by Sharon Webb
Kurt stared at the man, "As you have just indicated, the Vestans are provincial and anti-culture. Hardly a climate conducive to the aims of Renascence."
Jastrow broke in. "This seems to be my province. Communication has cooled hotter coals than this."
Yu Hsuan-chi asked quietly, "Will Communication's methods be quick enough to forestall any trouble?" Her smooth brow creased in concern.
"If we employ subliminals equating Vestan patriotism with Renascence, we should neutralize public opinion fairly rapidly. Within fourteen days, I would say." She smiled slowly. "Enthusiasm for the project will take more time. A three-vee drama showing children of Vesta in the Renascence environment might do nicely. We could incorporate the idea that the children will turn the tables, so to speak-that they will learn certain things that might exploit the Earth to the benefit of Vesta."
Kurt considered the idea. Subliminals were used, had always been used, and yet he didn't like them. They had stopped many an incipient revolution, true, and they had given many a citizen a sense of purpose. But he was uneasily aware that he, himself, had been manipulated by them. He also knew that his office, by its very nature, dealt in a type of subliminal suggestion. Music hath charms-the artist was a wizard producing moods and undercurrents. The artist, the poet, the actor all dealt in suggestion. Was what Communication did so different? And yet… The difference seemed to lie in the audience, and in its free choice. "I suggest that subliminals be discontinued as soon as possible on Vesta." And there would be none at Renascence, he resolved. None. When a child made the decision, it had to be a real one, conscious and reasoned. Otherwise, Renascence was nothing more than a hideous joke.
Kurt looked at the Minister of Finance, "Alexei Kapov, does the proposal of Communication overcome your objections?"
The man nodded curtly. And as he did, his stomach began to growl. It began with a single low note that rose in pitch as it rose in volume. It quavered. It sobbed. It sang its tragic song while Kapov's ears reddened. And when it finally paused, Kurt said solemnly, "I second the motion. Meeting is adjourned."
* * *
Cameran Mencken's voice was icy as she reminded Kurt of the evening's birthday festival for Eric. Many of the children on the list for Renascence were going to perform.
He looked at her. She's still angry over this morning, he thought. He supposed he ought to apologize, to smooth things over.
Her golden brown eyes flashed as she spoke. They were only a shade or two darker than her skin, and every inch of her was uniformly golden. He remembered the last time. Her skin had been beaded with sweat, yet smooth, smooth as silk and velvet. She'd worn her hair another way then, in that Cleopatra thing. It was longer now. Loose and golden brown. It matched her eyes. He wondered how her hair would look in soft strands against her skin. He ought to apologize.
But it was too late. She turned abruptly and left the room.
* * *
Later that day as he sat in his office, the door opened a few centimeters. He looked up and saw nothing. Then he glanced down. A look of amazement passed over his face. It was followed by a grin.
A pair of grotesque lips perched on top of a tiny pair of legs. The spindly legs moved, marching the lips into the room. The lips stretched into a smile exposing little teeth and a red wooly tongue. The toy advanced, then paused, and the lips and tongue moved in a silent exaggerated "Hel-lo."
He laughed, and the door pushed open further. A head peeked around the opening, and a pair of blue-green eyes crinkled with laugh lines met his.
"Sean?" Then he shouted in glee, "Sean McNabb!" And he was up, bounding across the room with his hand extended.
Sean's hand caught his. He grinned. "Hello, Big Brother."
"My God. It's been years." Kurt stared at him. "When did you grow the beard?" It was magnificent-a coppery bush, curving upward on either side of his chin like a second smile.
"Ten or twelve years ago, I think. You look just the same."
"I thought you were in China."
"I was. The Tube's nearly finished through Hunan. The laser work, anyway. My part's done." He grinned. "I had a deadline. I couldn't miss Eric's party, could I?"
Kurt's smile faded. "Have you seen him yet?"
Sean shook his head. "Not yet. We've been writing though. And I had another reason for coming, besides seeing you-my son, Terry." The laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. "You didn't know about that, did you? We petitioned to have him. He's ten now. Lilia and I have seen him only twice, but we keep up with him. He's in Garden District Dorm in Orleans. They send us tapes and reports once a month. Look." He fumbled at a pouch slung on his belt and produced a little three-dimensional image.
Kurt held it. A solemn blue-eyed boy looked back. Next to the boy stood a pedestal with a small stone animal of some sort. The lines of the little sculpture were primitive, but the animal was amusing. A smile crept across Kurt's lips. "Your boy looks like you."
Sean beamed. "I'd say so. And what do you think of the griffin he made? That boy can use a laser better than I can." He replaced the image in his pouch. "We'll see him tonight. He won't know us, of course. But we'll know him. I can't wait to claim him when he's eighteen."
A guarded look came into Kurt's eyes. "You'll see him tonight?"
"Kurt, they tell me he's gifted. Really gifted. He's been chosen for some special project coming up. It's not settled yet, but as soon as it is, he'll be going into a special center for children like him."
Into Renascence, thought Kurt. He felt a chill creep inside him. The children had been abstracts to him until then, faceless abstracts. And now a blue-eyed replica of Sean had made them real.
* * *
When Sean left, Kurt picked up the toy and set it on his desk. It took a wavering step on its insect-thin legs. The lips mouthed another silent "Hel-lo." He examined it. The toy was programmable. He coded it and watched while it moved again in a tottering walk, then paused. The lower lip extended in a pout. And then the silent, unmistakable phrase, "I'm-m sor-ry."
He took the toy with him and walked down the hall. He knocked on the door, opened it just a crack, and sent his silent message into Cameran Mencken's office.
* * *
He stood half-clothed on his cantilevered deck and looked toward the northwest. A bitter wind blew from the valley upward over the face of Lookout Mountain. The gray clouds were broken with streaks of gold and pink from the setting sun.
The wind stung his flesh. The sharp air left a taste of flint in his mouth. Dehydrating ridges of snow curved against the wind along the edges of the balustrades.
Finally, he turned and went inside. The door slid shut behind him. He looked around him at the familiar room, seeing it with new eyes. It was as if the wind had blown away the clouds from his bra
in.
The oboe that he had played as a child hung against the wall. He walked over to it, staring at it curiously. He had seen it every day, but with the haze of familiarity. Now, with his new eyes, he saw that the wood was dry and cracked, the silver dulled. He reached out and touched its reed, and with his touch it shattered to dust.
And it was so, he thought, with himself. With his new eyes he looked inside at the part of himself that he had passed over for so long. And it was dry there, and dull, and useless.
He examined this part dispassionately, this dead part that he carried inside. Strange that he had never really noticed it before. Strange how empty it seemed. Once it had communicated, and received more than it gave. It had set him apart and at the same time let him reach into the deeper parts of himself. And in the reaching, he could touch other people. It was the touching that was the important thing. It was the only thing that told him he wasn't alone, utterly alone. And it had turned to dust.
He stood, looking at the ruined oboe, wondering. How would he have decided if someone had given him the choice? How would he have answered if they had said to him, "Choose," if they had asked, "Will you take your music knowing that it means denying immortality? Or would you rather live forever-and carry forever a strange dry husk inside you, knowing that once it lived?"
He examined the question and found it unanswerable. He wondered if he could ever have answered. He wondered if the children of Renascence could.
* * *
Cameran Mencken stepped naked from the blower. Her hair had dried in soft curving waves that moved as she walked. She stepped into the central room. The chill air struck her flesh and hardened her nipples. She crossed her arms over her breasts and hugged her shoulders. "Kurt, why is it so cold?" She darted out of the room and returned a few seconds later wrapped in Kurt's wooly outer. "I'm freezing."
He didn't seem to hear her. Finally, he turned and looked at her as if she were a stranger, staring as she drew the outer close around her. Then he said, "We'd better get ready. We'll be late for Eric's party."
In silence, they dressed together, he in formal silver gray and charcoal, hung with the scarlet and gold ribbons of his office; she in translucent blue that changed to silver, then to green, as she moved.
In silence they walked to the door and stepped into the cylindrical Everard alloy sleeve and onto the platform that dropped swiftly into the depths of the mountain. She reached out and touched his arm. "If you don't want to talk, I understand."
He turned to her then and blinked. "I want to talk," he said. "I want very much to talk."
They reached the bottom of the shaft and stepped out. He pressed his code on a small console. His solo, coupled with another, glided up. He helped her into the rear seat, then swung into the front and swiveled to face her. "I've been thinking. I-" He looked at her closely, strangely, then looked down at his hands. When he glanced up again, a smile quirked at one corner of his lips. "I've been thinking that you're not very familiar with this part of the city. I'll be your guide." He turned slightly, coded the solo, then turned back. The cars began to move through a lighted tunnel. "We're under Lookout Mountain now," he said; "we'll be going under the river in a few minutes."
The cars accelerated. They came to a hub in the passageway that radiated in all directions. He nodded to his right as the car plunged on. "That way is the industrial area. Most of it moved to the southeastern end when the Tube was opened. What's left of it is Underground."
In a few more minutes, the cars came to another, larger hub. They swung into a side slot and came to a halt. He helped her out, and they stepped onto the zontilator that rolled along the edge of a wide mezzanine. Above and below them cars sped by, many stopping to deposit well-dressed men and women. The zont moved toward a sublif bay marked MOCCASIN BEND PLEASANCE. They entered and rose swiftly.
"We're in the stem now," said Kurt.
She was puzzled. "The stem?"
He smiled, "You've heard it called the Crystal Center, but everyone here calls it the glass mushroom. We're in the stem now."
The doors opened, and they stepped out into a vast room. The transparent walls of the center curved up and away in front of them. Behind, bisecting the ellipse, was the convex auditorium wall, which rose partway to the lofty ceiling. Hanging gardens swung above them, reached by the Spiral, which carried its passengers around the periphery and then beyond to the dome observatory and restaurant.
A display of artwork stood just ahead near the transparent outer wall.
Something had caught his eye-a comical stone griffin. It squatted on its haunches. Its front legs were dangerously bowed. With wings folded behind its back and eagle's head cocked, it glared at Kurt as if expressing disapproval.
Cameran smiled and ran a finger over its head. "He doesn't think much of us, does he? If he could talk, he'd say, ‘Tch-tch.' " She examined the artist information plaque, which changed as they watched. A three-dimensional image of a blue-eyed boy came into view, and then his name: TERRY MCNABB. "It's by one of the children picked for Renascence."
He nodded. "All of it is." He swept a hand toward the islands of displays that dotted the room. And as she moved to examine the sculpture and the pictures, he turned to stare outside at the snow that clung to clumps of evergreens at the bend of the river below, lighter shadows against dark in the moonlight.
Cameran's hand brushed his arm. "Listen, Kurt." He turned. Nearby, a group of children had begun to dance to the music of a peleforté played by a little girl not more than ten years old. He ignored the dancers-he couldn't take his eyes from the girl. She was tiny. Her eyes were wide and very dark, too intense for beauty. As she played, her body leaned toward the keyboard, following the motion of her hands. Her hair was a soot black that gave back no light as it floated in a soft cloud around her head.
When she finished, the dancers moved away and a door opened. As it opened, a hush grew over the assemblage. The old man entered, flanked by attendants. They led him to one of the chairs drawn up in an informal circle near the peleforté. The little girl rose, bowed slightly, and spoke to Eric. Hidden microphones spread her soft voice with its thick accent through the room.
"My name is Tanya. I am honored, Citizen Kraus, to play for you a piece I have written. It is a night song. I call it 'Web of Star-Spinners.' "
Her tiny hands moved over the keys and sent magic into his head. It was a song-a singing-without words that moved in his brain and found hidden there the keys to emotions only dimly sensed. She played on, and the key turned slowly and opened a place where traces of old tears lay under a century of dust.
As she played, he watched them through bright eyes-Eric and the little girl Tanya. It was as if they were the only two in the world. The last mortal, he thought. And the first.
Chapter 2
Silvio Tarantino, Communications Tech
nician, 1st Class, stared at the frozen holo and frowned. The Vestan caught a shadow in the image that wasn't quite right.
He frowned again and swung his chair into the image, peering sharply at the reflection in the holographic table to his right. The empty likeness of a smiling woman stood by the table. She held a tray of food reflected on the polished countertop below her.
Tarantino propelled his chair back to the console and twiddled one dial, then another. The computer-enhanced image changed as he watched. Onto the gleaming tabletop came the ragged, yet unmistakable letters:
His eyes narrowed at the image. He pressed the next frame. Again, the smiling woman, the tabletop, and the shadow-but the shadow was different. His hand moved on the dial. Enhanced, the shadow grew into letters, then words:
A flare of anger sputtered and flamed. How did they dare? How did they? He clenched his teeth together, working them. The birthmark at the angle of his jaw darkened.
He leaned back in his chair and considered the subliminal. As he did, he fingered the heavy silver T that dangled from the chain around his neck. This was the first time they had slipped a sublim past him. He had always known before. He had always been informed when new tapes came out from Earth.
Often, he was the one who added the sublims. Usually, they were for Vestan eyes only. Now, for the first time, they were trying to slip something past him. But maybe not the first time. He twisted the silver T back and forth in his hand, knotting the chain, unknotting it. What if it weren't the first time?