by Bob Shaw
"Really? Do you accept donations from any other source?"
Renard laughed delightedly. "As a matter of fact, my mother was a Lindstrom."
"In that case, shouldn't the universe be getting hand-cuts from you?" Dallen closed his eyes for a moment, glad to be distracted from his own affairs, and considered Renard's claim to be related to the legendary family which had once monopolised the space travel industry. For a brief period after the Big O's discovery its official designation had been Lindstromland, and the Scandinavian connotations of its present name hinted at the clan's continuing if muted influence. In their heyday the Lindstroms had amassed a fortune which, apparently, was beyond human capability to diminish; and if Renard was connected with them, no matter how tenuously, he was no ordinary botanist.
The universe only gives me what! deserve. Dallen got a mental image of his wife — wandering aimlessly through shaded rooms, smock gathered to the waist, crooning to herself as she masturbated on the move — and the pressures within him grew intolerable. Cona deserved better…
"I heard you're a botanist," he said quickly. "You collect flowers?"
Renard shook his head. "Grass."
"Ordinary grass?"
"What's ordinary about grass?" Renard said, smiling in a way intended to let Dallen know that his education was incomplete. "So far we've found only thirty or so species on Orbitsville — an incredibly low number considering the areas involved and the fact that we have more than ten thousand species on Earth. The Department of Agriculture did some work on determining mixes of Earth seeds which are compatible with Orbitsville soil and the native species, but that was in the last century and it was a half-assed effort anyway. I'm doing the job properly. Soon I'll be going back with over a thousand seed varieties and maybe two thousand square metres of sample trays."
"So you work for Metagov."
"Don't be so naive, old son — all Metagov wants from Earth is a decree nisi." Renard turned the steering wheel with a languid hand, swinging the car into an avenue which ran due west. "I work for nobody but myself.'"
"But…" Dallen grappled with unfamiliar concepts. "The transport costs must be…"
"Astronomical? Yes, but it's not so bad when you have your own ship. For a while I considered chartering, then I realised it made more sense to recuse an old flickerwing from the graveyard and amortise the cost over three or four trips."
"That's what I would have done," Dallen said, concealing his grudging awe for an individual who could so casually speak of owning the artificial microcosm that was a starship. "What have you got?"
"A Type 96B. It was designed for bulk cargo work, so there aren't any diaphragm decks, which means it isn't all that suitable for my work. But I got round that by building really tall racks to hold the grass trays. Do you want a free trip to Orbitsville?"
"No, not at… Why?"
"I need people to tend the samples by hand — not worth installing automatic systems — and I'm paying with free transportation. That way everybody benefits."
"Perhaps I'll become an entrepreneur."
"You're not cut out for it, old son — you've conditioned yourself to think small." Renard's smile conveyed affectionate contempt. "Otherwise you wouldn't be in the police."
"I'm not a policeman. I work for…" Dallen widened his eyes, belatedly aware of the car's change of direction. "Where the hell are we supposed to be going?"
Renard chuckled, again pleasurably triumphant in what appeared to be a never-ending personal game. "This will only take a couple of minutes. I promised Silvia I'd drop by with a carton of glass she's been waiting for."
"Silvia who?"
"Silvia London. Oh, I don't suppose you've ever been to the Londons' place?"
"Not since my polo stock got woodworm."
"I like you, Dallen," Renard said appreciatively "You are a refreshingly genuine person."
And you are a refreshingly genuine bag of puke, Dallen thought, wondering how he could have been stupid enough to give up part of his day to such criminal waste. His previous encounters with Renard in the gymnasium had been brief, but they should have been enough to let him recognise and beware of a stunted personality. Renard's life appeared to be a continuous power game, one in which he never tired of contriving all the advantages, one in which no opponent was too small and no battlefield too insignificant.
The present situation, with Renard at the wheel of a car and therefore temporarily in control of his passenger's movements, was a microscopic annoyance, and yet the other man's obvious relish for what he was doing was turning it into something else. Furious with himself for being drawn in, Dallen nevertheless sat up straighter and began watching for an opportunity to quit the car. It would have to be done in a single effortless movement — otherwise Renard would score even more points — and for that the car would have to be practically at a standstill. Renard glanced sideways at Dallen and promptly accelerated, hastening the alternation of tree-shadow and sunlight over the curving gold hood.
"You'll enjoy meeting Silvia," he said. "You've got to see her jugs."
"Maybe I'm not interested in pottery."
"Maybe that's not what I mean, old son." Dallen kept his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. "I know what you meant, old son."
"1 do believe he's angry!" Renard craned his neck to look into Dalten's face. "I do believe I've succeeded in provoking the puritanical Mr. Dallen. Well, well!" Shaking his head in amusement, Renard turned the car into a wide driveway with scarcely any slackening of speed. The level of illumination dropped abruptly as walls of foliage closed in on each side.
"These reactionary times we're living in must suit you very well." Renard spoke with quietly ruminative tones, surprising Dallen with the change of tack. "Personally, I'd have been happier thirty years ago, back in the Sixties. I suppose you've noticed the pattern in the last few centuries? The steady build-up of liberalism… peaking two-thirds of the way through… then the violent swing the other way to close out the century and start the next. Why do you think it happens? Why is it that Mary Poppins concepts like mortality and monogamy and family refuse to lie down and the?"
Vm going to presume be doesn't know what happened to Cona and Mikel, Dallen told himself. When the car stops Fm going to walk way, and if be has enough sense to let me go that will be the end of it…
The house which was coming into view on a low hill was not what Dallen had expected. All he knew about the Londons was that they were supposed to be wealthy and that they were a focal point for an unorthodox philosophical society — the sort of people whose chosen setting would abound in gabled roofs, leaded glass and all the overt signs of respectability and tradition. Instead, the London residence turned out to be a three-storey redbrick house — rather too small for its imposing location — around which had been tacked an untidy skirt of timber-framed extensions. Additions had been made to additions in an undisciplined manner which would not have been tolerated in the days when zoning regulations were taken seriously. A stack of greying lumber had been left near the entrance to the main building.
"Rebecca's replacement wouldn't have lost much sleep over this place," Renard said, bringing the car to a crunching halt on a square of brown gravel in front of the house.
Dallen nodded and remained silent, guessing that the allusion had been literary. He got out of the car and was turning to leave when a tall brunette in her late twenties came out to the front steps of the house to greet Renard. She was wearing a close-fitting white shirt and white pants which showed off a full-bosomed but lean-hipped figure. A hint of muscularity about her forearms suggested to Dallen that here was a woman who kept in trim by sheer expenditure of energy. Her face was small and quite square, with neat features and a slight prominence of chin which gave a near-truculent fullness to her lower lip. It was a face which in spite of its liveliness and intelligence, many would have considered disappointing, but Dallen found himself alerted and oddly disturbed, like one who is on the verge of recalling a vital missed appoi
ntment.
"…and his name is Carry," Renard was saying to the woman. "I've never seen him go into a trance like this before — perhaps if you pointed your chest somewhere else…"
"Shut up. Rick. Hello, Carry." She gave Dallen a brief smile, her attention already focused on two transit cartons which rested on the rear seat of the car. "Is this my glass?"
"It certainly is, courtesy of Renard's doorstep delivery service. I'll carry it in for you."
"Thanks, but I'm quite capable of moving a box or two." The woman reached into the car, picked up a carton and bore it away into the house.
"I'll say you are," Renard said admiringly, his gaze lingering on the white-clad figure before he turned to Dallen. "What did I tell you?"
Dallen felt a pang of annoyance then realised that what he disliked about the question was not so much the sexism as the proprietary pride. This is crazy, he thought, alarmed at the speed and uncontrollability of what was happening inside of him. If a woman like that is mixed up with Renard she can't be a wanton like that. Unwilling to consider what his motives might be, he picked up the second carton and carried it into the house. Its weightiness confirmed his guess about Silvia London being physically strong. She met him at a doorway on the left of the hall, smiled again and gestured for him to go on through. "Thanks," she said. "Straight ahead to the studio, please."
"Okey-dokey." Brilliant conversational opening, he thought, appalled. Where did I dredge that one from? He went through a high-ceil inged, conventionally furnished room and into another whose airiness and overhead windows proclaimed it to be part of the house extension. He came to a halt, transfixed, as he saw that the fierce light in the outer room was transformed into a multi-hued blaze by a screen of stained glass which reached almost to the ceiling.
Da Hen's first impression was of a huge trefoil flower. All edges of the three enormous petals were in the same plane, which would have made it possible for the construction to serve as an incredibly ornate window, but the central surfaces were a bewildering series of complex three-dimensional curves, sculptures in glass. Geometric patterns based on circles and ellipses radiated from a sunburst centre, swirling and interacting, generating areas of incense complication in some places and smoothing into calm simplicity in others. The technique was almost point-ille, deriving its effect from myriad thousands of colour fragments, most of which were no bigger than coins. Dallen's sense of awe increased, rippling coolness down his spine, as he realised that the glowing tesserae — which he had taken to be brush-dabs of transparent paint — were actually individual chips of stained glass bonded with metal.
"My God," he said, with genuine reverence. "It's… I've never…"
Silvia London laughed as she took the carton from him and placed it on a nearby workbench. "You like it?"
"That has to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Dallen filled his eyes with mingling rays, mesmerising himself. "But…"
"A third of a million."
"I'm sorry?"
"The first thing everybody asks is how many separate pieces of glass," Silvia said. "The answer is a third of a million, almost. I've been working on it continuously for four years."
"Why? For God's sake, why?" Renard spoke from behind Dallen, having entered the studio unnoticed. "With an imager you could have built up the same effect in a few days. Throw continuous computer variation and it would be even better. What do you say, Garry?"
"I'm not an artist."
"You could still venture an opinion." Silvia spoke lightly, but her brown eyes were holding steady on Dallen's. "Why should I give up four years of my life to one unnecessary project?"
His answer was instinctive. "Something which sets itself up as a mosaic really has to be a mosaic — otherwise it's no use."
"Near enough," she said. "You can come back anytime."
"Crawler," Renard sneered. "Silvia, when are you going to drop this phoney reverence for old… what's his name… Tiffany and his methods? You know perfectly well that you cheat."
She shook her head, glancing at Dallen to include him in what she was saying. "I cut the glass with a valency knife because it's so fast and accurate. And instead of edging each piece with copper foil so that it can be soldered 1 transmute a couple of millimetres of it into copper, for reasons of speed and strength. But Tiffany himself would have used those methods if they'd been available to him — therefore in my book it isn't cheating."
"And how about the cold solder?"
"Same criterion applies."
"I should know better than to argue with a woman," Renard said, cheerfully unconvinced. "When are you and I going to have dinner?"
"We've been over all that."
Renard picked up a fish-shaped piece of streaky blue glass from the bench and peered through it, "How is Karal these days?"
"His condition is stable, thank you."
Renard held the strip of glass closer to his eyes, converting it into a mask. "I'm glad about that."
"Yes, Rick." Silvia turned to Dallen with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about the conversation becoming so cryptic. I'm not interested in adultery, you see — even though my husband is old and very ill. When I refused to date Rick a moment ago he, quite naturally — being the sort of person he is — asked me if Karal would the soon, and when I told him there was no immediate prospect of it he couldn't even make a convincing attempt to appear pleased."
"Silvia!" Renard looked scandalised. "You make me sound so crass!"
"I'm tempted to make the obvious reply to that one, but…"
"Don't mind me," Dallen put in. "I quite enjoy the sound of knuckles on flesh." He had slipped into his social armour by reflex, buying time in which to gain some control over what was happening behind his eyes. Information had been coming in too fast The fantastic glass edifice filling the studio had an overpowering presence of its own, but something about Silvia London was even more disturbing. He had just learned that Renard had no claim on her, that she was a person upon whom Renard could not make a claim, and the result had been an immediate explosion of images and sense impressions — Silvia seen across a supper table; Silvia broodily examining a damaged fingernail; Silvia at the controls of a high-G zoom car, Silvia floating lazily in a sun-gilded pool; Cona raising her gaze in momentary bafflement from on historical text, Silvia lying with her head in the crook of his left arm; Cona trotting footprints of her own urine from room to shaded room…
Silvia looked thoughtfully at Dallen. "I can't help wondering… Have we met before?"
"It isn't likely," Renard said, grinning. "His polo stick got woodworm."
Dallen moved away from Silvia, closer to the stunning glass mosaic. "I thought this was a flower at first, but it's astronomical, isn't it?"
"Yes. It's a representation of a Gott-McPherson cosmos."
Dallen frowned, still expunging visions. "I thought McPherson was a spherologist. Isn't he on the Optima Thule Science Commission?"
"Yes, but it's his work on cosmogony that inspires me as an artist," Silvia said, caressing the glass with the tip of a finger. "Actually, as it stands the screen shows a pure Gott cosmos. The scenario he devised in the 20th Century called for the creation of three separate universes at the moment of the Big Bang. He labelled the universe we live in Region I. It's composed of normal matter and of course in our universe time goes forward. This is it in the left-hand zone, with all the colours and forms naturalistic by our terms of reference." Silvia crossed to the other side of the screen, stepping with care over a wooden support, choosing the constricted route between Dallen and the glass. Her hair touched his lips.
"In the opposite panel is the Region II universe, created in the same instant as ours, but rushing backwards into our past and composed of anti-matter. I've suggested its nature by using inverted forms and colours which are complements of those in Region I. Gott also postulated a Region III universe — a tachyon universe — which has sped far ahead of us in time and will remain in our future until all the universes meet eac
h other again in the next Big Bang. This is the tachyon universe in the centre section — elongated abstract patterns, leached-out opalescent colours."
"Aren't you glad you asked?" Renard's bow of teeth gleamed. "If you want to appear intelligent and interested ask where McPherson comes into the picture."
"I'm sorry," Silvia said, her eyes again locking with Dallen "I do tend to presume that my private manias are universal."
"It's all right," Dallen replied quickly. "It's really… well, fascinating… and as a matter of feet I was going to ask about McPherson's contribution."
Renard burst into full-throated laughter, hamming up his scorn by slapping his thigh, and walked away into the old part of the house, shaking his head.
"Perhaps he's kind to animals," Silvia said, pausing until Renard was out of earshot. "McPherson refined Gott's ideas and also added a Region IV universe — an anti-tachyon universe which is fleeing ahead of Region II into its past. It's being incorporated into the design as a fourth panel complementing Region III, but there isn't enough ceiling height here to let me assemble the whole screen. That will have to wait."
"For what?"
"Completion of Karal's memorial college, of course."
"I see," Dallen floundered. Tm afraid I don't know much about your husband's work."
"There's no real reason why you should — he isn't a publicity-seeker."
"I didn't mean…"
Silvia laughed, showing predictably healthy teeth. "You're far too normal to be keeping company with Red Rick, you know. Why do you do it?"
"He promised he could get me into movies," Dallen said, trying to decide why he was unhappy about being described as normal. What's going on here? he thought. Pm supposed to be the one who always holds the conversational high ground.
"I'm sure you'd be interested in what Karal has to say." Silvia's gaze had a disconcerting softness. "We're having some people around tomorrow night — would you like to join us?"
"I…" Dallen looked down at the woman and felt a surge of genuine panic as he realised how close he had come to opening his arms to her. There had been no reason to it, no sense of having been given an invitation, not even any special pressure of desire — it was just that his arms had almost moved by themselves. And Com is still a prisoner, still where I put her.