Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (29 page)

We hurried across the rose garden and joined the group that was slowly circling the cottage. It included humans, Poltroyans, and even a couple of Simbiari. The Green Leakies seemed to be enjoying the rain.

“—a period before the great Ice Age, when the hominid ancestors of humanity were small bipedal apes less than a meter in height,” said the nice-looking female tour guide. “At that time, this part of France enjoyed a subtropical climate. Its open grassy savannas and woodlands swarmed with wild horses, antelopes, elephants, and many other species of wildlife. The predators included saber-toothed tigers—”

“How about T-rex?” one of the human tourists interrupted.

“Dinosaurs were extinct by the time of the Pliocene Epoch,” the guide said patiently. “But there were giant crocodiles in the estuaries of the Atlantic rivers, and some authorities believe that plesiosaurs still inhabited the shallow parts of the sea.”

I gawked unashamed as she continued her lecture on the flora and fauna of six million years ago, making prehistoric France sound like a Garden of Eden theme park. Kyle whispered to me that the clients of the auberge paid their extremely stiff fare, took a quickie course in wilderness survival, and stepped through the time-gate into a brave old world.

As we trailed along some distance behind the others, I said to Kyle that the Pliocene Exile sounded like heaven, and I was strongly tempted to get a ticket to ride.

“Me, too.” He grinned wolfishly. “Only trouble is, the time-gate’s a one-way proposition. Whatever returns through the singularity arrives six million years old.”

“Tabernouche!” I groaned. “I knew there had to be a catch in it someplace.”

“And no one really knows what the Time-Travelers find when
they arrive in the past. Could be that they all live happily ever after like noble savages. On the other hand, even Eden had a snake—and name me one earthly paradise that wasn’t fewked up sooner or later by human folly.”

He was right, of course. We seem to carry the Lord of the Flies along with us wherever we go. I heaved a sigh on behalf of Paradise Lost.

The tour broke up in front of the auberge office, a small building separate from the inn proper. We rubberneckers were not permitted to mingle with the paying clientele, but there was a small selection of descriptive book-plaques about the place for sale in the office, as well as comprehensive application forms for prospective Time-Travelers. I bought one of the plaques and took a form just for the hell of it, even though I discovered quickly that no operant metapsychics were permitted to pass through the time-gate—only “normals.” On the drive back to Lyon, Kyle and I joked about the fun a couple of overgrown adolescents like us might have had, living in a primitive world without rules or responsibilities.

Back at the hotel, we hung out in the bar until Masha and Sally came back from the symposium, and then we all got dressed to the teeth and went out to wine and dine at La Pyramide. Kyle didn’t even flinch when the four-figure check arrived. After dinner there was a raucous party in the suite of some German psychophysicists. I got bombed on schnapps and turned maudlin, which caused Sally Lapidus to bid me a subzero good night when I sidled up to her with lascivious intent. Whereupon my old down-and-drag-ass mood swung back with a vengeance.

I don’t recall too much more of the weekend, except that all the fun had gone out of it.

It wasn’t until nearly a year later, long after the redactive debacle, that Kyle told me how I had wept on his shoulder after Sally’s rejection, begging him to take me back to Madame Guderian’s Auberge du Portail so I could fly away to the Pliocene Exile and forget about perfidious women, mysterious mind-monsters, and the Metapsychic Rebellion.

L
UCILLE
C
ARTIER STUDIED HERSELF CRITICALLY IN THE DRESSING-TABLE
mirror and used psychokinesis to push the wings of her dark brown bangs slightly upward. The new touch of silver at the temples was definitely appropriate for a matriarch with thirty-nine great-great-grandchildren. She was glad, however, that none of them—and none of their parents, dearly loved though they were—would be at the réveillon this year. It was to be a mercifully small affair, including only the Dynasty and a handful of adult grandchildren. Later, on Christmas Day, there would be more inclusive holiday gatherings. She and Denis would drop in on the ones being held in Hanover, then end up at Adrien and Cheri’s house down in the Loudon Hills for Christmas dinner.

Poking through her jewelry box, Lucille decided that a necklace of cherry-sized Caledonian pearls linked by narrow wrought-gold chains would set off her chic black wool dress to perfection.

“Let me fasten the clasp,” said Denis, coming up behind her.

“Thank you.” She turned toward his smiling face and their lips touched, all that was needed to kindle the familiar sweet sexual blaze in both of their bodies after eighty-three years of marriage.

“Tu es ravissante, ma biche,” he whispered, “comme toujours.”

They held one another for a moment, then reluctantly broke apart. She asked him, “Is it still snowing?”

He could have used his farsight, but instead he stepped to the bedroom window and looked outside. The ornamental lamps in front of the library were indistinct amber glows. “Coming down smartly. It’s genuine old-fashioned New England Christmas weather.”

“I’m glad.” She had put on the matching pearl earrings. “This will be the first time in ages we’ve had Paul with us at the réveillon.” And the other children except for poor Anne—

Anne will be well again in just a few more months next Christmas she’ll be celebrating midnight mass for us herself she wouldn’t want you to worry about her and spoil the occasion.

No of course not. “It’s nearly twenty-three thirty. If we want to be sure of a seat we’d better get started. Is Rogi stopping by?”

“He said he’d meet us at the church.”

They went downstairs. The big house was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall. In the darkened living room a token miniature tree with lights and plain colored balls stood on the gateleg table by the window. This year, for the first time, Lucille had loaned her precious collection of antique ornaments to her granddaughter for the tree out at the farm.

“It feels odd, not having the réveillon at our house,” Lucille said. “But I couldn’t say no to Marie. She was so insistent, so happy that the farm was back in the family again after years of being rented out to strangers.”

Denis said, “It actually makes a good deal of sense to rotate the venue for the festivities, especially now that the family’s grown so huge. I know the others always did their best to help, Luce, but most of the work still fell on you. Last year was just about the last straw: eighty-nine people!”

“I never minded. But … I’m beginning to realize that I’ve been terribly selfish, refusing to pass the tradition on to the young. Rejuvenation made me forget what it means to grow old. I see our adult children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and I can’t help thinking that I’m still the grownup in charge and they’re the little ones. But they’re not and I’m not.”

He laughed quietly. “Thank heaven.”

“No, it’s really not funny at all. Old people have always tried to cling to power. We automatically assume that our greater experience equates with wisdom. And we
rejuvenated
old people think we’ve earned the right to be top dogs forever. I remember being so disappointed when you insisted on going emeritus at the college even though the trustees begged you to remain head of the Metapsychology Department. But you were right and I was wrong. It was time to pass the leadership on to your younger colleagues.”

Denis put his arms around her. “Rejuvenation causes problems, and so will our family’s immortality genes. But I expect we’ll sort things out eventually. You don’t really have to worry about the Human Polity becoming a stagnant gerontocracy like the Lylmik Twenty-One Worlds.”

She clung to him, glad of the physical warmth. Her eyes were
fixed on the small Christmas tree. “I don’t want to live forever, Denis. It’s unnatural. Young people are the ones who revel in the notion of immortality, not the old. There … have been times lately when I felt so deadly tired—not physically, but emotionally. The thought of just casting everything to the winds and letting go can be extremely appealing.”

“I know.”

Abruptly, she asked, “Do you think the Rebellion will escalate into a war?”

“I don’t know, Luce. I pray it won’t come to that.”

“Do you realize that Catherine is almost ready to declare for the Rebels? I could have wept! First Adrien, then Sevvy, and now Cat.”

Denis sighed. “She told me about her decision a month or so ago. It was Marc’s conversion that tipped the scales for her.”

“I’ve given up being shocked by Marc’s enormities. But Cat has always been so sane and sensible! We—we had words when she broke the news to me, and I said some things I’m sorry for now. But I couldn’t help it. Doesn’t she realize that the Rebels are serious about breaking away from the Milieu by force? I
remember
the wars we had here on Earth before the Intervention. I couldn’t bear for it to happen again. If only you would—” She broke off. Her thoughts became impenetrable, but not before he had caught their drift.

“You think it would help if I took a more active role on behalf of loyalist humanity. If I became a public champion of Unity like Paul and Anne and Jack.”

“You believe in Unity,” Lucille said softly. “You’ve assured me that it’s good, that it won’t destroy our individuality as the Rebel metapsychologists maintain it will. You’re the premier authority on mental science and your new book will certainly help the Unity cause. But if you became a Magnate of the Concilium you’d be able to counter the influence of people like Anna Gawrys and Owen Blanchard and Hiroshi Kodama. And Marc …”

“He’ll make a difference in the thrust of the Rebel movement,” Denis admitted, his face tightening. “Taking Marc as their leader is either the smartest thing the Rebels have ever done—or the most foolish.”

“You could run rings around Marc in Concilium debate. You know you could! Unity is basically about the evolution of altruism, but everything Marc does is rooted in his own ego-need and his hatred of Paul.”

“Luce, I’ve never been a fighter—”

“This isn’t about fighting. It’s about moral strength. About creativity. I remember what you did on top of Mount Washington. I was there. You could do it again.”

He shook his head. “The situation is completely different.”

“The Lylmik keep nominating you. They know how much you’re needed in the Concilium. And Davy MacGregor has urged you time and time again to accept. I know you cherish your privacy, chéri, but you aren’t just an ordinary citizen. I was selfish wanting to keep my little portion of family power. Be certain that you aren’t acting selfishly in a completely different way—”

He kissed her to silence:

Dear Lucille. You know me so well. And you and Davy aren’t the only ones to reproach me for my greatest weakness. Another person did too a long time ago and he was right and you are right and I’ll do what’s right. There! Je te souhaite un joyeux Noël.

“You mean you
will?”

“Yes. If the Lylmik ask me again.”

“Merci, merci, mon amour.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Mon amour seul et unique.”

He helped her put on her fur coat. The Ronkomi fish-pelts were a richly shaded dark green, sewn in a herringbone pattern. She tied a white head-scarf over her hair and pulled on gloves while Denis donned a blue cashmere topcoat. He didn’t bother with a hat. They were walking to midnight mass and the church was right around the corner on Sanborn Road. One of the children would give them a ride to the supper afterward.

“I forgot to tell you that Marie asked us to stay the night,” Lucille said. “She’s fixed up our old bedroom for us and all the overnight things are there. I told her we’d stay if you liked the idea. Then we can go on to the other parties straight from the farm.”

“It might be fun,” Denis said, “sleeping out in the country again in a nice little blizzard, seeing the snowdrifts pile up against the barn and the fences instead of being banished as a public nuisance. Yes. Let’s do it. I’m glad the farm is back in the family. I was sorry to have to leave it.”

Lucille eyed him. “You never said anything. I thought you were pleased when we moved back to South Street.”

“Well, it didn’t bother me that much, returning to the house where we’d raised the children. But I was sorry that Paul didn’t keep the old place himself.”

“So was I—but there was no helping it. You know that. I don’t see how any human being can do the job Paul does. Expecting him
to have a normal family life besides is unrealistic. Be glad that most of the other children were able to have good marriages.”

He took her in his arms. “Not as good as ours, though.”

She whispered his name, and once again they conjoined. Their bulky winter garments might not have existed, for such is the way between lovers of great experience who are also powerful operants. Without physical movement they climaxed instantly, rested in each other, then separated and went sedately outside, stopping for a moment on the porch while Denis locked the front door with an old brass key.

The snow fell thickly in the windless, curiously bright air. It did not seem especially cold. South Street and the single sidewalk opposite their house steamed gently from the action of the melting grids. Other pedestrians were heading toward the church.

“What a lovely night,” Lucille said. “So immaculate and quiet.”

Denis murmured in agreement. He took her arm and they crossed the street. External Christmas decorations were not customary in the college town, but most of the houses had trees in their front windows with multicolored fairy lights that twinkled through the sifting curtain of white.

The church parking area was full and cars were lined along both sides of Sanborn Road. The eggs of out-of-towners had been banished to the big lot behind the college football field across Lebanon Street. The church was a striking old building of mortared fieldstone and cut granite, almost a parody of the English perpendicular architectural style. Its boxy tower had recently been fitted out with a new muted carillon that was playing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s carol. Denis and Lucille went inside. The choir was singing along with the chiming bells.