Free Star Rigger's Way by Jeffrey A. Carver Page A

around. "Sssss?"
    "Do you want to go home? To Syncleya?"
    Cephean muttered darkly and turned away again.
    "Do you want to speak to the panel? They've never met a cynthian before, and they'd like to talk with you." No answer. "Cephean?"
    The cynthian looked around slowly. "Hhh-no," he said.
    "Well, what do you want to do?" said Carlyle. He was trying to be patient, but why was Cephean so sullen? Because he was alone on a human planet? "Do you want to keep flying with me, then?"
    "Hhh-no," hissed Cephean.
    Carlyle felt relief, but also guilt. Had Cephean said no because he felt unwanted? Did he want to feel wanted?
    "Cephean—" he said. He wanted to say something soothing—or probing. "Are you all right? I mean, being away from your own people, being here with us, is that . . . hard?" He felt angry with himself for fumbling so, for being so awkward.
    Cephean sat, staring at him with his copper-and-obsidian eyes. The riffmar were stirring about in the clutter behind Cephean, and one of them traipsed forward, dragging a syrup stalk. The stalk was wilted, but Cephean took it in his jaws and chewed it slowly.
    Carlyle walked to the back of the room and peered into Cephean's wood-crate cache of food. "Hell," he said, "you're almost out of food." The Guild room steward had offered them provisions, but Cephean had refused; he probably was afraid of human food. But if his own supply was drying up, he might be suffering physically. Who knew what a cynthian's nutritional needs were? "Cephean, you're running out of food!"
    Cephean's eyes dimmed with despair.
    "Well, look. We can fix that; we can get you food. I know you don't trust our food, but if we do some shopping, we can probably come up with something like . . . odomilk . . . or your syrup stalk and whatever else you have. Do you want to go out with me and see what we can find?"
    The cynthian blinked nervously. He inhaled and exhaled with a hiss, then fell silent. He started chewing his stalk again.
    Carlyle looked around the room. The place was a mess, and despite good ventilation, it smelled. The cynthian did not use the human toilet but kept his wastes, rather sloppily at present, in a box which fed into the riffmar nutrient tray and the riff-bud culture tank. The floor was covered with little clots of black hair, and there were a few broken riffmar leaves lying about, suggesting that Cephean might have taken a few swipes at Idi and Odi. Obviously he was depressed, and possibly he was again becoming suicidal.
    "Cephean," Carlyle said gently, "why don't we have this place cleaned up, and go out and see if we can find some food you'll like. All right?"
    Again there was silence. Cephean seemed immobilized by fear. Is that it? Carlyle wondered. Fear? I can understand that—any rigger can. Some of us never go out into the outside world at all.
    He reached out sympathetically to touch the cynthian—and stopped. How would that kind of gesture be taken by a cynthian? His hand trembled, and he felt ridiculous holding it out. Then he thought, go ahead—he's just a big, smart telepathic cat.
    ( Irritation , he sensed.)
    Finally he reached all the way and touched Cephean's forehead and pushed his fingers into the long, black fur between the cynthian's ears. Cephean's eyes widened, and his copper irises dilated to bright, skinny rings of fire around black pupils. (Carlyle felt ripples of . . . what? . . . consolation . . . affection . . . condescension ? He couldn't be sure.)
    "We have to help each other out, Cephean. We'll just go out in the city to some food shops. No koryfs. No trouble. All right?" He was tempted to suggest that they work out their problems together in the RiggerGuild dreampool, but he quashed that thought immediately: He patted Cephean's smooth, muscular shoulder. "All right?"
    Cephean bared his teeth and worked his tongue around inside his mouth. Finally he dipped his head. "H-all righ-ss. Yiss."
    Carlyle sighed gratefully. His heart was