Read Online The Collapsium by Wil McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wil McCarthy
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draping, nondescript grays and browns of his clothing. Deliberate deception? It seemed unlikely in such a grandfatherly figure.
“Declarant Krogh,” Tamra acknowledged pleasantly, lifting and inclining her hand for a ceremonial kiss.
Suddenly, the face clicked: Ernest Krogh, inventor of the fax morbidity filter that had all but banished death from the Queendom. The first Declarant Tamra had ever named.
“I’ve seated you next to myself,” Krogh said, “if that’s all right. Rhea is eager to speak with you about … something-orother. It escapes.” He waved a hand absently.
“I’ve brought a guest,” Tamra cautioned.
Krogh nodded. “Thought you might. Saved a place. Backups in case, yes, but I thought …” He interrupted himself and turned to Bruno. “Son, you look familiar.”
Son? Son? No one had called him that in decades. But then, few people affected such advanced decrepitude, as if the mechanics of biology weren’t so rigorously mapped and filtered in fax transmissions after all. Krogh had, of course, come by his decrepitude honestly, the old-fashioned way, but so had many others who’d long since abandoned it for the comfort and vitality of youth.
He supposed Krogh was probably healthy in the ways that mattered: free of diseases and mechanical degenerations, his weathered exterior a kind of uniform or honor badge. Like height or muscle or decisive skin pigmentation, it did draw a kind of knee-jerk attention to itself. A kind of respect, he grudgingly supposed, though he’d rather respect the man’s record and title, his taste in buildings, his obviously quite large number of friends.
“De Towaji,” he said finally, thrusting out a hand to be shaken. “Bruno.”
“Declarant,” Her Majesty chimed in.
“Oh! Right!” Krogh exclaimed, grabbing the hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Collapsium, yes! Still alive, then? Outstanding.” To Tamra he said, “Brought him to us,have you? Haven’t heard much from this one lately. Bit of a recluse, yes?”
Bruno shrugged. “My work demands isolation.”
“I daresay it does,” Krogh laughed. “Crushing matter into nothingness. None for me, thanks! God’s own spacetime is agreeable enough. Not that there’s anything wrong, of course, with a tweak here and there. Mustn’t grow complacent. Kiss of death for an immorbid society, I’d say.”
“Uh,” Bruno said, then realized he had no response. Bit of a recluse, yes, no longer able to hold up his end of a conversation. Blast.
“Well, do come in, Your Majesty. Declarant.” Krogh urged them both, not seeming to notice Bruno’s discomfiture. “Follow me, follow me. The table is right over here. Rhea, darling, I’ve brought visitors! Now Bruno, this thing about the Ring Collapsiter. Falling into the sun, they tell me. Not very desirable, that.”
“Certainly not.”
“You’re on it, I hazard? Fixing it up for us?”
Bruno, feeling bothered, could only shrug again. Then he identified the source of his irritation: he felt like a child, like a bright little boy in the company of an adult. Not that he was being patronized, particularly, but Young Prodigy was clearly the role he’d be called upon to play here. What a thought! He, the gray, brooding prophet! That was the problem with putting on airs: other people were free to cut right through them.
Well, blast. So be it. Served him right, probably.
“I’ve looked,” he said to Krogh, nodding. “I’m thinking the problem over, but really I’ve only just arrived. And since Her Majesty insisted I join her for dinner …”
Krogh smiled knowingly, reached out an arm, and for a moment Bruno feared his mad prophet’s hair might be given a good-natured tousling. But no, the arm was merely gesturing, pointing out the seats marked LUTUI TAMRA and LUTUI GUEST.
So many utensils
, Bruno noted with an inward groan.A few seats down was a place marked SYKES MARLON, which, presently, was occupied by the frowning Declarant-Philander
“Declarant Krogh,” Tamra acknowledged pleasantly, lifting and inclining her hand for a ceremonial kiss.
Suddenly, the face clicked: Ernest Krogh, inventor of the fax morbidity filter that had all but banished death from the Queendom. The first Declarant Tamra had ever named.
“I’ve seated you next to myself,” Krogh said, “if that’s all right. Rhea is eager to speak with you about … something-orother. It escapes.” He waved a hand absently.
“I’ve brought a guest,” Tamra cautioned.
Krogh nodded. “Thought you might. Saved a place. Backups in case, yes, but I thought …” He interrupted himself and turned to Bruno. “Son, you look familiar.”
Son? Son? No one had called him that in decades. But then, few people affected such advanced decrepitude, as if the mechanics of biology weren’t so rigorously mapped and filtered in fax transmissions after all. Krogh had, of course, come by his decrepitude honestly, the old-fashioned way, but so had many others who’d long since abandoned it for the comfort and vitality of youth.
He supposed Krogh was probably healthy in the ways that mattered: free of diseases and mechanical degenerations, his weathered exterior a kind of uniform or honor badge. Like height or muscle or decisive skin pigmentation, it did draw a kind of knee-jerk attention to itself. A kind of respect, he grudgingly supposed, though he’d rather respect the man’s record and title, his taste in buildings, his obviously quite large number of friends.
“De Towaji,” he said finally, thrusting out a hand to be shaken. “Bruno.”
“Declarant,” Her Majesty chimed in.
“Oh! Right!” Krogh exclaimed, grabbing the hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Collapsium, yes! Still alive, then? Outstanding.” To Tamra he said, “Brought him to us,have you? Haven’t heard much from this one lately. Bit of a recluse, yes?”
Bruno shrugged. “My work demands isolation.”
“I daresay it does,” Krogh laughed. “Crushing matter into nothingness. None for me, thanks! God’s own spacetime is agreeable enough. Not that there’s anything wrong, of course, with a tweak here and there. Mustn’t grow complacent. Kiss of death for an immorbid society, I’d say.”
“Uh,” Bruno said, then realized he had no response. Bit of a recluse, yes, no longer able to hold up his end of a conversation. Blast.
“Well, do come in, Your Majesty. Declarant.” Krogh urged them both, not seeming to notice Bruno’s discomfiture. “Follow me, follow me. The table is right over here. Rhea, darling, I’ve brought visitors! Now Bruno, this thing about the Ring Collapsiter. Falling into the sun, they tell me. Not very desirable, that.”
“Certainly not.”
“You’re on it, I hazard? Fixing it up for us?”
Bruno, feeling bothered, could only shrug again. Then he identified the source of his irritation: he felt like a child, like a bright little boy in the company of an adult. Not that he was being patronized, particularly, but Young Prodigy was clearly the role he’d be called upon to play here. What a thought! He, the gray, brooding prophet! That was the problem with putting on airs: other people were free to cut right through them.
Well, blast. So be it. Served him right, probably.
“I’ve looked,” he said to Krogh, nodding. “I’m thinking the problem over, but really I’ve only just arrived. And since Her Majesty insisted I join her for dinner …”
Krogh smiled knowingly, reached out an arm, and for a moment Bruno feared his mad prophet’s hair might be given a good-natured tousling. But no, the arm was merely gesturing, pointing out the seats marked LUTUI TAMRA and LUTUI GUEST.
So many utensils
, Bruno noted with an inward groan.A few seats down was a place marked SYKES MARLON, which, presently, was occupied by the frowning Declarant-Philander
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