style: some ponderous and meaningful, others lightsome and frivolous, like careening insects. At times a boy or a girl would start out in a lane, jigging and twitching in notable display, only to find that no one was advancing from the opposite end of the lane. It was a humiliating experience. The person so slighted might either halt, then return crestfallen to the starting point, or if sufficiently angry might proceed to the middle, and there perform a grotesque travesty of the usual postures, hoping to shame the offender, whose best recourse was indifference — not always convincing.
After a time the function came to an end. There was a crescendo of chimes, a wild glissando from the belp-horn, a final fateful thump of the drum, then silence. The musicians removed their masks, packed their instruments, jumped down from the platform and disappeared into the night. The boys and girls, now ignoring each other, formed chattering little groups discussing the evening’s events. Some were elated and celebrated their successes. Others were more subdued, and wondered about themselves.
“So there you have it,” said Maloof. “That is how life goes at Krenke. We witnessed a hundred small triumphs and gratified hopes, and as many small tragedies. Nothing was casual or trivial.”
Myron nodded soberly. “I wonder what happens next,” he said. “They can’t be ready to go home.”
Myron’s speculations were soon put to rest. The boys moved to the high street, where they dispersed to their various destinations. From the shadows beside the square men and women appeared among the girls, and one by one the girls were whisked unceremoniously out to the high street and home.
A few minutes later the square was deserted and dark, except for a light in one of the offices across the square.
“Someone is working late,” said Myron. He rose to his feet and studied the office more closely. Beside the door he noticed a rack which offered journals for sale. “It might be the local news agency,” he told Maloof, “assuming that such an enterprise exists at Krenke.”
The two men crossed the square. As they approached the office, they noticed a sign above the door. Gold script on a black background read:
T HE K RENKE O BSERVER
U LWYN F ARRO, PURVEYOR
Maloof tapped at the door. A calm voice said: “Come!”
The two entered a small neat office, furnished sparsely. One wall was completely covered by hundreds of photographs depicting men, women and children of all ages and conditions, for the most part staring blankly into the camera. The other walls were washed starkly white and lacked all decoration. Behind the desk sat a pale young man of unimpressive physique. A few strands of ash-blond hair fringed his forehead; his long thin face was unremarkable but for luminous grey eyes. He said: “I am Ulwyn Farro, as you may have guessed. Do you have business with me?”
“Nothing of consequence,” said Maloof. “We happened to notice your sign and looked in out of sheer curiosity.”
Farro surveyed his two visitors with curiosity of his own. “I assume that you are the off-worlders who arrived this afternoon and are lodging at the Three Feathers.”
“Quite correct,” said Maloof, and Myron added with a sardonic grin: “Rumor travels fast across Krenke.”
Farro gave an indifferent shrug. “One way or another, I am grateful. It brings me most of my material. Do you care to sit?”
“Thank you.” The two settled themselves upon straight-backed chairs. “I am Adair Maloof, master of the ship Glicca . This is my first officer Myron Tany.”
Farro acknowledged the introductions with a nod. “What brings you to this rather remote village? Are you tourists, or do you have other business in mind?”
Maloof said: “If you are hoping to develop an interesting article for the Observer, put the idea aside. We are ordinary tourists, wandering the far places of Fluter as the mood takes us.”
“As you say.” Farro leaned back
After a time the function came to an end. There was a crescendo of chimes, a wild glissando from the belp-horn, a final fateful thump of the drum, then silence. The musicians removed their masks, packed their instruments, jumped down from the platform and disappeared into the night. The boys and girls, now ignoring each other, formed chattering little groups discussing the evening’s events. Some were elated and celebrated their successes. Others were more subdued, and wondered about themselves.
“So there you have it,” said Maloof. “That is how life goes at Krenke. We witnessed a hundred small triumphs and gratified hopes, and as many small tragedies. Nothing was casual or trivial.”
Myron nodded soberly. “I wonder what happens next,” he said. “They can’t be ready to go home.”
Myron’s speculations were soon put to rest. The boys moved to the high street, where they dispersed to their various destinations. From the shadows beside the square men and women appeared among the girls, and one by one the girls were whisked unceremoniously out to the high street and home.
A few minutes later the square was deserted and dark, except for a light in one of the offices across the square.
“Someone is working late,” said Myron. He rose to his feet and studied the office more closely. Beside the door he noticed a rack which offered journals for sale. “It might be the local news agency,” he told Maloof, “assuming that such an enterprise exists at Krenke.”
The two men crossed the square. As they approached the office, they noticed a sign above the door. Gold script on a black background read:
T HE K RENKE O BSERVER
U LWYN F ARRO, PURVEYOR
Maloof tapped at the door. A calm voice said: “Come!”
The two entered a small neat office, furnished sparsely. One wall was completely covered by hundreds of photographs depicting men, women and children of all ages and conditions, for the most part staring blankly into the camera. The other walls were washed starkly white and lacked all decoration. Behind the desk sat a pale young man of unimpressive physique. A few strands of ash-blond hair fringed his forehead; his long thin face was unremarkable but for luminous grey eyes. He said: “I am Ulwyn Farro, as you may have guessed. Do you have business with me?”
“Nothing of consequence,” said Maloof. “We happened to notice your sign and looked in out of sheer curiosity.”
Farro surveyed his two visitors with curiosity of his own. “I assume that you are the off-worlders who arrived this afternoon and are lodging at the Three Feathers.”
“Quite correct,” said Maloof, and Myron added with a sardonic grin: “Rumor travels fast across Krenke.”
Farro gave an indifferent shrug. “One way or another, I am grateful. It brings me most of my material. Do you care to sit?”
“Thank you.” The two settled themselves upon straight-backed chairs. “I am Adair Maloof, master of the ship Glicca . This is my first officer Myron Tany.”
Farro acknowledged the introductions with a nod. “What brings you to this rather remote village? Are you tourists, or do you have other business in mind?”
Maloof said: “If you are hoping to develop an interesting article for the Observer, put the idea aside. We are ordinary tourists, wandering the far places of Fluter as the mood takes us.”
“As you say.” Farro leaned back
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