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Bechimo
Dock A


There was a toolbox at the bottom of the lift, where there ought, indeed, to be a toolbox, on a well-regulated dock. Jen Sin paused a moment to admire the solid ordinariness of it, all the slots filled with the larger tools, and drawers clearly marked as to their contents.

We may make a recover, yet, he thought, putting out a hand to touch a starbar, pulling open a parts drawer, and smiling at the properly indexed pieces.

Ordinary order. What a precious thing that was.

He pushed the drawer shut, and turned toward Dock A.


It was a rowdy crew at Bechimo’s dockside—three leather-clad figures in frantic motion—lunging, leaping, in one case dropping to both knees on the decking and sliding some distance, arms outstretched.

A fourth of the company had adopted a less ambitious mode, leaning against the ramp-rail, arms and ankles crossed in an attitude of almost aggressive repose.

Jen Sin was angling toward that peaceful figure, and some similarly peaceful explanations.

But he had failed to correctly account his cousin Theo.

“Jen Sin!” she called. “Catch!”

He half-turned, hand extended, to snatch the glittering ball out of the air—when it dropped deckward, and kicked to the right.

It was pilot reactions then—as mindless as a kitten attacking a string—he dropped, lunged, and got the thing in hand without quite sacrificing his dignity.

Only to nearly lose it again as it bucked against his fingers, twisting toward freedom. Instinct again, he applied a counter-twist from the wrist and there was a moment of quiet before it kicked again, but this time, he was not surprised.

“Throw it before it breaks loose,” Clarence advised him from his comfortable place against the rail. “If it escapes, you will not only lose points, but there will be a wild ball on the deck, which is all manner of fun.”

The object he held whined, whirred, and tried to shoot straight up. He kept it in check, barely, and cocked a considering eye at his informant, who raised both hands and shook his head.

“I am an old man. You want to play with Theo.”

There was a certain amount of good sense to that, his cousin’s sense of mischief having produced this situation. Recalling the ball’s approach, he snapped one step forward and threw—aiming for the deck between Theo’s feet.

She was in the air before the thing had fairly left his hand—a worthy leap, and a twist executed high above the decking made her the ball’s mistress. She had barely touched down before she was throwing, hard, to the left, yelling, “Kara!”

The ball produced three zigs, two zags, and dropped—directly into the arms of the blonde woman, who had fallen to her knees to effect the intercept.

She leapt to her feet, spun in a circle, shaking the hand holding the ball, yelled, “Win Ton!” and released it.

It shot straight up. The brown-haired lad crossed his arms over his chest, a faint look of boredom on his comely face. Meantime, the ball executed an acute right turn, fell, rose, hesitated for a moment in midair, and with a whine shot forward as if its whole intention was to strike Clarence fatally in the heart.

Win Ton danced to the left, leaned—captured the ball in one hand, pulled it into his chest and folded the other hand over.

“What if he’d missed, is what I gotta ask,” Clarence said.

“Then you would have had to exert yourself,” Kara returned pertly, shaking her hair out of her face. “Old man, indeed!”

“So,” Theo said, with a grin, “now you know what a bowli ball is.”

“No,” Jen Sin answered. “Now I have been exposed to pilot catnip. A far different matter, I fear.” He glanced at Win Ton, still holding the ball against his chest with one hand, and administering long strokes with the other.

“You are calming it?”

“For the moment,” Win Ton said. “Unless you would like to join us for a full round.”

“I would fear for my life,” Jen Sin answered, and Theo laughed.

“I think that might be turnabout,” Kara agreed. “Truly, sir, for someone who had not even the concept, you made a startlingly quick recover.”

“Scout training is to blame, for all and everything.” He paused. “In fact, I will be surprised to learn that object wasn’t introduced by a Scout.”

Win Ton grinned.

“Dancing Master ro’Linga, so the story comes down to us, despaired of ever producing a truly random environment into which hopeful Scoutlings might be thrust, to the benefit of their reaction times. She is credited with inventing the bowli ball, which, as you saw, is not truly random.”

“Though it will certainly do until true random makes its bow. All honor to Master ro’Linga. How is it wakened?”

Win Ton extended the ball, which was moving rather sleepily in his hand.

“Shake it,” he said.

Jen Sin received the ball. Holding it firmly, he shook it, once, twice…

On the third shake, the bowli ball jerked against his fingers, seeking its freedom.

And the public dock lights dropped abruptly from bright to dim.


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Framed