Moon Flower (20 page)

Although there had been a briefing after assembly at the base, a woman called Marion Hersie, who had come with the first mission and knew enough of the language to be assigned as the party’s interpreter, stood up at the front to repeat some of the salient points over the cabin speakers.

“I want everybody to remember that we’re here thanks to Interworld Restructuring Consolidated. They’ve brought us here as part of the program of facilitating Cyrene’s economic and political development. This will be for their own benefit as well as that of the corporation and its backers, and eventually all of Earth itself. It’s important to present
every
aspect of our technologies, methods, and institutions in a positive light. This evening, whatever your nominal profession, you are firstly salespeople for Earth. The Cyreneans you meet will have heard various things from different sources, not all of them true. Take a tip from what your insurance companies tell you: Don’t admit wrongs or failures; your information might not be as accurate as you think. Don’t apologize. We want Earth’s image to be one of confidence and strength that the rulers here on Cyrene will want to emulate. Let them see you using your communicators to talk to someone back at base, or better, up in the ship. Showing things like a shot of the city from orbit is good. Impress on them that all the stars are suns, and how far the ship has come. When their leaders start to think of that kind of capability in terms of weaponry and what it could do for them, that’s when we get their attention.” Whines and clunks sounded as the door behind her and another at the rear of the cabin hinged outward to transform into steps. “Enjoy your dinner. All items on the menu have been passed as Terran-friendly. We’ll be assembling back here at the aircraft at twenty-one hours local time for departure. You’ll get a reminder beep fifteen minutes in advance. Thank you.”

Hersie signed off with a click. The cabin’s occupants got up in ones and twos and merged into lines shuffling fore and aft toward the exits. Nim, who had lain by Jerri’s feet through the flight, was all eyes, ears, and alertness. She gave his head a reassuring ruffle. “We’re gonna meet some new people,” she told him.

“Maybe they’ll have some juicy bones,” Shearer put in from just behind her. Nim thumped his tail against one of the seats trustingly. Uberg had told them to leave their things in a baggage compartment and tell the crew simply that they might be wanted later.

They climbed down into the yard, which lay to one side of the house. A reception committee of colorfully dressed Cyreneans was already before the doorway of the VIP craft, where the lead group of Terrans had emerged. Gloria Bufort, wearing a glittery white coat with silver fur trim over a dark business dress, was making a show with grandiose arm motions and postures of starring in the center. A smaller group of Cyreneans was moving forward toward the sambot flyer.

While the groups from the two exit doors merged back together and Hersie made her way through them to the front, Shearer took a look at the surroundings. A wall continued from the wing of the house bordering one side of the yard. Halfway along it was a wide, railed gate opening down to what looked like a flower garden, but with tiers of seats overlooking a sunken area in the middle. The wall ended at steps going up to a terrace enclosing a pond, beyond which were treetops of what could have been some kind of orchard. Behind the flyer, paths and sets of stone stairs ornamented with sculptures led down among more flower beds and screens of shrubbery to the lawns. In front and on the far side of the flyer stood the main body of the house itself.

It was elegant and reasonably spacious, but a somewhat modest affair for a head of state, Shearer thought, falling distinctly short of what most people would have visualized as “palatial.” Perhaps the Terran habit of referring to Vattorix as “king” had raised his expectations unduly. His first impression was of mix of Gothic and Arabian styles. It had a projecting central section supporting a balcony over the main entrance, with parapets and staggered cornices above. The basic construction was thick-walled and robust, but like the architecture setting the tone of the city, echoing a theme of narrow, arched windows, pillars, and rising flutings that emphasized verticality and height. The central part boasted a steep, sloping roof ending in a square tower, while the wings made do with onionlike domes capped by cupolas. The stonework was embellished with colored inlays and foliar designs. Flowers stood in sprays of color in beds along the bases of the walls and planters beneath the windows, while more provided an edging to the roofline. The domes above the two wings carried branching ornamentations spiraling up the sides, making their profiles asymmetrical. Shearer couldn’t decide if the intention was to impart a floral character to them too.

His attention came back to the mixed group of half-dozen-or-so Cyreneans who had drawn up before the arrivals. Their styles of dress varied from brightly embroidered frock coats that might almost have come from eighteenth-century Europe, worn with baggy Cossack-like pants gathered at the ankles, similar to those that Korsofal had worn the day before, to loose, ankle-length robes. Three were Cyrenean women, wearing gowns fastened with belts and draped from one shoulder in the manner of togas, with long cloaks — quite stately and becoming, Shearer thought. They wore their hair high, held by bands and clasps decorated with flowers. One of them holding a posy, which she carried forward, smiling, and presented to Marion Hersie. The Cyreneans raised their voices in an odd ringing sound that was part way between a cheer and a murmur but obviously signified approval. Unsure how to respond, a few of the Terrans started clapping, and the rest followed. This seemed to delight the Cyreneans, who promptly began imitating them.

There was a brief dialogue in Cyrenean between Hersie and a tall, blond-haired man in a scarlet coat, evidently speaking for the group. She introduced him as “Pada,” which she translated as “Doctor,” Gedatrize, who studied philosophy and natural laws, and summarized their exchange in fairly standard form as a welcome message and her response. Then Gedatrize asked her something. She gave an answer that obviously meant “Of course,” and gestured toward the group from the flyer. Gedatrize turned his head from side to side to take them all in. A mischievous smile flickered around his mouth for a moment. Then he said, “And now I make the chance to practice the English. But not yet as good as she speaks the Cyrenean. My welcome it is to you. And when we have the end, maybe the English will be more good a little. Is yes? Thank you very much.” His gesture was rewarded with an energetic round of applause. The combined group waited until the VIP party from the aircraft in the center began moving, and then followed them into the house.

A vestibule with a tiled mosaic floor and alcoves on either side brought them through a high arched doorway into an open hall area. On the far side, a carved staircase led up to a broad landing from which secondary flights ascended left and right through two more arches toward the wings. The hall was apparently where the introductory socializing before dinner would take place. The decor was bright and cheerful, the predominantly yellow walls set off by wood paneling, friezes, and moldings, and the floor a magnificent pattern of marquetry-like inlays. A fire burned in a large open hearth on one side, and suites of variously fashioned chairs and couches arranged around several window seats to leave an open central area completed the atmosphere. As groups of hosts and aliens began mingling and talking, awkwardly at first in some places but loosening up quickly, stewards appeared with tall carts divided into shelved sections containing drinks in a variety of glasses and goblets, along with appetizers. Gloria Bufort and a select group were taken on through somewhere, presumably to meet Vattorix, who would be joining the gathering for dinner.

Nim was already attracting a circle of admirers and curious onlookers. A swarthy, squat-built Cyrenean with curly sideburns extended a hand warily. Nim’s ears pricked, and his tail wagged. The Cyrenean withdrew the offer hastily. “It’s okay,” Jerri said, trying to make the point with gestures and a smile. “He’s just being friendly.”

“Use a drink?” Shearer asked her.

“You bet,” she told him gratefully.

A woman had begun stroking Nim’s neck and back, and seemed fascinated by the fur. Leaving Jerri striving valiantly to deal with the questions via signs and her smattering of Yocalan, he moved over to a steward who had stopped his cart a few feet away and cast an eye over the offerings. “Er, speak English? Terran?” he asked the steward, who was at least looking if he wanted to be helpful.

“No English. Sorry.”

The Terrans had been given NIDA sets to experiment with, but Shearer didn’t think this was really the time. He tried a line of Yocalan he thought would ask what would be good for a lady to drink, but all it evoked was an apologetic grin. Feeling mildly disconcerted, he looked over the shelves again, selected two stemmed goblets with wide, flat bowls like champagne glasses, containing a purplish drink, nodded to the steward, and carried them back over to Jerri.

“Dog,” Jerri was saying to the Cyreneans, who had increased in numbers even while Shearer was away. “Name Nimrod.” She went on in broken Yocalan to answer that yes, he was full grown and wouldn’t get bigger; yes they were big teeth, but no, he didn’t bite people — although no, that wasn’t so of all dogs. Shearer handed her one of the goblets and tried a small sip from his own. It tasted sharp with a fruity edge, and then delivered a dry, subtle after-flavor a little like rum. He had no idea if it was alcoholic or had any comparable effects.

A Cyrenean who seemed to be the companion of a woman who was stooping to pat Nim’s shoulder and uttering “Ooh-la-la” sounds turned toward him. He was fair skinned like Gedatrize, with brown hair tied at the back, and clad in an orange-brown coat with a velvetlike sheen. The front was embellished with gold brocade and turned back in wide, pointed lapels to reveal silky yellow lining and a white neckerchief knotted above a close-fitting body garment resembling a vest. “If okay, I will exercise English,” he said.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Shearer agreed. The Cyrenean’s brow furrowed. Shearer grinned. “Sure. My name is Marc.”

“Ah, yes. And mine is Sergelio. This house, the wood things... “he indicated the panelwork and carved rafters making an art form of the ceiling above, “long years back now, I design and make. Now other peoples I teach the... you would say is work?”

“A better word would be art,” Shearer said, taking it in more closely.

“A-rit?”

“Art.”

“Art.”

“Good. It means very beautiful. With much care and skill.”

“Ah, yes, we try. So you make me a compliment?”

“Very much,” Shearer said, and meant it — although it did cross his mind fleetingly to wonder what someone he thought of as a tradesman should be doing at a head of state’s reception.

Sergelio went on, “And I have now the time with music. Later this night we will hear some.” He laughed. “But not yet is mine so good.”

“It should be interesting,” Shearer said.

Sergelio looked at him. “And you, Mr. Marc. What is it you do?”

“I’m what’s called a physicist.” The Cyreneans would have no equivalent word, and he explained, “One who studies and learns...” he glanced at Sergelio, who nodded, “The world. What it is made of — matter, substance. How things happen the way they do. Why things happen the way they do.” He pointed to the fireplace, then up at the ornate lamps with oil reservoirs illuminating the room. “What is fire and heat? What is light?” He indicated his own mouth and ears. “What is sound?”

Sergelio followed, watching him intently, and seemed to understand. “Physi-cist,” he repeated.

“Yes. Very good.”

“And that is how you learn to make the bird-ships that fly across the water, and you sail in from the star?”

“Yes. You’ve got it.”

“And the phone far-away talking-seeing.” Sergelio looked about, then gestured at the compad on a nearby guest’s wrist. Shearer had left his own behind as instructed. “Another Terran once showed it for me. This is a thing the physicist learning makes too?”

“Physicists gained the
knowledge
,” Shearer said, trying to be helpful. “The knowledge makes it possible.”

“Ah yes. I understand, I think so.” Sergelio looked away for a moment at his wife or ladyfriend, but she was engrossed in an animated conversation with Jerri and some others. “The Terrans try to tell Vattorix he should want these things too,” he said, turning back. “That they will provide. Teach Cyreneans to be physicists.”

“Better lives for all his people,” Shearer answered. “More food. Comfortable houses, warm on Henkyl’s Day and cool on Longday, even in carbayis. Fast travel to many places. Fast communication — talking and seeing. Easy reading of any knowledge.”

Sergelio nodded. “Yes, I understand how knowledge could make these things for all peoples. And this we would like to have. But is not what Terrans say to Vattorix. They talk of strong weapons to make wars. Physicist knowledge that makes... what is word for strong and frightening, so people must do as is decided by others, not do as they would wish?”

“Power?” Shearer offered.

“Yes, that is word I forget. Power for Vattorix to command peoples to obey. But this is not what Vattorix wants.”

It sounded like a breath of fresh air to Shearer — a ruler who wasn’t obsessed with personal aggrandizement and power? “So what does Vattorix want?” he asked.

Sergelio seemed surprised. “The things you just say — for all peoples. That is why he is put in the job that he does. If he does not do his work well, then he is taken away from job — the same as if my wood workings fall down.”

“So what’s Vattorix’s pay-off?” Shearer couldn’t help asking.

Sergelio looked puzzled. “What is pay-off?”

“His reason. What does
he
get back. Personal wealth? Many possessions?”

“Ah, yes, this I hear from Terrans before. But I still do not understand. Enough possessions to have is nice, yes. But why too many possessions? Is like too much food — more trouble than good.”