by John Barnes
Halfway into Thorwald's shift, it was completely dark, the clouds covering the moon again, and I had turned on the lights. I fiddled with them now, trying to tune them to get the right colors for the tapestry; what I needed was not just Arcturus's spectrum, which after all was in the database, but Arcturus's spectrum after entering through clerestory windows and bouncing off the rough surface of mica-rich pink granite vaulting. Back home I could simply have ordered a spectro of it, but I had discovered that pending the opening of the Bazaar, data was not being passed between the two cultures except in letters, and I doubted very much that Marcabru would be willing to send me the twenty or so pages of it. If, in fact, he ever wrote.
"It's a little dim to read the bottles," Thorwald said.
I copied the best approximation I had come up with so far into the lights' memory and then switched it up the local standard, Flat Amber.
Turning back to the console, I heard something that was almost a gasp. I looked up again in time to catch Thorwald ducking, a blush spreading over the part of his forehead I could see. "Almost drop something?"
"No, I just looked up, and um—well, the cloth things on the wall are really bright. It kind of did something to me."
I walked over to the bar and studied him intensely, but he didn't look up. I turned to look at the tapestry.
I had known that the light was wrong, so I had paid no attention to it. The dark richness of Occitan tapestries comes from the combination of brilliant dyes with Arcturus's red light, the same way that some Old Masters paintings get their rich subtle shading from the darkening of their varnish.
"It's called a tapestry," I said, trying to sound completely casual. Please, please, let there be some residual traces of esthetic sense in these icy pragmatic barbarians. "Do you like what it makes you feel?"
He was looking, now, closely, and said, "Yap. I think I do, I really do. Is that what it's for, like a way to focus your feelings?"
"That's not a bad description." I could refine his esthetic language later; right now I was overjoyed to find an esthetic sense, however misguided.
He flushed a little. "I thought it was ... well, to keep the wall warm. Not literally, I mean, like a blanket, but to insulate the room air from the cold wall. I'd heard in school that your houses were cold so I figured that must be what the travesty is for."
"Tapestry," I said, holding my voice neutral. On the other hand this might be a very long couple of years. "Did you notice it before I yellowed the light and turned it up?"
"Well, I did, but ... um—"
Thorwald looked a lot like Marcabru had, long ago, when I'd caught him in bed with my first real entendedora, just before we'd fought our first real duel. I said, "Let me show you something. If you don't mind being a research subject, instead of a robot, for a few minutes?"
It was the wrong thing to say. "Oh, nop, nop, I really shouldn't do anything but the work. That's what the shift is for. I don't know what got into me." He turned back to the bar and started diligently putting bottles where they belonged. I considered kicking him.
"It's called an esthetic experience," I said. "That's what got into you. A lot of people have them—they're harmless, but I'm afraid there's no cure. At least none I know of. Here in Caledony there may very well be a cure, come to think of it."
He kept loading bottles in, but I could see him stiffen all over. "You're making fun of me."
I had been, so naturally I denied it strenuously and apologized as much as I could. "Look," I said, when he finally looked up at me. "There are some things I really want to show you. Can you hang around for half an hour or so after your shift if over, so we can talk about them? I'll even compensate you with a meal, in exchange for being my research subject."
"I guess so." He set the last few bottles into the bar, making soft resonant thumps. "What needs doing next?"
"Hanging the chandeliers in the Dance Room." I led him down there, and handed him the specs.
He glanced at them and nodded. "It says one tenth of a percent off spec on everything. Why?"
"Just a little bit of fuzziness gives an effect that's a little warmer and more human. If you want, set it on exact, then on the fuzzed effect, and you'll see the difference."
"Ah, nop, that's—"
"Look at it this way. It's easier to have you see it for yourself than it is for me to explain it, so you're saving me work. You aren't required to work exactly like a robot, are you? Because the robot would have to keep doing trial and error on it, generate twenty or thirty settings, and then ask me which one I wanted. If you can see colors at all, you should be able to get it right all by yourself—as long as you compare the exact with the fuzzed-up versions."
He hesitated for a long breath; then all the air came out of his lungs and he relaxed a little. "Well, put like that, I guess you're right. We're supposed to do the robot's job to the best of our abilities, and it's fine if those exceed the robot's. Sorry I'm such a stiffneck."
"I've met worse," I said, referring to practically every other Caledon. "Call if you need help." I thought that if I didn't hang around and press him, maybe he'd be able to enjoy it more.
My feet made an oddly hollow ring on the sprung floor, not yet detuned to deaden the sounds.
While he worked on the chandeliers, I put in the time you always do with a new building, checking for errors. Construction software is always buggy, by definition a robot can't look for trouble when you don't know yourself what trouble looks like until you see it, and with the kind of cold drafts they could have on Nansen, I didn't want loose joints caused by over- or under-growing.
I found three loose joints where the growth nanos would have to be restarted, and one big tumor in a crawl space, the concrete already pitting around the shapeless apple-sized lump as malignanos stripped the wall to feed the tumor.
I sent in the report on all of that to the construction contractor, who downloaded the right software to the building system to get it all fixed. I noted to myself that I would have to go back and see what was happening in a couple of days.
When I went back down to the Dance Room, Thorwald was just tuning the last green on the last laser for the last chandelier, and fifteen minutes were left in his shift "Did you try putting it in and out of tune?"
"Yap. I saw what you meant, though I sure would never have known anything like that happened."
For the remaining time, I put him to unpacking caps of books and racking them in the library, then went down to the kitchen to start the meal.
Since Thorwald was a Caledon, I held spices to a bare minimum, but since he looked young, I made the portions extra-large. When he came by, after his shift, he wanted to pay, saying that the meal was too much for just answering a few questions. I let him, but couldn't resist adding that "once this place is officially in operation, people will have to follow Occitan customs at least part of the time. Every now and then they'll have to accept getting a meal without paying for it, just because we want to give it to them."
He tried a couple of bits and then his cheeks bunched up in a smile. "This is wonderful! I've never tasted anything like it before. But I'm glad I tried it now before you're officially open. Otherwise I'd have been so put off by that guest idea that I might never have found out I liked this."
I just blurted out the obvious question. "What's so bad about being a guest?"
He shrugged at first, taking another bite and enjoying it; but as he chewed, his face became thoughtful, and by the time he had swallowed, he was obviously struggling with the question. "You know," he finally said, "I think it's just what they tell us all in school. And now that I think of it, maybe some of it is wrong, or misleading, or something."
I took a couple of bites myself. I had cooked it well enough, but it was still pretty bland; I wondered how he could taste anything but the plain ingredients. Yet I noticed he was drinking quite a bit of water with it, as if he needed to cool his mouth regularly. "What do they tell you in school?" I asked, after a while. I pushed abou
t half the money he had paid for dinner back at him. "And this is for being a consultant on the issue, so I don't have to feel guilty about asking a lot of nosy questions."
He accepted it without comment. At last he said, "They say that even though you don't exchange money, you do exchange favors, and that unlike money, you can't really compare favors, so anyone in a relationship is always going to feel both guilty and exploited at the same time."
"Guilty and exploited about what?"
"Well, inequality, I guess. The feeling that you either got a deal that was too good from the other guy, or gave him more than it was worth." He wasn't looking up at me anymore; he concentrated on tearing apart a chunk of bread to dip in his soup. "That's what they told us. Sounds like it wasn't true."
I was about to agree, vehemently, that it wasn't, but it occurred to me that the most basic rule of enseingnamen— something I could remember my mother telling me as soon as I could understand—was that anyone truly gens will always try to give more than anyone else in his surroundings (though of course you're expected to be gracious about, and fulsome in praise of, gifts from others). "Let's say it's not that there isn't truth in it, just that it's not the whole truth and it really isn't the way things feel to the people doing them. It's as if people from Nou Occitan were to say that people on Caledon will do anything for money. It's not true, but you can distort the real world enough to make it seem true."
He ate a couple of bites, still not looking up at me, and I hoped I had not made him angry. I also reflected that in my last two letters to Marcabru, who had still not written back, I had said exactly that.
When he looked up, though, I realized he had been almost unable to breathe from laughing. "That's a great example," he said. "I have a lot of friends who would think that was pretty funny—you can always get a laugh by making fun of anything we learned in school."
"Since I'm a guest in this culture," I said, "I'll try to leave that to you." And I reminded myself strongly to do it. As resistant as these people had been made to art, culture, and beauty, I would have to lead them gently to it, not mock or scourge them for their esthetic inadequacy.
We finished the meal with a good sharp cheddar and a sweet pear. Thorwald, it turned out, had failed his first try to qualify for higher education, not for not being bright enough, but for lacking a command of theology. "I'm just not that mathematical," he said, shrugging. It didn't seem to be a sore spot with him, but reading between the lines I soon realized that it was fairly important to his parents, especially to his mother, who was on staff for the Council of Rationalizers.
When we had thrown the dishes into the regenner to be melted down and recast, I took him back up to the Lounge to show him the tapestries in their proper red lighting. He could see the richness of color but still liked their garish, clashing glare in amber light better. I supposed anyone who grew up in Utilitopia, with its monochrome of fog, black rock, and dingy pastel concrete, must be starved for color. Sophistication could come later. Besides, using his interest in color, I could lead him to the prints and vus, giving me a chance to lead him into giving me some unofficial reviews of the topics I was planning to offer.
In five minutes, I was back to thinking of him as a barbarian. Dueling arts repelled him as "teaching people to hurt each other." He couldn't seem to conceive of dance except as "a complete waste of motion, not even optimized for exercise." And although he had really enjoyed the meal, as far as he could see cooking classes would hopelessly enmesh everyone in mutual obligation.
At least poetry and music attracted him, and he seemed pleased that I had hired Bieris to offer a painting class, and would throw in the basic Occitan language course free to anyone who enrolled in three or more other classes.
"Well," I said, finally, having drawn as much out of him as I could, "it sounds as if I have at least one student. Thanks for your feedback. I guess I should let you go."
I walked with him back down to the door by the trakcar stop; it was now blind dark outside, the moon already gone and still three hours till the day's second sunrise. A thought came to me, and I said, "I'm going to need a janitor, according to your local labor laws. You want the job? There's a small apartment that comes with it, if you're tired of living with your parents."
He seemed startled and pleased, but he hesitated a moment. "Uh, I hate to take advantage of you. You ought to know that I don't have the money for a decent bribe. That's a good job and it would go for a lot. Just giving it away like that—the peeps might haul you in for a Rationality Check."
"No problem," I said, after thinking for just a moment. What were the peeps? I would have to check with Bruce. "It's only a two-hour job as it stands. The rest of the time I'll train you, and eventually use you, as a dueling arts instructor. Hard, painful, and morally repugnant work shouldn't look too attractive for you to afford to buy the job."
"That will work, no question." I liked the way he grinned. "Yes, I'll take the deal. I'll send in a credit transfer tonight, say 25:05 if you list it at twenty-five o'clock." We shook hands on it.
Much later, he told me that it was only after he got home and took the job that he realized he had been delighted to get work that was hard, painful, and morally repugnant.
As I walked into the conference room at the Pastorate for Market Function, later that afternoon, Bieris and Aimeric had six displays up on the screens. They were putting together the master model; Ambassador Shan and the Reverend Peterborough sat in the back, watching intently and occasionally murmuring to each other.
"As the last one in," Aimeric said, "you win the honor of doing datahunt. Over on that terminal there's a list of the questions that none of the automated seekers could find answers to. I'd like you to find them. As soon as you find one, attach it to the question flag and it will autotransmit into the master program."
I sat down and got to it. Meanwhile Bieris and Aimeric completed laying in the model.
The first one I managed to get a handle on was "response time of average size of potatoes sold to change in price differential with respect to size." A couple of minutes later I found a way to get "rate of change in hem length of ceremonial kilts with respect to average hem length." This was going to be a long afternoon.
Since I was doing the harder ones last, the times between my sending in results got steadily longer. As that happened, Aimeric and the others had more time to see what each change was doing to the model, and I could heard a lot of excited babble, but with four of them talking, and needing all my concentration for what I was doing, I wasn't sure what it was all about.
The last few pieces of information I put together took eight or ten minutes for each, burning up a lot of time on very wide-angle associative searches. As I did them, I had more time between system responses to hear the others talking. "But isn't it bizarre, Mr. de Sanha Marsao?" Shan was asking. "Why should it work out that way?"
"It does seem a little perverse to have all unknown values, when they're put in, push the system in the same direction," Reverend Peterborough added. "And perhaps a little blasphemous to have that direction be as unpleasant as it can possibly be. Do I take it correctly that there's no way this could just be a simple error in your model?"
Aimeric sighed and said it was always possible; he said something else, probably just getting the Ambassador to call him by his first name. (Come to think of it, I didn't know where the Ambassador was from originally—was Shan a given, clan, family, locative, or honorific name? I never did find out.) I had results coming in, so I missed what came next, but as the next search began to run, Aimeric was still talking—"... entirely consistent-with-theory reason for it to do this."
The report came back and now I saw how to get this next-to-last one, raw asteroid metal prices versus value added in retarded corrosion of durable hand tools. I pulled it together, at last, and sent it in, making the model dance around again.
They fell silent as they watched it, and I went on to work on the final problem, probability of diversion of reso
urces into terraforming as a function of rise in price of agricultural land. I brute-forced that one—simply letting it find every land sale since the beginning of the colonies of Caledony and St. Michael, and every purchase related to terraforming in every budget, figuring changes in the former and opportunity costs in the latter. With just over four hundred million values to calculate on land prices, and just under eighty billion purchases, I set up a lag nine permutation to be estimated; probably this would take a full minute, so I just sat back to listen again.
"That curve jumps like a shocked snake," Bieris said, at last.
"Yeah." Aimeric's fingers flew over the console.
"What's going on?" Shan didn't seem to be asking anyone directly.
Aimeric explained. "In some systems things don't balance; they reinforce. This algorithm was using interpolated values from other economies in other cultures to fill in for' things it didn't have. It was depending on those to hold down the extremes of the function. But since Caledony's economy is actually out in an extreme corner position in the system-state space, all the estimated values were much less extreme than the real ones. So every time we got another accurate piece of data, it made the model's behavior more extreme—and increased the compensation being loaded onto the remaining estimates. So every new true value that came in produced a bigger jump, by hitting a more heavily loaded estimate."
Peterborough got up and walked over to the screen, almost pressing her nose to it as she stared at the wildly swinging curves that played through the forecast of the next nine stanyears. "You know," she said quietly, "I have said in dozens of sermons that we on Caledony have built an absolutely unique civilization. And now I find myself flabbergasted to discover that it is true." Her eyes followed the streaking curve again, and then she nodded slowly, as if it had told her everything.
"Maybe there's some basic error?" Shan did not sound hopeful.
Aimeric started to answer, but Peterborough cut in. "No, there's none. I've done the little bit of economic planning this culture is willing to admit to for the last ten years, and if I had been thinking, I'd have expected this." She shook her head slowly. "Aimeric, I am very glad you're here. I am quite sure I'm the only cabinet-level Pastor who is, however."