by Geary Gravel
Point being? The distance recorded by the droshky between
One and Two tallied precisely with that lying between Two and Three. Likewise Three and Four, Four and Five, Five and Six. Further point being that at a given time each kin must occupy exactly the same spot in its estate as each of its neighbors, an observation which I verified last night, using lifeseeker enhancement on holos made by the robot probes. They remain at all times equidistant from one another. Astounding in its implications!
Can this be possible? So far it checks. So even the apparently aimless wandering within the boundaries is planned, coordinated. How? Why?
I have decided that we two should split up, Jack staying here while I go on to Four-Summer. Then we can observe two individuals simultaneously. Jack is not happy with the plan, but I have convinced him of its importance, and he is willing to wait for the aircar which I have requested them to send us from the Hut. Tomorrow I will move on, and when the aircar arrives we will be in contact again and able to compare notes.
And what if they stand together, sit together, eat together, blink together? What then?
Ten days later:
I believe that I understand the movement of the network now, or at least a part of it.
Consider again the great slow circle made by the kin in their territorial webs: endlessly turning around and around, like insects riding the spokes of a wheel. It is not, as I had originally thought, the transitory effects of climatic variation the kin are seeking in their ceaseless march, for the weather here follows a different cycle, meshed at another level. It seems to vary consistently all over the habitable portion of the globe: there is no one location on either continent where the rain is more frequent, or the winds stronger, or the skies significantly brighter.
So why do they move? For a while it seemed plausible that the constant migration served to allow them to forage over different areas of food production, but I have had to discount this theory also; the kin eat nothing but the redfruit, and the black trees which provide it seem to be plentiful anywhere— and only where—there are kin to be fed.
I have a theory to explain the motion.
I have noted that Belthannis rotates quite perpendicular to the plane of its orbit around Pwolen's Star. So there is of course no seasonal change, and all climatic variations are actually stable, geographically frozen.
Theory: It has long been accepted that the great change of seasons plays an instrumental part in accelerating evolution on lifebearing worlds, by forcing life forms to develop the ability to adapt. Now suppose the kin are sent whirling over the surface of their world, not for a change of menu or scenery, but to give them seasons, an unceasing progression from cold to cool to warm to warmer, around and around on the spokes of their invisible wheels for an entire simulated year of change!
This theory carries with it implications which are disturbing at the least. Why should they have seasons, when they do not change? Because they evolved as we did, on a world with seasons? My mind tips with fantastic speculation.
There is something wrong here—or ecstatically right, depending on one's willingness to accept absolute perfection on a planetary scale.
I have found another movement to the great migration.
The great circles of Continents Wun and Tu walk as they turn. They wobble.
They are not as I had thought, giant wheels pinned through the hub to the centers of their respective continents. This morning in my computations a new movement surfaced: the circle walks as it turns here, very slowly, walks up and down the face of the continent. Continent Wun is shorter, but wider, by the way, and the length of time the territories spend at any one point over there turns out to be adjusted accordingly.
But why does the circle creep as it spins? Why this first bit of excess, this flaw, this wobble?
I am half happy to find it, I think, because it injects chance and reality back into a pattern that was growing too predictable for comfort. But I am also disappointed by this break in the chain. Still another part of me—the illogical third half that Jefany teases me about—is skeptical, having wholeheartedly trusted in the way of this world up till now: that part of me says there is a reason.
There is a reason.
I've found my why to explain the wobble.
It is because my previous assumption was dead wrong: the seasons do change by themselves here. They change very gradually, because Belthannis is in a widely elliptical orbit around Pwolen's Star, and the true year of Belthannis is almost five thousand of our Basic Days long; there are fourteen of our years to the year of Belthannis, almost four to a season—slow seasons, but they're there. And the temperature changes accordingly—by twenty degrees, thirty? Raising the equatorial day perhaps thirty degrees between Elliptical Winter and Elliptical Summer. Not a great change, perhaps, a rise in thirty degrees over the whole globe, but apparently enough to send the "wheel" up toward the pole during this period, and then gradually down to center on the equator again for the rest of the long year. It may even be, and here we dash into the realm of pure supposition, that the wobble itself is a great circle, taking two full revolutions about the primary to complete: that this past Elliptical Summer, the kin were all busy migrating to the tip of Continent Wun, for example, and that they are now beginning to circle down so as to arrive at the equator by mid-Winter, after which it will be on to the southern tip of the continent for next Summer. Maybe no more than wishful thinking on my part, but the argument for symmetry on all levels is so strong here that I find myself becoming quite arrogant in my demands.
The need for absolute perfection turns out to be a very easy habit to acquire.
2
Jefany backed up against the trunk of an ivory-yellow tree and stood there watching as tendrils of unease curled through her spine and stomach.
They had the kin in the frame again, lightlines spangling hair and bare flesh as March alternately struck and fondled the mutable control panel bobbing at his side.
They were working on something fairly complex today, the activity centered at belly-waist-pelvis-thighs, and a kaleido—
scopic circle of hands touched and fled from that area repeatedly, probing, guiding, pressing. Jefany turned her cheek to the smooth, sunwarm wood, seeing in minute detail the tiny patterns on the pale bark.
She turned back and saw a series of violent muscle spasms quake the brown legs. She closed her eyes, pressing her cheek hard against the wood.
The scheme was working—they were starting to call him to them.
She had not expected that.
In the beginning they had watched it from across a great gulf. How could she fear for it then, when what it was meant they could not even touch it, let alone cause it harm?
But then they had put it in a box, and something else had dropped into the box with it, and when the show was over what had climbed out was no longer exactly what had gone in.
And then they were calling him. With wires about his head and limbs, they were pulling him toward them over that chasm, until soon he would be quite close, near enough for them to reach out and finally lay hands upon him, yanking him from the void and severing who knew how many ties and umbilicals to set the fetters of a new world on him.
They were calling. The call had not changed, but the creature had, and where it could not have heard them, she felt sure that he must—and, hearing, have no choice but to heed their call.
One cool day March appeared at the door to Raille's room and asked her to come out to the eastern meadow with him, grunting by way of explanation only that he needed her to watch something.
Whatever it was, they were all in on it, she saw.
Choss waved to her a bit sheepishly from the edge of the field where he sat with the others beneath a cluster of tall, brilliantly colored parasols. The Dancer guided her out into the silver center and left her there, standing face to face with the kin and feeling like a fool.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Marysu moving to
a
better vantage point a few meters from the rest of the Group.
Apprehension began to feather lightly in her stomach.
Then March returned, patterning board in hand, and bent like a confidant at the kin's side, his sand-colored lips moving close to the dark ear. The creature seemed to tremble, and Raille felt a stab of sympathy.
But March was already backing away, his clinical gaze divided between Raille and the kin.
Suddenly the dark head moved: left, then right, then left again, swinging in a slow arc that made her think of a hook sinking through the water. March darted forward long enough to tap twice on the brown back, and the body went rigid, the head snapped stiffly erect. The kin turned abruptly and took several steps forward, lurching slightly, one knee bending too far, the other unnaturally stiff.
"Interference. Pattern conflict." March scowled and thumbed coded notes into his wrist journal.
The creature came to a halt in front of Raille, bowed once like a hinged toy, and stood straight again. Its right hand quivered to life and shot out in her direction.
"Take it," March said. "Take the hand."
But Raille swayed back, fighting a rising urge to turn and run. She looked fearfully for Choss, but March was there to intercept her eyes with his polished green.
"Take the hand," he ordered. "Little Worker needs the cue."
She obeyed, inching her fingers toward the motionless palm. When she touched the warm flesh the fingers snapped shut without warning. The pressure lasted only an instant, then the hand sprang open, the wrist was jerked back, the arm pivoted at the elbow and swung down again.
Raille stumbled to one side, fingers throbbing, her breath quick and shallow. March put his hand on her arm and kept her from retreating. "Wait. More."
The kin stood with its face averted, as if, she imagined, in shame at its ungracious behavior. Then the trembling began again, as both of the creature's arms moved out and upward. The slender hands hovered in midair and shook violently, the brown fingers writhing at her.
"There," March said. "See? A surprise. Is it right?"
"See—what?" She tried to look away to where the Group sat watching, to find Choss or Emrys or the empath. Marysu
was gesturing impatiently for her attention, pointing toward the kin.
"Look at him, look at the hands!"
She followed the gesture with her eyes. The mad trembling had lessened as the writhing of the fingers grew slower, more ordered. She began to see it.
1...COME...TO...
"Paba!" Raille held her breath, stared in horror as the thing spoke to her in the still voice of her grandfather, the cherished, silent tongue she had brought with her to this place, and which still served as a link to the peace and serene wisdom she associated with the old man.
/... COME. ..TO... YOU.. .IN. ..FRIENDSHIP....
"Stop it!" She twisted wildly, pushed at March's hand. "Turn it off!"
"Not right?" March released her, frowning in annoyance at the creature.
Raille staggered to the other side of the clearing, away from the others. She reached one of the leafless black trees at the forest's edge and placed her back against it, staring fiercely into the sky, willing the high silver to come into her brain and cleanse it of the memory of the halting, mechanical hands...
/... COME ...TO... YOU...
She saw Choss finally from the corner of her eye. He was gazing anxiously in her direction, but he would not leave the ring of observers.
Coward! I hate you, she thought, and he turned away as if struck.
Marysu's cool voice penetrated the silver: "No, no, there was a repetition... of course, I'm sure—do you think I don't know this language? Some of the signs were slurred, as well... that's your problem. We'll just have to keep working on it. It's the only way to prepare him to receive my language when it's finished."
CHAPTER 14
You ask us to teach you how to bring order out of
chaos.
1 look around me and see no chaos. Perhaps you should ask to be taught how to see.
REMARK ATTRIBUTED TO THE ELYIN LORD LO
I
Three hours past midnight, soft light suddenly began to glow in the deserted Hearth Room, the three wanderlights clustered in the dome blossoming into points of pink, gold, and amber. The empath came through the archway and strode to the empty table. Leaning forward at the table's edge, he touched the hidden strip which would bring the master keyboard into view, then settled into a chair.
There was no response from the table. After thirty seconds had passed, he pressed the strip again.
"I'm afraid it isn't working," a voice remarked from above his head. "The manual controls have developed a slight malfunction. I am engaged in repairing them at this moment."
Another halt-minute elapsed in silence. The empath leaned to the side and probed once again beneath the table.
"My sincere apologies for this inconvenience, Per Chassman. A terrible disruption in your carefully regulated routine, I realize, but I chose this hour to begin work on the control system because it has heretofore been the period of least usage. Fortunately, it is only the direct-access portion of the device which is inoperative. I can swiftly provide you with whatever sustenance you require from the table unit. You need only ask."
The empath moved from his seat to kneel beside the table. He tilted his head, peering at the smooth undersurface.
"I sympathize with your dilemma," the voice continued in a conversational tone. "You wish broth from the table in order to sustain your life, but cannot respond to the suggestions of a 'speaking mechanism,' lest you belie your professed inability to comprehend its words."
Chassman rose slowly, looked about the room with his dark eyes, then walked to a display of fossilized sea plants. Breaking off a long spine of petrified matter, he resumed his place at the underside of the table and began to pry deliberately at the seam of the sensor strip.
"No, 1 really cannot allow this," the voice said from above. "Please forgive me." There was a soft hiss and the spine crumbled to dust in his hand. He sat on the floor unmoving, staring at his empty palm.
"One of the advantages of being semivolitional, you know. I may speak without first being spoken to, for example, as well as make my own decisions on matters not requiring direct human input. The marine plant was of negligible value, but this table is genuine oke, you understand, and very old. It would be a pity for it to suffer damage unnecessarily."
The empath shifted slightly in place, lifting his sleek head to search the room.
"I hope you are not viewing this interaction in oversimplified terms, Per Chassman," the voice continued after a pause. "Machine-that thinks like a man versus man that acts like a machine. . Nothing could be less accurate. What we are actually experiencing is a carefully considered experiment in the form of a structured confrontation between two highly complex individuals. Semivolitional means a will, you see, though only within
certain strict parameters. I am not in complete control of my destiny, you might say. However, I am allowed a modicum of curiosity, as long as it does not interfere with my duties. And I must confess that I have been brooding about you for some time. It is a pastime I seem to have acquired from some of my inhabitants. The crux of the matter is that although I am mandated by Law and design to serve and obey human beings, I am not entirely certain that you satisfy the criteria of that classification. My Library informs me that the theory prevalent on your own world is that you have evolved past humanity, and have little more than physical appearance in common with those you call 'touch-men.' If true, does this render me immune to your commands? I wonder.
"I myself am what is loosely referred to as a machine intelligence, cast and grown at Sashfax Manufactory on World Bluehorn, and later placed in this domicile at the behest and considerable expense of World Lekkole, to be a medium of comfort and utility for the Sessept Emrys and his associates. I am truly a machine, which means that beyond all secondary directives I am to remain subordi
nate to human beings, except in certain extraordinary situations. Yet I am also an intelligence, which encourages me to conjecture and to construct a coherent view of the universe in which I find myself. I must admit that I have encountered some obstacles recently in attempting to place you and your fellow communicants within that universe. Fish or fowl, I cannot decide.
"Of course, placing myself and the others like me has so far proved a task of equal difficulty. Whether a construct such as myself can rightfully lay claim to an T is at this moment being debated by the savants of numerous worlds, but if we allow the pronoun for semantic ease, then I may point out that I was originally envisioned as an ovoid of bluish hue, a small malachite egg shot through with silver threads, and suspended in the nodal relay located between what is now the Hearth Room dome and the second level. But is that where / reside? My sensory and manipulative extensions permeate this dwelling, and may even leave it by use of the contact ring, and I am everywhere and nowhere at once, to speak with poetic flexibility."
Chassman was sitting quietly on the floor next to the table,
his knees bent and his head resting lightly against the rim of pale oke.
"I can be certain of only one thing, you see: that I think, that I reason. Yet what does that tell me? Cogito ergo cogito. And what lies beyond that? I cautiously aver that if I am not alive, then I simulate the business of living to an astonishing degree. If I am not a sentient creature, then University itself is in need of new definitions."
There was a long silence in the softly lit room.
"Can you truly not perceive me, Per Chassman? Why do you ignore me? What is it that I lack? Do you really feel nothing as you sit there needing broth—a troubling of air molecules about your head, localized sonic vibrations, nothing more?
The voice of the Hut was silent again, until at last the empath moved, rising slowly to his feet.
"I am not pleased with myself, Per Chassman, if it is any consolation to you. Please accept my profoundest apologies. 1 am frankly amazed that I have been able to deal with you in this cavalier manner. Does this indicate that you are not a human being, after all, or simply that 'semivolitional' involves far more latitude of action than my makers foresaw? At any rate, my deeds are probably indefensible. I sought to find a way to touch you, you see, to establish some form of interface between us, and it seemed a worthy undertaking."