Free Sanctuary in The Sky by John Brunner

second voice which made him start up and peer—very cautiously—through the bush’s thick foliage.
    It was incredible. But it was a fact. Vykor felt as though a fast elevator had dropped the bottom out of his personal world. The patriot of patriots, the severe Cathrodyne nationalist, Capodistro Ferenc—sitting and conversing with a Pag.
     
    IX
    Shaken, Vykor withdrew. His head was whirling. It was indubitably Ferenc—though he looked very different dressed as he was now, in high gold lam6 boots, rust-colored pants and a shirt of red and green shot silk that changed color as he moved. He had had his hair dressed in another style, too. But it was certainly Ferenc.
    The Pag to whom he was talking was a civilian, and had her hair instead of shaving her scalp as the military did. She was somewhat smaller than the average—about Ferenc’s own height—and wore a severe black blouse and the inevitable Pag tights. There were silver symbols on the lapels of her blouse that probably indicated her official status. Only one of her front teeth was filed.
    Straining his ears, Vykor managed to catch scraps of the conversation.
    “. . . see things differently from outside,” Ferenc was saying. "When one’s compelled to stand on one’s dignity all the time, it’s easy to accept attitudes which are officially authorized and not to see that they’re basically unsatisfactory.”
    The Pag laughed. She had a rich contralto voice. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “it works on both sides. We won’t ever settle our disagreements by trying to out-shout each other; we’d do better to . .
    A blast of music from a nearby dancing floor interrupted her words. Vykor waited, but this was a loud and energetic dance that was being played, and it would be some minutes at least before he could hear more.
    He didn’t know whether to be furious at Ferenc for his double behavior, or pleased to discover that what he had taken for a typical dogmatic Cathrodyne officer was proving to be a comparatively tolerant human being.
    He looked around him cautiously. He was fairly certain that even after seeing him daily during the twelve-day trip, Ferenc would fail to recognize him in his blue and red mask. Cathrodynes often did not trouble to distinguish between individual members of the subject races. He could go around the bush and sit down at another bench on the other side of the clear space from Ferenc and the Pag, and from there he would be able to see them clearly. But he would probably not be able to sit close enough to go on eavesdropping. They didn’t seem to be keeping their voices down deliberately, of course . . .
    He decided to walk around once, at least, and then make up his mind whether to sit down where he could watch and call for a drink to account for his presence, or to return here. He took a path through the bushes that would bring him out the other side of the clearing where they sat; the bushes were taller than he was and were thick, of a dark green hue.
    He was just turning along a branch of the path that led to the bench he was making for, when another familiar figure came briefly into view from the other path and walked uncertainly out into the clearing.
    Ligmer, the archeologist, carrying a thick portfolio of papers and a transparent bag full of photographs.
    He went hesitantly across the open space, and the Pag who had been talking with Ferenc rose to her feet, smiling. Her face was really quite finely carved for someone as naturally oversize and coarse as a Pag, and the single filed tooth in the middle of her smile struck a jarring note. Vykor, slipping into the bench-seat opposite, thought wistfully of Raige’s miniature beauty.
    “I—I see you two know each other,” Ligmer said in a rather cautious tone. Ferenc scowled, with a sudden return of his habitual manner.
    “We got to talking,” he said gruffly.
    “We’ve been here only a short while,” the Pag supplemented. “I was expecting you earlier,