by Isaac Asimov
With Sarco close at hand, expecting some kind of dialogue, he could not balloon himself into isolation as he had intended; that would show neither tact nor the genuine gratitude he felt.
So he merely climbed to a safe ballooning altitude and then started circling in position, waiting for Sarco to catch up.
“I know you want to be alone,” Sarco said, “and I’ll not intrude on your time but for a brief moment, just long enough for a word of warning.”
“You’re not intruding, old friend,” Synapo said, “and rushing off as I did may have made me appear ungrateful for the service you rendered at the gathering. But I am truly grateful and might not have won the endorsement of the elite if you hadn’t made that impassioned speech. You deserve to be where you are, Sarco, the very antithesis of Petero’s Principle.”
“I didn’t come up here to be praised, you old jet, but to warn you about Neuronius.”
“You and the elite have taken care of him, Sarco.”
“For the moment, perhaps, but maybe not even for the moment. He’s dangerous, Synapo.”
“Neuronius? Dangerous? To himself maybe. He certainly confirmed that today.”
“No, to you, Synapo.”
“I think not. He’s devious, and a liar, and not to be trusted, but hardly dangerous otherwise.”
“He was standing in back of you,” Sarco said. “You couldn’t see his body language, his undisguisable reaction to that last bit of terse, indirect language Axonius used to describe his competence to guide the caucus.
“But I was watching him intently, Synapo, then and again when I gave my harsh assessment of him. He may even be dangerous to Axonius and to me, but he’s going to hold you responsible for his downfall, and you’re the target he’ll be focusing on.”
“Perhaps, but there’s little you or I can do about that,” Synapo said. “His danger to the future of the tribes, at least, has been eliminated by his departure from the elite. That was my primary concern.”
“He’s still a danger to the tribes so long as he can get at you and me. And what about Axonius? Where does he stand in the elite now? He helped save your hide.”
“I’m not sure at this point. This has been a rather full day. I’m too exhausted to think clearly now.”
“I was impressed with his handling of the caucus, Synapo.”
“And so was I.”
“I’ll leave you now. May Petero guide your deliberations.”
“You agree that the alien proposal for cohabitation should be given a fair trial?”
“I’ll not argue that,” Sarco said, “not after what you’ve been through. Yes, we’ll postpone closure of the weather node compensator indefinitely.”
He glided away. Synapo balled and immediately closed and inflated his reflector to its full extent, suitable for high-altitude cerebrations.
Although his storage cells were still critically low, and though his cerebrations in reflection mode would use a modest amount of juice, he could recharge to full capacity as he leisurely beat his way back from wherever the gentle air currents would take him during his silvery ruminations.
His first step in the direction of those ruminations had been taken when he reached stable altitude, and with only his hook, eyes, and primary vent protruding beneath the balloon, he surveyed the vast panorama.
The Ceremyons were far below him at optimum charge altitude, replenishing their juice stores in random flight circles that covered the globe in a loosely dispersed pattern up to the dusk band.
The dusk band was creeping toward him from the east — powered by the natural rotation of his world and his slow easterly drift — delineating day from approaching night that was just barely visible as a thin black crescent sliced from the edge of the globe.
From such high altitude, he appeared to have drifted very little from the point where he had ballooned. The compensator with the pie-cut sector lay only a small way to the west.
He closed his eyes, purging his mind of stress and strain which gradually faded away to a calm serenity.
And he slept.
He awoke to a star-studded frame surrounding the jet black circle of the planet. And his mind went immediately to Axonius, and to the answer to the question posed by Sarco as they parted that afternoon.
He would keep Axonius as his second in command. To discard a competent aide who was now all the more valuable for the lesson he had just learned, and all the more loyal for the gratitude he could not help but feel, would be to exercise a petty vengeance that was not characteristic of the statesman Synapo.
That resolved the tribe’s hierarchical question, and the aliens had proposed a course that they felt promised harmonious cohabitation. He had no more problems at that moment, questions perhaps, but no problems, for he did not consider Neuronius a problem apart from the day-to-day governing of the Cerebrons; and the only worthy question that remained — the question of the possible superiority of the aliens — he could do nothing to answer right then.
Their small leader would make a friendly pet but was in no wise a threat, no more so than the servants, the Avery robots. The only question that remained was how did the small leader fit into the alien hierarchy, that part that still lay off-world.
He could do nothing to answer that question now. With a serene mind, he went back to sleep.
He awoke with his back to bright sunlight as he tossed quietly in the gentle turbulence created at the juncture of land and sea. Far to the west he could see the large node compensator with its pie-cut sector visible only as a small departure from perfect sphericity on the right side.
He deflated then, contracting the outer silvery surface of the six gores, and by that contraction, rolling the paper-thin hide into tight black rolls as the gores unsnapped at the continuous tongue-and-groove that kept them locked to one another while inflated.
The fluttering of the hide as he dropped through the thin air of the stratosphere was no competition for the powerful pull of the thin layer of smooth muscle that lay just below the silvery surface. Soon, all that was left of the balloon was a six-segment collar, visible only as a small bump in the black silhouette.
The ocean was still far below when he spread his wings at optimum charge altitude and started flapping with powerful strokes toward the compensator. Despite the night’s metabolic cleansing — the destruction and purging of waste products that constitutes rest — he felt stale and overworked. He missed that fresh shot of juice he had become accustomed to during the construction of the compensator, when he dipped his cold-junction into the icy water of the brook upon deflating in the early morning.
That was the only aspect of Sarco’s normal Myostrian routine that he would like to adopt as a permanent part of the Cerebron daily regime. The nomadic Cerebrons were never in one place long enough to find the icy brooks hidden in the forests scattered over their globe.
As he stroked west, his thoughts returned to Sarco’s warning the previous afternoon concerning the danger posed by his deposed lieutenant, Neuronius. He had been quick to dismiss Neuronius as an empty threat when there were more important things to think about, but now, with those other issues either decided or in a dormant state awaiting further data, he considered the unhappy plight of Neuronius. What, if anything, could he do to help him? Extreme irrationality like that exhibited by Neuronius was rare, almost nonexistent, among the Ceremyons. And being so rare, their society had not developed any truly effective remedies for want of suitable subjects to study.
Being sensitive and compassionate, indispensable qualities of a true statesman, Synapo had difficulty viewing the problem dispassionately. He put himself with his feelings in Neuronius’s position, trying to imagine how despondent Neuronius must feel at that moment. In his ignorance of the true nature of that irrationality, with his compassion clouding his judgment, he failed to appreciate the machinations possible by someone like Neuronius.
By dusk he was over the vast Forest of Respose, but still fifty kilometers from the Plain of Sereni
ty. Despite the exertion of flight, he had recharged his cells to eighty percent of full capacity, so he tethered that night in the treetops with a feeling of satisfaction. He had been so empty and so hungry for such a long time he felt almost like a glutton, nearly sated.
He arrived over the compensator early the next afternoon and took up his station circling above the center of the shimmering dome. Far below he could see the golden Wohler-9 standing on the west side of the dome opening. The small alien leader and her personal servant were sitting in the creation Wohler-9 called a lorry.
Synapo kept Axonius in suspense for another four hours, and then just before dusk he summoned him by radio.
“I’ll want you to accompany me to a meeting with the aliens at the usual time tomorrow morning. And notify Petorius that he is now a member of the elite.”
Saying nothing more, Synapo dropped to tether for the night in The Forest of Repose. That was how Axonius learned of his promotion and who would be the lucky Cerebron to come in at the bottom in the moves that would bump Neuronius from the top.
The next morning, Synapo was standing on the west side of the opening in the compensator with Axonius on his right, facing the small alien and her servant, the robot Jacob Winterson.
“My government has reconsidered your proposal for cohabitation of our planet, Miss Ariel Welsh,” Synapo said, opening the discussion, “and I am pleased to report that they reversed the position taken by our representatives during the last meeting with you.”
“That is good news, indeed,” the alien replied. “The dome will remain open then, so we may use it as a communications and transportation base?”
“If that is what you wish. What else is involved in this new proposal?”
“The Avery robots — like Wohler there — must be reprogrammed. That is no small undertaking. However, a task force I have summoned for that purpose will arrive late this afternoon.”
“I would like to meet with you and the leader of that task force tomorrow at this time,” Synapo said.
“For what purpose?” the small alien asked. “I doubt that he will be able to contribute anything of significance to our negotiations.”
“For the purpose of planning our mutual interaction in implementing your proposal and establishing a timetable for its completion. My Cerebrons are a nomadic tribe, anxious to be on the wing again. We have already stayed far longer at this Myostrian compensator than we find comfortable.
“If you can assure me that you are familiar with the details of reprogramming the Avery robots, then of course, the presence of the other leader would not be required. But you led me to believe otherwise.”
“Very well,” the small alien said. “We shall meet with you tomorrow morning.”
Good, Synapo thought. That meeting should show who is dominant — the he leader or the she leader — and should also resolve once and for all which species is superior, the Ceremyons or the aliens. He would like to think that it would make little difference in how the Ceremyons treated the aliens, but he knew otherwise; he knew that it would make a big difference, even to him, a statesman.
Chapter 15
REUNION
WOLRUF BROUGHT HER hyperspace jumper Xerborodezees down a half kilometer from the forest and a full kilometer from the line of robots and their vehicles streaming across the plain toward Oyster World’s robot city.
They had hardly touched down before a lorry started from the city across the deep, golden grass, laying a trail on the prairie that pointed toward the Xerborodezees like an elongating arrow.
Wolruf traveled light. She had stowed everything she needed in one small bag slung around SilverSide’s neck. The two of them were sitting at the top of the access ramp, from which they could look out over the tall, waving grass and watch the approaching lorry.
Stepping carefully between them, Mandelbrot had unloaded Derec’s gear from the ship by the time the lorry arrived. But SilverSide could clearly see and distinguish the two occupants of the open lorry long before it reached the ship, since both occupants were standing up.
“The one Derec calls Ariel, which is she?” SilverSide asked.
“The small one on ‘urn left,” Wolruf replied.
“Then the tall one must be the robot Jacob Winterson.”
“I’ve neverrr met ‘im, but I pressume so,” Wolruf said. “Jacob iss Ariel’s personal robot, and that body in the lorry certainly matches Derec’s description. ‘e looks’uman, but Derec said Ariel wass the only ‘uman on the planet, so that’s got to be Jacob.”
“Are the females always smaller and more delicate?”
“Generally. And that’s true of most animal species in the galaxy. I’m certainly smallerrr than my consort.”
“Yes, your library file told of you as a female,” SilverSide said. “And I’ve considered you so without fully understanding the deeper significance, which seems to exist beyond the functional reproductive purpose. Derec seems driven by many other emotions when he talks of Ariel.”
“Just as Beores wass driven by otherrr emotions when ‘e talked of Latiel.”
“I don’t understand. Who were they?”
“The first beingss that werrr created, according to ancient myths.”
“Not the first humans. That would be Adam and Eve, according to the library history files.”
“Okay, put it in ‘uman terms. The first man and the first woman.”
“And do all males have this strong affinity for females?”
“Mostly. Some don’t, but they’rn a small minority.”
“I can understand that such a feeling is necessary to promote the reproduction of the species. But Derec’s emotions seem involved with feelings far beyond simple procreation. And that is confusing beyond even the confusion — my lack of understanding — of the nature of biological emotions in general.”
“Emotions can be just as confusing to those experiencing them,” Wolruf said, “so ‘urn confusion iss understandable and nothing to worry about.”
“Worry?” SilverSide said as though she were considering the idea for the first time. “Is that an emotion?”
“‘es. All this concern’u seem to ‘ave over the sexes doess seem to amount to worry, wouldn’t ‘u say?”
“A perturbation of some sort from a mean of some sort is the only way I can express it — something which I would rather didn’t continue, but which I don’t seem able to prevent.”
“A good description of worry,” Wolruf said.
“Then I shall so tabulate it in a catalog of emotions which I shall now begin to prepare, hoping that by defining them I can come to know and recognize them as the first step in learning to control them.”
“A worthy project which could quite likely drive ‘u nuts,” Wolruf said.
“Nuts?”
“Forget it. It iss not an emotion. But I’ll tell ‘u an emotion I am feeling: joy. It’s been a year or more since I’ve seen Ariel and felt the simple joy of being with ‘errr.”
With that Wolruf dashed down the ramp, for the lorry had pulled up beside the pile of Derec’s luggage and equipment.
Ariel stepped down from the near side of the lorry as Wolruf extended herself to her full height and wrapped her arms around Ariel.
Neither said anything, but both had tears in their eyes as they separated and stood looking at one another.
SilverSide put tears down as a possible external sign of emotion, unintentionally beginning a catalog of associated symptoms that later — as her knowledge increased — she would identify by the term body language.
“‘u’re a blessed experience after a dreary period,” Wolruf said.
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes,” said Ariel. “Where’s Derec?”
“We had to leave ‘im behind on the wolf planet,” Wolruf said.
The look of consternation that immediately came to Ariel’s face also went into SilverSide’s catalog, but she could only tag it with the word lie that she knew to be not an emotion, but rather a lack of
truth-telling by Wolruf. Still, she had nothing else to tag it with for the time being.
And then Ariel’s look changed to joy as Derec appeared on the ramp beside SilverSide.
“You scamp,” Ariel said, grinning at Wolruf.
Wolruf gargled phlegm, a sound symptom SilverSide had long since associated with Wolruf and her strange affinity for what Derec called humor.
Ariel and Derec met in the middle of the ramp and hugged one another and pressed lips.
The look of joy had to be catalogued adjacent to the emotion of joy, for Wolruf had already defined what it was they were feeling when they met once again after so long a time. The same must be true of Ariel. But joy still had no personal connection with SilverSide, and so was only a word and a symptom in a file, and incomplete without SilverSide’s own positronic potential pattern.
Worry she now understood. Joy she did not.
And yet — it suddenly came to her — she, too, had met beings she was very close to after a period of separation, as she had when Derec, Wolruf, Mandelbrot, and she had gone on the outing in the forest, and she had gone looking for LifeCrier and the rest of the pack and had brought them back to meet Wolruf.
Seeing LifeCrier after all that time had disturbed her, and it was a disturbance that she welcomed and would seek to experience again. Her memory brought forth that old positronic potential pattern, and she knew then that she could put it in her catalog alongside the word and the body language for the emotion joy.
But those were minor things in the confusion of her thinking. It was the inexplicable nature of the biological sexes — and not in their function of reproduction — that was disturbing her most acutely that afternoon. And to a lesser extent, she was still disturbed by a lingering doubt as to who was the more intelligent, and so, the more human — Derec or Wolruf.
Small though it was, doubt still remained, but only because of the importance of the judgment that could affect the life and death of the two if she were required to choose between them in a life-threatening situation.
Did she consider herself to be more male than female because Derec had proved more intelligent in that first basic contest, the one that pitted the female KeenEye against the male Derec? Did she lean toward the male gender for that reason? After that contest she had certainly been more comfortable under the Derec imprint. He had opened a whole other world to her, he and his library files.