There was a brief dialogue in Cyrenean between Hersie and a tall, blond-haired man in a scarlet coat, evidently speaking for the group. She introduced him as “Pada,” which she translated as “Doctor,” Gedatrize, who studied philosophy and natural laws, and summarized their exchange in fairly standard form as a welcome message and her response. Then Gedatrize asked her something. She gave an answer that obviously meant “Of course,” and gestured toward the group from the flyer. Gedatrize turned his head from side to side to take them all in. A mischievous smile flickered around his mouth for a moment. Then he said, “And now I make the chance to practice the English. But not yet as good as she speaks the Cyrenean. My welcome it is to you. And when we have the end, maybe the English will be more good a little. Is yes? Thank you very much.” His gesture was rewarded with an energetic round of applause. The combined group waited until the VIP party from the aircraft in the center began moving, and then followed them into the house.
A vestibule with a tiled mosaic floor and alcoves on either side brought them through a high arched doorway into an open hall area. On the far side, a carved staircase led up to a broad landing from which secondary flights ascended left and right through two more arches toward the wings. The hall was apparently where the introductory socializing before dinner would take place. The decor was bright and cheerful, the predominantly yellow walls set off by wood paneling, friezes, and moldings, and the floor a magnificent pattern of marquetry-like inlays. A fire burned in a large open hearth on one side, and suites of variously fashioned chairs and couches arranged around several window seats to leave an open central area completed the atmosphere. As groups of hosts and aliens began mingling and talking, awkwardly at first in some places but loosening up quickly, stewards appeared with tall carts divided into shelved sections containing drinks in a variety of glasses and goblets, along with appetizers. Gloria Bufort and a select group were taken on through somewhere, presumably to meet Vattorix, who would be joining the gathering for dinner.
Nim was already attracting a circle of admirers and curious onlookers. A swarthy, squat-built Cyrenean with curly sideburns extended a hand warily. Nim’s ears pricked, and his tail wagged. The Cyrenean withdrew the offer hastily. “It’s okay,” Jerri said, trying to make the point with gestures and a smile. “He’s just being friendly.”
“Use a drink?” Shearer asked her.
“You bet,” she told him gratefully.
A woman had begun stroking Nim’s neck and back, and seemed fascinated by the fur. Leaving Jerri striving valiantly to deal with the questions via signs and her smattering of Yocalan, he moved over to a steward who had stopped his cart a few feet away and cast an eye over the offerings. “Er, speak English? Terran?” he asked the steward, who was at least looking if he wanted to be helpful.
“No English. Sorry.”
The Terrans had been given NIDA sets to experiment with, but Shearer didn’t think this was really the time. He tried a line of Yocalan he thought would ask what would be good for a lady to drink, but all it evoked was an apologetic grin. Feeling mildly disconcerted, he looked over the shelves again, selected two stemmed goblets with wide, flat bowls like champagne glasses, containing a purplish drink, nodded to the steward, and carried them back over to Jerri.
“Dog,” Jerri was saying to the Cyreneans, who had increased in numbers even while Shearer was away. “Name Nimrod.” She went on in broken Yocalan to answer that yes, he was full grown and wouldn’t get bigger; yes they were big teeth, but no, he didn’t bite people — although no, that wasn’t so of all dogs. Shearer handed her one of the goblets and tried a small sip from his own. It tasted sharp with a fruity edge, and then delivered a dry, subtle after-flavor a little like rum. He had no idea if it was alcoholic or had any comparable effects.
A Cyrenean who seemed to be the companion of a woman who was stooping to pat Nim’s shoulder and uttering “Ooh-la-la” sounds turned toward him. He was fair skinned like Gedatrize, with brown hair tied at the back, and clad in an orange-brown coat with a velvetlike sheen. The front was embellished with gold brocade and turned back in wide, pointed lapels to reveal silky yellow lining and a white neckerchief knotted above a close-fitting body garment resembling a vest. “If okay, I will exercise English,” he said.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Shearer agreed. The Cyrenean’s brow furrowed. Shearer grinned. “Sure. My name is Marc.”
“Ah, yes. And mine is Sergelio. This house, the wood things... “he indicated the panelwork and carved rafters making an art form of the ceiling above, “long years back now, I design and make. Now other peoples I teach the... you would say is work?”
“A better word would be art,” Shearer said, taking it in more closely.
“A-rit?”
“Art.”
“Art.”
“Good. It means very beautiful. With much care and skill.”
“Ah, yes, we try. So you make me a compliment?”
“Very much,” Shearer said, and meant it — although it did cross his mind fleetingly to wonder what someone he thought of as a tradesman should be doing at a head of state’s reception.
Sergelio went on, “And I have now the time with music. Later this night we will hear some.” He laughed. “But not yet is mine so good.”
“It should be interesting,” Shearer said.
Sergelio looked at him. “And you, Mr. Marc. What is it you do?”
“I’m what’s called a physicist.” The Cyreneans would have no equivalent word, and he explained, “One who studies and learns...” he glanced at Sergelio, who nodded, “The world. What it is made of — matter, substance. How things happen the way they do. Why things happen the way they do.” He pointed to the fireplace, then up at the ornate lamps with oil reservoirs illuminating the room. “What is fire and heat? What is light?” He indicated his own mouth and ears. “What is sound?”
Sergelio followed, watching him intently, and seemed to understand. “Physi-cist,” he repeated.
“Yes. Very good.”
“And that is how you learn to make the bird-ships that fly across the water, and you sail in from the star?”
“Yes. You’ve got it.”
“And the phone far-away talking-seeing.” Sergelio looked about, then gestured at the compad on a nearby guest’s wrist. Shearer had left his own behind as instructed. “Another Terran once showed it for me. This is a thing the physicist learning makes too?”
“Physicists gained the knowledge,” Shearer said, trying to be helpful. “The knowledge makes it possible.”
“Ah yes. I understand, I think so.” Sergelio looked away for a moment at his wife or ladyfriend, but she was engrossed in an animated conversation with Jerri and some others. “The Terrans try to tell Vattorix he should want these things too,” he said, turning back. “That they will provide. Teach Cyreneans to be physicists.”
“Better lives for all his people,” Shearer answered. “More food. Comfortable houses, warm on Henkyl’s Day and cool on Longday, even in carbayis. Fast travel to many places. Fast communication — talking and seeing. Easy reading of any knowledge.”
Sergelio nodded. “Yes, I understand how knowledge could make these things for all peoples. And this we would like to have. But is not what Terrans say to Vattorix. They talk of strong weapons to make wars. Physicist knowledge that makes... what is word for strong and frightening, so people must do as is decided by others, not do as they would wish?”
“Power?” Shearer offered.
“Yes, that is word I forget. Power for Vattorix to command peoples to obey. But this is not what Vattorix wants.”
It sounded like a breath of fresh air to Shearer — a ruler who wasn’t obsessed with personal aggrandizement and power? “So what does Vattorix want?” he asked.
Sergelio seemed surprised. “The things you just say — for all peoples. That is why he is put in the job that he does. If he does not do his work well, then he is taken away from job — the same as if my wood working
s fall down.”
“So what’s Vattorix’s pay-off?” Shearer couldn’t help asking.
Sergelio looked puzzled. “What is pay-off?”
“His reason. What does he get back. Personal wealth? Many possessions?”
“Ah, yes, this I hear from Terrans before. But I still do not understand. Enough possessions to have is nice, yes. But why too many possessions? Is like too much food — more trouble than good.”
“Power, then,” Shearer tried. “So Vattorix has more things in life that others can’t take away.”
Sergelio needed to think about that for a while. “True, that will give him those things today, maybe tomorrow,” he agreed finally. “But over longer time, will make pain and anger with many other peoples. Long-sight will tell him that this way are more bad things than good things, and so he knows.”
“Long-sight?” Shearer repeated, frowning.
“That is what Terrans tell me is your word,” Sergelio said. “It means the wise choices that come when everything sleeps and world is quiet and listens. That is how Cyreneans find... know-ledge.” Shearer shook his head, not comprehending. Sergelio thought for a moment. “When you come out from bird-ship, you see the wall of bricks, and the wall has a door.”
Shearer remembered the sunken flower garden with its tiers of seats. “Yes. but not a door, a gate,” he replied.
“Okay, is gate. That is the place where Vattorix and the... what is people who talk with him to decide things?”
“Counselors. Advisors.”
“Yes, good. That is where they meet at night to talk questions and agree.”
“At night?”
“Yes. Is when the long-sight comes.” Sergelio looked at Shearer curiously. “Is not the time when Earth peoples think of the important things that will mean good lives or bad lives?”
Shearer shrugged. “No. Most people just sleep.”
“We say on Cyrene that the day deceives, but the night is true. Like the child that sees the nice things that it wants now.” Sergelio gestured to indicate some candylike delicacies on a nearby serving cart. “That is the day-sight. But the bad things that come from you eat too many,” he put a hand on his stomach and pulled a face of someone feeling sick, “he doesn’t see. The grown man, he sees. That is the night-sight.” Sergelio paused, eyeing Shearer dubiously for a response. Shearer didn’t know what to make of it. “But then I should know, I was told,” Sergelio said. “Terrans on Earth do not feel these things.”
Marion Hersie appeared at that point and began rounding her charges together and ushering them toward another arched opening on one side of the stairway. As the general tide of movement began around them, Jerri looked around for some clue as to what she was supposed to do with Nim. Uberg materialized next to them as if from nowhere.
“Any idea what we do with the dog while we’re having dinner?” Shearer asked him.
“Don’t worry about that,” Uberg answered. His eyes were moving rapidly and taking everything in, not looking at them directly. His voice was low and strangely tense. “Just stick close.”
Beyond the arch was an anteroom where Gloria Bufort and her immediate party were in the process of being shown through a door to a large room where tables with places laid for eating were visible. Evidently they were to be seated first. With them was a group of Cyreneans with nothing obvious to distinguish them from the general company, but who had to be the principals. Shearer picked out Callen from Milicorp and Captain Portney, the Tacoma’s commander, who they had been told would be coming down from the ship to attend the event. Close behind Callen was a tough-looking, craggy-faced man with short-cropped hair that Shearer had seen once or twice at functions in the course of the voyage, but couldn’t identify. He looked constrained and out of place in a formal suit. The broad, bearded figure walking beside Gloria, with a fierce mane of dark hair that could have belonged to a Corsair pirate, and wearing a dark blue coat over a white robe, Shearer recognized from shots shown at the briefing as Vattorix himself. As usual, Gloria was taking center stage.
“I’m not a head of state, but I live in a far bigger house than this,” Shearer caught as they moved on into the dining room. “How would you like one five times this size?”
“Why? What would I do with it?” Vattorix asked.
“We also own one of the largest collections of contemporary art works on the West Coast. I’m told it’s valued at a sum that would buy all the buildings in your city here.”
“Very nice,” Vattorix agreed, obviously wanting to be polite. “But what do you do?”
As the main group converged behind, slowing to allow a respectful interval before following, Uberg steered Shearer and Jerri away from them and toward a passageway at the rear and waved them through. It led to what looked like store rooms and a scullery off the kitchen. Two Cyreneans were waiting, one holding Shearer and Jerri’s bags from the flyer. Without a word, they turned and led the way quickly through more passages and out to a yard which, if Shearer’s sense of direction was accurate, lay beyond the wing that had flanked the sunken flower garden. An enclosed carriage harnessed to two Cyrenean horses was standing waiting, with a driver seated up front and a figure standing by the opened door, holding another bag. Shearer realized that his chest was pounding with a sudden adrenaline rush. This was it!
They hurried across to the carriage. Jerri sent Nim bounding in and then followed. Shearer threw in his bag, climbed a step to the dark interior, and turned to say an appropriate word to Uberg. But to his surprise, he found that Uberg was waiting to follow him, while the man who had been waiting stood behind, holding the door.
“I told you there was something I had to remain at the base to do,” Uberg said. “It’s done. I’m not sure exactly what my future has in store, but I do know that it will be somewhere out on Cyrene. When you’ve been here a while, you’ll learn to feel these things.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Myles Callen was angry. It was not the rush of violent anger that might flare in the face of an insult or a display of stupidity that went beyond the bounds of tolerance, and would just as quickly abate again. That kind could be controlled and contained; a big part of surviving in a deceitful and treacherous world lay in cultivating the ability to do so. It was the slow, gnawing kind of anger that fed upon itself and smoldered and grew, demanding action. The dispatch had already gone back to Borland; there had been no choice. In any case, covering up from his superiors wasn’t Callen’s style. Less than two days after taking command, he’d had to report a major failure of the security provisions. He wasn’t accustomed to things like that.
He sat in the office that had been Emner’s until yesterday, glowering at the desktop with its tidily arranged assortment of papers and accessories waiting to take on the look of work in progress, and the panel of monitor screens to one side. As a first measure to get the message out that things had changed and the days of Emner’s ineffectiveness were over, he had given new orders to Delacey, who had replaced Yannis as security commander, for the gates to be closed to casual egress, and for rules to be drawn up governing the issue of passes to cover exceptions. The explanation of an unidentified sickness affecting Terrans who had left the base had been posted, and he would talk with the Chief Medical Officer later about spinning some plausible-sounding line to back it up.
Which left the problem of Shearer. Callen had left the cell door invitingly unlocked, and while he had been watching and waiting for Shearer to make a move, Shearer had been smuggled out through the window. The speed with which it had been effected, he had to admit, had taken him by surprise. Uberg, who was also missing, had obviously been a part of it. Yet Dolphin had followed Shearer’s every move, and Shearer hadn’t been near Uberg; neither had they communicated electronically. It seemed, then, that Shearer was a shrewder operator than Callen had given him credit for. They must have set it up via a third party, probably the girl. So maybe scientists could be as smart, every once in a while, as most of them thought they were all the
time, Callen conceded.
There had to be Cyrenean involvement in what had been going on; or at the very least, from the sheer number of people who had gone missing, the Cyreneans couldn’t be unaware of it. A diplomatic approach to the ruling powers would normally be the first choice in such circumstances, but the diplomatic initiative in the case of this mission had been put in the hands of an airhead, and Callen wasn’t prepared to risk another fiasco. That left force, which was certainly something that Callen was more at home with — and in comparison with anything the Cyreneans were capable of mustering, the mission’s military contingent could pack a hefty punch. However, the conditions of overt native hostilities or militant rivalry that might lend themselves to exploitation, typically by giving some token support to one side and so forcing the other to seek a deal of some kind to redress the balance, didn’t appear to offer themselves on Cyrene. And besides that, heavy-handed intervention of that kind, within days of Gloria Bufort’s arrival in the role of ambassadress, had been ruled out by Earth.
Then it would have to be a compromise between the two — a representation to the Cyreneans, kept within the bounds of what was permissible, but with show of force to get the message across that the new management meant business and wanted answers. Yes, there would be an element of bluff in it; but the Cyreneans were smart — maybe too smart at times, Callen was beginning to think already. To get the message across clearly, the representation would need to be done with a military face, not the Gloria Bufort brand of bimbo diplomacy. But it would be unbecoming for him, as the new acting base Director, to make the first approach. Bigger guns were more properly held in reserve.
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