“No. It drives me crazy. With all these resources, why is everything so dull and gray?”
“That’s how the buildings come out of the printer.”
“Yes, but there are printers now that will make the walls simulate Old Earth stones. Limestone. Marble. Granite. And even already printed buildings can take a layer of nanopaints. You should look at our embassy sometimes. And it’s not just the buildings. Nobody except us puts out flowers. If Esilians had your climate, every street would be lined with flowerpots and hanging baskets. And the people. So many of you look as if you’re just barely getting by. And as if you think that’s normal. Look at that smartcloth outfit of yours!”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“For a start – it’s smartcloth, why don’t you take the time to pinch that tunic in so that it flatters your figure instead of concealing it? And it’s a horrible color. Not only is it ugly in itself, but it’s all wrong for you, it makes you look washed-out and sallow. You should wear color. Lots and lots of color. Deep jewel tones,” Mikal suggested, narrowing his eyes.
No wonder he hadn’t asked her out again! “Well, if ever I want a makeover, I’ll know where to go for advice, won’t I!” Devra slid the tray of ginger-pear bars into the upper oven and did not – quite – slam the door. “For your information, Harmony Citizens are practical. We don’t squander money on unnecessary decorations; we prefer to use it to make sure that nobody starves, nobody goes without shelter.” But she remembered Vikki’s robe, shimmering with flame colors. All very well for those who could afford it! She sprinkled flour on the stone counter top and slammed down a double handful of pastry dough with unnecessary violence.
“And you don’t do ‘unnecessary’ science either, do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Devra located her steel roller and thought wistfully about using it on Mikal rather than the pastry. What business of his was it how she dressed? She was just an employee. Not a girl friend. Dammit. And as long as she was an employee – not to mention a spy – she daren’t even hint to him that she might be interested in something more than friendly banter. “You know, if we had even a small sheet roller I could get this done in a quarter the time.”
“How come you keep harping on another machine? It’s not like you use the ones we’ve got. I’ve never seen you put dough in the kneader.”
“That’s different. I can’t evaluate a yeast dough unless I have my hands in it. Is it too dry, too wet? Is it getting more elastic as the gluten stretches out?”
Mikal shook his head. “Rojer used the kneader.”
Devra pressed her lips together, avoiding the obvious retort. She’d already figured out that Rojer wasn’t a very good baker, but unlike Mikal, she had a little tact. She folded the sheet of pastry in half, turned it ninety degrees and rolled it thin again.
Mikal held up a placating hand. “Look. We’ve talked about your teaching career. Nothing against you, but the curriculum is lacking. All you did, really, was teach the basic science needed for understanding the world around you. You let me look at your textbook; it didn’t even suggest that students use the experimental method, formulate hypotheses, test them. For that matter, it didn’t tell how the science we know today was arrived at; the mistakes, the disagreements, the objective tests. For all your students could have known, the basic principles of science could have been dreamed up by the Bureau for Education.”
“What does it matter, so long as it’s right? I told you; we’re a practical people. We are the beneficiaries of a long line of brilliant scientists starting in ancient times, and we appreciate that. But there’s no point in doing more research when we already know all we need to know. That’s what they taught me at the university.”
Mikal sighed. “No point? What about sasena extract?”
“What’s that got to do with the experimental method?”
“Look,” Mikal said, “the whole of Harmony’s economy is based on exporting sasena extract. That should be enough to make the country rich beyond belief. In good years they can reserve some of the extract to keep prices high; in bad years they can release those reserves. Harmony should be able to afford every technical improvement that its citizens can use. You shouldn’t be walking around in a dingy gray-green outfit because the price of a color upgrade is too high; Harmony should be rich enough to pay for an unrestricted license.”
“So? I don’t know economics, I can’t argue with you, but even if there is something wrong, it’s our problem, not yours.”
“I wish that were true. And if it was just a case of corruption at the Committee level, Esilia would probably not be concerned. But it’s potentially much worse than that. Has it occurred to you that somebody, somewhere, is eventually either going to synthesize sasena extract in a lab or grow the grasses somewhere off Harmony?”
“Nobody can export sasena grasses or seeds. It’s illegal.”
“When there’s so much profit to be made,” Mikal said, “I can almost guarantee you that everybody who passes through our gravity well goes out with some seeds, or whole plants, or maybe just a scraping of cells for a DNA replicator. No nation has ever been able to keep a profitable business secret forever. Look at China on Old Earth. They had a monopoly on silk… until somebody smuggled out some silkworms and mulberry leaves. Or Venice. They had the best glass workers in Europe, and they tried to protect their trade secrets by hunting down and killing any glass workers who tried to leave, but the knowledge got out anyway.”
Devra wondered what he was talking about. China? Venice? Did all Esilians study ancient history?
“I know your people think a few show hangings a couple of hundred years ago scared everybody out of trying to smuggle the stuff, but it didn’t; it just made the smugglers smarter and sneakier.”
“That can’t be true! I’ve never heard of sasena being grown anywhere but Harmony.”
“Oh, it’s been grown offworld,” Mikal said, “but the extract doesn’t work. There’s some kind of complicated interaction between the sasena and this world’s native bacteria that nobody’s quite figured out yet. But it will happen, Devra, trust me. Some day there will be alternative sources for sasena and the bottom will fall out of your economy. If Harmony were rich and innovative and thriving, that wouldn’t matter. But you decided generations ago that innovation in science and technology wasn’t important because you already knew all you needed to know. Even so, you ought still to be rich because of your sasena monopoly, but most people are just barely getting by. You have no cushion to fall back on when the sasena income disappears. There’ll be civil unrest. People will starve. And they’ll flee to Esilia.”
Devra cut the sheets of puff pastry into triangles for the meat pies.
“Is that what it’s all about, then?” she asked Mikal. “Your people are still so angry about the deportations and the war that you don’t want to risk ever having to help any of our people?”
“Devra-Deborah, we can’t,” Mikal said. “There are two hundred thousand of us and two million of you. We can’t save you. We can either let you drag us down too, or we can watch you starve. Neither alternative appeals to us. So if there were any Esilian agents here, they wouldn’t be messing over your economy any worse than you’ve already done to yourselves. They would probably be doing things like – well, like quietly encouraging people in Harmony to think for themselves and to question the decisions of the Committee. Trying to turn your culture away from its present suicidal bent.”
“Hmmph,” Devra sniffed, “I wouldn’t call your style quietly encouraging.”
“Right! That’s how you know I’m not an Esilian agent, see? I’m too pushy and tactless.”
“You said it, not I.” Devra dipped a small ladle into the meat mixture and began dropping the rich sauce in the center of each triangle, enjoying for once the pleasure of having gotten the last word.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day started with a cascade of minor emergencies that left Devra no tim
e to think about serving her country; it was all she could do to serve the morning customers. First the sweet rolls rose slowly and came out of the bottom oven with soggy centers. She’d just begun to suspect that there was something wrong with either the oven temperature or the yeast supply and had meant to run some tests, but her being off most of yesterday meant that disaster had struck before she could run a controlled test. Not that she ever had time to do that anyway. Devra sliced the yeast rolls down the middle, planning to sprinkle them with something from the spice cabinet, push them under the top broiler and market them as… well, something. But Vess wasn’t down yet, and the cabinet that held their fancy spices and preserves was still locked, and why hadn’t she thought of getting a key for it weeks ago? Because Vess was usually around by the time she’d finished her prep work, so it hadn’t been an issue. But she should have thought ahead.
Devra called up the stairs to Vess and hurriedly slung a bucket of dirty water out the back door so that she’d have plenty of space to work in when she had the supplies she wanted. Except that being in a hurry, she didn’t watch what she was doing, and the greasy, floury water slopped over the floor from the back door to the foot of the stairs. While Devra was looking for the mop, Vess came hurrying downstairs, fastening her apron as she came. Which left her no hands free to save herself when she stepped into the puddle and skated into the end of the counter with an ominous thud.
“Nothing broken,” Vess said after cautious movements, “but I think – ouch! Yes. Turned my ankle. Can you help me into a chair, Devra? And then soak a dishtowel in cold water to put over it.”
“I’ll do anything you like,” said Devra, “if you won’t kill me for spreading that puddle right in your path.”
Vess attempted a smile. “Accidents will happen. When Mikal gets back he’ll want to kill me for trying to tie my apron on the way downstairs, he’s told me a hundred times to hold the railing coming down those steep stairs. We have to stick together against the menfolk, eh?”
Devra agreed fervently, even while wondering what had got Mikal up and made him go out so early. She supposed Grigg would want her to probe Vess about that. All right, but later. First she needed to wrap that ankle and get Vess to put her leg up, and then she needed to finish fixing up those disastrous sweet rolls.
“The pantry key?” Vess nodded and reached for the slender chain that usually hung round her neck. “It’s right…. Oh, no!”
“Lost?”
“Not that bad. I must have forgotten to put the chain on this morning. It’ll be right beside my bed, on that little table. I’ll just run up and… ow!”
“You’ll go nowhere,” Devra said, “or Mikal will kill me twice, once for making you slip and again for making you walk on that ankle. I can find it.”
Vess looked less than happy with that solution, but after Devra explained about the yeast roll disaster and her plans to fix it, agreed there was nothing else to do. Devra set Vess up on two chairs behind the counter and sped up the stairs.
She hadn’t been there before; Vess and Mikal were extraordinarily private about their living spaces, to the point that Devra had developed a lively curiosity about just what they had up there, and was happy to have a few seconds to glance around. But the rooms didn’t look suspiciously luxurious, or like the site of a secret gambling palace, or – well, like anything much except a couple of unpretentious furnished rooms over a small kahve house.
Devra lingered for a moment at the door to Mikal’s room. It had a faint spicy smell, not unpleasant, but calling Mikal to mind. The tangle of quilts and blankets were just what she’d have expected of Mikal, he probably wrestled with his bedclothes all night. And the reason his clothes always looked as if they’d been pulled out of a heap on the floor was, apparently, that this was his basic storage system. Men! One whole wall was wasted save for a set of shelves for his electronic gewgaws. Anybody with sense could have put in a row of hooks right next to the shelves. Not that one could reach that part of the wall right now; there was a path to the shelves, but the rest of the floor against that wall was piled high with clothes and junk.
Vess’ room, overlooking the street in front, was larger and lighter – and much neater; Devra was able to scoop up the pantry key on its chain at once.
“What’s going on? And where’s Deborah-Devra?”
That was Mikal downstairs, evidently back from whatever mysterious errand had forced him to go out before dawn, and he didn’t sound pleased with the state of the café – not that she could blame him for that. Devra turned to run down the stairs, then paused for a second look at Mikal’s room. She could have sworn that pile of rags in the corner was a child’s toy – but she must be seeing things; what would a man like Mikal be doing with a rag doll? Even if he’d played with one as a very small child, keeping it wasn’t exactly consistent with his general attitude that girls and everything to do with them were irrational, unreasonable, and probably contaminated with girl cooties.
There wasn’t time to check it out, and who cared anyway? Before Devra was back in the kitchen she had dismissed that glimpse as a trick of her sleepy eyes. She’d better have some kahve while she disguised the rolls.
“What were you doing up there?” Mikal demanded as soon as he saw her.
“Pantry key.” Devra dangled the fine silver chain with the key hanging from it. What did he suspect her of – mooning over his bedroom and lusting after him? There hadn’t been anything like that. Just normal curiosity. “I need it to – well, never mind. I needed it, okay?” She didn’t feel like telling him about her earlier failure with the rolls.
Now he was glaring at Vess. “Couldn’t you –”
“I forgot it, Mikal. And no, I couldn’t go get it, because of this.” She pointed at the rapidly swelling ankle under its damp wrap. “Now stop fussing, or Devra will think we’re a couple of crazy Esilian misers afraid that she’ll steal the expensive supplies.” Rather a strange emphasis on the last part of that sentence.
“What – oh. Yes. Umm…”
Devra didn’t think she’d ever seen Mikal at a loss for words before.
“It was silly of me not to make a copy of the key for her when she started working here,” Vess went on. “But with you and me both here nearly all the time, it just never occurred to me. Anyway, no harm done.” Again, that odd emphasis. “Now, you go set up the chairs and tables, and let Devra get to work again.”
A quick mix of cream cheese, sugar, and local threenuts covered half the split rolls – Devra had thought that one up while she was getting the key – and she slathered the other tray with cinnamon, more sugar, and dots of butter. Both trays of half-rolls came out of the oven looking crisp and enticing, and Devra shifted the rolls onto platters in the display case just as the first customers came in, sniffing the air and asking what she had for them today.
“It’s a special to celebrate the end of the rainy season,” Devra said, looking at the sunlight glancing off the rain-splashed street and dancing through the café windows. “Umm… “Nutty for Sunshine Split Rolls and Cinnamon Winter Spice Splits.”
Both improvisations went over well with the early customers, many of whom came especially for the yeast rising sweet buns but found these adequate substitutes, and before those trays were sold out Devra had muffins and a honey cake to take their place in the display case.
“Whew! Are we having more of a crowd than usual this morning?” she asked Vess, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead.
“We’ve been getting more of a morning crowd every day since you started putting out those yeast-rising sweet rolls,” Vess said. “And I can’t keep the marzipan croissants on the shelves, they disappear so fast. If you don’t stop inventing new things we’ll have to hide the chairs so the people who just come in to talk for hours over one cup of kahve won’t crowd out actual paying customers.”
“In that case,” Devra said, “would you mind if I took a few minutes off? My hands are too hot to start working on the puff pastry
.” She wiped her forehead again. Between putting trays in and out of both ovens, and helping Mikal at the counter, she really was ridiculously hot for the first brisk day of winter. And Vess had just inadvertently reminded her of her other job – coming up with something interesting to satisfy Security.
Or proving that no such thing existed? Devra dried her hands on her apron and took her usual inconspicuous seat at the back of the café, half concealed from the room by a thorny Esilian trailing plant which Mikal proudly proclaimed to be unkillable by heat, cold, drought, or cold kahve tipped into its pot by departing customers. So far Devra had seen nothing to call his claims into question; the vine seemed to thrive on being ignored, snubbed and having its trailing leaves trodden on. Typical Esilian, just like Mikal.
Vess’ comments about getting rid of the people who just came to sit and talk certainly didn’t sound like the sentiments of somebody who was using her kahve house as a cover for dissident get-togethers, and by now Devra was convinced nothing like that was going on. But her own impressions hadn’t been enough, clearly, to dissuade the Security man of his suspicions; he was still convinced there was something fishy going on here. Very well, she’d collect the evidence to show him how wrong he was.
Devra flipped her CodeX halfway open, started a new datasheet, and began filling it in with murmured comments on the customers who’d lingered past the morning rush. She might not know their names, but by now she could identify them by their regular orders. The plump businessman – Two Sweet Rolls And One to Take With Me – was sharing a table with Hot Kahve and a Muffin, each of them scrolling through the virtual displays on their own CodeXes and saying nothing at all. Iced Kahve With Lemon No Sugar was sitting alone, lips pursed as though she’d finally noticed how sour her regular morning drink was.
Devra rapidly noted down the rest of the customers. If any of them were making plans for sabotage, they were doing it telepathically or in code; the only conversations she could overhear concerned the weather, the weather, the new sasena quotas, and the weather. Well, there were those three girls – Raisin Scone, Sugar-free Muffin, and Thornberry Turnover – giggling over something on Scone’s Codex, and if that was something more political than a dirty cartoon or a picture of a hot guy Devra would personally eat the Codex in question.
Awakening Page 14
