Free Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia Page B

frame.
    “And I,” his female counterpart intoned, “am called Istara.” She nodded to us, sipped carefully at her fíonbeior. She shot a mischievous glance at Duare and myself. “Do you not recognize me?”
    She did look vaguely familiar to me, but I confess that I was unable to place her. Had I ever encountered her before today, here on the planet Venus? Or did she resemble some woman I had known on my native planet, or perhaps a movie star whose visage I had seen on the silver screen in years before?
    She shook her had amusedly. “You were engaged in what seemed like an unpleasant encounter with some fearmharr arrachtachs when first we met. It was mere hours ago. My feelings are hurt that you do not recognize me.”
    I stared. Was she—was this beautiful young woman—the courageous and skillful pilot who had flown the mechanical dragonfly to Duare’s and my own rescue from the attack of our grassy doppelgangers? Was it she who had aimed the blue ray at those creatures, disrupting their plan of attack and reducing them to the seemingly ordinary grass from which they had sprung?
    “Yes,” Istara insisted as if reading my thoughts, “it was indeed I.” She laughed, a delighted, rippling sound of amusement. Her facial expression seemed to reach out to the others at the table, especially to Duare and myself, inviting us to join in her good-natured amusement.
    I found myself grinning involuntarily. The joke had indeed been on Duare and me. Duare, however, did not seem to share my willingness to join in Istara’s friendly jest. Instead, she glared angrily at Istara, as if resenting having been made a fool of.
    Hoping to break the icy stalemate of the two women, I exchanged smiles with Istara, then asked this tall, blond, almost boyishly attractive, yet ineffably feminine woman, “Why were you silent, then, during our flight from the grass-men to the Potala?”
    She shook her head, her soft tresses bouncing merrily. “There are some men who might resent being rescued by a mere girl. I could not risk a quarrel or even a moment’s hesitation during the rescue. I hope you are not angry with me.”
    Of course I was not. Istara had saved Duare and me from dire peril. Unfortunately, I could not certify that Duare shared my feelings of gratitude toward Istara.
    Our tiny host interrupted this exchange by tapping lightly on his goblet with a golden dining implement. “We have introduced ourselves to our guests,” he rasped in his unpleasant, grating voice. “It is time for them to tell us who they are and why they are here.”
    “We are here because we were brought here, Dr. Bodog,” Duare exclaimed angrily. “I am a Princess of the Realm of Vepaja, and I wish to know by what right you hold me here.”
    I noted that she used the Amtorian word for me , not us, and wondered what thought had provoked that choice of expression. Before I could speak, however, our host responded to Duare’s demand with a smile.
    A smile, I say, but somehow, I must admit, I found Dr. Bodog’s smile more intimidating than reassuring. He had done nothing to harm Duare or myself that I knew of. He had, in fact, sent his daughter to rescue the two of us from our probable demise. And yet I could not bring myself to trust him.
    Still, as black-clad, silent servants brought viands and placed them on the table, Dr. Bodog spoke, and I drank in every word, wishing, as ever any explorer who is a scientist at heart would do, to retain and understand all that this strange, wizened person had to say.
    “This building, which you call a Potala, is both my home and my workplace. It has been the home and workplace of my family for—you will forgive me, but I wonder if should tell you how long. I do not wish to withhold this information, Your Highness.” I noticed that he uttered the honorific in a tone of irony. “It is merely that I fear you will find the truth incredible, which would place us in a most uncomfortable position.”
    “Go ahead,