Invader: Book Two of Foreigner

by C. J. Cherryh

“There will still be controversy.”

  “Do they still tell the future? I’d be vastly surprised if they did.”

  “Certain ones do.”

  Bren took a sip of the liquor, found his hand trembling considerably: fatigue, he supposed. He was tired. He thought he’d found an answer and it was turning itself into a further problem. “I assure you our data does no such thing,” he said, but he saw how astrology might still have greater attraction than astronomy for some atevi, and how the paidhi’s simple inquiry after better terminology might offend other, more learned atevi. “We have far more uses for star data than telling the future, I assure you, and I would assume at least some atevi share that interest. Perhaps this old man.”

  “Their mathematics is reputedly highly suspect, Bren-ji, at the university. That’s all I know.”

  That wasn’t good news. For more than scientific reasons. “The university itself doesn’t believe them?”

  Banichi drew a long breath. Had a sip. “They hold that the stars should agree with the numbers humans provide. There are, I’m told, discrepancies. Changes.”

  “Banichi—” He was exasperated, and asked himself whether he might do far better looking into the truly esoteric corners of atevi physics, not observational astronomy—but that, considering the topic Hanks had broached, was a source of questions he wanted less than the ones observational astronomers might ask. “Banichi, stars move. Everything’s moving. So is our observation point. We’ve put this forth time and time again. It doesn’t mean the astronomers are wrong.”

  “I don’t say it makes clear sense,” Banichi said, “not to me.”

  “The earth goes around the sun. In winter it’s at one point of its orbit and in the summer it’s the opposite. If you’re looking at a star and want to know its real numbers, you can measure by taking the numbers from the earth at opposite extremes of the earth’s orbit. But the margin of error rapidly gets larger than the measurement itself. We’re dealing in very great distances, Banichi, very big numbers, and they have nothing to do with forecast or philosophy: stars have to do with burning hydrogen, that’s all.”

  “Then what use are they?”

  “The sun’s rather useful.”

  “What’s the sun to do with anything?”

  He was perplexed, now, and flung out the obvious. “The sun’s a star, Banichi-ji. Close up, the stars look like the sun.”

  “I believe you,” Banichi said after a moment, “I can see your point, I think. But do you wish to add philosophical extremes to the debate? I counsel you, nadi, surely you can come up with something else.”

  “The ship up there has been to other stars, Banichi, almost certainly. We came from another star very much like the sun.”

  “This may be true, nadi, and I surely wouldn’t dispute the paidhi’s word.”

  He’d gone beyond impatience. He was arriving at curiosity himself, on topics the paidhiin didn’t often ask atevi. “Well, where did you think we came from?”

  “From another star, nadi.”

  “Like one of those little points of light up there.”

  “Actually—” Banichi said, “one had rarely wondered.”

  “Did you think we lived on a star?”

  “Well …” Banichi said with a shrug. “People just don’t ask such questions on the streets, nadi-ma. I think if you want such explanations for lord Geigi, you’re only going to confuse him.”

  “I’ve got to do better than that, Banichi. Geigi at least has a scientific background. He understands the solar system.”

  “Better than I do,” Banichi said. “But still, in public, I wouldn’t make a great issue about the sun, nadi. I don’t think many people will understand you.”

  He took a slow sip. He’d never in his administration had access to the astronomical faculties, never had recourse to them—he supposed Wilson-paidhi hadn’t, nor—if one went on—earlier paidhiin—and that got into increasingly more primitive science. No one in the prior century would have wanted to raise questions of cosmology—or provide, God help them, heavily mathematical data to atevi—except the information that more or less accompanied certain stages of technology, much as knowledge of the ionosphere went along with radio, and the solar wind and the source of auroras would be, he was well sure, a part of current science curriculum—since it mattered. But, but, and but—no study he’d seen had ever speculated on the reach of systematic knowledge of cosmology into the popular understanding—

  Of—damn—course. Atevi mentality integrated smaller systems quite well. But atevi truly didn’t readily think of the whole earth, didn’t have a word for universe that didn’t equally mean one’s immediate personal world. Atevi didn’t have a real interest in understanding the theory of Everything, just in getting the right numbers on their individual circumstances. Philosophers were there to care about larger systems while ordinary atevi adhered to the dominant philosophy of their personal set of associations and trusted the philosophers to get the big picture right—that was exactly what was at stake with lord Geigi, who understood his philosophy better than the average ateva. Geigi had been led deep into that understanding because he’d pursued a scientific education, and he’d been forced to integrate astronomy into his personal system. What fell outside that meticulously ordered system—challenged that system. What couldn’t be integrated—challenged that system.

  And no wonder people with busy lives, people like Banichi, were content to let the philosophers hammer out the major, theoretical problems, and—in Banichi’s and Tabini’s case—take all philosophy with a large grain of salt, possibly because they dealt with multiple philosophies, and thought of them in terms of atevi political motives, not underlying fact. Tell Banichi the sun was a star? All right. It didn’t shatter Banichi’s world. He wouldn’t lie awake thinking about it tonight. He might think about it when he had leisure. But he wouldn’t worry about his personal universe falling apart because he couldn’t integrate that information.

  But those atevi who’d invested the time and hammered out the highest, most tenuous and difficult interrelationships of knowledge would lose sleep. And if those people were shaken in their confidence and debate filtered down past the pragmatic sorts like Banichi and became public doubts—a lot of people had invested heavily both financially and politically in what they considered fortuitous systems. A lot of people had paid money to numerologists who’d advised them to certain personal, political and financial courses in which, depend on it, they had a lot of emotional as well as monetary investment. Tell a man that his world wasn’t as secure as he’d paid money to have it be, and damned right he was upset.

  The paidhiin were well in touch with that fact of atevi life. The paidhiin walked around that kind of minefield all the time. Just—so far as he knew—no paidhi had ever checked up to see if astronomical and cosmological information had been filtering its way into atevi public consciousness to the same degree it had done among human beings who did have constellations, and whose history was tied up with the stars in one form or another. Just one of those myriad little differences that paidhiin stumbled over in operation and wrote some obscure paper about so that ten or fifteen years down the road some committee on Mospheira would take it into account in planning the introduction of some new technological system.

  Usually the differences weren’t critical. Usually there weren’t so many changes at once. Usually there was a ten- to fifteen-year study behind a technological move.

  And right now it seemed every unattended detail left for tomorrow by paidhiin of generations past was going to come due on his watch.

  “I’ll certainly take your advice, Banichi, at least as regards what people know: it’s invaluable to me, I think—I’d better accept the venerable’s invitation.”

  “His staff’s invitation. I fear the venerable’s attention is only for the stars. These foreign suns. Whatever they are. I’ll look at the sky tonight and think of strangers. It’s quite appalling.”

  “Inhabited planets must
be very rare. I’ve heard so.”

  “One hopes. One does hope so, Bren-ji. I don’t think we could bear another such onslaught of benefits.”

  “I’ve found an office, nadi Bren,” Tano reported by phone. “And by the earnest endeavor of the personnel office—twenty-seven discreet and experienced staff, of clear man’chi to Tabini-aiji, and one managerial, a retired gentleman, one Dasibi, out of Magisiri, who would be greatly honored to be called back to Bu-javid service. I explained that all positions might be temporary, pending changes in the volume of the paidhi’s mail, but none objected to that. The standard salary seems to be Cari Street market privilege at six thousand a year, medical at two, housing and transport at four, pension at two, and incidentals at two-five. Nadi Dasibi agrees to the same plus six additional stipend. This seems fair and in line with standard. But they all do understand that the offer is conditional on finding.”

  Fifteen thousand five a year for twenty-seven people. Twenty-one five for another. Office payments. Faxes, phones, computers—

  “I’ve not that much in personal savings,” Bren said with a sinking heart. “I’d thought of one or two assistants. If we can apply to the general office—I don’t know, Tano. I don’t know that I can get funds out of my government. They may well want to shoot me instead.”

  “I’ve concluded nothing as yet, nand’ paidhi. But I have all the figures. I can file a requisition through personnel. I’m sure it’ll go straight up to the aiji.”

  “I’m sure it will.” He didn’t want to have the office funded through the Bu-javid. If he had a shred of propriety left in the office accounts, he shouldn’t be accepting any more funding from atevi, who had far different standards for what the aiji’s court demanded in dress and style than what the Mospheiran government wanted to fund for what they viewed as a civil servant. But—“Do it, Tano. I’ve no other recourse but leave the correspondence piling up. There’s another stack. The household staff is sorting through it.”

  “One isn’t surprised at more mail, nand’ paidhi. But I’ll be a while at the requisitions. I’ve forms to fill out. A lot of them.”

  “I’m grateful for your doing it, Tano. Everything’s fine upstairs. Algini’s resting, there aren’t any emergencies. Take time for supper. Please. As a favor to me. If it doesn’t all get done today, it’ll still get done. We’re searching out the volatile ones. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you, nadi-ji,” Tano said.

  He hung up the phone, working the numbers in his head without half thinking and coming up with a budget that wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination going to get clearance without a fight. Mospheira wasn’t going to understand why the paidhi, when all previous paidhiin had made do with no staff on the mainland and a staff of ten or less on Mospheira, suddenly needed this kind of operation. Long before Wilson, Mospheira in the executive branch hadn’t wanted to admit that the paidhiin were anything but a convenient appendage to the State Department’s other, internal business—saw them as bearers of messages, generators of dictionaries, or perhaps as mostly engaged in generating tenure in university posts.

  And without executive branch support, figure that the legislators were never going to leap to drain money from their constituencies for an office that had never needed it before, for a paidhi that didn’t have friends in high places.

  God … help him. He didn’t have the funds. In the absence of Mospheira suddenly seeing reason, he knew where the funds were going to have to come from: Tabini. Which, on principle, he didn’t want, but if the ship answered—if the ship would just, please God, answer Tabini, and call him, and tell him that they were going to agree to Tabini’s proposals….

  He was in the lady’s small office, where he had a phone and some privacy. Supper was in preparation. He hadn’t enough time to start any letter or anything else useful. He resolved to try the Mospheiran phone system again, and called through to the operator with his mother’s number.

  The call went through. Or sounded as if it were going through.

  It didn’t.

  He listened through the phone system Number Temporarily Out of Service message, and couldn’t even get the damn central message system to leave her a “Hello, this is Bren.”

  He called through again, this time to Toby’s home, on the North Shore.

  “Toby? This is Bren. Toby. Pick up the phone. Pick up the damn phone, Toby.”

  The daughter came on. A high clear voice called, “Papa? It’s Uncle Bren,” and in a series of thumps somebody came down the steps to the front hall.

  “Bren.”

  “Toby, good to hear a voice. What’s the matter with Mom’s number?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m getting a Temporarily Out of Service.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Maybe they’re doing repair.”

  “I tried to call this morning. I got a telegram from her. It was censored to hell. Is everything all right?”

  Silence. And more silence.

  “Toby?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. How are you doing? The shoulder all right?”

  “Best I can tell. —Toby, how’s Jill?”

  “Oh, Jill’s fine. We’re all fine. Weather’s a little soggy. You’ll probably catch it tomorrow.”

  “We could do with some rain. Cool it off a little. Have you talked to Mother in the last few days?”

  Silence. Then: “You know Mom. She doesn’t like change.”

  “Toby?”

  “I’ve got to hang up now. We’re going out to supper.”

  “Toby, what in bloody hell’s going on?”

  “Mom’s been getting some calls, all right? It’s not a problem.”

  “Not a problem. What kind of calls?”

  “I’ll drop her a message on the system, tell her you called. It’s all right, Bren, it’s all right, don’t worry about it. —I’ve got to go. Jill’s waiting. We were just going out the door.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Thanks, Toby.”

  Something’s wrong, those silences meant. Something was wrong regarding their mother.

  He hit his hand on the paneled wall. Which did nothing but summon a concerned servant.

  “Nand’ paidhi?” She was one of the youngest, very earnest, very anxious.

  He carefully removed expression from his face. And tried not to feel the acid upset in his stomach. “It’s all right, nadi. It’s nothing.”

  “Yes,” the servant said, and bowed and went her way.

  The paidhi gathered up the nerves he had left and tried to divert his mind back to office budgets and folded space.

  The change of season meaning a more palatable meat course, the cook was inspired, to judge by the meticulous arrangement and green-sauce spirals on the appetizers. And the paidhi, the object of so much attention, should have had a ravenous appetite, counting the chasing about he’d done, and the lunch he hadn’t but picked over.

  But he couldn’t take his mind off Toby’s informative silences, picked over the appetizers, too, and decided finally he’d rather try to eat than answer cook’s hurt feelings.

  He wished he hadn’t called at all. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t get there. Toby could, but Toby hadn’t, which might mean Toby wasn’t that worried.

  But “Getting some calls.” What in hell did that mean? Some random crazy?

  A movement touched the edge of his vision. And stopped, which the serving staff hadn’t done. He looked toward the door.

  “Nandi,” he said, seeing Saidin standing, hands folded, expectant of something. With more staff behind her.

  With a serving tray.

  Probably the season’s inaugural dish. It was a very formal house. And he couldn’t offend the cook. He gave the event his full attention.

  The servants brought the tray in and set out a very large flat bread, with an amazing array of foods atop, all appropriate, all seasonal. But on a green vegetable sauce.

  “This is a new dish,” he remarked.r />
  And evidently set the staff somewhat aback—when cook herself had come into the hall, and waited—clearly—for his reaction.

  “It’s quite nice,” he said, trying to salve feelings. “What do you call it?” He tried to learn new words and new things as they presented themselves. It was what the paidhi did in the ordinary course of his job.

  “Pizza,” the youngest servant blurted out. “Is this not in correct season, nand’ paidhi?”

  “Of course it is,” he said, at once. “Of course, pizza, nadi. I’m just—quite surprised.” He could have broken into laughter—if he hadn’t control of his face, and his voice. “It’s wonderful.”

  “We hadn’t the red sauce,” cook said. “We’re told it will come, but the plane was delayed by weather.”

  “One did think,” madam Saidin said, clearly part of the conspiracy, “that after dealing with that unpleasant woman this noon it was a good day for a traditional food.”

  “It smells very good,” he said. “Would the staff share? It’s traditional to pass it around.”

  The servants looked excited. Saidin looked dubious, but cook said, “There’re eight more in the kitchen. One had provided for the staff, nand’ paidhi, by your leave.”

  “Call Algini. And Jago.” The notion of an Occasion made him positively cheerful. “Might we have drinks, nand’ Saidin?”

  Even Saidin was falling into it. Cook declared that she could whip up more in short order, there was serious question about what the felicitous number of pieces should be for the cutting, and servants were scurrying after various members of the household, awake and asleep—nothing would do but that everybody come in, and flowers be found, and the state table be laid out with the second-best silver.

  Jago was nowhere about, but Algini came from the security station—and sampled the dish, and went back again, with plain tea to drink—but several of the staff became quite happy, someone put on music, and in the hallway a couple of the servants began a solemn, hands-behind-the-back line step, which in no wise endangered the fragile tables or the porcelain. He left the dining room to watch, and the servants would happily have taught him, but madam Saidin was scandalized, and advised them the paidhi was much too dignified for that.