Invitations: A Foreigner Short Story

by C. J. Cherryh

  He could put plead inexperience. He could pay for it out of his salary. That was what he would have to say.

  Damn. He had to talk to the pair about that. They had to consult him before doing something like this.

  Section 9

  Morning arrived and he had slept, uneasily and in fits and snatches.

  And the knock at the door was Moni and Taigi bringing in breakfast, setting it up on the little side table...

  Which meant he should have his bath and face the day and think how he was going to broach the matter of budget.

  And when he returned, in his bathrobe and barefoot, they had his clothing laid out, insistent on helping him dress before breakfast.

  Their help was a convenience, at least when it came to the shirt and coat: there was lace to cope with, cuffs that had to be gotten through the sleeves.

  Then there was the problem of eating, keeping his cuffs out of the plate, trying not to drop anything on his new clothes, with the two of them standing by and watching the performance. At one point Moni darted forward to prevent an accident with the cuff—it was a problem, and one he was going to have to solve.

  And maybe he should learn how to wear the clothes in his closet. He was going to live here. He was going, one day, to need to know these things. Wilson had lived here— in this one room with tired blue paint, had no staff, just read newspapers and collected words to add to the dictionary...

  Maybe Wilson hadn’t started that way; but he’d ended that way. The evidence of it, despite Wilson’s return to a University teaching post— was all around him. Was Wilson’s state of affairs at the end— the state of affairs in which he was going to spend his career?

  He hoped for things. He hoped for more than Wilson had done. He had a vision he wanted to bring. He didn’t want to jeopardize it by challenging any rules.

  Or by tucking in and tucking down too low, too snug.

  Moni and Taigi left him, taking the breakfast dishes. And in his own time, he walked to his office, settled in to read one of the newspapers, which shed ink on his hands— there was a need to be careful of that. He laid out a sheet of paper for note-taking— and realized a lace cuff sweeping across a still-damp note in ink was a great deal worse than a tea-stain. He started to lay down a second sheet of paper as a guard, then wondered about the use of a small polished stick he had taken for a paperweight, that lay atop the stack of paper.

  Resting his wrist on that while he wrote kept his fingers and cuffs safe. It set his hand at an awkward angle. But one could get used to it.

  Moni and Taigi arrived with tea— a surprise— and they brought several mail cylinders, two in his own cylinders, which was how one got back one’s own— they were replies. He guessed that.

  But one was red and black. Ragi heraldry. That got attention.

  The seal was not a Bujavid department.

  It was the aiji’s. Tabini’s.

  He carefully pried loose the seal, extracted the letter and unrolled it.

  God, had the bill hit Accounting?

  Or was it the security alert yesterday?

  Tabini aiji of the aishidi’tat

  to Bren paidhi-aiji.

  Your presence is required immediately in the Blue Hall.

  What had he fallen into?

  What else could he do?

  Moni and Taigi were waiting. Expecting an outcome. An instruction.

  Well, he said to himself, he simply had to do as the order said, and go find out whether there was a problem, whether he was going to be on the next plane headed for Mospheira, or whether— if there was a problem, if he didn’t panic— he might manage to talk his way out of it.

  First was figuring out where he was supposed to go.

  “Can you guide me to the Blue Hall, nadiin?”

  “Yes,” Taigi said. “Is there a problem, paidhi?”

  “I shall find out,” he said. He checked his cuffs. They were, thank God, innocent of ink. He drew a deep breath, felt his pocket for the keys, and said, resolutely: “Please show me the way, nadiin.”

  Section 10

  His wing of the Bujavid was, Bren had already figured, one of those places where the mass of the upper building extended wings like roots along the ridges of the hill. The upper building, the part of the building that showed to the world, was a massive block of pale brown stonework, dwarfing its occasional windows, and, from its center, extending one incredibly long run of steps and landings down to the city. He had seen the Bujavid from the outside as his plane was coming in— but that had been in the distance, too far for detail. There were very few photographs of it, most gleaned from atevi publications. There were diagrams, maps Wilson had made.

  And even in the larger sub-corridors— straight lines and right-angle intersections were still not necessarily the rule. Halls bent, curved, and intersected at angles. But with Moni and Taigi’s guidance, they came to three lifts with brasswork doors, in a very large, dimly lighted hallway.

  They boarded the first, Moni pushed a button— there were only three— and it ascended two floors to another hall.

  Ornate did not begin to describe it. It was a straight hall. A huge one. There were porcelain vases the size of a man, and others on marble plinths. Marble floors and gilt-edged, painted ceilings, ornate carpet runners that one knew were handwork— and this was just the side hall, where there was a bank of lifts.

  He was on, he guessed, the main, public floor of the Bujavid, and if that was so, he had a clear notion where he was. The intersecting hallway where the light came in— that was the location of the great Audience Hall, and just beyond it were the massive doors that led to the grand stairway and the city.

  Across from the Audience Hall was the Bujavid Museum— he hoped to be able to see that someday.

  And to the right of that intersection were the legislative halls, the committee rooms— he would see those, once the legislature went into session.

  “This way, paidhi,” Taigi said, and directed him across the hall from the lifts, where, a short walk up the carpeted hallway, were doors guarded by black-uniformed and armed Guild security. This, apparently, was their destination: this would be the Blue Hall.

  “Paidhi-nadi,” one of the guards said, expressionless, and opened the door immediately. “You are expected.”

  It was a huge room. Pale blue, baroque molding on a huge scale— carpets and wall hangings, a very little furniture. Another pair of guards stood just inside.

  And across the room, in an area of light, a desk. A man. Ateva— of course.

  The man looked up. Beckoned, in the atevi way, with one motion, and pushed his chair back.

  Bren walked forward, across carpet, across bare marble— sorting in his head everything he’d studied about meeting a superior. Prescribed distance. Manners. He stopped about four meters away, immediately gave a deep bow, held it three seconds, straightened.

  Tabini-aiji. Young— twenty-three; athletic build; taller than most. Eyes paler gold than most. Cold, Wilson had described that stare. Red and black brocade, black lace far finer and more abundant than what he’d had trouble keeping out of the ink.

  A little head-tilt, impatient, as good as, “Say something, fool. My time is valuable.”

  “Bren Cameron, nand’ aiji. You requested my presence.”

  A brow lifted. A second head-tilt, this one seeming ironic surprise.

  “You talk.”

  Wilson had written everything.

  “I came immediately as I had your message, nand’ aiji. I apologize: I have not yet written my first report. But I shall. Immediately.”

  “Shall you?” Tabini shoved his chair around, fully facing him. “Are you satisfied with your office? With your rooms?”

  Bow. Whenever a superior asked you a polite question, bow slightly before answering. “Yes, nand’ aiji.”

  “Your accent is quite good.”

  Bow. When a superior paid you a compliment, bow slightly and avoid babbling.

  “Thank you, nand’ aiji.
”

  “You approve your servants. Are they suitable?”

  One could go on bowing all day. Three was the fortunate limit. Watch the numbers. Never end up with even numbers of anything. “Yes, nand’ aiji.”

  “You had them arrested.”

  That was when one wanted to bow, duck one’s head and avoid that question. But he was out of bows, and embarrassment made it time to go into the modest dissociative mode. “One deeply apologizes, nand’ aiji. One received no papers. One was alarmed. One had no idea who to ask.” Three. Stop at three reasons. “Nand’ aiji.”

  “Your alarm paralyzed an entire wing of the Bujavid.”

  Now one bowed. “Nand’ aiji, one deeply regrets it.”

  Tabini extended his legs, ankles crossed, clasped his hands across his lap— looked at him and gave the ghost of a wry smile. “Wilson would not have accepted them had they come with a recommendation. You expected papers. You called security. You did the correct thing.”

  That was a relief. But one did not assume anything, where it regarded this man.

  “What is your age, paidhi?”

  “Twenty-three, nand’ aiji.”

  “The same as my years,” Tabini said. “But one suspects you already knew that.”

  “Everyone knows that, nand’ aiji.”

  Tabini gave a short, dubious laugh. “Everyone on Mospheira?”

  “Everyone in the Department of Linguistics, nand’ aiji, in the University of Mospheira. Everyone in the Department of State, one is certain.” Damn, that was two, and he hadn’t inserted the modifier that changed it. It was too late. “And the paidhi-aiji should of course know.”

  The wry smile grew. “Was Wilson-paidhi actually this fluent, Bren-paidhi?”

  “No, nand’ aiji. Wilson-paidhi is not as good at mathematics.”

  “He cannot count to three?”

  “He—” He had launched that answer without thinking where it was going. “He can certainly count to three, nand’ aiji, but he might get into deeper waters than he could manage.”

  “And you believe you can.”

  “One hopes to avoid infelicity, nand’ aiji, although mistakes are possible.”

  “Ha.” Tabini suddenly uncrossed his ankles and sat up, hands on the arms of his chair. “Are you married?”

  “Married, nand’ aiji?” He was not sure he had the right word. “I have no wife.”

  “Father?”

  Deep breath. “Dissociated, nand’ aiji.” It was a trap. Atevi family relationships were not the same. There was no friendship. Marriage was rare. There was no love, even parental love, though there was certainly care— fierce care. There was, holding one ateva to another, man’chi, and the paidhi-aiji was strictly advised not to go near that quagmire, not to use the human word for emotional bond, or the atevi one.

  “Your mother?”

  “I maintain a relationship with her, nand’ aiji.”

  “Is it a close relationship?”

  “Yes, nand’ aiji. Although I have been at the University the last five years.”

  “Indeed. So much study.”

  “Yes, nand’ aiji. A great deal of study.”

  “Is Wilson a relative?”

  “No, nand’ aiji.”

  “Have you man’chi— to Wilson-paidhi?”

  Trap. He greatly feared he was getting into one. “I talked with Wilson-paidhi only once., nand’ aiji. I had no feeling. I do not believe he had a feeling either.”

  Surprisingly— silent laughter. And a grin. “That is the best description of Wilson-paidhi I have ever heard. Excellent, paidhi! Excellent. —How do you estimate your servants?”

  Deep breath. “They teach me.”

  “Teach you.”

  “I can ask them questions. I can talk to them. Little things, nand’ aiji.” He was off the edge into delicate territory. And he still didn’t know whether he’d run his office into debt. “I worry, nand’ aiji. One went to the shops. There was expense.”

  A casual wave of the hand. “They reported. They were instructed.” A second wave, seeming to include his entire person. “Tell them to engage a tailor. This can be improved.”

  A tailor. God. He had an office the size of his closet and his work was to sit in that office, read newspapers and write letters to his mother. But—once the legislature did convene—

  “Thank you, nand’ aiji.”

  “A new paidhi brings a new relationship, a better relationship, perhaps an expanded relationship. Perhaps... you have arrived with things already in mind.”

  Right off the edge of the cliff.

  What is your policy? What is your attitude? What are your intentions? Have you an agenda? Has the State Department an agenda?

  And... what can we get from you?

  Wilson had overdone it at a certain point— back when Valasi was aiji. He’d brought in jet aircraft, food preservation for export, and television. That had stirred a hell of a storm, and some in the department thought, led to Wilson’s increasing isolation, years of no innovation, no dialogue, precious little information.

  But... in point of fact... he had thought about next technological steps. He had prepared a paper about that and, he’d been privately informed, that paper was one of the factors that had gotten someone in State to push him to the top of the pool, in spite of his junior status, in spite of what some more conservative voices called his reckless delusions of fluency.

  A little bow. And a pleasant expression. “I have some notion, nand’ aiji.”

  “What, precisely, are you prepared to suggest?”

  “A technology, nand’ aiji, with several uses, including accurate weather prediction.”

  “Is this regarding that balloon that intruded on the mainland?”

  Current events. “One is aware a weather instrument came well over the mainland last year.”

  “And landed, unwelcomely, on Dur.”

  “It was, nand’ aiji, and we are prepared to offer the technology—”

  “We already have it.”

  A nod. His heart sped. He reached for useful, non-controversial words, and it all was spiralling out of presentation order, an exchange veering off at angles. He couldn’t have that.

  “An area of cooperation, nand’ aiji. That is my proposal. And what I propose does touch on weather. And coastal security.”

  “What? More balloons?”

  “More than that, nand’ aiji. Radar. Radar is a device that can see at great distance, what crosses the straits, and how it moves. The operator uses a screen, like television. But a signal goes out, and part bounces back off an object, making a dot on that screen. The signal goes out again. The dot moves. That is an airplane, having taken off from Port Jackson, bound for Shejidan. You will constantly know where it is, how fast it travels, and what path it takes.”

  Tabini had begun to frown, and the frown deepened the longer he went. It seemed time to stop, prudently.

  “You know,” Tabini said, “that we are working on this technology.”

  “No,” he said. No was the absolute, upsetting truth. “Mospheira does not know.” And by Tabini’s expression, Tabini did not believe him. Tabini’s suspicion was not the way to start a relationship.

  “It,” he began again, “is a next step. Fast planes are increasing in number: they will grow far more numerous and the Mospheiran coast is getting more populous. Radar is necessary. It will prevent collisions in the air. It will prevent misunderstandings. It will see rain and storms. Operators on the ground can see and direct pilots who are blinded by bad weather. The Department of State has already approved its release. Mospheira will install it. And if the aishidi’tat also installs it— we will be mutually assured what is and is not in the skies. One can establish paths in the sky which planes can safely observe, and you can be sure where they are. We have a system of assigning such paths. It would be part of the program.”

  The frown persisted. “And was that balloon connected to this radar?”

  “No, nand’ aiji
, not directly. It was measuring air.” The word for pressure was close to one for railroad — and that was not an misunderstanding he dared risk.

  “Measuring air.”

  “Thickness,” he said. “Air thickness. And temperature. Weather, nand’ aiji. The radar says there is or is not rain. The instruments with the balloon are things like air thickness and temperature. It should have deflated and sunk in the strait when it went astray: its mechanism malfunctioned and it mistakenly crossed into your sky.”

  Tabini just stared at him. “You will deliver this radar information. And your paths in the air. And you will provide information on the balloon instruments, their purpose and function.”

  “That will be no difficulty at all, nand’ aiji. The hope is that, since we are trading by air—” He had made his trip over in a plane that ordinarily carried fresh fruit and came back with flour and dried seaweed. “—ordinary persons can communicate more freely, with an expanded set of codes and language for aircraft, which it will not require the paidhi’s office to mediate.”

  “You envision this communication from both sides.”

  It was not the time to back up. Do or go down in a diplomatic disaster that might threaten the entire concept of his office. He set his jaw.

  “My government has already cleared this notion. Whether or not they suspect atevi are already working on radar, I am not informed nor am I likely to be, in my office, nand’ aiji. It is technologically logical, and certainly a next step after the felicitous introduction of faster aircraft. You have some small, old planes still flying. You have two jets. They fly only in good weather, which is a problem to schedules. They advise airports when they are coming. They land once the airports have advised small planes to make way. Radar, nand’ aiji, can ascertain exactly where a plane is, no matter where the pilot thinks it is, and do it when the sky is clouded. It can enable a person on the ground to assist the pilot and bring the plane in safely. “

  Was that a triumphant smile that tweaked the corner of Tabini’s mouth. Or was it pleasantness, or satisfaction? Atevi could go stone-faced, totally expressionless when upset. Tabini had, all along, been showing him a range of expressions...