“… Thant! Dinner is served!”
I guess, as I said, it’s the way you make some people feel at home.
I walked on and, between Vol’d and Vo’d’ard’d, saw Egri talking to Thadeus and knew that she had used the superlative-polite, “Thant Thadeus,” that she had taken the longest time with her communication, and that she had probably produced results equal to if not better than Lars’s, Alyx’s, or mine. She had trained us all. She had inculcated into us that each be sensitive to her own diplomatic style. She had been brought up in a Sygn monastery in the north, however much she rebelled against it, and she used to tell us: There is only one right thing to say in any crisis situation, as there is only one trunk to a cyhnk; yet there are more ways to say it than there are branches leading away from the trunk to the bright and scattered gems of truth. When we were older, she announced: If you can list for me everything wrong with that very seductive and profoundly wrong-headed statement, you are ready to deal with diplomacy1 as the art, rather than as the science, that it is.
The click of aluminum disk on disk: “Marq Dyeth?” Her voice, a child’s I’d almost forgotten, undercut the metallic sussurus: “The greatest rudeness on my home world—in our particular geosector of it, at any rate, among the particular people we associate with, from our particular range of acquaintances in 17—is to act in such a way as to compel rudeness from others.”
I turned to her. “Sometimes,” I said, “such unkindnesses are necessary. But it is still kind of you to explain the custom to me.”
“Yes,” Alsrod said from inside swirling aluminum. “I suppose it is. But it is such a complicated concept that I was afraid without an explanation you wouldn’t understand what we were doing at all—this being another world and everything.” Momentarily I looked for the bald young woman I could not see in the chattering metal. “Alsrod, you are kind.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “But our gesture, which we have put so much thought into preparing, would be absurd if you could not follow its intent because of cultural differences. I said to Clearwater, and Eulalia, both: I said, there’re geosectors on our own world where what we are doing would not be understood. How can we hope for comprehension on a world sixty-eight thousand light-years away? But nobody listens to me.”
I smiled, hoping she could see it from inside. “Will you forgive me if I counter your kindness with another small rudeness? Dinner will be shortly served.”
Alsrod sighed. “I knew it was going to be something like that. Food, eating, meals, they’re just not going to be as flexible on your world as they are on ours. I told them that too. But they never hear.”
The cloud chattered its brittle commentary to our odd, yet oddly typical, interworld converse. “I think you’ve given me more of an entrance to the hive-cave complexities of all of this than any of us have had till now.”
“I hope so,” Alsrod said. “I said it was too confusing to deal with like this. We should just come out and say what we mean—that’s what I said. ‘Well, we are,’ is what Eulalia said back. ‘At least in a way that anyone with a grain of either civilization or sense should understand.’ And I said—but then, I’m the youngest, and nobody ever … only you don’t even know what that means! I got connected up with your local General Info this time; and it says that because of the age differentials that automatically exist between your two major races, the age-based hierarchies that obtain in most human cultures throughout the universe don’t apply here.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. But just then Japril, from her round of food display, came hurrying up with Egri’s krutchk’t. “Marq, is anything wrong? I’ve gone through the formal steps twice complete, and GI said that anything more than two or three steps beyond a single cycle usually heralded some major problem …?”
“Frankly, I still don’t know if the problem’s major or not. Japril, this is Thant Alsrod, there inside her privacy cloud. Alsrod, though once more I risk rudeness, this is my longtime acquaintance from the Web, Japril—”
“Oh!” declared Alsrod. Or that’s what I think she declared. It was more a squeal. Chitter became clatter: flying disks flew faster. Somewhere within it, Alsrod turned and hurried it away.
“What world did you say your friends are from?” Japril asked. “A fascinating cultural pattern!”
“Really, I don’t know quite what this is about. But we’ll be serving soon, I’m sure.” I took the krutchk’t’s third handle to add my help. “Come with me while I find Egri and the others.”
We started, in step, across the floor.
Black Lars walked away from a green cloud. She raised her head as she neared us. “Well, I’ve done my bit—”
V’vish rushed up, pushed at my hip, booming: “7a-12c—that’s right over there!” I glanced at the ceiling, with its silver grid, let go of the krutchk’t, and moved off to take place without finishing my sentence. I didn’t even glance to see if Japril understood where she was to go. (“You! 3a-44r. Hurry!”) But if General Info had given her the classical display pattern, it had most certainly imparted the import of serving placement coordinates. As Shoshana and V’vish bustled about the hall, both tapping the people present and calling out their placement positions beneath the carefully marked silver ceiling pattern—V’vish’s multiple tongues booming louder and louder, Shoshana’s human voice becoming shriller and shriller—I looked for Rat.
And saw him.
He gazed up—no, he was not connected with local GI, but his Web instructors had been. They’d surely told him such things. (You wanted to know how Vondramach managed to assassinate Secretary Argenia in the north court two hundred years ago? She whispered her the wrong serving coordinates for dinner.) Still holding the Hunters’ Beacon rack, abandoned by Santine who had gone off to take her own place, Rat—“There, Santine: 72r-4c, quick, quick, quick!”—moved a little to the left, a little to the right, aware of the importance of his position.
Under me the floor thumped.
By Rat, flame shot high as his shoulder, then retreated while the grilling plates on their thin chains plummeted down beside him, to be caught by the four spear-headed spikes that jabbed up from the floor.
The tiles in front of me had folded up two small trap doors. Twin eyebolts snapped out, just as the two hooked cables swung down from the ceiling and—ch’chank’nk—caught. (I’ve been at one formal dinner, thankfully not here, where a cable missed and flew on to tear into the leg of a woman standing just one serving position behind me.) Refuse trays, on supports and wheels, came clattering down, hit the stops just at hip level. To my left someone gasped. I looked. A student had been splashed a little when the rinsing fountain jetted up beside her as the deflecting vanes, on their various pulleys, clamps, and cables, slung down from the ceiling into the freshet. But by now the whole hall was a roar of chains and running ropes, rumbling wheels, fluttering flame, riffling waters. I looked off at Rat again, through stationary and swinging haul-lines, through ranks of lowering shelves and rising implements on thin, hydraulic stems. The charred walls of the old-style furnace had come chank-changing up on three sides of the flame beside him. And off by the student the base of the fountain had closed around the protruding nozzle to restrain the splashings. Trays flew, thrown and caught by mechanical grapples. Pulleys dropped from the ceiling and swung out to pull taut the slack cables hung with serving implements. I saw Japril, food aloft, face triumphant, and, thanks to GI, undaunted. I didn’t see any more Thant clouds, which probably meant they’d turned them off. “On my world,” an acquaintance light years away once told me after visiting mine in vaurine, “we eat with a knife, perhaps an enamel spoon, and two sticks of wood manipulated in the hand to pick up smaller morsels. On your world—at least at formal affairs—you use the whole dining hall!”
One or two people, now the more dangerous equipment was in place, had begun to step about. Were Rat from the north, I would have been mildly embarrassed for our provincial impetuosity.
I waited—like the stude
nts, who, here and there among the other guests, craned and gawked—until the first spit, a rod about two meters long, traveled by on one of the overhead cables that had lowered from the ceiling. I tapped it lightly to set it swinging and started off, three steps beside it, and then headed for Rat.
Another spit came by, this one already set with food, a few leaves hooked on the small barbs, dressed with aromatic oil. I grasped it and lifted it down from the cable, turning it to the other end. Wanting to reach Rat, I stepped around a high display case that, still empty, had just risen from the floor. Around it from the other side lumbered ancient Abrak’d; and manners, after all, are manners. “A pleasure to see you at dinner. You are so old.”
“You will be old soon, too. Oh, yes, Marq Dyeth, isn’t it? You are aging nicely.”
I extended the spit, and Abrak’d nipped off the dressed leaves, purring approval. I continued on, looking for a cable now to hang the empty hook over. The rinsing fountain? I stopped beside it and plunged the hook into one of the bubbling basins, turned it about, shook it, and decided I might as well set it again. To the right was a free display stand, hung with shaved and crackled skate-belly. Little knives and ornate scissors still swung from their chains. I took some snips of brittle gold and fixed some to the spit barbs—
“There you are!” Another spit-end waved in my face.
And another. “There, Marq!”
Before me on the ends of damasked tines: from Bucephalus some worm roe (my favorite), from Tinjo some calla berries (which I could have done without). I bit from one; I bit from the other. “Don’t you two think you should be spreading yourselves out? Mmm,” which was because I liked the roe. “You’re looking older every day, Bu.”
“And I suppose I’m looking younger,” Tinjo said, acting human, acting sly. I frowned.
Both of them laughed and turned to the three-tiered rinsing fountain.
“Come on, come on.” I hooked my spit on the overhead chain; it moved off, swinging. Stepping up between them, I slapped the back of Bu’s scaled neck and roughed the curls over Tinjo’s human head. “We’ve got guests now. Spread out and use different rinsing fountains, will you?”
Both turned to me with the same look of amused consternation on their so different faces, registering with such different signs a look I would like to have believed was universal between siblings in any social grouping even resembling a stream—but which I know is not. Bu projected a tongue: “You can hardly get near Rat. I love you, Marq,” marking her both as an alien and my sister.
I grinned.
Tinjo giggled.
Bu rose on her hind claws and lolloped away, carrying her spit high. In the other direction, off marched Tinjo.
I went on between shelves, racks, carts, cabinets, and guests. I passed by the ornate stand on which Japril had parked Egri’s krutchk’t before going off to circulate, and took down a passing spit still unset, hooked its twisted tines with seared lichen, and turned toward where I thought Rat might be.
A meter or so from the furnace, some seven or eight guests clustered. Her long-handled fork set with something that needed a few moments’ fire, Shoshana thrust the spit through the grill, while flames licked from tiny triangular openings at the fluted corners.
As I came up, she withdrew the spit and examined the gray dough, touched here and there with gold, sizzling against the metal. “Your friend, given her age, is almost too popular.” Shoshana smiled. “I shall feed Rat this and go see about some others.” She turned to extend the long spit over the shoulders of the gathered guests.
In their corner, I saw Rat, turning with eyes now green, now silver, to nibble from a bit of blue leaf on one guest’s long fork, now from the worm meat at the end of another, now from the cactus curls at the end of still another, while still another and another joined them. I watched, amid the roar of complimentary chatter, as he turned to bite here, to bite there. A confection of hot cheese and grated nuts, as it came away in his teeth, strung down his chin, so that he tried first to toss back his head to get it in his mouth, then to lick it in; failing, he seemed to forget it and turned to bite at something covered with toasted crumbs, half of which fell as he bit, so that his long face, chewing and biting and moving, looked not like a woman’s, evelm or human, but like a sick dragon’s or an acned ape’s.
One guest, Vizakar or Clent, left. Two others, Vol’d and Mammam’m, came up to extend spits set with the evening delicacies over backs and shoulders.
As Rat turned here and there to bite and bite, his eyes—green, glass, silver, green—caught mine. The muscle in his cratered jaw bunched and bunched. One shoulder moved. He raised an arm. Holding his own spit in his ringed hand, he held it out toward me. The tines were set with some salad such as I’d fed Abrak’d. I bit into leaves, richly sour and peppery, and looked down the foreshortened rod leading to his fist’s knotted and jeweled knuckles: knuckles, gnawed fingers, knobs of bone, knots of muscle, wrist, forearm, biceps, shoulder. He grazed on what they fed him, trying to keep looking at me with an expression not a smile but on which I could have certainly written one.
I thought to extend my own spit. But Rat’s arms were longer than mine.
I couldn’t have reached him.
While I chewed, somehow in my distraction, his tine hit my gum. Trying not to show it because it was an accident, I drew back at the pain, behind the others feeding him.
He could have fended their clogged attention.
If he had been used to our formal affairs, he could have parried this fork or that with some light comment or general protest. But as I watched, trying not to bring my hand to my sore mouth (he still held out his spit to me), I was struck with a moment’s vision where, through his stranger’s clumsiness and my fellows’ eagerness, these most formal and age-old gestures were rendered as absurd-looking as if I were experiencing them for the first time in some society organized about principles and prohibitions unknown.
I nodded to him uncertainly, trying to chew and take cognizance of the flavors in my mouth. (Was that blood …?) I stepped back, nodded again …
He put down his arm, went on eating, went on watching. More guests came, extending food and compliments.
Bucephalus had been right.
You couldn’t get near him.
I tried to smile, though my face may have remained as blank as his.
Then I turned, hurrying off among high racks, low furnaces, falling and flopping fountains.
Japril had stopped by a stand on which rested my bone dish with its wooden dowels draped with the meaty multi-flavored ribbon, from which she was cutting a small section with one of the new food shears Shoshana had gotten for the party, then fixing it to the bobbed tines with what were, incidentally, our stream’s oldest set of tongs, and, all in all, thanks to GI, looking far more comfortable with my local customs than I felt. She turned as I neared and, replacing tongs and knives on the hooks at the stand’s edge, extended the spit toward me. “It’s wonderful to see how clear are the marks of your aging since I saw you last.”
“Five minutes?” I asked.
There’s a certain kind of intellectual irony that GI is not set up to deal with. Japril frowned.
“But of course,” I said. “You mean from last year.” With my teeth I tore, tastefully, at the rare meat on the end of her spit. “Thank you, that is good, if I do say so.”
She looked around for a rinsing fountain. One ear was lit from her hovering sunburst. Her face still bore what I assumed was distress from my flippancy. But as I fell in beside her, she said: “Marq, tell me again about all those people gathered outside Dyethshome.”
I chewed. “I don’t know quite what you want to hear.”
We wandered by another furnace, ducked beneath more dangling spits.
“They’re all here for Rat?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Marta just called in to say that the rumor among the crowd is that your offworld guests have come here across light-years of night to meet him
too.”
I frowned. “I suppose that’s possible. But I doubt it. Still, we don’t know why they’re here, really. Yet. But what I think far more likely is just that our friends outside, since they’ve all come to gawk at Rat, haven’t really considered that anyone might want to drop by for any other reason.”
“Dropping by when folks are doing it on this scale—” Japril stepped up to a fountain basin whose rim was set with luminous gray stones—“becomes another rather fuzzyedged phenomenon.” The stones were almost identical to the ones she was wearing—and though I’d seen that particular fountain hundreds of times before, I’d just never made the connection.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry. I was just talking to Ynn.” She plunged the spit, and swiveled it, making foam along the brim. “She says that in the last half hour the arrivals have gone from just under a thousand to over nine thousand people outside; they’re backed up for almost a kilometer. About two thousand have arrived in the last ten minutes alone—”
“Nine thousand?”
“Another two thousand are expected within the next few minutes.” She raised the spit’s business end and shook down droplets on the water. “I have to go hang this up somewhere and set food on another free one, now, don’t I?”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course,” remembering the spit, already set, I held. Protocol forbade me to offer it to someone who had just fed me. And Japril was wandering off anyway, no doubt having been reminded by GI how unnecessary formal leave-taking was in formal situations.
I turned from the basin, saw a cable full of empty spits go by on my right, saw Santine brandishing a set one off on my left. Where, I wondered, had the Thants gotten to—and came around between three of the hall’s rough stone columns, with a net-hanging between them almost too old and worn to discern any of the pale colors of its intricate knots.
The privacy clouds—except Thadeus’s—were gone.
They had gathered near a large, three-winged furnace. And even through Thadeus’s multichrome glitter, I could see the human figure, the back curved almost to a hump, the shoulders and knees extraordinarily thin, the hair wild, the eyes all shadowed within the careening flicker.
The Novels of Samuel R. Delany Volume One Page 81
