Mount Tabor is located outside Bellwether, a relatively small city in the southern hemisphere eight time zones away. The university’s name is a trifle misleading: the land around Bellwether is dead flat. The institution is church-affiliated, and “Mount Tabor” is a scriptural reference.
Moments after Chase returned from her conversation with Thaxter, we presented ourselves to the AI who maintained the University Library after hours. (It was just before dawn in Bellwether.) No unpublished materials were listed in the inventory under either Monck or Parrini.
In the morning, we were back when they opened. The young assistant whom we approached with our questions checked his databanks and shook his head after each entry. No Monck. No Parrini. Sorry. Wished he could help. It was exactly what the Al had said, but humans are easier to negotiate with.
We insisted they had to be there somewhere, and the young man sighed and passed us on to a dark-complexioned woman who was even taller than Chase. She was big-boned, with black hair and an abrupt manner that suggested her time was extremely valuable. “If anything does arrive,” she told us peremptorily, “we’ll get in touch with you immediately.” She’d already begun to walk away. “Please leave your code at the desk.”
“If they’re not here now,” I said, “they aren’t coming. The Parrini papers were bequeathed to the university more than twenty years ago.”
She stopped. “I see. Well, that’s before my time, and obviously they’re not here. You have to understand that we receive a great many bequests in the form you describe. Usually, they’re materials that the heirs have no earthly use for. But in our grief, Mr. Benedict, we are inclined to exaggerate the importance of whomever has just passed on—You might wish to try the Literary Foundation.”
“I would be extremely grateful if you can help us,” I persisted. “And I’d be happy to pay for your time.” I’d never tried to bribe anyone before, and I felt clumsy. I managed a glance at Chase, who was having trouble keeping a straight face.
“I’d be pleased to take your money, Mr. Benedict. But it really wouldn’t do you any good. If it’s not in the inventory, we don’t have it. Simple as that.”
I wondered aloud whether it might not create a disturbance if the Mount Tabor Board of Governors learned that the heritage of Charles Parrini had been treated so cavalierly by their librarians, and she suggested I should take whatever action I considered appropriate.
“End of the line, I guess,” I told Chase when we were back in the study. She nodded, and we got up from the chairs in which we’d been sitting for the better part of two days. It was well past midnight.
“Let’s get some air,” she said, pressing her fingers to her temples.
Outside, we strolled gloomily along one of the forest footpaths. “I think it’s time,” I said, “to write the entire business off.”
She looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything. The night air was cold and had a sting to it, but it felt good. We walked for maybe a half hour. She seemed preoccupied, while my relief that it was finally over gradually gave way to an awareness of Chase’s long-legged physical presence.
“I know how frustrating this must be for you,” she said, suddenly.
“Yes.” Her eyes were on about a level with mine, and I was very conscious of them in that moment. “I would have liked to get some answers,” I said shamelessly.
“It would also be nice to catch up with whoever was playing games with you.”
“That too.” Like hell.
I tried to assuage my conscience by admitting that I was glad to turn my mind to other things, and I went on for some minutes about my responsibilities to Gabe’s estate, and a few problems of my own, and whatnot. All lies, but it didn’t matter. Chase wasn’t listening anyway.
“I have a thought,” she said, breaking in as though I’d said nothing whatever. “We know the documents were donated by Monck’s daughter. The bequest might have been cataloged in her name, which would not necessarily have been Monck. The problem might just be that the library doesn’t cross-reference very well.”
She was right.
The materials themselves, like the documents at Mileta, were packed away in a plastic container in a storage room.
The tall dark-complexioned librarian argued briefly that the materials were not available for public viewing. But she conceded quickly when I threatened again to go to her superiors, this time with a considerably more detailed accusation.
She had the container delivered to a viewing room and, when we arrived, everything had been laid out on a couple of tables. The young assistant we’d met the previous day was assigned to us, to load data storage units, and hold things up to the light, and turn pages, and do the various other physical tasks that a headband projection cannot do for itself. He was very responsive and patient with a job that must have quickly become tedious for him, and was on the whole quite the opposite of his supervisor. I thought also that he was somewhat taken with Chase.
We spent two days going through the material. A substantial portion of it was correspondence originated by and sent to Walford Candles. It was on crystals; on some of the old spools and cylinders and fibres of various types that you don’t see anymore; in lightpad memory systems; and on paper. “It’s going to create a problem,” said Chase. “We won’t be able to read most of this stuff. Where would you find a reader that would accept this?” She held up a cube, turning it in the light. “I’m not even sure whether it’s a data storage unit at all.”
“The University will have the equipment,” I said, directing the comment to the young man, who nodded vigorously.
“We have adapted readers for most systems,” he agreed.
In all honesty, I have to confess that it was difficult to get through those letters. As Candles’s reputation grew, his correspondence was no longer limited only to his band of friends. Parrini had found communications from both the Sims, from most of the people whose names live in the histories of the period, from statesmen and the men who fought the war, from weapons manufacturers and social reformers, from theologians and victims. There was even a description of a graduation on Khaja Luan at which Tarien Sim was a featured speaker. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the podium to himself, except that the Ashiyyurean ambassador also showed up to state his case. The alien’s interpreter was Leisha Tanner!
“The woman,” commented Chase, “really liked to ride tigers.”
The event was described by Candles to a forgotten correspondent. It was dated a few weeks before the fall of the City on the Crag: If a passion for ceremony signifies anything, Candles comments, our two cultures may be more alike than we wish to admit. Both formalize passages of various types, births and deaths and whatnot; sporting events; public displays of the arts; assorted political functions; and the ultimate ceremonial, war.
So, despite everything, the robed and hooded figure of the Ambassador, folded onto a bench well apart from the dignitaries on the parade stand, did not look entirely out of place. It sat quietly, its robe folded in a manner that suggested its forelimbs were placed on its lap. No face was visible within the hood. Even on that bright sunlit afternoon, I had the sense of gazing down a dark tunnel.
Leisha, who knows about such things, had informed me that this is an extremely trying experience for the Ambassador. Other than that it may well be in some physical danger, since the massive security forces surrounding the gathering can not really protect it from a determined assassin, it apparently also suffers from some sort of psychological oppression, induced by the presence of people in large numbers. I suppose I’d feel the same way if I thought they all wanted me dead.
There was a substantial amount of official talk about academic accomplishment and bright futures. And I wondered at the self-control of the Ambassador, stiff and erect among us.
I felt uncomfortable in its presence. In fact, if I aim to be honest, I must admit I did not like the creature very much, and would have been pleased to have it gone. I don’t know why that
should be. It has nothing to do with the war, I don’t think. I suspect that we will never feel entirely comfortable when faced with intelligence housed in an exotic physical configuration. I wonder whether this isn’t the real basis for our reaction to the aliens, rather than the sense of mental intrusion to which it is usually ascribed?
The University asked Leisha to act as interpreter. That meant reading the alien’s speech. Everybody she knew advised her strongly not to do it, and a few people made it clear that she was behaving in a treasonable fashion, and that, if she persisted, they would see that she paid a price. Sometimes we forget who the enemy is.
I’d like to tell you that the friendship of those who threatened her in this way would not have been worth keeping. But unfortunately this is not so. Cantor was among the group. And Lyn Quen. And a young man whom I believe Leisha loved.
No matter. When the time came, she was up there beside the Ambassador, looking as cool and lovely as I’ve ever seen her. She’s a hell of a woman, Connie. I wish I were younger.
Tarien Sim was there too, of course, resplendent among the notables. He has become a person of such incredible political dimension that one cannot but expect to be disappointed by his physical appearance. And yet—there is a sense of greatness about him that one can see and feel. Shafts of sunlight catch his eye, if you know what I mean.
His scheduled address was the reason for the Ambassador’s appearance, actually. The Ashiyyur wanted equal time. But I knew it was a mistake. The contrast between Tarien, who is a father figure with a bright red beard and a voice that inspires revolution; and the silent, ominous, stick figure, could hardly have been greater.
There were more than four hundred graduates, counting those receiving advanced degrees. They sat in rows across Morien Field, where students have been listening to commencement oratory for almost four centuries. Behind them, a crowd of spectators—far larger than any I’ve seen during all the years I’ve been attending these things—overflowed the seating areas, and spilled into the athletic fields beyond. The press was out in force. And there was an army of security people, the University’s own reinforced by city police and several dozen unmistakable narrow-eyed agents of one kind and another.
It was a restless afternoon. Everyone was looking for something to happen, anxious to see it when it did, but maybe a little scared to get caught in it.
The student speakers said the things that students always say at such times, and their remarks gathered polite applause. Then President Hendrik rose to introduce Sim. I understand there was something of a pushing match between the University and the government over the order of speakers. Hendrik wanted to give the final word to Sim, which would be his way of demonstrating publicly that he no more approved of the presence of the Ambassador than did the rest of the mob. But the government had insisted that the alien dignitary receive that honor.
The crowd stirred expectantly while Hendrik praised Sim’s courage and abilities in these perilous times, and so on. Then they roared their applause when he rose and took his place at the podium. He shook hands with a couple of VIPs, pointedly not looking at the Ambassador. He stilled the clamor with a casual wave of his right hand, and surveyed his audience. “Graduations,” he said, foregoing the customary preliminary greetings, “are about the future.
“It would be tempting to speak of the accomplishments of the recent past. About the first serious efforts to abolish war, to unite the human family, to ensure security and a measure of prosperity for everyone. After all, these have been our goals for a long time, and they have proved more elusive than those who first proclaimed them would have believed.” Leisha sat motionless beside the Ambassador. Her features were strained, her limbs rigid. Her hands were closed in tight fists.
I wasn’t alone in noticing. Others seemed fascinated by her presence at the Ambassador’s side, as though there were something vaguely obscene in it. And I found it difficult myself to put to rest a similar notion. Please don’t quote me or I’ll deny it.
“Unfortunately,” Tarien continued, “there’s still much to do. More than my generation can hope to accomplish.
“Rather, it will be for you to succeed finally, to recognize that there can be no safety for any, until all are safe; no peace until those who would make war understand that there is no profit to be had—” Well, I could quote or paraphrase all of it, Connie. He was that good. If anybody can unite these bickering worlds into a Confederacy, he can. He spoke of remote places and courage and duty and the ships that carry ideals between the stars.
“In the end,” he said, “it will not be arms that decide our destiny. It will be the same weapon that has destroyed oppressive governments and ambitious invaders time and again, since we built the first printing press. Or maybe carved a few symbols into the first tablet. Free ideas. Free ideals. Common decency.
“Time is on our side. The enemy with whom we contend, who would threaten, if it could, our survival, cannot with its warships overcome the power of a mind that thinks for itself.”
The applause started slowly, and rippled swiftly across the cool grass, gathering momentum. One of the graduates stood, a tall proud young woman, whose dark eyes burned fiercely. I wasn’t close enough to see tears, but I knew they were there. One by one others joined her, until they were all on their feet.
Tarien again signaled for silence, and got it. “It is better,” he said, “that we recall those we have lost, for they have given us our future. They have bought time for us. But there will surely come an hour when we can celebrate together, when we have completed our task, and rolled back our oppressor.”
They stood for several moments. The assemblage had become a large animal, and you could hear it breathe. Tarien bowed. “For my brother, and for all who fight in your name, I thank you.”
Connie, I wish you had been there. It was magnificent! I doubt there was a single person in the square who would not gladly have traded his present station for some fighting skills, and a good deck underfoot. What more could one ask of this life than to join the Dellacondans?
Well, I can see you snickering: how Candles goes on. Must be getting old. But God help me, we’re approaching the species’ most critical test. And when years from now we look back on all this, I’d like to know that I made a contribution—
I felt sorry for the Ambassador, lone awkward mannequin, withering in the face of such a storm.
Hendrik, uncertain, frightened, came to center stage. We were all restless, wondering what was coming next.
“Honored Guests,” he said, speaking flatly. “Faculty Members, Graduates, Friends of the University: our next speaker is the Ashiyyurean Ambassador, M’Kan Keoltipess.”
Far away, almost on the horizon, a skimmer was rising above the tree line. I imagined I could hear the whisper of its magnetics.
The Ambassador rose awkwardly. It was clearly uncomfortable, whether from the local gravity (which was somewhat heavier than on Toxicon, where it had served until recently) or from its perception of the situation, I do not know. Leisha rose and stood beside it. She looked simultaneously defiant and unruffled. She had apparently used the time to get hold of herself. And this you’ll like: she unnerved the crowd by offering the Ambassador her arm, and guiding it toward the podium.
It took its place, towering over Leisha. From within the robes came a sound like dried bones cracking. Leisha took a lightpad from her tunic. Obviously it contained the speech she was to read. But the Ambassador signaled her to put it away. I realized we were seeing the old human game of throwing away the prepared address. It fumbled with the folds of its hood, as a woman might with a skirt imagined to expose a bit too much. It raised both hands, shook the hood down to its shoulders, and stood uncovered, blinking in the bright sunlight.
It was very old. And its parchment features looked pained. The animal that Tarien Sim had created remained together, and it took a few psychological steps backward.
The Ambassador extended long desiccated fingers. They had too many joints
, and the flesh was tight and gray. They danced in the sunlight, and there was much in their frenetic, graceful movements that left me chilled.
Leisha watched the fingers, and nodded. My impression was that she hesitated at translating its first “remarks,” but obviously the Ashiyyurean insisted.
“The Ambassador thanks me,” she said, “and wishes to say that he understands this is not easy for me. He also says: I understand your anger at this hour.” The hands weaved their intricate patterns. “I wish to extend greetings to President Hendrik, to the honored Guests, to the Faculty, to the Graduates, and to their families. And especially—” it turned toward Tarien Sim, seated far to its right, “especially to the gallant representative of the Rebels, an opponent whom I would prefer to call ‘friend.’”
It paused, and I thought I could read genuine regret in its face. “We wish you all good fortune. On an occasion such as this, when young ones go forward to test their knowledge, and to embrace their lives, we are particularly prone to realize that for them wisdom lies yet in the future. I can’t help observing that, when one considers the conditions under which we meet today, much the same may be true of our two species.”
Leisha’s voice, which had begun with too high a timbre, and some trace of nervousness, had settled into its customary richness. She was, of course, no match for Tarien Sim, but she was damned good.
“To the graduates,” the Ambassador continued, “I would point out that wisdom consists in recognizing what is truly important. And in treating with suspicion any cherished belief whose truth is so clear that one need not put it to the test. Among our people, we maintain that wisdom consists in recognizing the extent to which one is prone to error.”
It paused, allowing Leisha a moment to catch her breath.
“I would have preferred not to speak about politics today. But I owe it to you and to my own people to respond to Ambassador Sim. He has said there is a major conflict, and he is sadly correct. But the struggle is not between Ashiyyur and human. It is between those who would find a way to settle our difficulties peacefully, and those who believe only in resorting to a military solution. It is essential during the dark days that surely lie before us that you be aware that you have friends among us, and enemies among your own.
A Talent for War Page 20
