Marrae peeked in again to look at Eron. “Special Category!”
“What’s that?” asked Eron.
“When you are so rich Admin just takes your money and leaves you alone,” Jak supplied.
Marrae marveled. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.” Eron wanted to lie, but it wasn’t a good idea to lie until one was oriented. Besides, how could he lie? He was smaller than all of them.
“A playboy at twelve, already,” Marrae continued to marvel.
“She’s just envious,” said Jak. “She’s on scholarship and they want blood in their stick. She has to work her butt off to stay in school. You’ve got a different kind of a problem. If you don yt work your butt off, no one cares ” He looked at the screen again. “Your advisor is Reinstone. Good idea to go see him right now.”
“How do I make an appointment?”
“With that old codger? When he’s in, he’s in. I’ll take you over. We’ll bring a slice of bread with us and I’ll lay down a trail of crumbs so you can find your way back after he’s baked you into a cookie!”
Jak took the long way around, having some business of his own. He dropped into a lab where he had a project going. The professor chatted about stuff that didn’t make any sense to Eron so he asked his fam to pick up, and explain to him, a few of the key words being bandied about. No use. Not in Eron’s dictionary. Jak and professor wrote with fingertips on a whiteboard for a while, math and arrows and lists, adding colors in a mysterious way and furiously erasing as the argument progressed. A whiteboard! Eron hadn’t seen one of those since nursery school when they’d been teaching him how to use his fam! This one seemed to be malfunctioning—they were erasing by hand.
Jak ended the argument. “I’ll think about it. Got to go.” He led Eron away through another maze of buildings and courtyards, eventually into an atrium of, presumably, offices. ‘That one,” Jak said, pointing with a lanky arm to the first of the doors with lancet-arches and adding, “I don’t want the old codger even to see me!” as he began to scurry off.
Eron waited in front of the door for the electronic butler to announce him. Nothing happened. He knocked, not sure that the sound would even get through a door that thick. Whoever was in there took his time about answering. A man at least one hundred and forty (or fifty) years old opened the door quizzically. “Well?”
“I’ve been told you’re my new advisor?” Eron asked timorously, annoyed at the question in his voice.
The old man was already on his way back to his comfortable reading chair. “Loading me down with children, are they? Your name?” His back was now turned.
Eron didn’t notice, being too busy with his astonishment. The office continued for at least thirty meters in depth and it was all bookcases full of books. He loved the man already.
“Your name, lad.”
Eron handed the man his introduction script. “Eron Osa, sir.”
Reinstone ignored the script, setting it aside, unread. He was looking at a screen on which data had been triggered by the name. It seemed to sour him. The love was not going to be reciprocated. “You were registered a month ago. You’re late.”
“I just arrived last night, sir. Off planet.”
“That doesn’t make you any prompter. Tardy is tardy. And worse, a Special Category rank!”
“Is that bad, sir?” Eron was determined not to be affronted.
“Of course it’s bad. It means those sycophants up in Stick Stuffing are more interested in money than in good students. Hmmm. Entrance exams waved. And you’ve submitted no
school records.” His eyes looked up and drilled into Eron. “That means you’ve been thrown out of one-and-every school you’ve ever attended.” He caught Eron’s grimace in a way that reminded Eron of a crocodilian in Agander’s zoo snapping up a carcass just tossed its way. “You’ve been highly recommended by a Murek Kapor of whom we know nothing. He’s probably your father’s janitor. Special Category means that regulations do not permit me to discipline you, no matter your errors or your laziness. Money counts. Therefore you will not be disciplined—at least not while anyone important is looking. No discipline allowed!” he repeated aghast. “For that I’m supposed to be pleased?”
Eron was standing rigidly at attention as he had done so many time before when his father was lecturing him. The temptation to sass was irresistible. “Even if I steal your books or put frogs in your bed?”
“Well, now, young man, a citizen of Faraway has never been known to stick slavishly to regulations when it comes to frogs in his bed. But you can steal all the books you want; I’m afraid that’s been the worst folly of my youth. However, you won’t be interested in any of my books. It says grandly in your ‘sum6’ that you have mathematical ambitions?” The question mark was like a scythe.
“Mathematicians aren’t interested in books? I’m very interested in books. I’ve fallen in love with books. I own four! One is probably a fake, but I got it for a song and a couple of spare bits in a stick.”
“Fantastic! You actually own four comic books!” came the sarcastic reply. “And books are all full of poetry. Thousands of years of poetry. The poems of Emperors and the poems of slaves. Primitive sagas from the early ages of the hyperdrive. Turbulent pre-imperial poetry. Polished court poetry. Folk poetry. The poems of obscure back stellar cultures. An idiosyncratic fraction of the poetic soul of mankind. Nothing at all to do with comics, maudlin romance, or mathematics.”
“Do you have the poems of Emperor Arum-the-Patient? He conquered the Ulmat in the fifty-six hundreds.”
“You meant by your fifty-six hundreds, this infernal new system of counting, I suppose? By the calendar of the poets that would be”—he paused—“the 707th century. Let’s see. Arum-the-Patient... yes, I remember him. Odd chap. Assassinated by his mother. You must be from the Ulmat Constellation if you even know his name. I have a first edition of his poems, autographed copy.” Reinstone smiled, not quite like a crocodilian this time. He pecked out something on his pad; there was a clunk among die bookshelves as a volume was ordered front and center. “Bring it to me.” Eron saw the slim book standing at attention, out from among its comrades. He didn’t realize at first that Reinstone had asked him to bring the book, but there was no robomech in sight and so he fetched it. He’d never seen such a fine binding, and the pages were gold edged. He didn’t dare open it before delivering it to Reinstone’s scrawny hands. After a sigh, the old advisor handed it back. “Keep it. It’s yours. A bribe to keep you coming and telling me about your work.”
“I couldn’t, sir.”
“Why? You don’t want to workl You like the playboy style of life you’ve set up for yourself for the next eight years? Take it! Take the book! What am I going to do with my books when I die? No one wants them. The library won’t take any of my books if they already have a virtual copy.” “Not even a gold-embossed book signed by an Emperor?” Reinstone grimaced. “It’s a first edition, true. But it is a book by an Emperor and so it was printed in perhaps an edition of a billion. A hundred million of them have his signature and seal—done one at a time by the official robot who relieved the Emperor of such onerous tasks as signing proclamations, edicts—and autographs!”
Eron sneaked a look inside. There was a table of contents, and on it he found “Ode to Agander’s Night” in ancient Rigelian typeface. How could he not take this book? He’d steal for it! His advisor knew how to bribe!
Reinstone continued to grumble. “Mathematics, eh. Asinia has turned out some very good mathematicians. Kar Kantrel did the major work on local phased chargeflipping—but that was long ago. Not much activity in the field recently—but I’m not the proper person to ask. I’m only the school’s token poet who gets to tutor all the Special Category students because no one else wants them. You’re interested in applied mathematics, I suppose? They all are. Just my luck. There is some poetry in pure mathematics, but in applied math, none! Not that I would know. So what’s your interest? Physics like all the rest
of them?” “Psychohistory,” said Eron bravely.
Reinstone coughed. “And why would you come to Faraway as a prep school for a career in psychohistory? If you know any history at all, you know that Faraway was always a klutz at psychohistory. An abomination! We ran with the Founder’s revelations cloaking us like silk robes, flaunting them, bolstered by their peal of inevitability—but always terrified that the robe was going to turn and strangle us in our sleep and leave us as mindless machines to clunk out the next line of code in our psychohistorical instructions. We avoided it like the plague. If any citizen of Faraway had dared take up the study of psychohistory, the Council would have thrown him in a dungeon and swallowed the key! And you come here for psychohistory? You must be mad “It was recommended,” said Eron timidly.
“Well, we do have a few good mathematicians. Old fogies, but I suppose they will have to do. Here. I’ll print out some introductions. You’ll have to work. Let me warn you strongly, if you want the Fellowship to notice you, you’ll have to work very hard. And by yourself. You really won’t get much psychohistory with us. You’ll get a good math background, that’s what you’ll get. And it won’t hurt to take some history. I’ll print out some introductions to our history department.” “Can you tell whether a book is a fake or not?”
“I don’t give a pile of yellow shit whether a book is a fake or not. It is how a man uses his words that counts with me. Right now I’m busy. I was busy when you interrupted me and I’m still busy. I expect you back, though, sometime inside the next fifteen watches. If I don’t see you I will be very cross.”
“You’re already cross.”
“But I get worse!” Reinstone handed over some printout and a badge which new students were supposed to wear until they got oriented.
Eron escaped with his book and ran all the way to the cafeteria, humming to himself. He filled up a tray of food and picked out a table by himself. He didn’t feel alone. He didn’t even miss Murek or Nemia or those crazy sailors. He liked being on his own.
A man bearing a tray with a single cup of yellow pudding took a seat beside him. In his mid-sixties probably, he was still young, yet too old to be a student. But students came in all varieties. This one had the garrulous look of a man searching out a conversation. “You and I belong in the same pot,” he began immediately in a strange accent. “A good mix. A creaker such as myself could use a dash of your youthful energy, and, I dare say, a little of my perspicacity might see you through an uncertain time.” He was well dressed in a way that said nothing about him or his habits except for the conspicuous new student’s badge.
After an awkward moment Eron asked politely, “And what will you study?”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
“I haven’t lived long enough to be an archaeologist,” countered Eron.
The man concentrated on eating his pudding. “My wife and I are having a party for new students tonight. You are invited. A mix-up for strangers. In another month we’ll be too busy to party, you and I both. It’s not a big party, mind you—some food, a few drinks.” He handed Eron a decorated invitation—a plush address, the Hober Hostel—finished his pudding, and left.
Pleased that the distraction was over, Eron settled down to read some Imperial poetry, careful not to spill rice and sauce on the book. Five poems later, all difficult to understand, his mind returned to droughts of partying. He couldn’t resist. It had been a long time since he’d been to a party. He might even get drunk. His father said drinking stunted the growth, but right now he decided he was ready to give up a centimeter in stature for some fun.
He returned to his new apartment. Marrae proudly showed him the shelf she had found for him and admired his new book. Then he was alone. He didn’t particularly like the sparse decor of his room: too functional, too stem. He proposed to himself something more flashy and a little outré. Again the appurtenancer controls eluded him. They were indeed subtly hidden. He tried calling with a few commands he knew but got no response. He searched. By the time he was looking under the bed he felt stupid. Nothing! He was damned if he was going to ask and play the rube who’d never seen a robot.
What kind of nonstandard controls did they have on Faraway anyway? He was annoyed. After the second round of careful search, a horror began to dawn on him; this wasn’t a roboroom. This was just a room, a shack. He was stuck with die furniture he had!
Outraged, he bounced on the bed. How could this be the only bed? It wasn’t even comfortable! He felt its iron tubing for basic buttons. None! The bed didn’t retract! It didn’t do anything but sit on the floor on its stupid iron legs. He wasn’t going to be able to convert it into an armchair when he needed a more relaxed space! Nothing! The armoire was the same; it just held things. Stunned, he sat in appalled silence until he remembered the party.
Eron dressed for the party with relish. His suitcase tailored him an elegant outfit which he hoped was stylish. If not, he’d set the style! He smiled a good-bye to Marrae, then scrammed out of his new prison cell.
Rising in central Telomere City along the Mall of Knowledge, the Hober Hostel awed Eron. It was more impressive here on the famous Mall than it had been from die tree. Then its lower reaches had been obscured by the Chancellor’s Palace. He entered. He climbed. From the lower tiers he had a clear view all the way across the Square to the Pounder’s Mausoleum. He maneuvered through the hostel maze from the instructions he had famfed from the card and found the right room, its door ajar. The party was smaller than he had expected, more food than people. Imported chocolate! Faraway must still be connected to the best trade routes for all that history had left it behind! Lots to drink, too. That was good. Wow, a bottle from Armazin! And genuine Ordiris liqueur! He ate some delicious tidbits and felt lonely and out of place. How could he feel comfortable at a party without his trusty blaster? What use was a blaster wrapped in gun laws!
The hostess, wife of the old student, poured him a drink and wouldn’t let him feel lonely. She was good at asking questions. He was good at drinking. For the second round, he asked shyly for a shot of Armazin. They moved to the comfy love seat together. He hadn’t felt like such a man since he had seduced Nemia. She kept him at a distance by telling him about her six-year-old daughter, Otaria of the Calmer Sea. Eron told her everything there was to know about himself plus a few lies.
The old student vanished with a promise to return, not to reappear until there was only a finger of Aramazin left in Eron’s glass. In charlatan’s outfit and curly wig, his legs checkered each in different colors, the geezer became the instant center of attention. Then he pulled from nowhere (he had voluminous lace sleeves) a sparkling jade artifact that mysteriously darkened the room and filled it with an amazing celestial sphere of stars. The young guests gasped. “Your fortunes, ladies and gentlemen,” announced their host with fanfare. “I’ll need a birthday to begin.” He glanced about the young faces for a victim.
A slightly slurred voice volunteered, “The second hour, third of februan, 80,362 AD.” Eron’s mouth was stuffed with chocolate, and his hand was on his hostess’ knee. But he recognized the Coron’s Egg. Almost sobered, he was even more surprised than the other guests. Madly, his fam began to reorganize the state of his mind. This wasn’t the party he thought it was. That was the coveted Egg that held die coordinates of Zural, and he had been lured here for a reason. All was not as it seemed. Was it a trap?
“Hmmm,” said the fake fortune-teller, slightly flustered upon hearing the birth date stated in the old calendar. “You’re sure that’s when you were bom? I’m not sure I know how to handle the conversion.”
Eron staggered over to help. “Let me show you.” He tried to take the ovoid but the charlatan hung onto his prop with both hands.
“So, you’ve seen one of these before?” Jama asked as if he already knew the answer.
“Where I come from,” boasted Eron, “diamond-studded Eggs breed like com-fed chickens.” He still had his hand out. “I’ll give it back; promise.”
The charlatan reluctantly delivered the prize to the younger generation. Nemia had given Eron lessons in how to use it, and he was enthusiastic about demonstrating his skill. First, though, his fingers surreptitiously keyed in that star-name he wasn’t supposed to know. Even Nemia didn’t know he knew. Being a master spy, he found out lots of gossip that wasn’t supposed to reach his eyes, like honeymoon destinations and other secret rendezvous.
After entering ZURNL his fingers waited just long enough for the star-field to begin to shift before executing an escape with a “Whoops” to cover the discontinuity. That bare initialization of a shift had been enough to tell him that he was not going to get a “star unknown” error message. Nemia is going to kill me for falling into this trap, he thought, wishing he hadn’t been drinking. With quick, soft pressures he entered the conversion factors from Imperial to Rithian time.
“Guess what goes with this conversion?” he announced dramatically to his audience. “The galactic coordinates get changed from the egocentric Imperial center to the absolute center of the universe!” New constellations filled the sky. “Now watch what happens as I take her back from the present down to the beginning of time!” The stars began to creep at different paces, and soon the Big Dipper appeared above them, the Southern Cross below, Cassiopeia, Pegasus, Orion, Aquarius, Bootes, Virgo, Sagittarius, constellations which no one at the party would recognize.
He had synchronized his fam with die devolution so that he didn’t have to look at the Egg to know what was going to happen. He’d seen it before. He prepared his audience with a vocal trumpet crescendo and arm waving that filled the air with expectation. Then, right on time, the sky began to be dominated by a growing pinprick of light that picked up on Eron’s vocal crescendo until die room was so bright that the furniture showed through the celestial sphere.
Psychohistorical Crisis Page 33
