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Authors: Wil McCarthy
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like.”
The relief on the men’s faces was palpable. Bruno wonderedwhat sort of doctors they were, that they so craved his attention.
“Er,” the crimson man said.
“Thank you, very much,” his wife said, smiling, touching his hand again to lead him away. The indigo man and yellow woman fell in behind them, strolling down a path between the junipers, past Tamra’s guards. In a few moments, they were lost from sight.
“Ah, civilization,” Bruno said.
Her Majesty grunted. “Wiseass.”
Another figure materialized in the fax gate: a man. A smallish man in black and green, a shiny black hat cocked jauntily atop his head. It took Bruno a moment to recognize him as Marlon Sykes, prettied up for the ball, and still another moment to recognize the clothing ensemble as very nearly identical to his own. Perhaps suggested by the same piece of software?
Perhaps
this
was Tusités joke?
Sykes, it seemed, made the connection more quickly, eyeing Bruno up and down and then glaring pointedly. Tamra, for her part, looked at the two of them and burst out laughing.
“Am I to be second in
all
things?” Sykes muttered.
Bruno, somewhat taken aback himself, could only stammer, “It … why, it looks much better on you, Declarant.” Which was true, but it mollified Sykes not at all.
“Damn you, de Towaji,” Sykes said, then stepped backward and vanished.
Another batch of people filed through the fax gate, and in another moment Bruno felt his arm clasped again, Tamra’s strong fingers pulling him away from still another encounter, down the juniper path toward the party.
The robots, earlier so conspicuous in their duties, now seemed almost to sneak alongside them, quiet, holding to the walls and shadows. They remained ever vigilant, of course, their blank metal heads facing Her Majesty no matter how they moved, but now they followed a program of discretion,balancing etiquette against the need to protect—or perhaps protecting Tamra’s image along with her skin.
A few turns and twists later, the glass arcade opened back into a sort of dining hall, a chamber cut back into the mountain. Or possibly a natural cavern of some sort; beneath a ceiling of white-glowing wellstone, the walls retained that same rough pastry look. At the back, a staircase rose up into rock and darkness. Five long tables filled the hall, eight seats to a side and one on each end, enough for a hundred people in all. Half these seats were filled already, and from the arcade’s other side a steady stream of guests filed in. Had he and Tamra come in through some sort of VIP entrance? The crowd was certainly thicker over there, and while neither wealth nor status could be gauged from clothing, from their movements and muddled-together speech they seemed a slightly more raucous bunch. The brightly clad Martians were ahead, strolling along the nearest table, looking at place cards to find or confirm their seats.
Bruno and Tamra seemed to be right on time, at any rate. That was another thing about faxing: it left no sense of the minutes elapsed during transmission through the collapsiter grid. One could, in theory, specify longer-than-optimal packet routes, bouncing a signal to the outer planets and back as many times as desired, effectively transmitting oneself into the future. Why wait for the party, when you could—in effect—bring the party to you? But the cost was such that Bruno doubted many people had tried it; there were easier ways to skip over dull time. Sleeping, for example.
Presently, a little bald man detached himself from the crowd and strode briskly forward, arms outstretched, his attention fully on Tamra. In the corners of Bruno’s vision, the robots tensed.
“Your Majesty,” the man said, sounding delighted.
“Malo e lelei. Na’ake ’i heni kimu’a?”
His hands closed on hers, enfolding; he was bigger than he looked, taller in fact than the “Virgin Queen” herself. There was deception in the stoop ofhis shoulders and the
The relief on the men’s faces was palpable. Bruno wonderedwhat sort of doctors they were, that they so craved his attention.
“Er,” the crimson man said.
“Thank you, very much,” his wife said, smiling, touching his hand again to lead him away. The indigo man and yellow woman fell in behind them, strolling down a path between the junipers, past Tamra’s guards. In a few moments, they were lost from sight.
“Ah, civilization,” Bruno said.
Her Majesty grunted. “Wiseass.”
Another figure materialized in the fax gate: a man. A smallish man in black and green, a shiny black hat cocked jauntily atop his head. It took Bruno a moment to recognize him as Marlon Sykes, prettied up for the ball, and still another moment to recognize the clothing ensemble as very nearly identical to his own. Perhaps suggested by the same piece of software?
Perhaps
this
was Tusités joke?
Sykes, it seemed, made the connection more quickly, eyeing Bruno up and down and then glaring pointedly. Tamra, for her part, looked at the two of them and burst out laughing.
“Am I to be second in
all
things?” Sykes muttered.
Bruno, somewhat taken aback himself, could only stammer, “It … why, it looks much better on you, Declarant.” Which was true, but it mollified Sykes not at all.
“Damn you, de Towaji,” Sykes said, then stepped backward and vanished.
Another batch of people filed through the fax gate, and in another moment Bruno felt his arm clasped again, Tamra’s strong fingers pulling him away from still another encounter, down the juniper path toward the party.
The robots, earlier so conspicuous in their duties, now seemed almost to sneak alongside them, quiet, holding to the walls and shadows. They remained ever vigilant, of course, their blank metal heads facing Her Majesty no matter how they moved, but now they followed a program of discretion,balancing etiquette against the need to protect—or perhaps protecting Tamra’s image along with her skin.
A few turns and twists later, the glass arcade opened back into a sort of dining hall, a chamber cut back into the mountain. Or possibly a natural cavern of some sort; beneath a ceiling of white-glowing wellstone, the walls retained that same rough pastry look. At the back, a staircase rose up into rock and darkness. Five long tables filled the hall, eight seats to a side and one on each end, enough for a hundred people in all. Half these seats were filled already, and from the arcade’s other side a steady stream of guests filed in. Had he and Tamra come in through some sort of VIP entrance? The crowd was certainly thicker over there, and while neither wealth nor status could be gauged from clothing, from their movements and muddled-together speech they seemed a slightly more raucous bunch. The brightly clad Martians were ahead, strolling along the nearest table, looking at place cards to find or confirm their seats.
Bruno and Tamra seemed to be right on time, at any rate. That was another thing about faxing: it left no sense of the minutes elapsed during transmission through the collapsiter grid. One could, in theory, specify longer-than-optimal packet routes, bouncing a signal to the outer planets and back as many times as desired, effectively transmitting oneself into the future. Why wait for the party, when you could—in effect—bring the party to you? But the cost was such that Bruno doubted many people had tried it; there were easier ways to skip over dull time. Sleeping, for example.
Presently, a little bald man detached himself from the crowd and strode briskly forward, arms outstretched, his attention fully on Tamra. In the corners of Bruno’s vision, the robots tensed.
“Your Majesty,” the man said, sounding delighted.
“Malo e lelei. Na’ake ’i heni kimu’a?”
His hands closed on hers, enfolding; he was bigger than he looked, taller in fact than the “Virgin Queen” herself. There was deception in the stoop ofhis shoulders and the
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