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Authors: Charles Sheffield
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Bey with a look of clinical curiosity. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Probably."
"Do you have hair like that all over? I mean, it must drive you crazy."
Bey held up his hand to show Aybee the open palm.
"Okay you know what I meant." Aybee grinned. "You think I'm a smart-ass, don't you?"
"Not at all. Fifty years ago, I was just like you. Brighter than fusion. I'm amazed how much smarter other people are these days."
"Senile decay?"
"Hang in for a little while. Your turn will come."
Aybee scowled. "Hey, Wolfman, don't say that. That's too true to be funny. Top mathematicians and physicists do their real stuff before they're twenty-five. After that they're just hacking. I've only got six years left, then it's all downhill for the next hundred years. How's it feel to be real old?"
"I'll let you know when I am."
"Sylv says you're pretty well along—after the meeting she got Manx to let her peek at your personal records. She's nosy. She tells me you been seeing things, and you don't know how you could have been fed 'em. And the Manxman thinks I could help. Tell me more."
"Not tonight, Josephine."
"Who?"
"Somebody even older than me." Bey advanced slowly on Aybee. "Shoo. You're leaving now. I'm going to throw you out—literally, if I have to. Catch me in the morning; I'll tell you all you want to know about me. Even how I grow hair."
"Sure." Aybee headed for the doorway. "I guess old people need lots of sleep."
"I guess we do." Wolf closed and locked the door after him. If any more visitors were on their way tonight, they would have to break it down. He sat on the bed and considered Apollo Belvedere Smith.
Aybee was young, arrogant, opinionated, brash, and insensitive.
Bey liked him very much.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 8
Cinnabar Baker had no home, or perhaps she had thirty. Apartments were maintained for her use on every harvester, identical in size, gravity, and furnishings. She traveled constantly and spent at most ten days a year in each one.
She was said to have neither human intimates nor personal belongings. Turpin went with her everywhere, but he was not a possession. He was an old, cross-eyed crow with a big vocabulary and an absence of tail feathers. When he was in a bad mood, which was often, he had the habit of tugging plumage out with his bill.
He was doing that now, and it was an unpleasant sight. Sylvia Fernald found it hard to take her eyes off him. The crow would pause occasionally to glare at her with rheumy, droop-lidded eyes, then go back to his self-destructive preening. He made no attempt to fly; instead, he went waddling back and forth in a piratical roll all over the little round table in front of Sylvia, wings half-open and muttering a bad-tempered parody of human speech. Sylvia tried to ignore Turpin and keep her attention on what Cinnabar Baker was saying. It was not easy. Sylvia had been asleep when the call had come. She bit back a yawn, wondering how it was possible to be so nervous and yet so sleepy.
The latest summons had caught her by surprise, as had the earlier order, a week before, to attend the meeting with Wolf and help to brief him. She worked for Baker, that was undeniable, but the boss of the harvesters had reached down past two intermediate levels of command to get to Fernald and had never offered an explanation.
This new call had been equally casual, as if there were nothing unusual in asking a junior staff member to come to a one-on-one meeting well after midnight. The big woman had been sitting cross-legged in the low-g apartment when Sylvia arrived. She had exchanged the yellow uniform for a billowing cloud of pale-green spun material that left only her head and hands uncovered, and she seemed as fresh and alert as ever.
"Now let's think a bit more about Behrooz Wolf," she said, as though continuing a conversation already in progress. "We have Leo Manx's impressions, of course, and I have now heard from Aybee. But neither one is a close observer of what I
"Probably."
"Do you have hair like that all over? I mean, it must drive you crazy."
Bey held up his hand to show Aybee the open palm.
"Okay you know what I meant." Aybee grinned. "You think I'm a smart-ass, don't you?"
"Not at all. Fifty years ago, I was just like you. Brighter than fusion. I'm amazed how much smarter other people are these days."
"Senile decay?"
"Hang in for a little while. Your turn will come."
Aybee scowled. "Hey, Wolfman, don't say that. That's too true to be funny. Top mathematicians and physicists do their real stuff before they're twenty-five. After that they're just hacking. I've only got six years left, then it's all downhill for the next hundred years. How's it feel to be real old?"
"I'll let you know when I am."
"Sylv says you're pretty well along—after the meeting she got Manx to let her peek at your personal records. She's nosy. She tells me you been seeing things, and you don't know how you could have been fed 'em. And the Manxman thinks I could help. Tell me more."
"Not tonight, Josephine."
"Who?"
"Somebody even older than me." Bey advanced slowly on Aybee. "Shoo. You're leaving now. I'm going to throw you out—literally, if I have to. Catch me in the morning; I'll tell you all you want to know about me. Even how I grow hair."
"Sure." Aybee headed for the doorway. "I guess old people need lots of sleep."
"I guess we do." Wolf closed and locked the door after him. If any more visitors were on their way tonight, they would have to break it down. He sat on the bed and considered Apollo Belvedere Smith.
Aybee was young, arrogant, opinionated, brash, and insensitive.
Bey liked him very much.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 8
Cinnabar Baker had no home, or perhaps she had thirty. Apartments were maintained for her use on every harvester, identical in size, gravity, and furnishings. She traveled constantly and spent at most ten days a year in each one.
She was said to have neither human intimates nor personal belongings. Turpin went with her everywhere, but he was not a possession. He was an old, cross-eyed crow with a big vocabulary and an absence of tail feathers. When he was in a bad mood, which was often, he had the habit of tugging plumage out with his bill.
He was doing that now, and it was an unpleasant sight. Sylvia Fernald found it hard to take her eyes off him. The crow would pause occasionally to glare at her with rheumy, droop-lidded eyes, then go back to his self-destructive preening. He made no attempt to fly; instead, he went waddling back and forth in a piratical roll all over the little round table in front of Sylvia, wings half-open and muttering a bad-tempered parody of human speech. Sylvia tried to ignore Turpin and keep her attention on what Cinnabar Baker was saying. It was not easy. Sylvia had been asleep when the call had come. She bit back a yawn, wondering how it was possible to be so nervous and yet so sleepy.
The latest summons had caught her by surprise, as had the earlier order, a week before, to attend the meeting with Wolf and help to brief him. She worked for Baker, that was undeniable, but the boss of the harvesters had reached down past two intermediate levels of command to get to Fernald and had never offered an explanation.
This new call had been equally casual, as if there were nothing unusual in asking a junior staff member to come to a one-on-one meeting well after midnight. The big woman had been sitting cross-legged in the low-g apartment when Sylvia arrived. She had exchanged the yellow uniform for a billowing cloud of pale-green spun material that left only her head and hands uncovered, and she seemed as fresh and alert as ever.
"Now let's think a bit more about Behrooz Wolf," she said, as though continuing a conversation already in progress. "We have Leo Manx's impressions, of course, and I have now heard from Aybee. But neither one is a close observer of what I
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