Foreigner qa-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  that this Other also was brandishing a metal tube, but it was smaller and more compact. He was wearing black bands

  around both his arms; no one else had such bands.

  "Hello," said Toroca, and then he bowed. The moment seemed to call for some sort of speech, but if the Others’

  language sounded like gibberish to Toroca, his words would likely sound the same to them. "Hello," he said again,

  simply.

  The Other with the armbands said "Hello" back at him. For a moment, Toroca thought that the Other understood him,

  but it was soon clear that he’d simply repeated the sound Toroca had made.

  If this Other had been a Quintaglio, he’d have been a good piece younger than Toroca, but none of the Others seemed

  as large as an old Quintaglio. Either this wasn’t a location frequented by the elderly, or Others simply didn’t grow as

  fast or as big as Quintaglios.

  Toroca made a gesture toward the city, indicating, he hoped, that he wished to go there. The Other with the black

  armbands looked warily at Toroca, then stepped aside. Toroca began to walk down the pier, and this Other walked

  silently beside him. There was a hubbub among the spectators. Some had claws out; others had them sheathed. If

  these were Quintaglios, that would mean some were frightened and others were just curious — exactly the mix of

  emotions Toroca himself was feeling as he continued down the pier.

  *7*

  "Normally, I sit where the patient can’t see me," said Mokleb. "Otherwise, they spend too much time watching for my

  reactions. Therapy is not a performance, and I am not an audience. Also, there may be times when the most effective

  response to something you say may not in fact be the truth. By sitting out of view, the patient cannot see my muzzle.

  In any event, since you are blind, it doesn’t matter where I sit. However, you should be as comfortable as possible.

  That rock you are straddling is your favorite, yes?"

  "Yes," said Afsan.

  "You should relax as much as possible. Rather than sitting up, you may find it more comfortable to lie on your belly.

  Why don’t you try that?"

  Afsan obliged, settling himself down on the top of the boulder, his arms and legs dangling a bit over the sides and his

  tail, semi-stiff, sticking up into the air.

  "Good. Now, I’m going to sit on another boulder. I take copious notes; using a system of simplified glyphs, I can

  record both sides of our conversation verbatim. You’ll occasionally hear the sound of my fingerclaw dipping into a pot

  of ink or solvent, or the sound of me getting a new sheet of paper. Pay no attention, and don’t worry about whether

  I’m writing something down or not. I assure you, I will dutifully record everything — there’s no telling what is important.

  And I further assure you that my notes will be kept confidential. Do you understand all that?"

  Afsan nodded.

  Mokleb dipped her left middle fingerclaw into ink and started writing. "In our early sessions, I may do a lot of talking,

  but as the therapy progresses I may go for great lengths without saying anything. Fear not: I am listening intently,

  and if I have something to say, I will. You must adopt the same principle: if you have something to say, don’t worry

  about manners. Interrupt me freely. Let no thought, however fleeting, escape. Understood?"

  Again, Afsan nodded.

  "Good. Now, to your dreams. As you may know, dreams serve one fundamental purpose: they prolong sleep."

  "Mine certainly aren’t doing that," said Afsan. "It’s the dreams that are waking me up."

  "It only seems that way. If it weren’t for dreams, we’d constantly be waking, perhaps thrashing over in our minds

  something that had been worrying us the previous day, or else we’d awaken because we feel vulnerable and want to

  look around and make sure we’re still safe. Dreams prevent this from happening, and, since sleep is necessary to life,

  in a very real sense dreams allow us to go on living."

  "But my dreams, Mokleb, are preventing me from getting a good night’s sleep."

  "Ah, yes. So it appears. I’ll come back to that. First, though, let me ask if you’ve ever had a dream that went

  something like this: you are trying to get somewhere or do something, but are frustrated in your attempts.

  Nonetheless, you keep trying, and keep being frustrated."

  "Oh, sure. I suppose everyone has dreams like that. One I recall is trying to find my way out of a corridor. The corridor

  was the standard kind, zigzagging to keep other users out of sight. I kept trying to open doors along that corridor, but

  they wouldn’t work. One would have rusted hinges, another had a broken opening bar, a third was obviously barricaded

  from the other side, and so on."

  "And yet, eventually, you woke up."

  "Obviously."

  "And what did you do immediately after awakening?"

  "I don’t remember."

  "I’ll tell you exactly what you did; next time you have such a dream, observe for yourself and you’ll see that you’ll do

  the same thing then, too. You pushed up off the floor, left your sleeping chamber, found your household bucket, and

  urinated into it."

  "So? Nothing unusual about that."

  "No, of course not. But don’t you see the function the dream was performing? Your bladder was uncomfortably full.

  Part of you wanted to get up so you could relieve yourself. But your low mind constructed a dream that said, in its

  most basic form, ’I’m aware there’s a problem, and I’m trying to deal with it.’ That keeps you from waking up, thereby

  prolonging sleep."

  "But at some point I did wake up."

  "Exactly. For a while, the attempts in the dream to solve the problem placate the real physical need, but eventually

  the urge to urinate overpowers the dream, and you find yourself no longer sleeping."

  "But what about the bad dreams I’m having? How can such horrible images be attempts to prolong sleep?"

  "You know that stage actors wear face masks?"

  "Of course. They have to; otherwise the audience would be distracted by the performers’ muzzles turning blue

  whenever they spoke an untrue line."

  "Precisely. Dreams are like those masks: they disguise the truth of things. Your dream of the corridor is an example.

  Your mind was fooling itself that you were dealing with the desire to urinate. It was masking the fact that you were

  just lying there, resting, with a story of you trying to find a working doorway. The bad dreams you are having likewise

  are masks. The dreams obliquely represent, in ways your mind finds easier to deal with, the underlying things that

  really distress you. The dreams may seem horrible, but I stand by what I said earlier — they are attempts to prolong

  your sleeping state. However unpleasant the dreams appear, the real thing that torments you, beneath the mask of

  those images, is something your mind finds even more unpleasant, and therefore refuses to face directly. We must

  remove the mask, Afsan, and see the true face of your dreams."

  The sky above Fra’toolar was a mix of sun and cloud. Novato was straddling a broken tree trunk on the beach, a piece

  of drawing leather on top of a board resting on her knees. She was sketching the cliff face and its metamorphosis from

  rock into the blue material.

  Garios approached to within about twenty paces. Ten would have been a normal territorial buffer, especially

  considering how long, and how well, they had known each other. Added distance often indicated hesitation about

  broaching a subject.

  No
vato saw him approaching; whenever possible, one always approached so as to be visible well before arrival.

  "Hello, Novato," he said. "I cast a shadow in your presence."

  "Greetings, Garios. But hahat dan, for goodness’ sake. Come a little closer."

  Garios took a few steps nearer, then said awkwardly, "I have a question to ask you."

  Novato put her charcoal drawing stick in a pouch on her sash. "Oh?"

  "Yes," said Garios, his long muzzle tipped down at her. "You are now thirty-six kilodays old."

  Novato clicked her teeth. "Aye, and these old bones are feeling every bit of it."

  "We’ve known each other for a long time," said Garios. He paused. "Indeed, we’ve known each other well for eighteen

  kilodays." He paused again. "A year."

  "Yes," said Novato.

  "And now you are two years old."

  "Yes," she said again.

  "Soon," said Garios, "you will call for a mate."

  "I imagine so," she said, "although I feel no stirrings yet."

  "Eighteen kilodays ago, when you were completing your first year of life, you called for a mate, as well." He paused.

  "And I responded."

  Novato’s voice seemed a little wary. "You did, yes."

  "Normally," said Garios, "that would have been your first mating."

  "Normally," repeated Novato.

  "But you had mated once before, a couple of kilodays prior to your normal time."

  "It’s not all that unusual," said Novato, a defensive note in her voice.

  "Of course not. Of course not. But you mated with Afsan."

  "Yes."

  "It is not, ah, out of the ordinary for a female to mate twice with the same individual."

  "It is the female’s choice," said Novato. "Some do it one way, some another."

  "Indeed. But now that you are coming into receptivity again, I, ah, I’ve been wondering if you will mate with one of

  your previous partners."

  "The thought has crossed my mind," said Novato.

  "Normally, at this stage in your life, I would have been your only previous partner."

  "That’s true."

  "But you have had, ah, two previous partners: Afsan and myself."

  "Yes."

  "You laid clutches of eggs by both of us."

  "Yes."

  "You know who your children by Afsan were; they were spared the culling of the bloodpriest."

  Novato nodded.

  "And after your second clutch was culled, one of the egglings went on to be a member of Capital Pack; that person

  would be a young adult now. Of course, we don’t know which one of the Pack members he or she is."

  Novato looked as though she were about to say something, but checked herself. A moment later, her tone devoid of

  emotion, she simply repeated the old saw "Children are the children of the Pack."

  "Oh, I know," said Garios. "Forgive me, I’m just rambling. Anyway, when you mate again, good Novato, you, ah, have

  three choices, no? You could call for Afsan, call for me, or call for someone new. I know it is premature, and it’s wrong

  for me to ask regardless, but the thought plagues me. Whom will you call for?" He wrinkled his long muzzle. "I, ah, I

  hope it will be me."

  "Garios, we have worked together for a long time. We are friends. My thoughts toward you are always warm."

  "But?"

  "But nothing. I don’t yet feel the stirrings, although I imagine they will start soon. Who knows how I’ll feel then? I

  honestly don’t know whom I’ll call for."

  "But I’m in the running?"

  "You are intelligent and strong and good of heart. Of course you are in the running."

  "Thank you," said Garios. "Thank you very much."

  The Other with the black armbands took Toroca to one of the octagonal buildings. As soon as he got inside, Toroca

  understood how they could safely use wood as a building material; the roof was made of glass, letting in light from

  outside. Since there was never total darkness here beneath the Face of God, there was no need for open-flame lamps.

  Toroca had to wait a long time. An Other brought flagons of water and a pink transparent liquid with bubbles in it.

  He’d had his fill of water on the swim over and was reluctant to try the pink liquid, afraid it might be some kind of

  plant juice. The Other also brought a platter covered with small pieces of meat. At first glance, Toroca thought the

  meat was dried — he was used to such fare — but then he realized it had been ruined by exposure to heat. And yet the

  Other waiting with him had no compunctions about eating the stuff. Toroca decided to be sociable and tried a small

  piece. It was still warm, but not with the warmth of a freshly killed body. Toroca changed his mind about the water,

  downing a massive gulp.

  Finally, whoever they’d been waiting for arrived. Toroca tried to imagine who would have greeted a stranger who swam

  up to the docks on Land. Emperor Dybo? Surely not at first. The imperial guards? Maybe. He’d now gathered that all

  those wearing black armbands — this particular octagon was full of them — were the equivalent of that. Toroca

  remembered when a huge tentacled mollusk had washed up after a big storm many kilodays ago, its shell a good four

  paces across. It was a savant who was summoned, old Osfik, the Arbiter of the Sequence. Perhaps this new arrival

  was likewise a respected thinker, come to puzzle out the nature of the green apparition that had appeared in their

  midst.

  The newcomer was about Toroca’s size; meaning, given the overall smallness of the Others, that he or she was

  probably quite old. There were pheromones coming off the Other, but Toroca couldn’t interpret them; he wished he

  knew how to differentiate the sexes. The newcomer looked at him with an intensity Toroca found uncomfortable. The

  golden eyes made clear exactly where it was looking; such staring would be considered a challenge display amongst

  Quintaglios. The newcomer spoke briefly with the fellow with black armbands, then turned to Toroca and uttered a few

  words.

  Toroca shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don’t understand."

  The Other savant looked fascinated. It spoke again, and the arm-banded fellow looked up sharply. Toroca guessed

  that the oldster had said something incendiary as a test to see if Toroca was faking not knowing their language.

  Toroca shrugged again and said, amusing himself, "May a thousand wingfingers fly up your anus."

  Satisfied, apparently, that there really was a language barrier, the savant pointed at his own chest and said, "Jawn."

  Ah, thought Toroca. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  The savant gestured at Toroca, his hand extended in a loose fist.

  Toroca opened his mouth to reply, then realized that he didn’t know what the reply should be. Was Jawn the savant’s

  own name, or the name of his people? Toroca pointed at the fellow wearing the black armbands.

  The savant seemed disappointed to not have his question answered, but after a moment, he pointed at the security

  fellow as well and said, "Morb." He then indicated a copper tag he was wearing on a chain around his neck. Large

  geometric characters were embossed into it. "Jawn," he said.

  Jawn’s cartouche, thought Toroca. Or at least, some representation of his name. He pointed at his own chest, and

  said, ’Toroca," and then, more slowly, "Toe-roe-ka."

  Jawn pointed at himself and said "Jawn" again, then he pointed at Toroca and said "Toroca."

  Toroca clicked his teeth and pointed at Morb. "Morb," he said.

  It was a start.

  *8*

  "The imagery in most dreams," said Mokleb, "comes from the hunt. We r
evel in the desire to overtake and vanquish, to

  release pent-up violence, to gorge on fresh meat."

  Afsan clicked his teeth. "Either you are wrong or I’m abnormal," he said. "I rarely dream of the hunt."

  "Perhaps not directly," said Mokleb. "But tell me: are you often running in your dreams?"

  "Running … why, yes, I suppose so."

  "That’s pursuit. Do you often leap?"

  "Through the air, no." Afsan clicked his teeth again. "Leaping to conclusions, sometimes."

  "It’s still leaping, whether it’s literal or metaphorical, and it represents the attack."

  "But I almost never gorge myself in my dreams, Mokleb. Indeed, all my life people have teased me over my lack of interest in food."

  "Again, the gorging doesn’t have to be literal. Any excess — whether in eating, in sexual congress, in claiming and

  defending a giant territory — anything like that represents the gorging, the final culmination of the hunt. Almost everyone reports at one time or another having the dream of defending a huge piece of land, bobbing up and down to deter interlopers who are kilopaces away. Territoriality is just another kind of hunt. When stalking prey, we are satisfying current needs; when defending a territory, we are ensuring that future needs will be met. Broadly, you could

  say dreaming is about fulfilling needs, and all needs, at their most basic level, are related to hunting and killing and establishing territory."

  "I just don’t see that."

  "No, of course not. It takes training to interpret dreams. The low mind uses symbols and metaphor. Some are obvious. Any long, curved object represents a hunter’s tooth: a bent tree trunk, a broken wheel rim, a rib, a crescent moon, wave caps seen in profile, even, I daresay, the convex lenses of a far-seer. And any prone object, or object out of its normal orientation — a table lying on its side, say, rather than standing on its legs — or any object leaking liquid — a bucket with a hole in it, perhaps — represents felled prey."

  "It all strikes me as rather unlikely," said Afsan.

  Mokleb was unperturbed. "Tell me a dream you had prior to the onset of your current bad dreams. Anything."

  Afsan was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Well, there’s one I’ve had a few times. There’s a big, fat armorback waddling by, and — okay, this one is about the hunt, I see that now — and I leap on its back, but there’s no place to dig in tooth or claw; the whole animal is encased in a bony carapace. I struggle for a time, but end up exhausted and finally just lie down on the thing’s back, close my eyes, and go to sleep, as it ambles along, carrying me with it."