A Talent for War

XIII.

MY FOREHEAD WAS cool. Something moved against it, a cloth, a hand, something. I listened to the rhythm of my breathing; a mild vertigo gripped me when I tried to move. My ribs hurt, and my neck. There was light against my eyelids.

"Alex, are you all right?"

Chase’s voice. Far away.

Water dribbled into a basin.

"Hello," I said, still afloat in the dark.

She took my head in her hands, and pressed her lips against my forehead. "Nice to have you back."

I reached clumsily for her, to collect a second round, but she pulled back and smiled. The gesture didn’t reach her eyes, though. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible."

"Nothing seems to be broken. You’re beat up a little. What were you doing in there?"

"Finding out what happens to bystanders," I said.

"Do you want medics?"

"No. I’ll be okay."

"Maybe you should. I’m not much at this kind of thing: for all I know, you could have internal injuries."

I looked up into her gray eyes. She was no Quinda Ann, but at that moment she looked very good. "I’m fine," I said. "How’d you get here?"

"Jacob called me."

"Jacob?"

"It seemed like a good idea," said Jacob.

"He noticed you were having problems."

"You were flushed," Jacob said. "And you were breathing irregularly."

"So he took a look and brought you out." She produced a glass of water.

"Thanks." I sipped it, and tried to sit up. But everything hurt too much. "How’d it happen?"

"We’re not sure. The simul was defective."

I laughed my way into a spasm with that.

"Alex," said Jacob, "I’ve looked at all the scenarios. Much the same thing would have happened no matter which you used. Even the Spinners. Had you gone back to Hrinwhar with Sim’s raiding party, you’d have discovered the plan to draw the Ashiyyur away doesn’t entirely work, and the Dellacondans get decimated. These are not the same simulations that we copied."

"The burglar," I said.

"Yes," observed Jacob.

I was still trying to sit up, but Chase eased me back. "Maybe that explains why they threw the sheets around and stole the book."

"I don’t think I see a connection," said Jacob.

"What about the sheets?" asked Chase, who looked as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

"We had a burglar yesterday who did some strange things with the bedding, and stole a collection of Walford Candles."

"It was a distraction," she said. "To hide the real reason for the break-in. Somebody wants you dead."

"I disagree," said Jacob. "I broke off the simul as soon as I became aware of the situation. But, had I not done so, the program would have acted to rescue you within a few more moments anyway. The same is true with all the simuls. It was not the intent that you should die."

"Sounds as if they’re trying to scare you, Alex," said Chase.

They had. I could see from the way she was looking at me that she knew it as well as I did. "It has to be connected with Gabe."

"Undoubtedly," said Jacob.

I was wondering how I could back out gracefully without having Chase write me off as a coward. "None of this is worth getting killed over," I said.

Jacob was silent.

Chase nodded. "It’s safest," she agreed, after a long moment. She looked disappointed.

"Well, what do you want from me?" I demanded. "I don’t even know who the sons of bitches are. How can I protect myself from them?"

"You can’t."

Things got very quiet after that.

Chase stared out a window, and I put my hand to my head and tried to look battered.

"Still," she said, eventually, "it’s a pity the bastards will get away with it."

"Someone," said Jacob, "must think you’re on the right track." He sounded mildly reproachful.

"Does anybody know anything about these?" I asked, fingering the crystal in which the simuls were loaded. "How difficult is it to reprogram one of these scenarios? What kind of expertise does it take?"

"Moderate, I would think," said Jacob. "One needs not only to rewrite the basic program, but to effect a disjunction that would negate the Monitor’s primary response package, which is aimed toward ensuring the safety of the participant. And it would be necessary to disconnect a series of backup precautionary systems as well. A properly equipped home system could do it."

"Could you?"

"Oh, yes. Rather easily, actually."

"So someone learned, probably from the library, which scenarios we’d copied. Then they acquired a duplicate set, reprogrammed them in this crystal, and substituted it."

Chase crossed her legs, and kept her eyes averted. "We could query the library and find out who else has been interested in this series of engagements. No one need know we’ve done that."

"It wouldn’t hurt," I said.

"I’ve already taken the step, Alex. An identical set of scenarios was borrowed two days ago."

"Okay," I said, reluctantly. "By whom?" "The record says Gabriel Benedict."

Next morning, Jacob commented offhandedly that he’d been reading about Wally Candles, and had uncovered some information during the night. "He wrote prefaces to all his books. Did you know that?"

"We have—or had—all five of them here," I said. "I don’t recall any prefaces."

"That’s because they’re extremely long. Nearly as long as the books themselves. Consequently, they are never included with the actual volumes. But they were collected and annotated a number of years ago by Armand Jeffries, who is a prominent Candles scholar."

I was enjoying the heat from a thermal-wrap against my bruised ribs. "What’s the point?" I asked.

"I came across a description by him of the reaction on Khaja Luan after the occupation of the City on the Crag. There’s an interesting portrait of Leisha Tanner in action. Apparently she was a woman of considerable courage."

"How do you mean?"

"You remember she mentioned the mobs? Apparently she wasn’t simply a bystander. I have the material set up, if you’d like to see it."

"Please," I said.

"On the screen?"

"Read it to me, Jacob."

"Yes." He paused. "There is quite a lot about the political situation."

"I’ll look at that later. What does he say about Tanner?"

"On the evening after they heard that the City on the Crag had been taken, Candles was watching an interventionist demonstration on campus. But he kept a safe distance."

They were using the front portico of the dining hall as a stage. Seven or eight people were seated up there, all looking appropriately outraged, and all clearly prepared to cut a few throats in a just cause. Marish Camandero was speaking. She’s head of the sociology depart-ment, attractive, big-boned, no-nonsense. Exactly the sort of person you need to teach sociology.

There were maybe two hundred demonstrators gathered in the Square. That may not sound like many, but they were loud. And active. They’d brought their own music, which was mostly clatter and shrieking, and they were constantly pushing and grabbing one another. There’d been a couple of fights, one young man seemed to be engaged in trying to couple with a marberry bush, and bottles were evident everywhere.

Camandero was whooping and flapping about mutes and murders, and the crowd had got pretty whipped up.

Into all this walked Leisha. Obviously she’d left her good sense at home. She strolled toward the rear of that mob, just about the time that Camandero was making the comment that history was replete with the corpses of people that would not, or could not, fight.

The crowd roared its approval.

She went on in that vein, how people were hiding their heads in the sand, and hoping the mutes would go away. "Now is the time," she said, "to take our stand with Christopher Sim." They caught his name and roared it skyward, this helpless mob whose entire world possessed little more than a couple of gunboats.

Somebody recognized Leisha and shouted her name. That caught everyone’s attention, and the noise subsided. Camandero looked directly toward her. Leisha was standing on the edge of the crowd. Smiling broadly, Camandero jabbed an index finger in Leisha’s direction. "Dr. Tanner understands the mutes better than we do," she said, with mock affability. "She has defended her friends in public before. I believe she assured us less than a year ago that this day would never come. Perhaps she would like to tell us what else we need not fear, now that the City on the Crag has been overrun?"

The crowd had not yet located her. It was her chance: she could have got out of there, but instead she stood her ground. It was a reckless, dangerous thing to do, against the ugly mood of the night. An energetic bookkeeper could have sent them to burn the capitol Leisha glared up at Camandero, gazed round her with undisguised contempt, shrugged, and strode toward the portico. I think it was less the act itself than the shrug that struck me. The crowd parted for her, but someone lobbed a cup of beer in her direction.

Camandero raised her arms in a pacific gesture, asking the spectators for calm and generosity, even to those who lack courage.

Leisha walked with regal disdain—it was lovely to watch, but frightening. She climbed the steps onto the platform, and confronted Camandero. The last of the noise drained out of the crowd.

I could hear voices in the wind, and there was some traffic overhead. Camandero was by far the taller of the two women. They faced each other, drawing the moment out. Then she unhooked her throat mike, and dangled It from her fingers, in a way that would have forced Leisha to stretch for it.

The act broke whatever psychic link had connected the two. "I agree," Leisha said, in a clear and surprising amicable manner, "that these are dangerous times." She smiled sweetly, and turned toward her audience. Camandero let the mike drop to the platform. Then she stalked off the stage and plowed through the crowd until she broke out into the Square.

The mike lay where it had fallen.

Leisha pressed her advantage. "The war is very near, "she said. "We aren’t part of it yet, but that moment is now probably inevitable." A few scattered cheers broke out, but they died quickly. "The city tonight is filled with meetings like this. And we should take a moment to consider—"

A blast went off across the Square somewhere. More cheers.

"—To consider what it means. There’s another species out there much like ourselves—"

That got a reaction. One person shouted they were nothing like us; others shrieked they were savages. Leisha just stood there, waiting for them to come back to her.

When they did, she said coolly, "They can think!"

The crowd reacted again. I was looking around for help, and wondering what I was going to do if they dragged her down off there.

"They have an ethical system, "she continued. "They have universities where students gather at meetings like this and demand vengeance on us!"

"They had it today!" someone screamed, and the air was filled with threats, against the Ashiyyur, against the University, against Leisha.

"Yes." Leisha was visibly distressed. "I suppose they did. We lost a few ships, with their crews. And I understand the mutes shot a few people on the ground. And now, in our turn, we have no choice but to spill some blood ourselves."

The mob shook its torches.

"Bitch!" someone shouted.

"Damn right!"

"A lot of people have already died. What about them?"

I knew her answer to that. I’d heard it before: We owe nothing to the dead. They will not know whether we stay or go, whether we honor their names, or forget they ever walked among us. But she was prudent enough not to say that.

"There’s still time," she said, "to stop all this, if we really want to do it. Or if not, at least we can keep out of it ourselves. Why isn’t the Resistance getting any help from Rimway? Or Toxicon? Those are the systems that have the battle fleets! If the Ashiyyur are really a threat to us all why haven’t they come?"

"I’ll tell you why," thundered a heavy-set man who was pursuing a doctorate in the classical literature program. "They want a general commitment from us! We’re in the combat area, and if we won’t help ourselves, why should they risk their own people?"

The crowd agreed loudly.

"You could be right," Leisha said. "But the plain truth is that Rimway and Toxicon mistrust each other considerably more than they mistrust the aliens."

I’d moved closer during all this. I’m not sure I was ever more fearful in my life than I was during those moments. I’d located a few security people in the crowd, but had that mob gone for her, they’d have made no difference.

"If you’re serious about fighting this war, "she continued, "we need to count what we have to fight with. As I understand it, Khaja Luan has one destroyer." She held out her hands, palms up. "That’s it, folks. One destroyer. There are three or four frigates which last saw combat more than a half century ago. And there are a few shuttles, but they will have to throw rocks, since they’re not armed. We do not have the facilities to build warships, so we’ll have to buy them from someone.

"We’re going to have to ram a hefty tax increase through the legislature. And eliminate state-paid educations." She paused and glanced back at the group of people seated behind her. Most prominent among them was Myron Marcusi, of the philosophy department. "I’m sure," she said, smiling brightly at him, "that Dr. Marcusi will be among the first to endorse whatever measures need to be taken to raise money."

"Damned right!" shouted someone in the rear of the crowd.

Marcusi rose to the occasion. "We’re not concerned about money here, Doctor Tanner," he said, trying to speak loudly, but having trouble. "There’s a great deal more at stake than a few scholarships. We’re talking about lives, and possibly human survival, unless we can unite against the common danger."

He ended in a squeal, but he got a loud burst of applause.

And someone began to sing. Other voices picked up the rhythm, and Leisha stood watching, dejected. The song swelled and filled the Square. It was the ancient battle hymn of the City on the Crag. The "Condor-ni."

I spent the next few days linking in with university libraries and out-of-the-way archives, looking for whatever information might be available on Tanner. At night, I read myself to sleep with the works of Rashim Machesney. I managed a dinner with Quinda, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. For the first time, we did not pass the evening discussing the Resistance.

Several nights after my ride on the Kudasai, Chase called to say she’d found something. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but she sounded excited. That didn’t exactly come as good news: I was beginning to hope I might have reached a blank wall, one that would allow me to back off with a clear conscience.

She arrived an hour later carrying a crystal and looking immensely pleased with herself. "I have here," she said, holding out the crystal, "the collected letters of Walford Candles."

"You’re kidding."

"Hello, Chase," said Jacob. "Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. How do you like your steak?"

"In, Jacob. Medium-well."

"Very good. It’s nice to see you again. And I’m anxious to examine what you’ve brought."

"Thank you. I’ve been talking to people at literature departments and libraries all over the continent. This was in the archives of a small school in Masakan. It was compiled locally, but the editor died, and no one ever formally published it. It includes a holo from Leisha Tanner, sent from Millennium!"

Millennium: the last entry in Tanner’s Notebooks.

I inserted the crystal in Jacob’s reader, and sat down in the wing-back.

The lights dimmed.

Tanner’s image formed. She wore a light blouse and shorts, and it was obvious she was operating from a warm climate.

Wally, she said, I’ve got bad news. Her eyes were troubled, and she looked frightened. The woman who had stood up to the mob in the Square on Khaja Luan had been badly shaken.

We were right: Matt was here after the loss of the Straczynski. But the Dellacondans are trying to hide it I’ve talked to a couple of the people who knew him, and either they won’t discuss him at all, or they lie. They don’t like him very much, Watty, but they pretend they do. I was talking to a computer specialist, a woman whose name is Monlin or Mollin or something. When I caught up with her she’d had too much to drink. I had learned by then not to approach the subject of Matt in any direct way, because when you do they pretend not to know anything at all. So I gradually led the conversation with Monlin around to how we had a mutual friend who’d mentioned her name to me once or twice. She looked interested, but when I named Matt, she lost her composure, and got so upset that she broke a glass and cut her hand. She literally screamed that he was a traitor, and a son of a bitch, and that she’d have gladly killed him if she could. I’ve never seen such venom. Then suddenly, as if somebody threw a switch, she stopped and wouldn’t say any more.

Next morning, I tracked her down at breakfast, but she told me it had just been the alcohol talking. She said she liked Matt, but claimed shed never really got to know him very well. Sorry about his death, etcetera. That evening, she was gone. One of the officers told me she’d been sent on a temporary assignment. He didn’t know where.

The thing that bothers me is this: Matt was always hard to get to know. But he’s not the sort of person anyone could hate. Watty, these people despise him. His name doesn’t exactly excite a little irritation. These people—all of these people—would like to kill him.

I suppose I should leave it at this and go home. I’m tired of talking to military types anyway. They hate rather easily. But my God I’d like to know the truth. I never knew anyone more loyal to Sim and his damned Confederates than Matt Olander.

This place is a madhouse now. It’s overrun with refugees from Ilyanda, and it’s hard to get near any of the groundside naval installations. I look around at these people, displaced from their homes, and I get very discouraged. Did you know that the Ashiyyur bombed Point Edward? How can they be such fools? I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but sometimes I wonder whether Sim isn’t right about them. It’s hard, Wally. It really is.

I’ve heard that Tarien will be making a speech downtown tomorrow, dedicating a housing area for the Ilyandans. I’m going to make an effort to talk to him there. Maybe he can be persuaded to look into this business with Matt.

I’ll keep you informed.

The image faded.

"Is that it?"

"There’s no other transmission," remarked Jacob, "with this crystal."

Chase must have been sitting with her eyes closed, listening. "That’s all there is," she said. "The introduction indicates that subsequent volumes were planned. But none of them got put together. The editor died too soon."

"His name was Charles Parrini, of the University of Mileta," said Jacob. "He’s been dead thirty years."

"Somebody else might have finished the project."

"Maybe." Chase straightened. "But if so, it never got published."

"It might not matter," observed Jacob. "Parrini must have collected some source documents. Find them and you might get your answers."

The University of Mileta was located in Sequin, the smallest of Rimway’s six continents, in the desert city Capuchai. Parrini had been an emeritus professor of literature there for the better part of a productive lifetime. The library overflowed with his books: the man must have been extraordinarily prolific. His commentaries ranged across every literary epoch since the Babylonians. He’d edited several definitive editions of the great poets and essayists (including Walford Candles). But, most interestingly, he’d translated a shelfload of Ashiyyurean poetry and philosophy. Chase and I, working from Gabe’s study, spent an entire afternoon and part of the next morning scrolling through the books.

Toward noon of the second day, Chase called me to her terminal. "Parrini’s Tulisofala is interesting. I’ve been looking at the principals on which she bases her ethical system: Love your enemy. Return good for evil. Justice and mercy are the cornerstones of a correct life; justice because it is demanded by nature; and mercy because justice erodes the soul."

"Sounds familiar."

"Maybe there’s only one kind of ethical system that works. Although, with the mutes, it doesn’t seem to have taken."

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"No. Just a minute." She scrolled back to the title page, and pointed to the dedication. For Leisha Tanner.

None of the librarians knew anything about Parrini. To them, he was simply a couple of crystals in the reference room, and three boxes of documents in a storage area on the third floor. (Or maybe there were four boxes. No one was sure.) At our request, they moved the boxes down to a viewing room and showed us the contents. We found student reports, grade lists, financial records that had been old when Parrini died, and invoices for furniture, art work, books, clothes, a skimmer. You name it.

"There has to be more," Chase said, after we’d removed our headbands and started on a hot lunch. "We’re not looking in the right place. Parrini couldn’t simply have accumulated the material for the first volume without simultaneously getting large chunks of material for the succeeding books."

I agreed, and suggested that the place to start was the literature department.

Jacob had a transmission code ready for us when we finished, and we linked into a shabby office with run-down furniture and two bored-looking young men who lounged at old terminals, their feet propped up and their fingers laced behind their heads. One was extremely tall, almost two and a half meters. The other was about average size, with clear, friendly eyes, and straw-colored hair. A monitor was running rapidly through blocks of text, but no one seemed to be paying any attention.

"Yes?" inquired the smaller of the two, straightening slightly. "Can I help you?" He really asked the question of Chase.

"We’re doing some research on Charles Parrini," she said. "We’re particularly interested in his work on Walford Candles."

"Parrini’s a hack," said the other, without moving. "Schambly is much better on Candles. Or Koestler. Hell, almost anybody except Parrini."

The one who had spoken first frowned and introduced himself. "Korman," he said. "First name’s Jak. This is Thaxter." Thaxter’s lips parted slightly. "What do you need?" he asked, still talking to Chase. His eyes traveled swiftly down her anatomy. He looked pleased.

"Are you familiar," I asked, "with his translation of Tulisofala? Why did he dedicate it to Leisha Tanner?"

Korman smiled, apparently impressed. "Because," he said, looking in my direction for the first time, "she made the first serious effort to translate Ashiyyurean literature. Nobody really reads her anymore, of course. Modern scholarship has left her efforts behind. But she led the way."

Chase nodded in her best academic manner. "Have you read his work on Wally Candles?" she asked. Her diction was a bit more pronounced than usual. "The Letters?"

Thaxter inserted his foot into an open drawer and rocked it back and forth. "I know about it," he said.

"There were to be additional volumes. Did they ever get completed?"

"As I recall," Thaxter said, "he died in the middle of the project."

"That’s right." Chase looked from one to the other. "Did anyone else finish what he started?"

"I don’t think so." Thaxter drew the words out in a way that suggested he had no idea. He tried a tentative smile, got an encouraging response from Chase, and consulted his computer. "No," he said, after a few moments. "Only Volume I. Nothing after that."

"Dr. Thaxter," I said, bestowing a title I doubted that he owned, "what would have happened to Parrini’s records after his death?"

"I’d have to look into that."

"Would you?" asked Chase. "It would be helpful."

Thaxter stirred himself enough to straighten up. "Okay, I can do that. Where can I find you?" He seemed to be talking to Chase’s anatomy.

"Might you have an answer for us this evening?"

"Possibly."

"I’ll be back," smiled Chase.

On his death, Charles Parrini’s files passed into the hands of Adrian Monck, his frequent collaborator. Among other projects, Monck was to have completed the second and third volumes of the Candles letters. But he was working on the now-forgotten historical novel Maurina, an epic retelling of the Age of Resistance through the eyes of Christopher Sim’s young wife. He didn’t live to complete either the novel or the Candles collection, and Maurina was finished by his daughter. Parrini’s papers were eventually donated by her to the University Library at Mount Tabor, where Monck had received his undergraduate degree.

Mount Tabor is located outside Bellwether, a relatively small city in the southern hemisphere eight time zones away. The university’s name is a trifle misleading: the land around Bellwether is dead flat.

The institution is church-affiliated, and "Mount Tabor" is a scriptural reference.

Moments after Chase returned from her conversation with Thaxter, we presented ourselves to the AI who maintained the University Library after hours. (It was just before dawn in Bellwether.) No unpublished materials were listed in the inventory under either Monck or Parrini.

In the morning, we were back when they opened. The young assistant whom we approached with our questions checked his databanks and shook his head after each entry. No Monck. No Parrini. Sorry. Wished he could help. It was exactly what the AI had said, but humans are easier to negotiate with.

We insisted they had to be there somewhere, and the young man sighed and passed us on to a dark-complexioned woman who was even taller than Chase. She was big-boned, with black hair and an abrupt manner that suggested her time was extremely valuable. "If anything does arrive," she told us peremptorily, "we’ll get in touch with you immediately." She’d already begun to walk away. "Please leave your code at the desk."

"If they’re not here now," I said, "they aren’t coming. The Parrini papers were bequeathed to the university more than twenty years ago."

She stopped. "I see. Well, that’s before my time, and obviously they’re not here. You have to understand that we receive a great many bequests in the form you describe. Usually, they’re materials that the heirs have no earthly use for. But in our grief, Mr. Benedict, we are inclined to exaggerate the importance of whomever has just passed on—You might wish to try the Literary Foundation."

"I would be extremely grateful if you can help us," I persisted. "And I’d be happy to pay for your time." I’d never tried to bribe anyone before, and I felt clumsy. I managed a glance at Chase, who was having trouble keeping a straight face.

"I’d be pleased to take your money, Mr. Benedict. But it really wouldn’t do you any good. If it’s not in the inventory, we don’t have it. Simple as that."

I wondered aloud whether it might not create a disturbance if the Mount Tabor Board of Governors learned that the heritage of Charles Parrini had been treated so cavalierly by their librarians, and she suggested I should take whatever action I considered appropriate.

"End of the line, I guess," I told Chase when we were back in the study. She nodded, and we got up from the chairs in which we’d been sitting for the better part of two days. It was well past midnight.

"Let’s get some air," she said, pressing her fingers to her temples.

Outside, we strolled gloomily along one of the forest footpaths. "I think it’s time," I said, "to write the entire business off."

She looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything. The night air was cold and had a sting to it, but it felt good. We walked for maybe a half hour. She seemed preoccupied, while my relief that it was finally over gradually gave way to an awareness of Chase’s long-legged physical presence.

"I know how frustrating this must be for you," she said, suddenly.

"Yes." Her eyes were on about a level with mine, and I was very conscious of them in that moment. "I would have liked to get some answers," I said shamelessly.

"It would also be nice to catch up with whoever was playing games with you."

"That too." Like hell.

I tried to assuage my conscience by admitting that I was glad to turn my mind to other things, and I went on for some minutes about my responsibilities to Gabe’s estate, and a few problems of my own, and whatnot. All lies, but it didn’t matter. Chase wasn’t listening anyway.

"I have a thought," she said, breaking in as though I’d said nothing whatever. "We know the documents were donated by Monck’s daughter. The bequest might have been cataloged in her name, which would not necessarily have been Monck. The problem might just be that the library doesn’t cross-reference very well."

She was right.

The materials themselves, like the documents at Mileta, were packed away in a plastic container in a storage room.

The tall dark-complexioned librarian argued briefly that the materials were not available for public viewing. But she conceded quickly when I threatened again to go to her superiors, this time with a considerably more detailed accusation.

She had the container delivered to a viewing room and, when we arrived, everything had been laid out on a couple of tables. The young assistant we’d met the previous day was assigned to us, to load data storage units, and hold things up to the light, and turn pages, and do the various other physical tasks that a headband projection cannot to for itself. He was very responsive and patient with a job that must have quickly become tedious for him, and was on the whole quite the opposite of his supervisor. I thought also that he was somewhat taken with Chase.

We spent two days going through the material. A substantial portion of it was correspondence originated by and sent to Walford Candles. It was on crystals; on some of the old spools and cylinders and fibres of various types that you don’t see anymore; in lightpad memory systems; and on paper. "It’s going to create a problem," said Chase. "We won’t be able to read most of this stuff. Where would you find a reader that would accept this?" She held up a cube, turning it in the light. "I’m not even sure whether it’s a data storage unit at all."

"The University will have the equipment," I said, directing the comment to the young man, who nodded vigorously.

"We have adapted readers for most systems," he agreed.

In all honesty, I have to confess that it was difficult to get through those letters. As Candles’s reputation grew, his correspondence was no longer limited only to his band of friends. Parrini had found communications from both the Sims, from most of the people whose names live in the histories of the period, from statesmen and the men who fought the war, from weapons manufacturers and social reformers, from theologians and victims. There was even a description of a graduation of Khaja Luan at which Tarien Sim was a featured speaker. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the podium to himself, except that the Ashiyyurean ambassador also showed up to state his case. The alien’s interpreter was Leisha Tanner!

"The woman," commented Chase, "really liked to ride tigers."

The event was described by Candles to a forgotten correspondent. It was dated a few weeks before the fall of the City on the Crag: If a passion for ceremony signifies anything, Candles comments, our two cultures may be more alike than we wish to admit. Both formalize passages of various types, births and deaths and whatnot; sporting events; public displays of the arts; assorted political functions; and the ultimate ceremonial war.

So, despite everything, the robed and hooded figure of the Ambassador, folded onto a bench well apart from the dignitaries on the parade stand, did not look entirely out of place. It sat quietly, its robe folded in a manner that suggested its forelimbs were placed on its lap. No face was visible within the hood. Even on that bright sunlit afternoon, I had the sense of gazing down a dark tunnel.

Leisha, who knows about such things, had informed me that this is an extremely trying experience for the Ambassador. Other than that it may well be in some physical danger, since the massive security forces surrounding the gathering can not really protect it from a determined assassin, it apparently also suffers from some sort of psychological oppression, induced by the presence of people in large numbers. I suppose I’d feel the same way if I thought they all wanted me dead.

There was a substantial amount of official talk about academic accomplishment and bright futures. And I wondered at the self-control of the Ambassador, stiff and erect among us.

I felt uncomfortable in its presence. In fact, if I aim to be honest, I must admit I did not like the creature very much, and would have been pleased to have it gone. I don’t know why that should be. It has nothing to do with the war, I don’t think. I suspect that we will never feel entirely comfortable when faced with intelligence housed in an exotic physical configuration. I wonder whether this isn’t the real basis for our reaction to the aliens, rather than the sense of mental intrusion to which it is usually ascribed?

The University asked Leisha to act as interpreter. That meant reading the alien’s speech. Everybody she knew advised her strongly not to do it, and a few people made it clear that she was behaving in a treasonable fashion, and that, if she persisted, they would see that she paid a price. Sometimes we forget who the enemy is.

I’d like to tell you that the friendship of those who threatened her in this way would not have been worth keeping. But unfortunately this is not so. Cantor was among the group. And Lyn Quen. And a young man whom I believe Leisha loved.

No matter. When the time came, she was up there beside the Ambassador, looking as cool and lovely as I’ve ever seen her. She’s a hell of a woman, Connie. I wish I were younger.

Tarien Sim was there too, of course, resplendent among the notables. He has become a person of such incredible political dimension that one cannot but expect to be disappointed by his physical appearance. And yet—there is a sense of greatness about him that one can see and feel. Shafts of sunlight catch his eye, if you know what I mean.

His scheduled address was the reason for the Ambassador’s appearance, actually. The Ashiyyur wanted equal time. But I knew it was a mistake. The contrast between Tarien, who is a father figure with a bright red beard and a voice that inspires revolution; and the silent, ominous, stick figure, could hardly have been greater.

There were more than four hundred graduates, counting those receiving advanced degrees. They sat in rows across Morien Field, where students have been listening to commencement oratory for almost four centuries. Behind them, a crowd of spectators—far larger than any I’ve seen during all the years I’ve been attending these things—overflowed the seating areas, and spilled into the athletic fields beyond. The press was out in force. And there was an army of security people, the University’s own reinforced by city police and several dozen unmistakable narrow-eyed agents of one kind and another.

It was a restless afternoon. Everyone was looking for something to happen, anxious to see it when it did, but maybe a little scared to get caught in it.

The student speakers said the things that students always say at such times, and their remarks gathered polite applause. Then President Hendrik rose to introduce Sim. I understand there was something of a pushing match between the University and the government over the order of speakers. Hendrik wanted to give the final word to Sim, which would be his way of demonstrating publicly that he no more approved of the presence of the Ambassador than did the rest of the mob. But the government had insisted that the alien dignitary receive that honor.

The crowd stirred expectantly while Hendrik praised Sim’s courage and abilities in these perilous times, and so on. Then they roared their applause when he rose and took his place at the podium. He shook hands with a couple of VIPs, pointedly not looking at the Ambassador. He stilled the clamor with a casual wave of his right hand, and surveyed his audience. "Graduations," he said, foregoing the customary preliminary greetings, "are about the future.

"It would be tempting to speak of the accomplishments of the recent past. About the first serious efforts to abolish war, to unite the human family, to ensure security and a measure of prosperity for everyone. After all, these have been our goals for a long time, and they have proved more elusive than those who first proclaimed them would have believed." Leisha sat motionless beside the Ambassador. Her features were strained, her limbs rigid. Her hands were closed in tight fists.

I wasn’t alone in noticing. Others seemed fascinated by her presence at the Ambassador’s side, as though there were something vaguely obscene in it. And I found it difficult myself to put to rest a similar notion. Please don’t quote me or I’ll deny it.

"Unfortunately," Tarien continued, "there’s still much to do. More than my generation can hope to accomplish.

"Rather, it will be for you to succeed finally, to recognize that there can be no safety for any, until all are safe; no peace until those who would make war understand that there is no profit to be had—" Well I could quote or paraphrase all of it, Connie. He was that good. If anybody can unite these bickering worlds into a Confederacy, he can. He spoke of remote places and courage and duty and the ships that carry ideals between the stars.

"In the end," he said, "it will not be arms that decide our destiny. It will be the same weapon that has destroyed oppressive governments and ambitious invaders time and again, since we built the first printing press. Or maybe carved a few symbols into the first tablet. Free ideas. Free ideals. Common decency.

"Time is on our side. The enemy with whom we contend, who would threaten, if it could, our survival, cannot with its warships overcome the power of a mind that thinks for itself."

The applause started slowly, and rippled swiftly across the cool grass, gathering momentum. One of the graduates stood, a tall proud young woman, whose dark eyes burned fiercely. I wasn’t close enough to see tears, but I knew they were there. One by one others joined her, until they were all on their feet.

Tarien again signaled for silence, and got it. "It is better," he said, "that we recall those we have lost, for they have given us our future. They have bought time for us. But there will surely come an hour when we can celebrate together, when we have completed our task, and rolled back our oppressor."

They stood for several moments. The assemblage had become a large animal, and you could hear it breathe. Tarien bowed. "For my brother, and for all who fight in your name, I thank you."

Connie, I wish you had been there. It was magnificent! I doubt there was a single person in the square who would not gladly have traded his present station for some fighting skills, and a good deck underfoot. What more could one ask of this life than to join the Dellacondans?

Well, I can see you snickering: how Candles goes on. Must be getting old. But God help me, we’re approaching the species9 most critical test. And when years from now we look back on all this, I’d like to know that I made a contribution—

I felt sorry for the Ambassador, lone awkward mannequin, withering in the face of such a storm.

Hendrik, uncertain, frightened, came to center stage. We were all restless, wondering what was coming next.

"Honored Guests," he said, speaking flatly. "Faculty Members, Graduates, Friends of the University: our next speaker is the Ashiyyurean Ambassador, M’Kan Keoltipess."

Far away, almost on the horizon, a skimmer was rising above the tree line. I imagined I could hear the whisper of its magnetics.

The Ambassador rose awkwardly. It was clearly uncomfortable, whether from the local gravity (which was somewhat heavier than on Toxicon, where it had served until recently) or from its perception of the situation, I do not know. Leisha rose and stood beside it. She looked simultaneously defiant and unruffled. She had apparently used the time to get hold of herself. And this you’ll like: she unnerved the crowd by offering the Ambassador her arm, and guiding it toward the podium.

It took its place, towering over Leisha. From within the robes came a sound like dried bones cracking. Leisha took a lightpad from her tunic. Obviously it contained the speech she was to read. But the Ambassador signaled her to put it away. I realized we were seeing the old human game of throwing away the prepared address. It fumbled with the folds of its hood, as a woman might with a skirt imagined to expose a bit too much. It raised both hands, shook the hood down to its shoulders, and stood uncovered, blinking in the bright sunlight.

It was very old. And its parchment features looked pained. The animal that Tarien Sim had created remained together, and it took a few psychological steps backward.

The Ambassador extended long desiccated fingers. They had too many joints, and the flesh was tight and gray. They danced in the sunlight, and there was much in their frenetic, graceful movements that left me chilled.

Leisha watched the fingers, and nodded. My impression was that she hesitated at translating its first "remarks," but obviously the Ashiyyurean insisted.

"The Ambassador thanks me," she said, "and wishes to say that he understands this is not easy for me. He also says: I understand your anger at this hour." The hands weaved their intricate patterns. "I wish to extend greetings to President Hendrik, to the honored Guests, to the Faculty, to the Graduates, and to their families. And especially—" it turned toward Tarien Sim, seated far to its right, "especially to the gallant representative of the Rebels, an opponent whom I would prefer to call friend."

It paused, and I thought I could read genuine regret in its face. "We wish you all good fortune. On an occasion such as this, when young ones go forward to test their knowledge, and to embrace their lives, we are particularly prone to realize that for them wisdom lies yet in the future. I can’t help observing that, when one considers the conditions under which we meet today, much the same may be true of our two species."

Leisha’s voice, which had begun with too high a timbre, and some trace of nervousness, had settled into its customary richness. She was, of course, no match for Tarien Sim, but she was damned good.

"To the graduates," the Ambassador continued, "I would point out that wisdom consists in recognizing what is truly important. And in treating with suspicion any cherished belief whose truth is so clear that one need not put it to the test. Among our people, we maintain that wisdom consists in recognizing the extent to which one is prone to error."

It paused, allowing Leisha a moment to catch her breath.

"I would have preferred not to speak about politics today. But I owe it to you and to my own people to respond to Ambassador Sim. He has said there is a major conflict, and he is sadly correct. But the struggle is not between Ashiyyur and human. It is between those who would find a way to settle our difficulties peacefully, and those who believe only in resorting to a military solution. It is essential during the dark days that surely lie before us that you be aware that you have friends among us, and enemies among your own.

"Our psychological reactions to each other are intense, but not so much so that they cannot be overcome. If we wish. If we insist! In any case, I implore you not to use them as a basis to form a moral judgment. If we commit that crime against each other, we shall bear a heavy burden before history.

"I can not agree more strongly with Ambassador Sim’s remarks. For all our differences, of culture and physiognomy and perception, we share the one gift that really matters: we are thinking creatures. And on this day, under this sun, I pray that we will find ourselves capable of using that gift. I pray that we will pause in our headlong rush, and think!"

The entry, I noted belatedly, was earmarked for another book which was to have developed the influences on Walford Candles’s early years. I was still thinking about it, wondering how events could have gone so wrong when everyone seemed to want to do the right thing. Weren’t perceptions worth anything at all?

I have no answers, other than a suspicion that there is something relentlessly seductive about conflict. And that, after all these millennia, we still don’t understand the nature of the beast.

Chase found more: a holo communication from Leisha, routed from Ilyanda, and dated thirty-two days after the earlier Millennium message. It was short: Watty, I’m forwarding separately a written statement by Kindrel Lee which has things to say about Matt. It’s a wild story, and I don’t know what to believe. We need to talk about it when I get home.

"I don’t understand this," I said. I stared at the date, and consulted a text. "This thing was sent from Ilyanda after the evacuation. And probably after the destruction of Point Edward. What the hell’s going on? Why would she have gone there?"

"I don’t know," said Chase, who was searching through the piles of documents that we’d assembled.

"Where’s the statement?"

"Forwarded separately," she said. "It doesn’t seem to be included with this material."