exhausted.”
“I’ve been lying like a Facilitator all day,” said Lewis dully. “But I’m nearly done with the east wing of the palace.”
“Bloody lazy mortal aristocrats,” said Mendoza, setting down the platter. “I’m surprised they didn’t make the child do it. They make her do everything else.”
Lewis sat up and reached for a guava. “They don’t have liver flukes, by the way. I scanned. No parasites at all.”
“None?” Mendoza looked suspicious. “But that fish pond is crawling with the stuff. It’s in the snails and the fish. It’s encysted on the watercress. Lewis, we’ve got a tiny inbred colony of primates living together here on one hilltop. They ought to be loaded with fleas and lice and—just about every nasty parasite mortals can get.”
“They’re not, however,” said Lewis, peeling the guava. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Distinctly odd. By the way…I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor?”
“I’d be happy to. What is it?”
“Since you don’t seem to mind talking to them…I wonder if you could sort of indirectly bring up the subject of plant composting in the garden, and ask them what their recipe is?”
“But I thought you discovered that,” said Lewis, bewildered.
“No. I spent all day analyzing samples I took from the bottom of the chute—when I wasn’t weeding their damn terrace paths and herb beds. Fish bones, broken pots, vegetable matter, mortal sewage. And something else. Some batch of microorganisms I could not, for the life of me, identify, but which is able to convert stinking muck into black gold.”
“All right,” said Lewis, mentally adding another to the long list of things for which the greatest delicacy and tact was needed. “Rely on me.”
“Thanks,” said Mendoza. She threw herself down on her bed, which promptly collapsed in a tangle of rotten wood and cord. With explosive profanity she rose and kicked it across the room, where it broke into bits with a sound like old bones shattering.
Lewis rose at once. “You can have mine.”
“No! No, sweetheart. All I had to do for the wretched monkeys all day was weed their little plague-spot of a garden. They worked you a lot harder. You stay there,” said Mendoza, controlling her temper with difficulty.
“Oh, I couldn’t—” said Lewis dazedly, the word sweetheart pounding in his ears.
“No. Hell, you know what I’ll do? I’ll just see if I can’t sleep standing up.” Mendoza surveyed the room and found a patch of wall that was slightly less leprous with moss than the rest. She leaned against it, and balanced herself cautiously. “What’s it called, going into fugue ? If those old field ops can do it, I’ll bet I can do it, too.”
“It takes a little practice,” said Lewis. “You have to sort of open your consciousness. The opposite of focusing, you see? Just…reach out into the Everything.”
“So you’ve done this before?” Mendoza let her arms hang down, decided that was uncomfortable, and folded them instead.
“A little,” Lewis admitted. “I had climbed a tree to get out of a flood. On the third day I was up there, I tried going into fugue, so I could get some rest.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes…though I wouldn’t call it a success. I found myself identifying entirely too closely with my tree. Next thing I knew, I was having a furious conversation with a family of gall-wasps. Had this overpowering urge to rub insect repellent on myself for months afterward.”
“Ugh.” Mendoza shuddered and closed her eyes.
Lewis peeled and ate another guava.
Mendoza opened her eyes.
“Wait a minute. These people survived an epidemic that wiped out the rest of their civilization. You don’t suppose they’ve got some kind of genetic resistance to parasites in general? And, therefore, maybe, to certain diseases transmitted by the parasites?”
“Possibly,” said Lewis, struck by the idea. He looked at her. “Interesting! But…you know, if you want to go into
“I’ve been lying like a Facilitator all day,” said Lewis dully. “But I’m nearly done with the east wing of the palace.”
“Bloody lazy mortal aristocrats,” said Mendoza, setting down the platter. “I’m surprised they didn’t make the child do it. They make her do everything else.”
Lewis sat up and reached for a guava. “They don’t have liver flukes, by the way. I scanned. No parasites at all.”
“None?” Mendoza looked suspicious. “But that fish pond is crawling with the stuff. It’s in the snails and the fish. It’s encysted on the watercress. Lewis, we’ve got a tiny inbred colony of primates living together here on one hilltop. They ought to be loaded with fleas and lice and—just about every nasty parasite mortals can get.”
“They’re not, however,” said Lewis, peeling the guava. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Distinctly odd. By the way…I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor?”
“I’d be happy to. What is it?”
“Since you don’t seem to mind talking to them…I wonder if you could sort of indirectly bring up the subject of plant composting in the garden, and ask them what their recipe is?”
“But I thought you discovered that,” said Lewis, bewildered.
“No. I spent all day analyzing samples I took from the bottom of the chute—when I wasn’t weeding their damn terrace paths and herb beds. Fish bones, broken pots, vegetable matter, mortal sewage. And something else. Some batch of microorganisms I could not, for the life of me, identify, but which is able to convert stinking muck into black gold.”
“All right,” said Lewis, mentally adding another to the long list of things for which the greatest delicacy and tact was needed. “Rely on me.”
“Thanks,” said Mendoza. She threw herself down on her bed, which promptly collapsed in a tangle of rotten wood and cord. With explosive profanity she rose and kicked it across the room, where it broke into bits with a sound like old bones shattering.
Lewis rose at once. “You can have mine.”
“No! No, sweetheart. All I had to do for the wretched monkeys all day was weed their little plague-spot of a garden. They worked you a lot harder. You stay there,” said Mendoza, controlling her temper with difficulty.
“Oh, I couldn’t—” said Lewis dazedly, the word sweetheart pounding in his ears.
“No. Hell, you know what I’ll do? I’ll just see if I can’t sleep standing up.” Mendoza surveyed the room and found a patch of wall that was slightly less leprous with moss than the rest. She leaned against it, and balanced herself cautiously. “What’s it called, going into fugue ? If those old field ops can do it, I’ll bet I can do it, too.”
“It takes a little practice,” said Lewis. “You have to sort of open your consciousness. The opposite of focusing, you see? Just…reach out into the Everything.”
“So you’ve done this before?” Mendoza let her arms hang down, decided that was uncomfortable, and folded them instead.
“A little,” Lewis admitted. “I had climbed a tree to get out of a flood. On the third day I was up there, I tried going into fugue, so I could get some rest.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes…though I wouldn’t call it a success. I found myself identifying entirely too closely with my tree. Next thing I knew, I was having a furious conversation with a family of gall-wasps. Had this overpowering urge to rub insect repellent on myself for months afterward.”
“Ugh.” Mendoza shuddered and closed her eyes.
Lewis peeled and ate another guava.
Mendoza opened her eyes.
“Wait a minute. These people survived an epidemic that wiped out the rest of their civilization. You don’t suppose they’ve got some kind of genetic resistance to parasites in general? And, therefore, maybe, to certain diseases transmitted by the parasites?”
“Possibly,” said Lewis, struck by the idea. He looked at her. “Interesting! But…you know, if you want to go into
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