“You know,” he said. “Shul, Reza, now Ran…they’ve all gone in glory, I know, but—I just want Chen to be different, that’s all.”
Zeba threw her hands up in exasperation.
Allison realized they had not heard her yet. This seemed to be a mighty long time lag. Perhaps she ought to call back later?
“You’re fucked out, that’s all,” Zeba decided. “Tell him to get a new psychormone, Mithua.”
“He’s our baby boy,” the man insisted, “our only one left.”
“Balls. Chen’s sixteen standard, expects to pass next year, and he’s got more of that than you ever had.”
“Zeba!”
“Mithua, I’ll handle this. Now, look, Shujaath. Chen’s our child, too; he’s got my genes and Mithua’s genes as well as yours, and we want to give him his chance when the time comes, just like the others. We raised them all to expect it, so how’s it fair to draw the line here? Besides, Shul nearly made it to Coach, and Chen’s as good as she was in training, so maybe he’ll even—”
A siren began; the living room vanished.
“Your credit is negative ten thousand twenty-six,” stated the System above the din. “Please acknowledge.”
Allison exclaimed, “What the devil—”
“Please acknowledge.”
“Okay, I acknowledge, for heaven’s sake.”
The siren stopped.
“For first occurrence, please file explanatory statement, one hundred words minimum.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on—”
“Please file explanatory statement.”
“But I can’t—”
“Please file—”
“Emergency override. Call Kyoko Aseda, UNIS-11.”
The machine paused as if to think this over. “Thirty minutes’ extension,” it allowed. “Request accepted.”
An immense hall reached out around her. Open tiers of floor levels spread across the far side, whale giant stairs curved downward from the right and left. Figures moved here and there, like ants in the distance.
In the curve of the left stairway stood Kyoko and another woman by a screen covered with equations.
Kyoko bowed. “Allison Thorne,” she said, “I am pleased to introduce my honored colleague Hiroko Shimuri.”
The woman bowed low. Her figure seemed small and shrunken, and her hair was white, but her features glowed. “I am honored to meet you, citizen Thorne,” she said. “I have heard, of course. The outer world does not completely pass me by.”
“Thank you,” said Allison, who wondered just what the citizen had heard.
“You see,” Shimuri went on, “Aseda and I are concerned here with the inner world of physics; to be specific, the teleplasticity gap. Aseda’s ideas intrigue me, as they may clear up a troublesome discrepancy.” She glanced at the screen.
Kyoko said, “I should explain, Allison; I am consulting Shimuri at the Shimuri Institute in Osaka, Japan. I’ve a part-time affiliation there, as I told you.”
“This,” said Shimuri, “is the Hall of a Thousand Cranes. Look upward, if you will.”
Allison stretched her neck back and saw them: hundreds of angular white bird-forms were suspended invisibly, and they moved slowly about the domed space as though in flight.
“A Thousand Cranes,” Shimuri repeated. “The symbol of eternal life and peace.”
“Peace and eternal life? You believe in those?” Allison asked before she thought.
The woman’s smile broadened very slightly. “The Institute was built during the rebirth of United Nations. Many then still knew what it was to long for peace. As do your people, I understand. I recall the year your well-named ship left for the stars.”
Allison thought, she might be older than Celia, then. “But citizens aren’t religious any more?”
“Religious? Some, perhaps. Myself, I am religious as any true scientist. Kepler, Newton, Einstein—all worshiped the music of the spheres. But the outer world—” she shook her head. “The outer world cares but to turn sliptons into transcomms.”
Allison frowned as she remembered the original reason for her call.
“What is amiss, Allison?” Kyoko asked.
“Well, I guess I’ve had an accident with the transcomm.”
“Did it break down? They do, on occasion.”
“I’m not sure. All I know is, the System told me I’m negative ten thousand and keeps demanding a ‘statement.’”
“I see.”
The two colleagues exchanged glances. Shimuri bowed and said, “You’ve other duties, Aseda.”
“The discussion—another day, perhaps.”
“Of course. I am honored to have met you, Allison Thorne.”
The Institute vanished. Kyoko was left in a bluish cavern typical of the ship.
“Allison, this happens to the best of us at times. Just file a statement and forget it for now. The Adjustor won’t call you on it until at least the third time.”
“The Adjustor?”
“Don’t worry; Special Status, you know.”
“But I don’t even know what happened,” said Allison. “It was fine this morning. I did set the privacy level high, and took a gradual loss from that.”
“It must have been something more sudden, to get you ten thousand below. Did you make any transaction without knowing the rate?”
“An interstellar holoview, just now. But they asked for it.”
“That should have been safe, unless—System call, itemize cost of last holoview, questor Allison Thorne.”
“Direct view,” said the System, “two credits per minute. Conference barrier, by Dadachanji parentcorp, fifty thousand per minute.”
Kyoko looked puzzled. “Allison, it appears as if you were monitoring an intimate family affair.”
“I beg your pardon.” Allison flushed. “They called me this morning, and I said I’d call back.”
“But direct view would not have worked for that. You need bimodal exchange.”
“Is that what we’re doing now?”
“No, local calls do not enter the SLIT station. Interstellar calls require coordination of energy flow in both directions. A slipton well allows passage in one direction only; remember, sliptons must be ‘negative’ or ‘positive.’ So one-way calls are cheaper, when appropriate.”
“But it was neither, in this case.” Allison felt like sinking into the floor.
“It was a simple mistake, then,” said Kyoko. “Just explain to the System, and that will be the end of it.”
“I see.” A hundred-word explanation to an omniscient machine; a statement of why she, Allison, had dropped in on a set of parents striving for the fate of their child. She wanted to ask whether Kyoko had ever considered such deadly choices for her own children, but her nerve failed her.
Allison also wondered why Kyoko had chosen to come here, to have given up so much time from her physics just to instruct some ignorant settlers. And Casimir had mentioned her connection with another frontier planet. “Kyoko,” she asked, “were you a pioneer on Vinlandia?”
The citizen hesitated and clasped her hands. “Yes, I was on the first expedition, with my family; that was thirty years ago. We were less fortunate than your people. I myself lost my…sister there, near the end.”
“Yes, I know how that is.” Suddenly Allison saw her in a new light. “My husband Joshua died in the Sixth Settlement. It’s not easy on Foxfield, either.”
“But your people survived on Foxfield. I think your approach was different from ours.”
Allison sighed. “You all tell us how ‘different’ we are. That caller this morning said we were ‘pacifist’; but isn’t UNI pacifist? You don’t have—”
“The word must have been ‘passivist.’ This refers to a culture which defuses both aggressive and creative energies with high efficiency.”
“Wait a minute. Is that supposed to be us?”
“That’s what the experts are saying.”
“But that’s unfair,” Allison insi
sted. “We put all the energy we’ve got into working to survive.”
“Precisely. That is why Foxfield Friends are passivist.”
“But why do you link the two—aggressive and creative?”
“Societies can be aggressive without great creativity, like the Spartans or the Nazis. But creativity is a special manifestation of aggression. Cultures noted for artistic and intellectual brilliance have always been strikingly violent. Japan, for example, is renowned for the beauty and serenity of her art forms, and for her progress in science, although her history is as bloodthirsty as that of any Westerran state.”
“But what about—”
“Extension terminated, Allison Thorne,” the System interrupted. “Adjustor Silva Maio will handle your case.”
Kyoko’s image vanished, and to Allison’s dismay she found herself alone with the Adjustor. The tall bronze woman eyed her calmly. “Allison, I’m sure you will have no trouble with your statement. Nonetheless, I think that it might be useful for us to get together at this point to share some of our concerns about Foxfield reintegration. I understand your preference for personal contact, so why don’t you visit me in the ship tomorrow?”
Monday afternoon found Allison once again walking the bluish ship corridors. She wore her one good outfit, which she had laundered since the incident with Kyoko.
“Turn right,” directed her credo. “Enter now.”
She faced a door with no handle. When she tried to touch the surface her hand plunged through. She caught her balance and stepped inside.
Silva Maio half rose from her seat by a low table.
“Allison, good to see you. Please have a seat. You like ginger ale, don’t you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The center of the table opened, and a glass of sparkling liquid projected upward.
“Kyoko tells me the Shosa-five is in good order.” Silva’s tone was uniform, matter of fact. The cast of her features evoked the image of an Incan chieftain on Earth long ago.
Allison nodded and raised her glass. She had never seen such a narrow base for a vessel as the stem of this glass, and wondered why it was made so fragile.
“Excellent,” Silva said. “One local week has now elapsed since contact, and orientation has progressed steadily. I’d be interested to hear your impressions.”
Allison swallowed. “It’s so hard to sort things out,” she said. How could she describe it all: no war, and yet no peace; caring, and utter callousness; communication free, yet treacherously expensive. “So many conflicting signals,” she added at last.
Silva nodded. “You must expect diversity, among two hundred million individuals.”
“The uniformity amazes me more. Everyone accepts one System, and people everywhere speak English.” That had jarred with her knowledge of the Records.
“A slight correction, there. We do speak English for your sake, but many citizens speak only their native tongue. The System translates automatically among all languages.”
“Really.” She was intrigued. “Even in the transcomm? Facial expression and all?”
Silva waved a dismissive hand. “Image processing. It contributes to time lag, but the systems architects are working on it.”
“Then it is still a Tower of Babel.”
“Excuse me? Oh, yes, of course. Major spoken languages are Spanish, Hindu and Chinese, for reasons of demography. Japanese is the lingua franca of commerce and space travel; you really should learn it, you’ll pick it up in no time. That aside, the only ‘universal language’ is SYSTEMIC, for data processing.”
Allison’s credometer interrupted. “Referendum update. Senior Self-determination Factor One-Two-Six, five point increase: vote for or against. Issue level four, due within one hour.”
“Just a reminder,” said Silva. “It’s pointless for a citizen to lose credit from absentmindedness if she does want to vote.”
She hesitated. “Do you really run everything by majority rule?”
“Yes.”
Allison shook her head. “I can’t imagine any means other than consensus, for us. If it weren’t for consensus, I doubt whether any of us would be alive today,” she added, recalling Rachel Coffin with the commensals.
“You’re right, for such a small group. But for larger populations—tell me, Allison: what is the precise function of consensus?”
She tried to describe it without reference to the Light. “For consensus, each individual must break down the issues into their essential parts on which all of us can agree. Then together we can build a decision which is not just yes or no, but tailored to fit the given situation.”
“Exactly so. Our voting system achieves the same end on a larger scale. Instead of holding a few elections on large issues, as in the primitive stages of democracy, we generate referenda on numerous minor issues. Statistically, this does for a large population what consensus does for a small one.”
“Wait a minute. That misses the whole point. Exchange of ideas is what makes consensus work; where do you get that with simple voting?”
“Correct choice of referenda removes that requirement. Through psychosynchronic feedback analysis, we determine which issues need further clarification and what questions to ask to achieve this. System data processing makes it practical. Practicality is the key, Allison; you can’t solve a sixteen-digit multiplication problem in your head, and you can’t run UNI by consensus.”
That sounded unanswerable. Allison wished her brother were there; she knew he’d have a fit. “What is the current issue about?” she asked.
“Self-determination for senior citizens. You can always ask the System to tell you in ten words, or ten thousand. Essentially, a vote to increase Factor One-Two-Six widens the options for older citizens to choose how to spend their remaining years of life.”
“Well, I’ll vote for that. I’m for anything that gives one a greater say in one’s own future.”
“As you wish.” Silva’s long fingers curved about her glass as she sipped. “What other aspects of our modern lifestyle disturb you?”
Directness appealed to Allison, and she decided to return it. “The one thing that really gets me is those Stargo games. I don’t care what anyone says, it just isn’t right for people to kill each other, even if they do agree to the rules beforehand. And why in heaven would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“Allison, you surprise me. Surely you know of the innumerable attractions which physical conflict has held for mankind over the centuries. For womankind, too, although participation tended to be vicarious. Only in the twentieth century did untamed warfare become more than just a deadly game, but a game whose stakes threatened to break the house.
“Our modern arrangement channels warlike instincts and eliminates innocent victims. And System transmission provides wide access to vicarious participation; it’s an important social service.”
Allison stared into her glass and twirled the crystal stem. She recalled the sumptuous living room of the Dadachanji parentcorp. She looked up. “Have you ever played, yourself?” she asked.
“I did, one season. The last game I emerged sole survivor. That was enough for me.”
The glass slipped from Allison’s fingers and shattered. Brilliant shards and droplets covered the table.
“No matter,” said Silva. “You’ll get another one.”
The table top reopened to swallow the debris. It then produced a full glass.
Silva continued. “Creative pursuits are the finest channel for aggression. Advances in science and technology, even in medicine, have always occurred during explosive times. Your ship the Plowshare was based on missile design.”
“Yes, that’s where the name came from—‘swords into plowshares.’ But things don’t have to work that way.”
“But they usually did, in your Records of Earth, didn’t they? What about literature? The greatest of epic works centered on colossal wars. Artistic inspiration from ancient vase-painting to Picasso’s ‘Guernica’—”
> “What about the ‘Mona Lisa’?”
“The Westerran Renaissance society,” said Silva, “was a treacherous one. Patrons of art were warring princes; the works they commissioned furthered their competition.”
“Or the cathedrals of the Middle Ages?”
“And the Crusades? Christianity inspired both. Tell me, Allison: what great event was it which drove the unprecedented rise of Christianity in the West?”
“The life and teachings of Christ.”
“Or the Crucifixion?”
Allison said nothing.
“The drama of the Crucifixion carried immense power. Violence makes a strong message.”
“So does silence.”
Silva fell silent, as though testing the idea. “That may be so,” she said at last. “I shall attend one of your Meetings soon.”
“You are most welcome.” Allison wondered how many times she had heard or expressed that sentiment during the past week.
Silva nodded. “I’ve also heard interest on the part of Foxfielders to visit other worlds. This should become practical in the near future.”
“Why, yes, I would hope so,” said Allison, for lack of anything better to say.
The Adjustor set down her glass. “Friend Allison, I understand that you do not feel entirely at ease with UNI as yet. I accept this because I know that Foxfield cannot reintegrate without overcoming perceived conflicts. Our task is to brush aside the superficial differences and to illuminate our basic consonance of purpose within. The most obvious of the differences lie in technology, and for that reason I hope that you, with your technical background, will be most able to help bridge the gaps between Foxfielders and the rest of our citizens.
“You can imagine the opportunities which will unfold before you in UNI—new sciences to discover, new worlds of art for your son. All the things you once dreamed of are real; you called us, and we are here, Allison Thorne.”
IX. Aurora
Allison watched the violet-tinged clouds dribble over the horizon as she walked from the Center back to her house. Already this evening the heavenly lights were out in force; quite a storm must have raged up in the stratosphere.
She blinked as she entered the kitchen. The air reeked with other-worldly odors from the stove, where Dave scraped at the frying pan.
Still Forms On Foxfield Page 11
