“Of course, Sheila.” He jumped up. Making sure that none of his assistants had their eye on him, he licked his hands and tried to straighten out his untidy hair. He adjusted his collar as he made his way to managerial level.
Surprise gift from company. Surely that could only be good.
Stein-Presteign was all smiles. He was a genial green colour. His office, as befitted the managing director of Smics Callibrastics, was set on the outside of the Fragrance Light Industrial pyramid. His window looked out over the edge of Fragrance before it fell away in sheer cliff, and the sun, blazing through the planetoid’s dome, was toned down by chlorophylter shutters, whose output went to feed the riotous blooms of Stein-Presteign’s indoor garden.
For a world that practised the formalities, Stein-Presteign was remarkably informal. He bowed as deeply as his solid bulk would allow and motioned his visitor to a chair.
Awed as ever in the presence of his boss, Edward sat meekly down to listen to a general preamble.
“The scatters are always telling us that we are through creatively,” Stein-Presteign said. “The argument goes that the Renaissance was the period when Western man set his targets towards the next few hundred years. In Italy in the fifteenth century, rich middle-class families in Milan, Venice and Florence and such cities suddenly came out with dynamic ideas of humanism, individualism, and speculation about the material world. You could say that the Borgias and the rest of them were the early founders of those goals that led us to space travel.
“Then the movement spread outwards through Europe and so, eventually, to the Americas. Particularly to North America, although Brazil is now having her turn. But the general impression seems to have gotten around that, with the rise of China to world dominance and the dwindling of mineral and fossil oil deposits, the spirit of the Renaissance is dead.”
He put his fist down heavily on the desk, leaning forward and looking hard at Edward. “I do not believe that the Renaissance is dead, Edward. I have never believed it. We have in you and your team here in Callibrastics proof positive that the old inventive enquiring spirit of Leonardo and the other guys lives on. The scatter-pundits fail to see that the general retreat of the brains of much of the western world to the zeepees in search of free energy has caused a revolutionary regrouping. My firm belief is—I have stated this before and shall state it again, in defiance of defeatist thinking—that the zeepees duplicate in many essential ways the conditions of the Italian Renaissance cities. My belief is that Fragrance and the Ingratitudes—even Turpitude, for God’s sake—are so many little Florences and Milans . . . Of course, the Italians didn’t have the goddamned Chinese to deal with . . .”
The managing director followed up this last remark with a moody silence. Feeling something was required of him, Edward said, “Of course, an argument by analogy—” but Stein-Presteign swept the puny sentence away with a new flood of talk.
“Well, I’ve been reviewing things in that light since I returned home from the party last night. Among the matters I reviewed was your pay structure, Edward, and it did occur to me that for a man as distinguished in his way as Leonardo da Vinci, you have not been treated entirely with the generosity for which Smics Callibrastics is rightly renowned, right? That is to say, not on a scale commensurate with the generosity of the merchant princes towards the painters, architects, and scientists they patronized. So I determined to make a gesture—a grand gesture that will perhaps fire you to greater things.”
“Really, sir, you’re very kind, but—”
“Edward, the company is going to send you on vacation to Earth for a whole month. You need a vacation, and travel will broaden the mind. You have no damned personal life here worth speaking of. Well, we’re going to send you down there—” he gestured eloquently towards the window “—to relax and refresh the springs of your mind, work up some more psychic energy. We pick up all the tabs, O.K.?”
Edward hesitated, and Stein-Presteign added, “What’s more, the vacation, including the space travel involved, is for two. So you can take that sister of yours along for company.” Confused though he was, Edward registered the note of contempt in the director’s voice. Unable to sit still, he got up and went to the window to hide the workings of his face. Taken at face value, the offer was terribly generous; but could he take it at face value? Stein-Presteign despised him. Were they trying to sack him?
Between elation and dismay, he stared out at the panorama of urbstaks marching towards the edge of Fragrance’s disc. Maybe the planetoid was too small for him, although that was also one of its attractions; yet how wonderful to see the oceans again, as he had when a boy.
From where he stood he could see the far-ranging boxes of the administration of FFFFA, whose industrial levels went down into the core of Fragrance. Most of the planetoid’s food was produced there—whereas on Earth he would be able to eat natural food again. A phrase floated to his mind: “My happiness lies in artificial oceans . . .”
He turned about.
“I accept your kind offer. I’d love to be Earthside and stand on a shoreline watching the ocean again. I’ll go.”
Pulling a solemn face, Stein-Presteign came round the desk and shook Edward’s hand without speaking, looming over him as he did so. He laid a hand on his employee’s shoulder and said, “There’s one point to take into consideration, Edward. We—you, I, Callibrastics, the whole of Fragrance—stand to get very rich from our PMs. We can sell ’em by the thousand among the zeepees and break even very comfortably, as I suppose you realize.
“But our real target must be Earth. We must be able to sell PMs on Earth. That’s where the real market lies.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Edward said. “The Chinese have long believed in predestination—”
“You’re being politically naive, Edward.” He took a step forward, almost as if determined to crush Edward under his great prow. “What the Chinese believe on that score is neither here nor there. What they do believe in is selling their own wares—-just as we do, come to that. They’re getting this World State into constitutional order, and there’s no doubt they can set up destructive tariffs against us out here. Many of my friends believe that is one of the chief objects of World State. I don’t myself. My belief is—I have stated this before and shall state it again—that the Chinese are good horse-traders. And that’s where you come in.”
“I hardly know what a horse looks like,” said Edward, aghast.
“Holy gravities!” Stein-Presteign exclaimed, clutching his forehead. “I’m speaking metaphorically, son, metaphorically! Does the name Li Kwang See mean anything to you?”
“Apart from the fact that it’s a Chinese name, no.”
“Li Kwang See is a very distinguished bureaucrat. He’s served his time in the Peking government and now he’s just been appointed Minister for External Trade, a post he takes up when the World State becomes reality. He has the usual prejudice of his kind against Western science. When you’re on holiday, Edward, the company wants you to go round and call on Mr Li Kwang, and persuade him to like our PM.”
“You want me to—?” He was overcome by excitement.
“Callibrastics trusts you, Eddy.” Again the hand on the shoulder. “I couldn’t be trusted to chat up Li Kwang. I’d be too heavy-handed. But your nice quiet little way of going about things . . .”
“All right. Of course I’ll go and see him,” Edward said, breaking free of what threatened to be an embrace. “I believe in the virtues of the PM probably even more than you do, sir. I certainly know more about its working. Some of these Chinese statesmen are very civilized men. If I can’t sell it, nobody can, sister or no sister.”
He blushed, seeing himself in the diplomatic role. “People were good enough to say last night what a pleasure it was to work with me—well, I will impress Mr Li Kwang favourably. We can get in before Gondwana and our other rivals. I can get him to order some machines. He’ll know someone in the Internal Trade department—I’ll come back with a big
order, rely on me.”
“Of course, I have always admired your enthusiasm, Edward.” Stein-Presteign retired round the desk and gestured curtly to Edward’s chair. “It is best that we all know our capabilities and limitations. Frankly, you alarm me. You must understand that all we want you to do is to establish a friendly contact with Li Kwang, nothing more. When the time comes to sell, believe me, Edward, Callibrastics will send out its prime sales force on the job. Professionals, not amateurs. We certainly shall not rely on anyone in Research for such a delicate task . . .”
Seeing that he had been too crushing, he added, “But yours will be the perfect touch to convince the Minister that our slice of Western science is fully in accord with Chinese principles, non-exploitive, non-imperialist, and so on. You’re so obviously a non-imperialist character that you are our first choice for such a mission, right? O.K., get Sheila Wu Tun to assist you with any little problems. She has been briefed.”
Edward rose. “You’re extremely—I’m extremely—” He held out his hand, then he scratched his head with it. Then he left.
IX
He went back and stared at the flowers growing under the falsie in his office so much less prolifically than the flowers below the managing director’s real window. He decided that he was trembling too much to do any creative work and might as well go home for the day.
Pleasant odours wafted through the carriage on the way home—someone had slipped their card in the Perfume slot—but he was restless and curiously upset. On the one hand, the corporation had been generous; on the other hand, they had tied a condition to the vacation and had been insulting. Of course, he deserved all he got, both the good and the bad. You’re too damned self-effacing for your own good, he told himself. And at the same time you think too much about yourself.
He attached too much importance to self—at a time when predestination brought the whole nature of self into question. That was something they’d never had to bother about in ancient Venice or wherever it was.
To his relief, the homapt was empty when he returned. At this time, Fabrina was at her job at the Fire Department. The lin was activated by his presence; it unplugged itself from its charge socket and came to him. Its simulated wrought-iron framework gleamed. It had dusted itself this morning.
“Your pleasure levels are low, Edward. Would you care for a story?”
“No.”
He tramped past it into his room and poured himself a large aphrocoza. The mixture of liquid and heavy gas rolled into his beaker like a slow wave. He poured it into mouth and nostrils, quaffing it back till all was gone. Then he felt slightly better.
The lin was standing meekly beside him.
“All right, all right!” Edward said. “For g’s sake, do your thing!”
“Here’s a story called ‘Volcano Obliteration’. Lorna put her hands conversationally round an old grey falcon,” the lin said. “In the town, a silver band played, but she had heard too many promises. She cried, ‘I must return with honour to my father.’ But a volcano obliterated the valley. Now she lives with incredible leopards while a harlot plays ‘Flower Patterns’ in her head. She attempts to mind the animals courteously.”
“Good, now go and plug yourself in again.”
“You have tired of my stories.”
“Emotional blackmail is something you weren’t programmed for.”
Edward sat silent and glum, pouring more aphrocoza into himself and finally falling asleep in his chair, to undergo curious waking dreams which were dispelled when Fabrina entered the homapt.
He went through and said to her, “I’ve just dreamed up the final proof of why God can’t exist. Everything is predetermined; our more fortunate ancestors were able to believe in free will only because they did not understand that random factors are themselves governed by immutable laws.”
“You’re home early, Edward. I’ve bought us a halibut steak for supper.”
“Everything was always predetermined. How could anyone big-minded enough to be God enjoy sitting back for countless aeons of years and watching what was to him a foregone-conclusion working itself out? . . . Of course, I suppose what seems such an incredibly long time to us may be just a flash to him. Maybe he has a lot of pin-ball machine universes like ours all spinning at once.”
“You’ve been at the aphrocoza, Edward. It always gets you on to ontology.”
“Maybe we could develop a computer which would prove conclusively whether or not God exists. No, that would hardly be possible—just as Karl Popper proved that no computer can predict the future that includes itself, although it can predict personal futures. Perhaps there are personal gods. Or maybe fully developed PMs will turn into personal gods . . .
“Father used to say that God was much more dirty-minded than was generally allowed for.”
“There are limits to the possible. There must be a formula for those limits. It might be possible to compute those limits. But then, again, if we knew what the limits were, and how near we were to them, that would make the universe even more boring than it is now. Think how tired I am of my own limitations. I’m just a souped-up version of lin.”
She settled into a bending reed position and said dismissively, “You know you like Lin’s stories when you’re sober.”
“Ah, ah, ha—” He waved a finger at her. “But why do I like them? I enjoy their limitations. I enjoy the sense of being able to determine the limits of Lin’s brain, of being able to encompass easily the farthest distance its story-patterns can reach. You don’t mean to tell me God is as petty-minded as to enjoy our little patterns of circumstance in a similar way?”
“Has something happened to upset you?”
“There are those who might say that ‘orbitally-perturbed’ was a better phrase than ‘upset’, my dear, but—in a word, yes. I was up before Wine Stain this morning, and he has given me a month’s vacation on Earth, to go wherever fancy takes me, to wander in the Rockies, to march to the sea . . . Thalassa! Thalassa!” There it was out!
Fabrina’s pose collapsed. “You shouldn’t say such things, whether you’re high or not. I try never to think or speak about Earth . . .”
He was startled at this. “You don’t hate Earth? Just because we hear how much it’s changing!”
She looked up at him and then covered her eyes. “Hate? I never said anything about hate. It’s just that we’ve been on Fragrance for so long that I’ve ceased . . . I’ve ceased to believe anywhere else really exists. Fields, ordinary skies, irregular ground, wide horizons, trees—I can’t imagine them any more. There’s just these walls and the fake view out of the falsies, and the caverns and trafficways. Anything else is like—a Greek myth, I guess. I can’t even believe in Death any more, Edward, you know that? I think we’re doomed to go on here forever, unchanging.”
Edward went rigid, defending himself against what she was saying. “Time goes too fast . . .”
“You only add to the imprisonment, Edward. Father always said you lacked humanity . . . You spend your life trying to drag in the future to be more like the past, to make everything all the damned same . . .”
He moved over to her, leant over her, only to find himself unable to touch her, to do more than stare at her carefully turned shoulder.
“Fabrina, why are you talking this nonsense? What’s the matter with you? Things are changing all the time! Are you really afraid of change? Didn’t you hear what I just said?—Callibrastics has given me a vacation for two on Earth. That’s good! You act like it was something awful.”
She looked up at him. He took a step back.
“You’re not just fogged with aphrocoza? It’s true? Oh, Edward, a whole month on Earth for the two of us!” She jumped up and threw her arms round him. “I just thought you were lying, and I couldn’t bear it. It reminded me how I hate this place. When do we go?”
“You don’t hate this place. You have your friends here, every comfort.”
She laughed bitterly. “O.K., you like it so much, you sta
y and I’ll go. I’ll take Anna—she’s dying to get back!”
“Listen, Fabrina, you aren’t invited yet.”
“I’m coming with you—you said so.”
Suddenly he was furious. His hair came quivering down about his eyes; he dashed it away. “All I said was it was a vacation for two. I didn’t say who I was taking with me. Why should it be you? Why do I have to have you round my neck all the time? If I want a holiday, then I’ll take someone else. You’re only my damned sister, not my wife, you know!”
They stood facing each other, slightly crouched, their hands rigid and not quite clenched, as if they were about to attack each other.
“I know I’m not your wife. I’m more like your servant. All these years I’ve looked after you! If you’re going to Earth then you’ll take me and nobody else.”
“I’ll take whom I please.” But he weakened, recalling Stein-Presteign’s contemptuous assumption that he would go with his sister because he had nobody else. Assumptions such as Stein-Presteign’s and his sister’s carried terrible power.
“You’ll have to take me, Edward. What would people think if you didn’t?”
This unexpected feebleness on her part strengthened him. “I don’t care what people think—this is something I’ve earned and I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to take a woman with me, I’m going to enjoy myself. Just for once, I’m going to live. That’s something you’ve never thought of.”
“What woman would have you? They’d laugh!”
“Little you know about women! Father always said you should have been a boy.”
“Don’t bring that up! Let’s not go into the past. The things our parents did to us are all over and done with. Father wanted me to be a boy, didn’t he, because you were so flaming inadequate in the role, but that’s not my fault. You were always his little pet, weren’t you, and what went on between the pair of you was none of my business.”
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