No World of Their Own by Poul Anderson Page A

me to feel obligated to him?” he asked slowly.
    â€œNo, sir. Why should you? I’m not a very expensive gift.”
    Langley wished for his old pipe. He’d have to have some tobacco cut for it special one of these days, he thought vaguely; nobody smoked pipes anymore. He stroked her bronze hair with a hand which the drug had again made steady.
    â€œTell me something about yourself, Marin,” he said. “What sort of life did you lead?”
    She described it, competently, without resentment but not without humor. The center didn’t meet any of Langley’s preconceived notions. Far from being a place of lust, it sounded like a rather easy-going convent. There had been woods and fields to stroll in between the walls; there had been an excellent education; there had been no attempt—except for conditioning to acceptance of being property—to prevent each personality from growing its own way. But of course, those girls were meant for high-class concubines, something more than just a body.
    With the detachment lent him by the sedative, Langley perceived that Marin could be very useful to him. He asked her a few questions about history and current events, and she gave him intelligent answers. Maybe her knowledge could help him decide what to do.
    â€œMarin,” he asked dreamily, “have you ever ridden a horse?”
    â€œNo, sir. I can pilot a car or flyer, but I was never on an animal. It would be fun to try.” She smiled, completely at ease now.
    â€œLook,” he said, “drop that superior pronoun and stop calling me ‘sir.’ My name’s Edward—plain Ed.”
    â€œYes, sir—Edwy.” She frowned with a child-like seriousness. “I’ll try to remember. Excuse me if I forget. And in public, it would be better to stay by the usual rules.”
    â€œOkay. Now—” Langley couldn’t face the clear eyes. He stared out at the rain instead. “Would you like to be free?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œEd, dammit! I suppose I can manumit you. Wouldn’t you like to be a free agent?”
    â€œIt’s … very kind of you,” she replied slowly. “But—”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œBut what could I do? I’d have to go to low-level, become a commoner’s wife or a servant or a prostitute. There isn’t any other choice.”
    â€œNice system. Up here, you’re at least protected and among your intellectual equals. Okay, it was just a thought. Consider yourself part of the furniture.”
    She chuckled. “You’re … nice,” she said. “I was very lucky.”
    â€œLike hell you were. Look, I’m going to keep you around because I haven’t the heart to turn you out. But there may well be danger. I’m right in the middle of an interstellar poker game and—I’ll try to get you out from under if things go sour, but I may not be able to. Tell me honestly, can you face the prospect of getting killed or—or anything?”
    â€œYes, Edwy. I’ve been trained into the habit of physical courage.”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” he said gloomily. “But I suppose you can’t help it. People may still be the same underneath, but they think different on top. Well—”
    â€œWhat is your danger, Edwy? Can I help?” She laid a hand on his knee. It was a slim hand but with strong blunt fingers like—“I want to, I really do.”
    â€œUh-uh.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you more than I must, because if people realize you know anything you’ll become a poker chip too.” He had to use the English phrase. Only chess had survived of the games he knew, but she got the idea. “And don’t try to deduce things, either. I tell you, it’s dangerous.”
    There was no calculation in the way she got up and leaned over him and brushed his cheek with one hand.