St. Christopher, whose resort world had been robbed of much of its charm by the depredations of huge flying saurians they called dragons (partly for effect and partly due to a lack of imagination), had been similarly pleased when Tuf had provided them with georges, tiny hairless simians who loved nothing better than to feast on dragon eggs. So the knights had given him a ship as well. It looked like an egg—an egg built of stone and wood. Inside the yolk were deep padded seats of oiled dragon leather, a hundred fantastical brass levers, and a stained-glass mosaic where a viewscreen ought to be. The wooden walls were hung with rich hand-woven tapestries portraying great feats of chivalry. The ship didn’t work, of course—the viewscreen didn’t view, the brass levers did nothing, and the life support systems couldn’t support life. Tuf accepted it nonetheless.

And so it had gone, a ship here and a ship there, until his landing deck looked like a interstellar junkyard. Thus it was, when Haviland Tuf determined to make his return to S’uthlam, that he had a wide variety of starships at his disposal.

He had long ago reached the conclusion that returning in the Ark itself would be unwise. After all, when he had left the S’uthlamese system, the Planetary Defense Flotilla had been in hot pursuit, determined to confiscate the seedship. The S’uthlamese were a highly advanced and technologically sophisticated people who would undoubtedly have made their warships faster and more dangerous in the five standard years since Tuf had last gone among them. Therefore, a scouting sortie was imperative. Fortunately, Haviland Tuf considered himself a master of disguise.

He took the Ark out of drive in the cold, empty darkness of interstellar space a light-year from S’ulstar, and rode down to his landing deck to inspect his fleet. At length he decided upon the lionboat. It was large and swift, its star-drive and life-support systems were functional, and Karaleo was far enough removed from S’uthlam so that commerce between the two worlds was unlikely. Therefore any flaws in his imposture would most likely go unnoticed. Before he made his departure, Haviland Tuf dyed his milk-white skin a deep bronze color, covered his long hairless features with a wig that gave him a formidable red-gold beard and a wild mane, glued on fierce eyebrows, and draped his massive, paunchy frame in all manner of brightly colored furs (synthetic) and golden chains (quasigilt, actually) until he looked the very part of a Karaleo noble. Most of his cats remained safely behind upon the Ark, but Dax, the black telepathic kitten with the lambent golden eyes, rode with him, snug in one cavernous pocket. He gave his ship a likely and appropriate name, stocked it with freeze-dried mushroom stew and two kegs of thick brown St. Christopher Malt, programmed its computer with several of his favorite games, and set out.



When he emerged from drive into normal space near the globe of S’uthlam and its expansive orbital docks, Tuf was hailed at once. Upon the control chamber’s huge telescreen—shaped like a large eye, another interesting affectation of the Leonese—appeared the features of a small, spare man with tired eyes. “This is Spiderhome Control, Port of S’uthlam,” he identified himself. “We have you, fly. ID, please.”

Haviland Tuf reached out and activated his comm unit. “This is Ferocious Veldt Roarer,” he said in an even, dispassionate voice. “I wish to secure docking permission.”

“What a surprise,” the controller said, with bored sarcasm. “Dock four-thirty-seven. Out.” His face was replaced by a schematic showing the location of the designated berth relative to the rest of the station. Then the transmission cut off.

A customs team came aboard after docking. One woman inspected his empty holds, ran a swift and cursory safety check to make sure this odd and unlikely craft was not going to explode or melt down or otherwise damage the web, and checked the ship over for vermin. Her companion subjected Tuf to a lengthy inquiry as to his point of origin, destination, business on S’uthlam, and other particulars of his voyage, punching his fictitious answers into a hand computer.

They were almost finished when Dax emerged sleepily from Tuf’s pocket and peered at her. “What the …” she said, startled. She rose so suddenly she almost dropped her computer.

The kitten—well, he was almost a cat now, but still the youngest of Tuf’s pets—had long, silky hair as black as the depths of space, bright golden eyes, and a curiously indolent manner. Tuf plucked him out, cradled him with one arm, stroked him with the other. “This is Dax,” he said. The S’uthlamese had a disconcerting habit of regarding all animals as vermin, and he was anxious to forestall any rash actions on the part of the customs official. “He is a pet, madam, and quite harmless.”

“I know what he is,” the woman said sharply. “Keep him away from me. If he goes for my throat, you’re in big trouble, fly.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “I will do my best to control his ferocity.”

She looked relieved. “It’s only a little cat, right? What’s that called, a catling?”

“Your knowledge of zoology is astute,” Tuf replied.

“I don’t know doodles about zoology,” the customs inspector said, settling herself back into her seat. “But I watch my vidshows from time to time.”

“No doubt you chanced to view an educational documentary, then,” Tuf said.

“Yawn,” the woman said. “Neg on that, fly. I’m more for romance and adventure vids.”

“I see,” said Haviland Tuf. “And one such drama featured a feline, I assume.”

She nodded, and just then her colleague emerged from the hold. “All clean,” the other woman said. She spotted Dax, cradled in Tuf’s arms, and smiled. “A cat vermin,” she said happily. “Sort of cute, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be fooled,” the first inspector warned. “They’re soft and cuddly but they can rip your lungs out in the blink of an eye.”

“He looks a little small for that,” her partner said.

“Ha! Remember the one in Tuf and Mune.”

“Tuf and Mune,” Haviland Tuf repeated, his voice without expression.

The second inspector sat down next to the first. “The Pirate and the Portmaster,” she said.

“He was the ruthless lord of life and death, in a ship as large as the sun. She was the spider queen, torn between love and loyalty. Together they changed the world,” the first said.

“You can rent it in Spiderhome if you like that sort of thing,” the second told him. “It’s got a cat in it.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf, blinking. Dax began to purr.


His berth was five kilometers out along the web, so Haviland Tuf caught a pneumatic tubetrain into port center.

He was jostled on every side. On the train there were no seats. He was forced to stand with a stranger’s rude elbow thrust into his ribs, the cold plasteel mask of a cybertech mere millimeters from his face, and the slick carapace of some alien rubbing up against his back whenever the train slowed. When he disembarked, it was as if the car had decided to vomit out the overabundance of humanity it had ingested. The platform was swarming chaos, noise, and confusion, with passers-by milling all about him. A short young woman with features as sharp as the blade of a stiletto laid an unwelcome hand on his furs and invited him to join her at a sex parlor. No sooner had Tuf disengaged himself than he faced a newsfeed reporter, equipped with third-eye camera and ingratiating smile, who said he was doing a feature on strange flies and wanted an interview.

Tuf pushed past him to a vending booth, purchased a privacy shield, and clipped it on his belt. That provided a certain minimal help. When they saw it, the S’uthlamese politely averted their eyes, in keeping with his wishes, and he was free to proceed through the throngs more or less unmolested.

His first stop was a vidplex. He engaged a private room with couch, ordered up a bulb of watery S’uthlamese beer, and rented a copy of Tuf and Mune.

His second stop was the Portmaster’s office. “Sir,” he said to the man behind the reception console, “a query, if you will. Does Tolly Mune yet serve as Portmaster of S’uthlam?”

The secretary looked him up and down and sighed. “Flies,” he said, sighing. “Of course. Who else?”

“Who else indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “It is imperative that I meet with her at once.”

“Is it now? You and a thousand others. Name?”

“I am named Weemowet, a traveler out of Karaleo, master of the Fierce Veldt Roarer.”

The secretary grimaced and entered that into the console, then slouched back on his floater chair, waiting. Finally he shook his head. “Sorry, Weemowet,” he said. “Ma’s busy and her computer’s never heard of you, your ship, or your planet. I can get you an appointment in about a week, if you’ll state your business.”

“This is unsatisfactory. My business is of a personal nature, and I would prefer to see the Portmaster immediately.”

The secretary shrugged. “Defecate or evacuate the chamber, fly. Best we can do.”

Haviland Tuf reflected a moment. Then he reached up, grasped the fringe of his mane, and pulled. It made a ripping sound as it came off his face. “Observe!” he said. “I am not truly Weemowet. I am Haviland Tuf in disguise.” He draped his mane and beard over the top of the console.

“Haviland Tuf?” the secretary said.

“Correct.”

The man laughed. “I saw that vidshow, fly. If you’re Tuf, I’m Stephan Cobalt Northstar.”

“Stephan Cobalt Northstar has been dead for more than a millennium. Nonetheless, I am Haviland Tuf.”

“You don’t look a thing like him,” the secretary said.

“I am incognito, disguised as a Leonese noble.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

“Your memory is short. Will you tell Portmaster Mune that Haviland Tuf has returned to S’uthlam and wishes to speak with her at once?”

“No,” the man said bluntly, “but I’ll be sure to tell all my friends tonight at the orgy.”

“I have the sum of sixteen million five hundred thousand standards which I wish to pay over to her,” Tuf said.

“Sixteen million five hundred thousand standards?” the secretary said, impressed. “That’s a lot of money.”

“You have a keen perception of the obvious,” Tuf said evenly. “I have found ecological engineering to be quite a lucrative profession.”

“Good for you,” the man said. He leaned forward. “Well, Tuf or Weemowet or whoever you are, this all has been very droll, but I have work to do. If you don’t pick up your hair and scuttle out of my sight in the next few seconds, I’m going to have to call security.” He was about to expand on that theme when his console buzzed at him. “Yes?” he said into his headset, frowning. “Ah, yes. Sure, Ma. Well, big, very big, two and a half meters tall, gut on him that’s almost obscene. Hmmmm. No, lots of hair, or at least he did before he yanked it off and dumped it on my console. No. Says he’s in disguise. Yes. Says he’s got millions of standards for you.”

“Sixteen million five hundred thousand,” Tuf said with some precision.

The secretary swallowed. “Certainly. Right now, Ma.” He broke the connection and looked up at Tuf with astonishment. “She wants to see you.” He pointed. “Through that door. Careful, her office is zero gee.”

“I am aware of the Portmaster’s aversion to gravity,” said Haviland Tuf. He gathered up his discarded mane, tucked it under one arm, and moved with stiff dignity toward the indicated door, which slid open at his approach.


She was waiting in the inner office, floating in the center of the clutter, her legs crossed, her long silver-and-iron hair moving lazily about her lean, open, homely face like a wreath of smoke. “So you came back,” she said when Tuf swam into view.

Haviland Tuf was uncomfortable in zero-gee. He pulled himself to her visitor’s chair, securely bolted to what should have been the floor, and strapped himself in. He folded his hands neatly atop the great curve of his stomach. His mane, abandoned, drifted about on the air currents. “Your secretary refused to relay my messages,” he said. “How did you come to suspect that it was me?”

She grinned. “Who else would call his ship Ferocious Veldt Roarer?” she said. “Besides, it’s been five years almost to the day. I had a feeling you’d be the punctual sort, Tuf.”

“I see,” said Haviland Tuf. With deliberate dignity, he reached inside his synthafurs, broke the sealseam on the inner pocket, and extracted a vinyl wallet lined with crystal datachips in tiny pouches. “Herewith, madam, I am most pleased to tender you the sum of sixteen million five hundred thousand standards, in payment of the first half of my debt to the Port of S’uthlam for the restoration and refitting of the Ark. You will find the funds secure in appropriate financial depositories on Osiris, ShanDellor, Old Poseidon, Ptola, Lyss, and New Budapest. These chips will permit access.”

“Thanks,” she said. She took the wallet, flipped it open, glanced at it briefly, and let it loose. It floated up toward the mane. “Somehow I knew you’d find the standards, Tuf.”

“Your faith in my business acumen is reassuring,” said Haviland Tuf. “Now, concerning this vidshow.”

“Tuf and Mune? You’ve seen it, then?”

“Indeed,” said Tuf.

“Goddamn,” Tolly Mune said, grinning crookedly. “So what’d you think, Tuf?”

“I am forced to admit that it evoked a certain perverse fascination in me, for obvious reasons. The idea of such a drama has an undeniable appeal to my vanity, but the execution left much to be desired.”

Tolly Mune laughed. “What bothers you the most?”

Tuf raised a single long finger. “In a word, inaccuracy.”

She nodded. “Well, the vidshow Tuf masses about half what you do, I’d say, his face is a lot more mobile, his speech wasn’t half as stilted, and he had a spinneret’s musculature and an acrobat’s coordination, but they did shave his head in the interests of authenticity.”

“He wore a mustache,” said Haviland Tuf. “I do not.”

“They thought it looked roguish. Then again, look what they did to me. I don’t mind that they took fifty years off my age, and I don’t mind that they enhanced my face until I looked like a Vandeeni dream-princess, but those goddamned breasts!”



“No doubt they wished to emphasize the certainty of your mammalian evolution,” said Tuf. “These might be put down as minor alterations in the interests of presenting a more aesthetic entertainment, but I regard the wanton liberties taken with my opinions and philosophies to be a far more serious matter. In particular, I object to my final speech, wherein I opine that the genius of evolving humanity can and will solve all problems, and that eco-engineering has freed the S’uthlamese to multiply without fear or limit, and thus evolve to greatness and ultimate godhood. This is in utter contradiction to the actual views I expressed to you at the time, Portmaster Mune. If you will recall our conversations, I told you distinctly that any solution to your food problem, whether technological or ecological in nature, must of necessity be only a stop-gap if your people continued to practice unrestrained reproduction.”

“You were the hero,” Tolly Mune said. “They couldn’t very well have you sound anti-life, could they?”

“Other flaws are also present in the narrative. Those unfortunate enough to view this fiction have received a wildly distorted view of the events of five years ago. Havoc is a harmless though spirited feline whose ancestors have been domesticated since the veritable dawn of human history, and it is my recollection that when you treacherously seized her on a legal technicality in a backhanded scheme to force me to hand over the Ark, she and I both tendered our surrender peacefully. At no point did she rip even a single security man apart with her claws, let alone six of them.”

“She did claw the back of my hand once,” said Tolly Mune. “Anything else?”

“I have nothing but approbation for the policies and conduct of Josen Rael and the High Council of S’uthlam,” Tuf said. “It is true that they, and particularly First Councilor Rael, behaved in an unethical and unscrupulous manner. Nonetheless, on their behalf, it must be said that at no point did Josen Rael subject me to torture, nor did he kill any of my cats in an effort to bend me to his will.”

“He didn’t sweat that much either,” said Tolly Mune, “and he never drooled. He was actually a decent man.” She sighed. “Poor Josen.”

“Finally we come to the crux of the matter. Crux indeed—a strange word when one rolls it upon the tongue, but quite appropriate to this discussion. The crux, Portmaster Mune, was and is the nature of our wager. When I brought the newly salvaged Ark in for refitting, your High Council resolved to have her. I refused to sell, and as you had no legal pretext for seizing the ship, you confiscated Havoc as vermin, and threatened to destroy her unless I thumbed a transfer. Is this correct in its essentials?”

“Sounds right to me,” Tolly Mune said amiably.

“We resolved the impasse with a wager. I would at tempt to forestall S’uthlam’s food crisis via eco-engineering, thus averting the great famine that threatened you. If I failed, the Ark was yours. If I succeeded, you were to return Havoc and, moreover, perform the refitting and repairs that I required and allow me ten standard years to pay the resulting bill.”

“Right,” she said.

“To my best recollection, at no point was carnal knowledge of your body included in my terms, Portmaster Mune. I would be the last to diminish the bravura you displayed in adversity, when the High Council shut down the tubes and secured all the docks. You risked your person and career, smashed through a plasteel window, flew across kilometers of stark vacuum clad only in skinthins and propelled by air jets, dodged security squads all the way, and in the end barely avoided destruction by your own Planetary Defense Flotilla as they moved against me. Even one as plain and blunt as myself must admit that these acts possess a certain heroic, even romantic, quality that in ancient days might be the stuff of legends. However, the purpose of this melodramatic albeit daring voyage was to return Havoc to my custody, as per the terms of our agreement, and not to deliver up your body to my,” he blinked, “lusts. Furthermore, you made it perfectly clear at that time that your actions were motivated by a sense of honor and fear of the corrupting influence the Ark might have upon your leaders. As I recall, neither physical passion nor romantic love played any part in your calculations.”

Portmaster Tolly Mune grinned. “Look at us, Tuf. A damned unlikely pair of star-crossed lovers. But you’ve got to admit, it makes a better story.”

Tuf’s long face was still and expressionless. “Surely you do not defend this grossly inaccurate vidshow,” he said flatly.

The Portmaster laughed again. “Defend it? Puling hell, I wrote it!”

Haviland Tuf blinked six times

Before he could frame a reply, the outer door slid open and the newsfeed peeps came swarming in, a good two dozen of them, yammering and exclaiming and shouting out rude questions. In the center of each forehead, a third eye whirred and blinked.

“This way, Tuffer. Smile.”

“Do you have any cats with you?”

“Will you be taking out a marriage contract, Portmaster?”

“Where’s the Ark?”

“Let’s have an embrace, hey!”

“When did you turn brown, trader?”

“Where’s the mustache?”

“Any opinion of Tuf and Mune, Citizen Tuf?”

“How’s Havoc these days?”

Strapped immobile into his chair, Haviland Tuf glanced up, down, and all around with a series of quick, precise head motions. He blinked and said nothing. The torrent of questions continued until Portmaster Tolly Mune came swimming effortlessly through the pack, pushing peeps aside with either hand, and settled down next to Tuf. She slid her arm through his and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Puling hell,” she said, “hold your goddamned bladders, he just got here.” She raised a hand. “No questions, sorry. We’re invoking privacy.

It’s been five years, after all. Give us some time to get reacquainted.”

“Are you going off to the Ark together?” one of the more aggressive reporters asked. She was floating a half-meter in front of Tuf’s face, her third eye whirring.

“Of course,” said Tolly Mune. “Where else?”


It was not until the Ferocious Veldt Roarer was well out of the web, en route back to the Ark, that Haviland Tuf deigned to walk back to the cabin he had assigned to Tolly Mune. He was freshly showered, cleansed, and scrubbed, all traces of disguise removed. His long hairless face was as white and unreadable as blank paper. He wore a plain gray coverall that did little to conceal his formidable paunch, and a green duckbilled cap adorned with the golden theta of the Ecological Engineers covered his bald pate. Dax rode upon one broad shoulder.

Tolly Mune had been reclining and sipping on a bulb of St. Christopher Malt, but she grinned when he entered. “This is damn good stuff,” she said. “Well now, who’s that? Not Havoc.”

“Havoc is safely back aboard the Ark, with her mate and her kittens, though in truth they can scarcely be said to be kittens any longer. The feline population of my ship has grown somewhat since my last call at S’uthlam, albeit not as precipitously as the human population of S’uthlam is wont to grow.” He lowered himself stiffly into a seat. “This is Dax. While every cat is of course special, Dax might accurately be said to be extraordinary. All cats have a touch of psi; this is well known. Due to an unusual set of circumstances I encountered upon the world known as Namor, I initiated a program to enhance and expand upon this innate feline ability. Dax is the end result, madam. We share a certain rapport, and Dax is gifted with a psi ability that is far from rudimentary.”

“In short,” said Tolly Mune, “you cloned yourself a mindreading cat.”

“Your perspicacity remains acute, Portmaster,” Tuf replied. He folded his hands. “We have much to discuss. Perhaps you will be so kind as to explain why you have requested that I bring the Ark back to S’uthlam, why you have insisted on accompanying me, and most crucially why you have embroiled me in this strange though colorful deception, and even gone so far as to make free with my person?”

Tolly Mune sighed. “Tuf, you remember how things stood when we parted five years ago?”

“My memory is unimpaired,” said Haviland Tuf.

“Good. Then you might recall that you left me in a real puling mess.”

“You anticipated immediate removal from your post as Portmaster, trial on charges of high treason, and a sentence to a penal farm on the Larder,” said Tuf. “Nonetheless, you declined my effort to provide you with free transport to another system of your choice, preferring instead to return to face imprisonment and disgrace.”

“Whatever the hell I am, I’m S’uthlamese,” she said. “These are my people, Tuf. Big puling fools at times, but still my goddamned people.”

“Your loyalty is no doubt commendable. Since you are still Portmaster, I must assume that circumstances changed.”

“I changed them,” Tolly Mune said.

“Indeed.”

“Had to, if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life driving a weeder-wheel through the neograss while gravity pulled me apart.” She made a face. “As soon as I got back to port, security grabbed me. I’d defied the High Council, broken laws, damaged property, and helped you escape with a ship they wanted to confiscate. Damned dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

“My opinion has no bearing on the matter.”

“So dramatic, in fact, that it had to be either a crime of enormous magnitude or an act of enormous heroism. Josen was sick about it. We went way back, him and me, and he wasn’t a bad man really, I told you that. But he was First Councilor, and he knew what he had to do. He had to try me for treason. And I’m no damned fool either, Tuf. I knew what I had to do.” She leaned forward. “I wasn’t that pleased by my cards either, but I had to play them or fold. To save my bony ass, I had to destroy Josen—discredit him and most of the High Council. I had to make myself a heroine and him a villain, in terms that would be perfectly clear to every goddamned drooling slackjaw in the undercity.”

“I see,” said Tuf. Dax was purring; the Portmaster was perfectly sincere. “Ergo the overblown melodrama that was called Tuf and Mune.”

“I needed cals for legal costs,” she said. “That was real enough, puling hell, but I used it as an excuse to sell my version of events to one of the big vidnets. I, let us say, seasoned the story a bit. They were so excited they decided to follow the newsfeed exclusive with a dramatized version. I was more than happy to provide the script. Had a collaborator, of course, but I told him what to write. Josen never understood what was happening. He wasn’t as canny a pol as he thought, and his heart was never in it. Besides, I had help.”

“From what source?” Tuf inquired.

“A young man named Cregor Blaxon, mostly.”

“The name is unknown to me.”

“He was on the High Council. Councilor for agriculture. A very crucial post, Tuf, and Blaxon was the youngest man ever to fill it. Youngest man on the Council, too. You’d think he’d be satisfied, right?”

“Please do not presume to tell me my thoughts, unless you have developed psionic abilities in my absence. I would think no such thing, madam. I have found that it is almost always a mistake to assume that any human being is ever satisfied.”

“Cregor Blaxon is and was a very ambitious man,” Tolly Mune said. “He was part of Josen’s administration. Both of them were technocrats, but Blaxon aspired to the First Councilor’s seat and that was where Josen Rael had planted his buttocks.”

“I grasp his motivation.”

“Blaxon became my ally. He was quite impressed with what you’d provided anyway. The omni-grain, the fish and that plankton, the slime-molds, all the damn mushrooms. And he saw what was happening. He used every bit of his power to cut short bio-testing and put your stuff in the field. Screamer priorities all around. Did a smash-run on any puling fool tried to slow things down. Josen Rael was too preoccupied to notice.”

“The intelligent and efficient politician is a species virtually unknown in the galaxy,” said Haviland Tuf. “Perhaps I might secure a scraping from Cregor Blaxon for the Ark’s cell library.”

“You’re getting ahead of me.”

“The end of the story is obvious. The appearance of vanity notwithstanding, I will venture a guess that my small effort at eco-engineering was deemed a success, and that Cregor Blaxon’s energetic implementation of my solutions rebounded to his credit.”

“He called it Tuf’s Flowering,” Tolly Mune said with a certain cynical twist to the corner of her mouth. “The newsfeeds took up the term. Tuf’s Flowering, a new golden age for S’uthlam. Soon we had edible fungus growing along the walls of our sewer systems. We started huge mushroom farms in every undercity. Carpets of Neptune’s shawl crept across the surface of our seas, and underneath, your fish multiplied at an astounding rate. We planted your omni-grain instead of neograss and nanowheat, and the first crop gave us almost triple the caloric yield. You did one nova-class job of eco-engineering for us, Tuf.”

“The compliment is noted with due appreciation,” said Tuf.

“Fortunately for me, the Flowering was already in full bud when Tuf and Mune hit the nets, long before I went to trial. Creg was extolling your brilliance to the newsfeeds daily and telling billions that our food crisis was done, finished, over.” The Portmaster shrugged. “So he made you a hero, for his own reasons. Couldn’t help it, if he wanted to replace Josen. And that helped make me a heroine. It all ties together in one big neat puling knot—prettiest goddamned thing you’d ever want to see. I’ll spare you the details. The end of it was, Tolly Mune acquitted, restored to office in triumph. Josen Rael in disgrace, denounced by all the opinionaters, forced to resign. Half the High Council resigned with him. Cregor Blaxon became the new technocratic leader and won the elections that followed. Creg’s now First Councilor. Josen, poor soul, died two years ago. And you and I have become the stuff of legends, Tuf, the most celebrated lovers since, oh, puling hell, since all those famous romantic couples from ancient times—you know, Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah, Sodom and Gomorrah, Marx and Lenin.”

Perched on Tuf’s shoulder, Dax began to emit a low, frightened growl. Tiny claws dug through the fabric of Tuf’s jumpsuit into his flesh. Haviland Tuf blinked, then reached over and stroked the kitten soothingly. “Portmaster Mune, your smile is broad and your news seems to indicate nothing but the trite yet nonetheless eternally popular happy ending, but Dax has grown alarmed, as if you seethe with turmoil beneath this placid surface. Perhaps you are omitting some crucial part of the tale.”

“Just the footnote, Tuf,” the Portmaster said.

“Indeed. What might that be?”

“Twenty-seven years, Tuf. Does that trip any claxons in your head?”

“Indeed. Before I embarked upon my program of ecological engineering, your projections indicated S’uthlam to be twenty-seven standard years from mass famine, given the alarming population growth and the declining food resources.”

“That was five years ago,” said Tolly Mune.

“Indeed.”

“Twenty-seven minus five.”

“Twenty-two,” said Tuf. “I assume there is a point in this exercise in elementary arithmetic.”

“Twenty-two years left,” Portmaster buy Mune said. “Ah, but that was before the Ark, before the genius ecologist Tuf and the daring spinneret Mune fixed it all, before the miracle of the loaves and fishes, before courageous young Cregor Blaxon ushered in Tuf’s Flowering.”

Haviland Tuf turned his head to look at the cat on his shoulder. “I detect a certain note of sarcasm in her voice,” he said to Dax.

Tolly Mune sighed, reached into a pocket, and extracted a case of crystalline data-chips. “Here you go, lover,” she said. She tossed them through the air.

Tuf reached up, caught the spinning case in a large white hand, said nothing.

“Everything you need is there. Straight from the council databanks. The hard-classified files, of course. All the reports, all the projections, all the analyses, and it’s for your eyes only. You understand? That’s why I was so puling mysterious and that’s why we’re heading back to the Ark. Creg and the High Council figured our romance made a terrific cover. Let the billions of newsfeed viewers think we’re sexing up a storm. As long as their heads are full of visions of the pirate and portmaster blazing new sexual frontiers, they won’t stop to ponder what we’re really up to, and everything can be done quietly. We want loaves and fishes, Tuf, but this time on a covered platter, you understand? Those are my instructions.”

“What is the most recent projection?” said Haviland Tuf, his voice even and expressionless.

Dax stood up, hissing in alarm, and sudden fear.

Tolly Mune sipped on her beer, and slumped back deep into her chair. She closed her eyes. “Eighteen years,” she said. She looked like the hundred-year-old woman she was, instead of a youngster of sixty, and her voice was infinitely weary. “Eighteen years,” she repeated, “and counting.”


Tolly Mune was far from unsophisticated. Having spent her life on S’uthlam, with its vast continent-wide cities, its teeming billions, its towers rising ten kays into the sky, its deep underways far below the surface, and its great orbital elevator, she was not a woman easily impressed by mere size. But there was something about the Ark, she thought.

She felt it from the moment of their arrival, as the great dome of the landing deck cracked open beneath them and Tuf took the Ferocious Veldt Roarer down into darkness and settled it among his shuttles and junked starships, upon a circular landing pad that glowed a dim blue in welcome. The dome closed over them and atmosphere was pumped back in; to fill so large a space so quickly it came with gale force, howling and sighing all around them. Finally Tuf opened their locks and preceded her down an ornate stair that slid from the lionboat’s mouth like a gilded tongue. Below, a small three-wheeled cart was waiting. Tuf drove past the clutter of dead and abandoned ships, some more alien than any Tolly Mune had ever seen. He drove in silence, looking neither right nor left, Dax a limp, boneless, purring ball of fur stretched across his knees.

Tuf gave her an entire deck to herself. Hundreds of sleeping berths, computer stations, labs, accessways, sanitary stations, recreation halls, kitchens, and no tenants but her. On S’uthlam, a cityspace this large would have housed a thousand people, in apartments smaller than the Ark’s storage closets. Tuf turned off the gravity grid on that level, since he knew she preferred zero-gee.

“If you have need of me, you will find my own quarters on the top deck, under full gravity,” he told her. “I intend to address all my energies to the problems of S’uthlam. I will not require your counsel or assistance. No offense is intended, Portmaster, but it has been my bitter experience that such liaisons are more trouble than they are worth and serve only to distract me. If there is an answer to your most vexing quandary, I shall arrive at it soonest by my own efforts, left undisturbed. I shall program a leisurely voyage toward S’uthlam and its web; it is my hope that when we arrive I will be able to solve your difficulty.”

“If you can’t,” she reminded him sharply, “we get the ship. Those were the terms.”

“I am fully aware of this,” said Haviland Tuf. “In the event you grow restive, the Ark offers a full spectrum of diversions, entertainments, and occupations. Feel free to avail yourself of the automated food facilities as well. The fare so provided is not equal to the meals I prepare personally, though it will acquit itself admirably when compared to typical S’uthlamese provender, I have no doubt. Partake of as many meals as you require during the day; I will be pleased to have you join me each evening for dinner at eighteen-hundred ship’s time. Kindly be punctual.” And so saying, he took his leave.

The computer system that ran the great ship observed cycles of light and darkness, to simulate the passage of day and night. Tolly Mune spent her nights before a holo monitor, viewing dramas several millennia old recorded upon worlds half-legendary. Her days she spent exploring—first the deck that Tuf had ceded her, and then the rest of the ship. The more she saw and learned, the more awed and uneasy Tolly Mune became.

She sat for days in the old captain’s chair on the tower bridge that Tuf had bypassed as inconvenient, watching random selections from the ancient log roll down the great vidscreen.

She walked a labyrinth of decks and corridors, found three skeletons in scattered parts of the Ark (only two of them human), wondered at one corridor intersection where the thick duralloy bulkheads were blistered and cracked, as if by great heat.

She spent hours in a library she discovered, touching and handling old books, some printed on thin leaves of metal or plastic, others on real paper.

She returned to the landing deck and climbed around a few of the derelict starships Tuf had there. She stood in the armory and gazed on a frightening array of weapons, some of them obsolete, some of them unrecognizable, some of them forbidden.

She wandered down the dim vastness of the central shaft that cored the ship, walked the full thirty kays of its length, her bootsteps echoing overhead, her breath coming hard by the end of her daily treks. Around her were cloning vats, growth tanks, microsurgeries, and computer stations in staggering profusion. Ninety percent of the vats were empty, but here and there the Portmaster found life growing. She peered through dusty glass and thick, translucent fluids at dim, living shapes, shapes as small as her hand, and shapes as large as a tubetrain. It made her feel cold.