by Vernor Vinge
For once, the alienness of Arachna penetrated all the glib wishful thinking. So Spider tradition only allowed new children at the beginning of a New Sun. Generations were strictly separated, each marching through life as a same-aged group. The humans had only guesses for why this should be the case, but apparently “The Children’s Hour” had been a cover for a major violation of the taboo. The show missed one scheduled broadcast, two. In Benny’s booze parlor, things were sad and empty; Rita began to talk of taking down the silly pictures. And Ezr began to hope that maybe this was the end of the circus.
But that was too much to hope. Four days ago, the gloom had abruptly lifted, even if the mystery remained. Broadcasts from radio stations all across the “Goknan Accord” announced that a spokesman for the Church of the Dark would meet in debate with Sherkaner Underhill about the “propriety” of his radio show. Trud Silipan had promised that the zipheads would be ready, able to translate this new show format.
Now Benny’s show-time clock was counting down the seconds to this special edition of “The Children’s Hour.”
In his usual place on the other side of the parlor, Trud Silipan seemed to ignore the suspense. He and Pham Trinli were talking in low tones. The two were constant drinking buddies, planning great deals that never seemed to go anywhere. Funny, I used to think Trinli was a loud buffoon. Pham’s “magic localizer” claims had not been a bluff; Ezr had noticed the dustmotes. Nau and Brughel had begun using the gadgets. Somehow, Pham Trinli had known a secret about the localizers that had been missing from the innermost sections of the fleet library. Ezr Vinh might be the only one to realize it, but Pham Trinli was not totally a buffoon. More and more, Ezr guessed that the old man was in no part a fool. There were secrets hidden all through the fleet library; there had to be in anything that old and that large. But for a secret that important to be known by this man…Pham Trinli must go back a long way.
“Hey, Trud!” shouted Rita, pointing at the clock. “Where are your zipheads?” The parlor’s wallpaper still looked out on the forests of some Balacrean nature preserve.
Trud Silipan rose from his table and floated down before the crowd. “It’s okay, folks. I just got word. Princeton Radio has started the ‘Children’s Hour’ intro. Director Reynolt will bring out the zipheads in a moment. They’re still synching with the word stream.”
Liao’s irritation melted away. “Great! Good going, Trud.”
Silipan gave a bow, accepting kudos for what was a zero contribution on his part. “So, in a few moments we should know what strange things this Underhill creature has been doing with his children…” He cocked his head, listening to his private data feed. “And here they are!”
The dripping, blue-green forest landscape disappeared. The bar side of the room suddenly seemed to extend into one of the meeting rooms down on Hammerfest. Anne Reynolt slid in from the right, her form distorted by the perspective angle; that part of the wallpaper just couldn’t handle 3-D. Behind Reynolt came a couple of technicians and five zipheads…Focused persons. One of those was Trixia.
This was where Ezr wanted to start screaming—or run off to some dark place and pretend the world didn’t exist. Normally the Emergents hid their zipheads deep within their systems, as if they felt some remnant shame. Normally the Emergents liked to get results from computer and head-up displays, all graphics and hygienically filtered data. Benny had told him that in the beginning Qiwi’s freak show had just been the zipheads’ voices piped into the parlor. Then Trud told everyone about the translators’ byplay, and the show went visual. Surely the zipheads couldn’t intuit body language from a Spider audio. That didn’t seem to matter; the byplay might be nonsense, but it was what the ghouls around him wanted.
Trixia was dressed in loose fatigues. Her hair floated out, partly tangled. Ezr had combed it sleek less than 40Ksec earlier. She shrugged off her handlers and grabbed the edge of a table. She was looking this way and that, and mumbling to herself. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her fatigue blouse and pulled herself down to a chair restraint. The others followed her, looking as abstracted as Trixia. Most were wearing huds. Ezr knew the sort of thing they were seeing and hearing, the midlevel transduction of the Spider language. That was Trixia’s entire world.
“We’re synched, Director,” one of the techs said to Reynolt.
The Emergent Director for Human Resources floated down the rank of slaves, moving the fidgeting zipheads about for reasons that Ezr couldn’t guess. After all this time, Ezr knew the woman had a special talent. She was a stone-eyed bitch, but she knew how to get results from zipheads.
“Okay, start ’em running—” She moved up, out of the way. Zinmin Broute had risen against his seat, and was already speaking in his ponderous announcer’s voice. “My name is Rappaport Digby, and this is ‘The Children’s Hour of Science.’…”
Daddy took them all to the radio station that day. Jirlib and Brent were up on the top deck of the car, acting very serious and grown-up—and they looked near enough to in-phase that they didn’t attract attention. Rhapsa and Little Hrunk were still tiny enough to perch in Daddy’s fur; it might be another year before they rejected being called the babies of the family.
Gokna and Victory Junior sat in the back, each on her separate perch. Victory stared out through the smoky glass at the streets of Princeton. This all made her feel a little like royalty. She tilted her head slyly in her sister’s direction; maybe Gokna was her handmaiden.
Gokna sniffed imperiously. They were alike enough that she was certainly thinking the same thing—with herself as Great Ruler. “Daddy, if you’re doing the show today, why are we even along?”
Daddy laughed. “Oh, you never know. The Church of the Dark thinks they own the Right. But I wonder if their debater even knows any out-of-phase children. Underneath all the indignation, she might be likable. In person, she might not be able to breathe fire on little ones just because they aren’t the right age.”
That was possible. Victory thought of Uncle Hrunk, who hated the idea of their family…and loved them at the same time.
The car drove through crowded streets, up the crosstown avenue that led to the radio hills. Princeton Station was the oldest in the city—Daddy said it began broadcasting before the last Dark, when it was a military radio station. In this generation, the owners had built on the original foundations. They could have had their studios in town, but they made a big thing of their great tradition. So the drive to the station was exciting, wrapping round and round a hill that was the tallest ever, much taller than even the one they lived on. Outside, there was still morning frost on the ground. Victory pushed over onto Gokna’s perch and the two swayed out for a better look. This was the middle of winter, and they were almost to the Middle Years of the Sun, but this was only the second time they had seen frost. Gokna jabbed a hand out toward the east. “Look, we’re high enough now—you can see the Craggies!”
“And there’s snow on them!” The two squealed the words together. But the distant glint was really the color of morning frost. It might be a couple more years before firstsnow came to the Princeton area, even in midwinter. What would it be like to walk in snow? What would it be like to fall in a drift of it? For a moment, the two pondered the questions, forgetting the other events of the day—the radio debate that had preoccupied everyone, even the General, for the last ten days.
At first, all of the cobblies and especially Jirlib had been afraid of this debate. “It’s the end of the show,” their elder brother said. “Now the public knows about us.” The General had come up from Lands Command especially to tell them there was nothing to worry about, that Daddy would take care of the complaints. But she didn’t say they would get their radio show back again. General Victory Smith was used to briefing troops and staff. She didn’t quite have the knack for reassuring children. Secretly, Gokna and Victory thought that maybe this flap about the radio show made Mom more nervous than any of the wartime adventures that lurked in her past.
Daddy was the only one who wasn’t caught in the gloom. “This is what I’ve been waiting for all along,” he told Mom when she came up from Lands Command. “It’s more than time to go public. This debate will bring lots of things out into the open.” Those were the same ideas that Mom spoke of, but from Daddy they sounded joyous. The last ten days, he had been playing with them even more than usual. “You’re my special experts for this debate, so I can spend all my time with you and still be the dutiful worker.” He had sidled dolefully from side to side, pretending to work at an invisible job. The babies had loved it, and even Jirlib and Brent seemed to accept their father’s optimism. The General had departed for the south the night before; as usual, she had lots more to worry about than family problems.
The top of Radio Hill was above the tree line. Low furze covered the ground by the parking circle. The children got out, marveling at the chill that was still in the air. Little Victory felt an odd burning all along her breathing passages, as if…as if frost was forming there. Was that possible?
“Come along children. Gokna, don’t gawk.” Daddy and his older sons herded them up the broad old steps of the station. The stone was flame-pitted and unpolished, like the owners wanted people to think they represented some ancient tradition.
The walls inside were hung with photo-impressions, portraits of the owners and the inventors of radio (the same people, in this case). All of them except Rhapsa and Hrunk had been here before. Jirlib and Brent had been doing the radio show for two years, taking over from the in-phase children when Daddy bought the show’s franchise. Both boys sounded older than they really were, and Jirlib was smart as most adults. Nobody had seemed to suspect their true age. Daddy had been a little irritated by that. “I want people to guess on their own—but they’re too foolish to imagine the truth!” So finally, Gokna and Victory Junior had been added to the show. That had been fun, pretending to be years older, playing up to the dumb scripts they used on the show. And Mr. Digby had been nice, even if he was no real scientist.
Still, both Gokna and Junior had very young-sounding voices. Eventually, someone had overcome their faith in the goodness of all radio broadcasts, and realized that serious perversion was being flaunted across the public’s maw. But Princeton Radio was privately owned, and more important, it owned its patch of spectrum and had interference easements on nearby bands. The owners were Generation 58 cobbers who were still counting their money. Unless the Church of the Dark could make an effective listener boycott, Princeton Radio was going to keep “The Children’s Hour.” Hence this debate.
“Ah, Dr. Underhill, such a pleasure!” Madame Subtrime came sweeping out of her cubicle. The station manager was all legs and pointy hands, with a body scarcely bigger than her head. Gokna and Viki got plenty of laughs imitating her. “You won’t believe the interest this debate has generated. We are forwarding to the East Coast, and copies will be on the shortwave. I tell you without exaggeration, we have listeners from just all over!”
I tell you without exaggeration…Hidden from the manager, Gokna waggled her mouth parts in time with the words. Viki kept her own aspect prim, and pretended not to notice.
Daddy tipped his head to the manager. “I’m glad to be so popular, Madame.”
“Oh, yes, indeed! We’ve got sponsors killing each other for the slots in this time. Simply killing each other!” She smiled down at the children. “I’ve arranged that you can watch from our engineer’s loft.”
They all knew where that was, but they followed obediently along, listening to her unending gush. None of them really knew what Madame Subtrime thought of them. Jirlib claimed that she was no fool, that under all the words lurked a cold counter of cash. “She knows to the tenth-penny how much she can earn for the old cobbers by outraging the public.” Maybe, but Viki liked her even so, and even forgave her shrill and foolish talk. Too many people were so stuck on their beliefs that nothing would bend them.
“Didi’s on duty this hour. You know her.” Madame Subtrime stopped at the entrance to the engineer’s loft. For the first time she seemed to notice the babies peeking out of Sherkaner Underhill’s fur. “My, you do have all ages, don’t you? I…will they be safe with your children? I don’t know who else could take care of them.”
“Quite all right, Madame. I intend to introduce Rhapsa and Little Hrunk to the representative of the Church.”
Madame Subtrime froze. For a full second, all the fidgety legs and hands were simultaneously motionless. It was the first time Viki had seen her really, really taken aback. Then her body relaxed into a slow, broad smile. “Dr. Underhill! Has anyone ever told you you’re a genius?”
Daddy grinned back. “Never with such good reason…Jirlib, make sure everyone stays in the room with Didi. If I want you to come out, you’ll know it.”
The cobblies climbed into the engineering loft. Didire Ultmot was slouched on her usual perch overlooking the controls. A thick glass wall separated the room from the soundstage itself. It was soundproof, and darned hard to see through, too. The children edged close to the glass. There was someone already perched on the stage.
Didire waved a hand at them. “That’s the Church’s rep out there. The cobber came an hour early.” Didi was her usual, faintly impatient, self. She was a very good-looking twenty-one-year-old. Didi wasn’t as smart as some of Daddy’s students, but she was bright. She was Princeton Radio’s chief technician. At fourteen she had been a prime-time operator, and knew as much about electrical engineering as Jirlib. In fact, she wanted to become an electrical engineer. All that had come across the first time Jirlib and Brent met her, back when they started on the show. Viki remembered the strange way Jirlib had acted when he told them about that meeting; he seemed almost in awe of the Didire creature. She was nineteen then, and Jirlib was twelve…but big for his age. It took her two shows to realize that Jirlib was out-of-phase. She had taken the surprise as an intentional, personal insult. Poor Jirlib walked around like his legs were broken for a few days. He got over it—after all, there would be worse rejections in the future.
Didire more or less got over it, too. As long as Jirlib kept his distance, she was civil. And sometimes, when she forgot herself, Didi was more fun than any current-generation person that Viki knew. When they weren’t onstage, she would let Viki and Gokna sit by her perch and watch her tweak the dozens of controls. Didire was very proud of her control panel. In fact—except that the frame was furniture wood and not sheet metal—it looked almost as scientific as some of the gear at Hill House.
“So what’s this church cobber like?” asked Gokna. She and Viki had pressed their main eyes flat against the glass wall. The glass was so thick that lots of colors could not penetrate. The stranger perched onstage could have been dead for all the far-red you could see of her.
Didi shrugged. “Name’s ‘Honored Pedure.’ She talks funny. I think she’s a Tiefer. And that cleric’s shawl she’s wearing? It’s not just our crummy view from the control room: that shawl really is dark, across all colors but the farthest reds.”
Hmm. Expensive. Mom had a dress uniform like that, only most people never saw her in it.
A wicked smile grew across Didi’s aspect. “I bet she pukes when she sees the babies in your father’s fur.”
No such luck. But when Sherkaner Underhill came in a few seconds later, the Honored Pedure stiffened under her shapeless cowl. A second later, Rappaport Digby trotted onto the stage and grabbed an earphone. Digby had been with “The Children’s Hour” from the beginning, long before Jirlib and Brent had started on the show. He was an old coot, and Brent claimed he was really one of the station owners. Viki didn’t believe it, not after the way Didi sassed him.
“Okay, everybody.” Didi’s voice came amplified now. Daddy and the Honored Pedure straightened, each hearing the words from the speaker on their side. “We’re coming up on fifteen seconds. Will you be ready, Master Digby, or should I play some dead air?”
Digby’s snout was stuck in a wad of written notes. “
Laugh if you like, Miss Ultmot, but air time is money. One way or another, I will—”
“Three, two, one—” Didi cut her speaker and stabbed a long, pointed hand in Digby’s direction.
The cobber picked up his cue as if he’d been waiting in patient alertness. His words had the usual smooth dignity, the trademark that had introduced the show for more than fifteen years: “My name is Rappaport Digby, and this is ‘The Children’s Hour of Science.’…”
When Zinmin Broute spoke in translation, his motions were no longer fitful and compulsive. He looked directly forward and smiled or frowned with emotions that seemed very real. And maybe they were real—for some armored spider creature down on the surface of Arachna. Occasionally there was some hesitation, a glitch in the intermediate conversions. Even more rarely, Broute would turn away, perhaps when some important cue appeared off-center in his head-up. But unless you knew what to look for, the fellow seemed to be speaking as fluently as any human announcer reading from notes written in his birth language.
Broute as Digby began with a little self-congratulatory history of the radio program, then described the shadow that had fallen upon it in recent days. “Out of phase,” “perversion of birth.” Broute rattled off the words as if he’d known them all his life. “This afternoon, we are back on the air as promised. The charges made in recent days are grave. Ladies and gentlemen, these charges of themselves are true.”
