The Fresco

by Sheri S. Tepper

  More consternation.

  “Why do you claim he works for Senator Morse?”

  “With the envoys here, it’s almost impossible to do anything secretly, sir. According to the envoys, a Mr. Dinklemier and a Mr. Arthur have been paying Bert Shipton to make up stories about me on instructions from Senator Morse.”

  Whispers, covered mikes, people turning redder.

  “Perhaps you can tell us about your relationship with the president?”

  “We covered this ground previously, gentlemen, but I’ll refresh your memories. I first saw the president in his office on the day after I delivered the envoys’ message to Congressman Martinez. We talked for five or ten minutes, during which time he thanked me for my efforts. The door to the outer office was open during my visit, and General Wallace was standing in the doorway. The second time I met the president, his wife was there, and that was when he asked me to see if the envoys would take me to their planet for a firsthand view. I have just returned from there.”

  Consternation. Someone got up hastily and left the room.

  “And since then?” asked the man with the gavel, his mouth remaining open as she replied.

  “Since then, I have seen and talked with the president and his wife in company with Mr. Riley, who accompanied me on the expedition to Pistach-home and other worlds. During that journey we saw and were greeted by three other races besides the Pistach. These were the Flibotsi, the Thwakians, and the Vixbot. Our entire journey was recorded, and when the security people are through with the recordings, I’m sure they’ll be shown to the American people, and to the world.”

  There was more whispering, more running back and forth, and finally the senator who had assumed the chair decided he didn’t want it anymore. Sounding as severe and threatening as he was able to manage around the distractions, the chairman pro tem told her she was still under subpoena and would have to appear again later.

  The big talk on the TV blather shows that night concerned the disappearance of all the pregnant men plus some others who had worked for them. Among them, it was alleged, was the intermediary’s husband. Much was made of the fact that Bert had been scheduled to appear before the same committee Benita had been subpoenaed for, that she had denied his allegations, and that he himself had disappeared. Benita smiled at this, saying a brief litany of thanks to the Inkleozese, who had removed him even though he wouldn’t be useful as a breeder. Getting Bert out of circulation relieved her mind a good deal. If he couldn’t get a drink for a year or two, it should do him a world of good!

  Some TV channels were still showing interviews with him, but they were obviously old ones. Though he didn’t look drunk, precisely, he was definitely glassy eyed from something. The only hopeful item reported was that no further hearings were planned until Senator Morse could be found. Benita felt that by that time the situation would be either improved or lost. Either way, it would be long past crying about.

  Next morning, the disappearances were still in the news. The Senate demanded an investigation. Lupé Roybal-Morse suggested that Morse may have been so upset by being pregnant that he simply went off to be alone. His colleagues pretended to believe that was impossible, though she knew him better than they did. Within a few hours, it was reported on CNN that every man used as a brooder had vanished. The president issued a statement saying he had been informed the Inkleozese had wanted to take them to a safe place, where they would not be harassed by the news media, that he was assured they would be returned.

  Surprisingly, except for the religious far right (those who were left) nobody screamed much about it. Comics had a field day, of course. Jay Leno did a Morse-travelogue, to Bee or not to Bee. Actually, Benita thought, the Inkleozese looked more like wasps, but it was close enough to be funny.

  Benita called Angelica, who seemed to be coping all right, though she wanted to know where her father was. Benita said she didn’t know where he was being taken, which was true, astronomy not being her forte. “However, I’m assured he’s safe, just as Carlos is safe. You don’t have to worry about either of them.”

  “I haven’t been. But then, I feel guilty because I haven’t been. You know?”

  “Remember what I told you about drowning, Angel. Try to keep your head above water.”

  The following day the disappearances were replaced in the headlines by reports of massive slaughters in Northern Ethiopia, coastal Bangladesh, and among the Chinese settlers in Tibet, with lots and lots of gory pictures, enough to keep the media scrambling for the next few weeks, even if nothing else happened at all.

  Chiddy and Vess took five days to make their trip, arriving back on Earth in what Star Trek would call a shuttle, except that it was morphable. The big ship, they said, was on the back of the moon, a considerable distance from those of the predators. Benita phoned Chad, as arranged, and within the hour a parade of long black limousines bearing dark-suited “spiritual advisors” began to arrive at Benita’s back door. Benita didn’t see any of them. They came in the door, got into the elevator, and vanished. The Reverend—the president’s spiritual advisor, the Big SA—wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the President did.

  The Inkleozese arrived by their usual form of transport: abrupt materialization. Her Exactitude arrived first. She provided Benita with both a tape and a disc of the recorded voice Benita had asked for, then suggested Benita go to the bathroom and stay there while they and their “baggage” transitted the living room. Since no one was willing to gamble on how things would turn out, everyone was being very careful of what Benita saw and didn’t see, just in case she had to testify about it. She took the opportunity for a long, luxurious shower while poor Sasquatch, who’d tried a sniff at one of the Inkleozese and had been abruptly flattened for it, lay on the bathroom rug whining at her. Poor dog, he didn’t know what to think or who to bark at or even who to smell.

  Late that evening, right after the arrival of the Big SA and the president, it was Chad and Benita’s turn. Benita had already arranged for Simon to do dog duty again, and he’d wished her well. She had hinted to him that something epochal was happening, so he’d feel better about all the bother she was causing him. She really didn’t want to get back and find she had no job. She liked her job. Besides, if they were successful in their efforts, things would go back to more or less normal, on its way to being forgotten except by historians, and nobody would give her a pension for her part in it.

  The shuttle delivered the last few of them to the larger ship on the moon, pausing there while the Inkleozese delivered cease and desist documents to the predator ships, denying their right to stay on Earth without decision by the Confederation. While they were waiting, all the Earthians had their pictures taken in front of the window wall of the big ship. The little “SAs” had been promised they could use the trip as a CV item later on, so pictures were absolutely essential, that and bits of moon rock and certificates signed by the president and by Chiddy or Vess. Chiddy protested at putting himself in the position of seeming to endorse the Earthian visit, when it was being required by the Inkleozese, so Chad suggested he write “Real moon rock; best wishes” in Pistach. It was doubtful anyone would ever know the difference.

  While everyone slept a good bit of the time, all the waking hours were spent working. Half a dozen animatronics people were working with the recorded voice Benita had obtained from the Inkleozese, and all the artists (who would pretend to be little SAs, when they arrived at Pistach-home) had copies of a Fresco panel or panels, copies that had been enhanced, enlarged, and had the colors corrected by the FBI labs from those Chad had recorded during the previous trip. The conversation that went on about them was constant and fascinating, or so Benita thought. She wouldn’t have dreamed there were that many things to say about artworks that all the little “SAs” agreed could be compared, at best, to Grandma Moses on a very bad day. The talk about color and composition and message went on, deep into every “night” that they were aboard. (Both Chad and Benita were grateful that the larg
er ship was able to prevent the exhaustion they’d felt in the smaller one.)

  Though the humans occasionally encountered Chiddy and Vess, nothing was discussed where they would be able to hear it. The Inkleozese had assured Benita the Earthian quarters were strictly private, and the ship was large enough that the Pistach were encountered only at meals.

  Each member of the group had been given a copy of Chiddy’s journal also, as a guide to Pistach thought. At one point in the journey, the Big SA, looking very stern, asked Benita just what Chiddy meant when he wrote “dearest” Benita.

  “Chiddy’s an affectionate sort of person,” she answered, after a moment’s thought. “I assume he, or it, or ai, feels toward me pretty much the same way I feel about my dog, or perhaps, my dog about me, when I come home from work. I mean, that’s a cross-species relationship, but we both have a sense of security and pleasure in it, and perhaps even rapture. Sasquatch does act rapturous sometimes.”

  “There is no physical…ah…?”

  “There is no physical ah,” Benita confirmed. “Beyond what might amount to a scratch behind the ears. Not that intimacy would be impossible. Chad says he’s fairly well convinced there’s a point to point correspondence between their actual forms and any morphed form they adopt. Morphing isn’t natural to them, you know. It’s something they’ve discovered how to do, and it takes some kind of implanted electronic assist.”

  “Why do they do it?” he demanded.

  “I think it has to do with exploration. If you’re going to a planet that’s all water, you need gills. If you’re going to one that’s all desert, you need a body that conserves moisture. And on any new planet, you need to be able to look like the natives while you’re finding things out.”

  Though the Big SA had a very odd look on his face when she finished, Benita was quite satisfied with her analysis. It was probably as close to the truth as she could get.

  The Big SA went on to ask her what she knew about the Pistach religion.

  “Chiddy calls the Pistach god, Aitun. It means ‘The one who is.’ Chiddy says the Pistach don’t presume to know what Aitun is up to or desires. They have a duty, however, to infer purpose from what they see and discover. They have inferred that as an intelligent race who can see that intelligence is a rarity among the stars, they must help spread intelligence throughout the galaxy. They read this as Aitun’s possible intent without ever unequivocally saying it is Aitun’s intent. They avoid saying what God wants or means. They regard races who do as prideful and arrogant.

  “Chiddy also says there are over five thousand picky little gods among the races ai knows of,” she said. “A lot of them inceptorish…”

  “Inceptorish?”

  “You’ve read the journal, Reverend. Inceptorish. Virile. Arbitrary, egocentric, and often belligerent. Anyhow, Chiddy says none of the five thousand have sufficient universality to be the god of everyone. Chiddy includes our Earthian gods in the five thousand.”

  “There is only one Earthian God,” said the SA, in a ponderous tone.

  “You are no doubt correct,” said Benita. “But Chiddy says none of the ones humans talk about in the Western world are it, and none of the hundreds they talk about in the Eastern and undeveloped worlds are it, either.”

  They stopped on Inkleoza, to drop off the Inkleozese and their brooders and to pick up a couple of replacement assessors who were beyond breeding age. Chiddy said Inkleozese were needed on board, as they were the Confederation’s accepted witnesses and attestors, but he thought the president and the male members of his entourage would be more relaxed with nonbreeding Inkleozese. Even though the Inkleozese and their brooders had stayed in a separate section of the ship, Benita and Chad noticed a definite lowering of tension when they were in transit again. The new Inkeleozese were very jolly, fatter than their predecessors and much less austere.

  The balance of the trip was over far too soon. Each one of those playing the part of a little SA complained that he or she wasn’t ready. Each one dithered, getting all his or her supplies packed into the smallest possible volume. When everyone was ready to disembark, each took his or her predetermined place in the procession. First the two Inkleozese, escorting the president, who was robed in blue with a blue headdress, looking like someone on a Mardi Gras float, but very dignified. Then Chiddy and Vess, escorting the Big SA, also clad in blue, also dignified, though more meditative. Then the little SAs in robes of a lighter and less piercing sapphire, two by two, thirty-six of them—including the specialists from Hollywood, carrying their special paraphernalia—all looking solemn and dedicated, some of them bearing “altars,” large chests that held the equipment. Blue was a high caste color on Pistach planets, so Chiddy had told them, and the plan required that the Pistach realize these Earthians were very high caste and dead serious about the whole thing. Chad and Benita, being of infinitely lower rank, brought up the rear.

  T’Fees and his group were there to meet them. Chiddy spoke to him while Vess translated to the humans. Then the Inkleozese spoke, very dignified, very stern. Then Chiddy spoke again. The gist of the whole thing was that T’Fees’s interference with the way of life on Pistach-home was a matter for the Pistach to handle among themselves, but any philosophical changes that impacted upon the human race were outside Pistach’s sole authority. Now that the members of the Confederation were involved, the Inkleozese were there to supervise the human race’s attempt to get a grip on the situation.

  T’Fees asked what they wanted.

  The humans, said the lead Inkleoza, wanted to spend a night of meditation in the House of the Fresco, in the hope this would give them insight to aid their world in facing the grave tragedies which might be in the offing.

  Benita was watching T’Fees. He turned slightly ocher.

  “What tragedies are those?” he boomed.

  “If the Pistach withdraw, Earth will be at the mercy of the predators, and Earth’s leaders need to prepare for that eventuality,” said the Inkleozese. “Certain other worlds, such as Pistach-home and Quirk, may also be at the mercy of the predators.”

  T’Fees looked startled. Benita thought he was surprised, as though aware for the first time that his own actions had consequences he might not have thought of. The surprise carried over to the crowd of his supporters, where there was a good deal of expostulation back and forth.

  This was followed by a lengthy argument between the curators and the Inkleozese. Then the Big SA asked to speak, translated by Chiddy. He spoke of the necessity of working in accord with the single spirit of universal life and intelligence, but what he conveyed was mostly rhythm and elation. Vess had had an advance copy, so the translation was well worked out, and the humans had been coached. As the Big SA stayed strictly away from anything that could be considered a reference to any picky, inceptorish little Earth god, by the time he was finished, he had the whole crowd swaying and shouting either “Amen, hallelujah,” or “Shavil, dashavil,” which meant “Amen, hallelujah” in Pistach.

  When that died down, the president spoke, again translated by Chiddy, saying that he and his advisors intended to pray for clarification of both the Earthian and the Pistach role in the galaxy. More talk followed, quite subdued, ending with the curators’ permission to spend the night with the Fresco. A half dozen of them—not including Chiddy or Vess—would have to stay with the humans, however, just to be sure the Fresco came to no harm. T’Fees would come with them to be sure they were really interested in meditating, and the two Inkleozese would accompany the group. The humans bowed, the Pistach bowed, the Inkleozese bowed, T’Fees and his people bowed, and the whole procession went off up the stairs toward the House of the Fresco, lugging the altars containing, so Chiddy had informed the Pistach, their ritual materials. They had timed their arrival to coincide with the sunset, so they had to move very quickly.

  Once inside, Benita and Chad shut the tall doors while the little SAs set up their altars, large carved wooden ones, upon which a ritual meal of cookies and root beer
was set out in silver plates and faux crystal chalices. The Inkleozese and the Pistach, including T’Fees, joined in the ritual repast to be polite, for Chiddy had told them that human foods were all quite harmless. Which they were, of course, if one didn’t count sarsaparilla-induced unconsciousness as a harm.

  Benita and Chad watched both the Pistach and the Inkleozese. Within moments, T’Fees and the Pistach elders were nodding on their reclining boards, and shortly they were completely out of it. The Inkleozese were still quite wide awake.

  “Not as close physiologically as we hoped,” murmured Chad.

  “Maybe even less close psychologically,” murmured Benita in return. “It’s a gamble, but they’ve cooperated so far. Let’s get on with it.”

  The battery packs came out of the hollow altars, and bright lamps illuminated every line and surface of the Fresco. Powerful projectors were adjusted to show new outlines on each panel; the “spiritual advisors” took off their robes and put on their smocks; drop cloths were spread beneath the panels; and paint odors filled the House. There was at least one painter for each panel, more on the panels that needed the most help, and while Chad and Benita played endless rounds of poker with the president and the Big SA, all the artists who had pretended to be SAs went at the business of painting over the old Fresco to make it show precisely what the Pistach had thought it showed prior to the cleaning. The Inkleozese, without a word of protest, wandered around behind them, watching the work go on.

  They used fast-drying paints. There was no display of artistic temperament. Each one of them was a professional artist who could work to a deadline, and each had already figured out exactly how he or she would proceed. They had agreed on a consistent style—more Diego Rivera than Michelangelo—and each artist had a predrawn overlay for his or her particular panel plus “character studies” of the main characters, so they’d be consistent from panel to panel. A great deal of attention had been paid to the figure of Canthorel, and great trouble was taken everywhere it appeared. Canthorel became three-dimensional, individual, recognizable. Since every painter had a fortune in spray cans and mini-rollers and a huge selection of sponges and brushes, large sections of the surfaces were covered quickly. Meantime, the group of puppeteers put together their apparatus and began rehearsing.