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"Well, it is true we lack the straight-thrust dynamism of your muscle-and-bone mode. But we have achieved the equilibrium of the turning wheel. We accomplish much by accommodation and mutual respect, rather than force."

  "And your Sphere is twice the diameter of ours," Flint said. "I don't claim to comprehend it, but I admit I like it. But what happens when the interests of individuals conflict?"

  "This is the heart of our system. It is a form of mutual debt. They must work it out together."

  "Debt. There is the key I don't have. How do you—"

  "Divergent interests must be reconciled. Factions must unify. The interest of one entity must merge with the other, so that no dichotomy exists. You might call it love."

  "Love thine enemy?" Flint remembered another of the fragments of wisdom of the Shaman that had not come clear.

  "There can be no enemy. Only debt to be expiated."

  Flint pondered. "Let me see whether I have it straight," he said at last. "Or curved, as the case may be."

  "Circular," she supplied. "At Sol, a straight line may be the solution to most problems; here it is a spiral."

  "Yes. You and I saved each other's lives, and so we owed each other our lives. A mutual debt, very hard to repay. You can't take back a life, after all. Now in our thrust-culture, we'd call that self-canceling. Equal and opposite forces. But I suppose if you plotted it on a spiral, it could start quite a spin. Equal and opposite thrusts applied to the two sides of a wheel can make it roll twice as fast. So—" But he stopped, beginning to realize. "Pleasant news from a lady...."

  "I'm aware that different conventions obtain in your culture," she said. "You tend to be indrawn, perhaps as the natural consequence of your outward thrust."

  "That's what I was saying! The Shaman explained it to me, back when I hardly understood and had to stretch my mind to take it in. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

  "Yes. So you are an expansive, extroverted species—but also strongly introverted, alienophobic. Your mating pattern reflects this. You seek a stranger for the purpose of procreation, then establish lifelong liaison with that stranger. To us that seems extreme. We prefer familiar matings—but we form no restrictive relation."

  "You're saying you're polygamous?"

  "No, that would be the wrong connotation. We mate for social or economic reasons, but our love is intense while it endures. At the end, there is a child—and all debts have been expiated by that act of creation, all differences reconciled in that child. The chapter is finished; we never mate again with the same partners."

  "To us that would be frivolous," Flint said. "Mating is tantamount to marriage—a permanent commitment. This is my relation to Honeybloom, the Queen of Liquid. Or Water, Cups, or Hearts, by the cards. When I return to Outworld, I'll marry her."

  "I understand that, and I wish you well. It is your system," Tsopi said. "But at the moment you are part of the Polarian culture, and you cannot complete your technical mission until our debt is expiated. There is no conflict between me and Honeybloom"—she had used his term, for there were no parallel concepts in Polarian, no flowers, hence no blooms and no bees and no honey—"so love me now, and never again. You may regard this in the line of duty, since the Big Wheel is anxious to have our debt abated, and will meet with you immediately afterward."

  So, circuitously, politics had become sex. "On Planet Earth, that would be called prostitution," he said.

  "I do not understand the term."

  Indeed, there had been no concept for this either; he had had to use the human word. "Allow me to be a bit finicky," he said. "I can indulge in sex on a purely casual basis, or as a necessity of my mission, or I can marry. You seem to be offering something in between. Short-term love. And I don't even know how it is done here. You have no—do you know how Solarians do it?"

  "Yes," she said, glowing with distaste. "It is linear, again. The male pokes his little stick into the female's—

  "All right. You have the idea. Now how do Polarians get the male seed together with the female egg?"

  "I propose to show you," she said.

  "I could learn faster if you told me first," he said with developing exasperation. This reluctance to speak directly to the point—but of course, that was Polarian nature.

  "Why did you stop me from describing the Solarian act?" she inquired in return.

  "Solarian act?" For a moment he was baffled.

  "How the male makes his stick stiff and—"

  "Oh. That sort of thing isn't discussed openly among humans. Not in mixed company." Then he did a double-take. "I see. Some things are better performed than described."

  "Yes. Also, your human viewpoint might cause you as much distress as our own viewpoint causes us in contemplation of the Solarian act, which seems aggressive and unnatural to us. Why, if the male poked too hard, or missed the opening—"

  "All right!" Flint made a fluid shrug. "Better done than said, as we agreed. I don't promise to be an effective partner, but—"

  "Is it not true that no instruction needs to be given to your individuals for them to procreate?"

  "It is true. One look at a girl like Honeybloom and the rest follows naturally, if she's willing." He decided not to go into the subject of rape; she would never understand it. "But we have better vision than you do; we are visually stimulated."

  "We have better taste than you do," Tsopi said. "Follow me." And she began a slow circle.

  He rolled after her—and picked up a most sensual taste. She was laying down amour, and his host-body was electrified. His own glands responded with the masculine equivalent, which he knew she would pick up as she completed the circuit and covered his trail. Here was the true meaning of circularity!

  Around and around they went, like two unicycles on a circus track. Slowly they spiraled inward, the taste stimulation intensifying. To hell with duty, he thought; this was fun. Every taste she laid down was a tangible caress, intellectual as well as physical. Tsopi was a most attractive specimen of her kind to begin with, and this courtship of hers enhanced her allure considerably. Closer together they came, until they were revolving about a common center like twin planets, almost touching.

  And Flint broke away. "No," he said, though his whole body pulsed with desire for the culmination. "Not this way."

  She paused, disappointed. "You do not wish to expiate the debt?"

  "Not as a business transaction. Love is love, and my mission is my mission. I don't care to mix them." Actually it was more subtle than that, for he had mixed them in Capella System. But while it was all right to enjoy an interaction initiated for political expedience, it was not right to make political expediency from an act of love. The act had to justify itself. He had come to like Tsopi too well to use her—and though she was quite willing to be so used, in fact almost insisted on it, he could not. His mission had become an albatross, destroying the validity of his personal interaction. Now he was enough of a Polarian to place that personal matter first—but not enough to work it out this way. Let no one ever say or think he had cultivated Tsopi only as a means to the end of his mission!

  "But this is the way it is done in our culture!"

  "Not in ours—and I am a Solarian."

  "The Big Wheel will not see you unless—"

  "Unless I compromise my personal ideals. I won't see him on that basis."

  It was as though he had struck her—and he had, figuratively. The Polarians had utmost respect for the rights of the individual, and he had told her his rights were being infringed, not facilitated, by her well-meaning action.

  "In trying to abate my debt with you, I have complicated it," she said. "It was wrong of me to impose on you. I will tell the Big Wheel the debt has been expiated."

  "There never was any debt!" he said. "We humans save the life of a friend as a matter of necessity. To fail to make that effort would be cowardice and perhaps murder. You helped me, I helped you; if there was any debt, it canceled out right there. That's the way it is, in my culture;
I cannot claim otherwise."

  "I should have understood you better," she said. There was a muffled quality to her voice; perhaps the wood of the tree was damping it.

  They returned to the mattermitter but did not enter. "The Big Wheel must not see us," she explained. "He would immediately know that we have not—"

  "He would?" But he took her word for it. "Then how do—?" But already his host-memory was supplying the answer. The Polarians had refined the technology of micromattermission so that they could ship individual message capsules the size of a living cell, and move them along in a steady stream so that virtually instantaneous communication resulted. These capsules could carry a complete sonic and visual image, but generally the visual part was dispensed with as not worth the effort. In this case, their demeanor would probably betray their lack of expiation.

  Tsopi provided the palace identification code, and Flint spoke it into the message-coder. The Big Wheel responded immediately. "So you tweaked the tail of the Small Bear, eh?"

  And Flint realized that the literal meaning of Tsopi's name in Polarian was "Small Bear," a bear being another carnivore similar in habit to the Earthian type, though dissimilar in appearance. And of course the star Polaris was in the constellation of Ursa Minor, the Small Bear, right in the tail. The mythology of the skies, like that of the Tarot cards, had uncanny relevance. Or was his life actually dominated by the stars and cards? It was difficult to come to a complacent conclusion.

  "Uh, yes," Flint said, taken aback by this familiarity of the governor of a Sphere. "Now I'd like to give you the key to the mechanism of—"

  "Take the mattermitter. I have precoded your destination."

  So the Wheel was ready for personal audience now. "Thank you." Actually, the expression of thanks was not usual, here; a substantial favor constituted a debt, and an insubstantial one merely enhanced circularity and needed no additional expression. The exchange cut off.

  He turned to Tsopi. "That did it. Let's go."

  "I cannot go," she said. "The Wheel must not see me at this time."

  "Oh, yes." How was she supposed to have changed? It was way too soon for her to manifest pregnancy, if Polarians had such a state. The information was surely buried in his host-brain, but there were layers of emotional repression that blocked it off. The host had perished because of a blighted romance, it seemed. The surest indication of the essence of a given species seemed to be in what it guarded most ardently: its mode of reproduction. But Flint's mission was too urgent to permit time-consuming introspection, and now that he had his appointment with the Wheel he didn't need to delve. "But where will you go, then?"

  "I will seek my own repose. Now, do not keep His Rotation waiting."

  "Right. 'Bye." He rolled into the mattermitter. With luck, it would not take long to acquaint the technicians with the transfer equations. Then he could return to square things with Tsopi—his way. Or round them off, in the local vernacular.

  He rolled out at the spaceport of a medieval Polaris Sphere planet. He knew it by the architecture in the distance; his host-memory had no reticence about identifying it. Of course Polaris suffered Spherical regression the way all Spheres did. That was why transfer was so crucial. It was an instant, cheap mode of communication that could bring civilization right to the Fringe and keep it there. Or at least reduce the cultural lag. For even on Imperial Earth there were backward sections, so efficient communication was not the whole answer.

  A port official coasted up. "Salutation, Flint of Sphere Sol," he buzzed. "I am Dligt, the Polarian Ringer of this region. It is most circular of you to assist us in this difficult contact."

  "Hello, Delight. I understood I was to meet with the Big Wheel," Flint said uncertainly.

  "Of course. Immediately following your dialogue with the aliens. I do not know how we should have managed without your kind presence."

  What was the Wheel pulling? Obviously this misrouting was deliberate; Ringer Dligt had been advised of his coming, and there was a job in progress. "It is the least of spinoffs," Flint said politely. "But in order that there be no confusion, would you rehearse what is anticipated?"

  "Gladly." The official pointed into the yellowish sky with his trunk. "In close orbit is a craft from Sphere Sol. One of your lifeships. We were uncertain how to approach them, as they have been traveling for three hundred of your years and know nothing of our Sphere. It seems the automatic mechanical devices of the ship have selected this as a suitable planet for colonization, and in due course a landing will be attempted. The shock of discovering it to be already inhabited by unfamiliar sapients may be uncomfortable. But with you here, a genuine Solarian, one of their land—no offense—"

  "But I've never seen a lifeship!" Flint protested. "My world was settled one hundred Earth-years ago—about three and a half Etamin-Outworld years. Our own lifeship is long gone."

  "We understand. We have similar problems at our Fringe, and the voyage takes up to four hundred years on that scale. But this ship must have started its voyage the same time as your own ancestors did. You were contemporaries at the start, and also in space for two centuries. And you have suffered the same regressional displacement, even as we have here. And you are of their kind, a thrust-culturist. You are ideally suited to explain the situation to them."

  "That they can not settle here?"

  "Oh, no. Refusal would not be circular. We would welcome a colony of Solarians. They would be a real asset to this world, a continual source of cultural stimulation. But they must be made to understand that they will be guests in our Sphere, subject ultimately to our government. They must acknowledge the legitimacy of the Big Wheel and refrain from interspecies altercations."

  "Yes, of course," Flint agreed, thankful for the education he had received at the Shaman's wheel. Shaman's hands, rather. Spherical codes required that the authority of the native Sphere species be acknowledged. That was why Polarians yielded to human authority on Planet Outworld. The rights of such minorities were carefully protected by the host-Sphere, and inter-Sphere complications were anathema. It would be prohibitively expensive to wage Spherical war, and the Fringe areas were hardly worth it. There was also, as Dligt had mentioned, considerable positive stimulation when divergent sapients shared a planet amicably. But of course a ship that had traveled in isolation for three centuries would not be aware of that. Sol's Spherical boundary had been established only in the past 150 years, filling in the region of space not yet taken by Spheres Polaris, Nath, Canopus, and Spica. "Mattermit me aboard and I'll talk with their captain."

  "I must demur, implying no uncircularity," Dligt said against his own hide. "We have established a visual-auditory communication channel, though we have not as yet implemented contact. We can project your image into the ship, and it will appear substantial to them. We believe this would be the expedient mode."

  "Why?"

  "Regressives of any Sphere tend to be alienophobic, and yours more than most," the Polarian explained. "There could be personal danger."

  "Um, yes. I am in alien guise—no offense."

  "Offense? Oh—uncircularity." Flint had heard this concept as "offense" but that was not quite accurate. He would have to watch that, and make sure he understood what was intended, rather than what he expected. There were so many little cultural pitfalls. Most were minor, but some could mean real trouble. "Naturally not. This is why your help is so important. You understand such matters from the Solarian view. You will be able to interview them without creating avoidable uncir—that is, affront."

  So Dligt was also trying to accommodate himself to Flint's linguistic mannerisms! A diplomat, surely.

  The Big Wheel was pretty smart, Flint realized. This matter had come up while a Solarian was in the vicinity, so the visitor was being drafted to help tide over what could be a difficult contact. If anything went wrong, Imperial Earth could have no complaint. Strictly speaking, an emissary was not under local Sphere authority, but it would be pointless to object. Definitely uncircular! And F
lint was curious about the regressed humans; it would be like meeting his own ancestors as they arrived at Outworld. "Right. Make the connection."

  The Ringer showed him into the communication booth. "Our operator will monitor the contact," he said. "Should there be any problem, he will spiral off transmission."

  "What problem could there be? It's only an image."

  "We are not certain. But we prefer to be careful."

  They were apt to be so careful they ended up running around in circles, Flint thought. Better the straight-line thrust of the human mind, that could move into and through a situation efficiently.

  Suddenly he was in the Solarian lifeship. Everything was metal—a flat, featureless floor, bare walls, and complicated ceiling. The automatic mechanism kept the ship largely sterile.

  But where were the people? Could they have regressed to the point of extinction? The ship really didn't need them for its operation, but it was supposed to take care of them and see to it that they were equipped for colonization. But regression could lead to primitive violence, possibly wiping out the living complement. It wasn't supposed to happen, but it might. The ship could protect its cargo from almost every danger but human nature.

  Flint tried rolling forward—and it worked. The floor of the communication booth was movable, like a mat on rollers, and so he could shove it about with his wheel without actually going anywhere. The projection translated those floor-movements into modifications of the image, so that he could travel about the ship exactly as if he were really on board. Very nice; he had not experienced anything like this on Planet Earth. The Shaman had been right, as always: there was much to respect about Sphere Polaris, technologically and socially. Overall, it seemed to be somewhat more advanced than Sphere Sol.

  He moved about the chamber, noting the banks of buttons and dials. This was evidently the control room, perhaps sealed off to prevent meddling by the passengers. He found a passage exiting from it; sure enough, it was blocked by a closed door, like an airlock.

  Well, he was accomplishing nothing here. He rolled right at the bulkhead—and through it "Now I know what a ghost feels like," he murmured, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. His image-ball could not have produced it. He spoke against the supporting wall of the communication booth, and it was broadcast here along with the rest.