their cupped hands. Six or eight couples were moving expertly, if a li t tle unsteadily, in the stamping, challenging maze of a Dryland dance. “Turn this way.”
“Urn.” George and the girl were moving into a poorer quarter now. The buildings, though they still had the typical air of Martian elegance (composed, George thought, o f broadleaved trees and good architecture) stood closer to each other and were made of poorer materials. He decided to put one of the questions that were in his mind. “Listen, Blixa, how did you know I had the pig?”
Blixa’s green eyes (hazel? —no, green ) laughed at him. “If you had smelled yourself before the perfume cart went by, you wouldn’t need to ask,” she said. “I don’t think there’s anything in the system that smells quite like Idris’ pig … Here we are. There are several clairvoyants here.”
They knocked on three doors before they found anyone in. The woman who finally answered them had a haggard, rather handsome face, long dark hair, and deep-set, burning eyes. She too had been celebrating the Anagetalia, for there was a long rent in her gauzy mauve tunic and a wreath of aveen flowers sat crookedly on her head. She staggered a little as she showed George and Blixa into her consulting room.
Blixa put the case to her in the long-winded hypothetical Martian manner (“If it should happen that one f ound a certain object”), and the sibyl listened attentively. When Blixa had finished, the woman drew a deep breath. Though her face remained impassive, George felt that she was startled, almost alarmed, by what she had heard. She put a quick question to Bl ixa in Old Martian, and the girl nodded. Once more the woman drew a sharp breath.
She lay down on the long low couch set diagonally in the corner. From a recess she got out fetters of shining metal and slipped them over her hands. She gave one of the bal ls which terminated the chains to Blixa to hold, the other to George. Then she closed her eyes.
For a long time there was silence in the room. Outside in the street people laughed, sang, played on double and single anzidars. Doors slammed. Once someone s creamed. The woman on the couch gave no sign.
George moved restlessly. Blixa quieted him with a severe glance. At last the clairvoyant spoke. “A man,” she said, “a man with a shaved head. He has it. The two crowns.” She writhed, opened her eyes. After a moment she sat up and yawned.
“Did I say anything?” she asked.
“Shaved head. Two crowns,” Blixa answered briefly.
The woman’s eyes grew round. After Blixa had paid her she went with them to the door and stood watching them as they went down the stree t.
“What did she mean?” George asked. Blixa was walking briskly along, headed apparently north.
“She told us who had the pig.”
“So I gathered. But who?”
“The Plutonian ambassador.”
“What!” The exclamation was jarred out of George; his idea of the present possessors of the pig had gone no higher than geeksters, or, perhaps, the agents of some rival cult. “Why?” he asked more calmly.
“This is the Anagetalia,” Blixa replied. She looked down at the folds of her gold-spangled shari, frowned, and rearranged them so that they left a good deal more of her person exposed. “This is the time of year when we negotiate treaties and handle affairs of state. Mars is a poor planet. If one should h a ppen to have possession of a certain small blue animal it might, perhaps, be of advantage to him.”
“But — Look here, I was told that there weren’t more than six members altogether of the cult of the pig.”
“The person who told you that was wrong. There are eight.”
“Well, then, if the cult has so few members, how could having the pig be of advantage to anyone?”
There was a protracted silence. At last Blixa spoke. “It is because of the nature of my people,” she said.
“Go on.” They had been walking north all this time.
George, whose feet were beginning
“Urn.” George and the girl were moving into a poorer quarter now. The buildings, though they still had the typical air of Martian elegance (composed, George thought, o f broadleaved trees and good architecture) stood closer to each other and were made of poorer materials. He decided to put one of the questions that were in his mind. “Listen, Blixa, how did you know I had the pig?”
Blixa’s green eyes (hazel? —no, green ) laughed at him. “If you had smelled yourself before the perfume cart went by, you wouldn’t need to ask,” she said. “I don’t think there’s anything in the system that smells quite like Idris’ pig … Here we are. There are several clairvoyants here.”
They knocked on three doors before they found anyone in. The woman who finally answered them had a haggard, rather handsome face, long dark hair, and deep-set, burning eyes. She too had been celebrating the Anagetalia, for there was a long rent in her gauzy mauve tunic and a wreath of aveen flowers sat crookedly on her head. She staggered a little as she showed George and Blixa into her consulting room.
Blixa put the case to her in the long-winded hypothetical Martian manner (“If it should happen that one f ound a certain object”), and the sibyl listened attentively. When Blixa had finished, the woman drew a deep breath. Though her face remained impassive, George felt that she was startled, almost alarmed, by what she had heard. She put a quick question to Bl ixa in Old Martian, and the girl nodded. Once more the woman drew a sharp breath.
She lay down on the long low couch set diagonally in the corner. From a recess she got out fetters of shining metal and slipped them over her hands. She gave one of the bal ls which terminated the chains to Blixa to hold, the other to George. Then she closed her eyes.
For a long time there was silence in the room. Outside in the street people laughed, sang, played on double and single anzidars. Doors slammed. Once someone s creamed. The woman on the couch gave no sign.
George moved restlessly. Blixa quieted him with a severe glance. At last the clairvoyant spoke. “A man,” she said, “a man with a shaved head. He has it. The two crowns.” She writhed, opened her eyes. After a moment she sat up and yawned.
“Did I say anything?” she asked.
“Shaved head. Two crowns,” Blixa answered briefly.
The woman’s eyes grew round. After Blixa had paid her she went with them to the door and stood watching them as they went down the stree t.
“What did she mean?” George asked. Blixa was walking briskly along, headed apparently north.
“She told us who had the pig.”
“So I gathered. But who?”
“The Plutonian ambassador.”
“What!” The exclamation was jarred out of George; his idea of the present possessors of the pig had gone no higher than geeksters, or, perhaps, the agents of some rival cult. “Why?” he asked more calmly.
“This is the Anagetalia,” Blixa replied. She looked down at the folds of her gold-spangled shari, frowned, and rearranged them so that they left a good deal more of her person exposed. “This is the time of year when we negotiate treaties and handle affairs of state. Mars is a poor planet. If one should h a ppen to have possession of a certain small blue animal it might, perhaps, be of advantage to him.”
“But — Look here, I was told that there weren’t more than six members altogether of the cult of the pig.”
“The person who told you that was wrong. There are eight.”
“Well, then, if the cult has so few members, how could having the pig be of advantage to anyone?”
There was a protracted silence. At last Blixa spoke. “It is because of the nature of my people,” she said.
“Go on.” They had been walking north all this time.
George, whose feet were beginning