you—but the others don’t; all they know is that I’m bringing a promising member. Later on, one or two of them may have to know it.”
“Do you check the history of everyone who’s assigned here?”
“No. Why?”
“Isn’t that how you ‘spotted’ me, by finding out that I used to think about classifying myself?”
“Three steps down here,” she said. “No, that was only confirmation. And two and three. What I spotted was a look you have, the look of a member who isn’t one-hundred-per-cent in the bosom of the Family. You’ll learn to recognize it too, if you join us. I found out who you were, and then I went to your room and saw that picture on the wall.”
“The horse?”
“No, Marx Writing,” she said. “Of course the horse. You draw the way no normal member would even think of drawing. I checked your history then, after I’d seen the picture.”
They had left the plaza and were on one of the walkways west of it—K or L, he wasn’t sure which.
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “Someone else drew that picture.”
“You drew it,” she said; “you’ve claimed charcoal and sketch pads.”
“For the member who drew it. A friend of mine at academy.”
“Well that’s interesting,” she said. “Cheating on claims is a better sign than anything. Anyway, you liked the picture well enough to keep it and frame it. Or did your friend make the frame too?”
He smiled. “No, I did,” he said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”
“We turn here, to the right.”
“Are you an adviser?”
“Me? Hate, no.”
“But you can pull histories?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you at the Institute?”
“Don’t ask so many questions,” she said. “Listen, what do you want us to call you? Instead of Li RM.”
“Oh,” he said. “Chip.”
“ ‘Chip’? No,” she said, “don’t just say the first thing that comes into your mind. You ought to be something like ‘Pirate’ or ‘Tiger.’ The others are King and Lilac and Leopard and Hush and Sparrow.”
“Chip’s what I was called when I was a boy,” he said. “I’m used to it.”
“All right,” she said, “but it’s not what I would have chosen. Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
“Fine. Left now.”
They went through a door, up steps, through another door, and into an echoing hall of some kind, where they walked and turned, walked and turned, as if by-passing a number of irregularly placed objects. They walked up a stopped escalator and along a corridor that curved toward the right.
She stopped him and asked for his bracelet. He raised his wrist, and his bracelet was pressed tight and rubbed. He touched it; there was smoothness instead of his nameber. That and his sightlessness made him suddenly feel disembodied; as if he were about to drift from the floor, drift right out through whatever walls were around him and up into space, dissolve there and become nothing.
She took his arm again. They walked farther and stopped. He heard a knock and two more knocks, a door opening, voices stilling. “Hi,” she said, leading him forward. “This is Chip. He insists on it.”
Chairs scuffed against the floor, voices gave greetings. A hand took his and shook it. “I’m King,” a member said, a man. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Another hand gripped his harder. “Snowflake says you’re quite an artist”—an older man than King. “I’m Leopard.”
Other hands came quickly, women: “Hello, Chip; I’m Lilac.” “And I’m Sparrow. I hope you’ll become a regular.” “I’m Hush, Leopard’s wife. Hello.” The last one’s hand and voice were old; the other two were young.
He was led to a chair and sat in it. His hands found tabletop before him, smooth and bare, its edge slightly curving; an oval table or a large round one. The others were sitting down; Snowflake on his right, talking; someone else on his left. He smelled something burning, sniffed to make sure. None of the
“Do you check the history of everyone who’s assigned here?”
“No. Why?”
“Isn’t that how you ‘spotted’ me, by finding out that I used to think about classifying myself?”
“Three steps down here,” she said. “No, that was only confirmation. And two and three. What I spotted was a look you have, the look of a member who isn’t one-hundred-per-cent in the bosom of the Family. You’ll learn to recognize it too, if you join us. I found out who you were, and then I went to your room and saw that picture on the wall.”
“The horse?”
“No, Marx Writing,” she said. “Of course the horse. You draw the way no normal member would even think of drawing. I checked your history then, after I’d seen the picture.”
They had left the plaza and were on one of the walkways west of it—K or L, he wasn’t sure which.
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “Someone else drew that picture.”
“You drew it,” she said; “you’ve claimed charcoal and sketch pads.”
“For the member who drew it. A friend of mine at academy.”
“Well that’s interesting,” she said. “Cheating on claims is a better sign than anything. Anyway, you liked the picture well enough to keep it and frame it. Or did your friend make the frame too?”
He smiled. “No, I did,” he said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”
“We turn here, to the right.”
“Are you an adviser?”
“Me? Hate, no.”
“But you can pull histories?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you at the Institute?”
“Don’t ask so many questions,” she said. “Listen, what do you want us to call you? Instead of Li RM.”
“Oh,” he said. “Chip.”
“ ‘Chip’? No,” she said, “don’t just say the first thing that comes into your mind. You ought to be something like ‘Pirate’ or ‘Tiger.’ The others are King and Lilac and Leopard and Hush and Sparrow.”
“Chip’s what I was called when I was a boy,” he said. “I’m used to it.”
“All right,” she said, “but it’s not what I would have chosen. Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
“Fine. Left now.”
They went through a door, up steps, through another door, and into an echoing hall of some kind, where they walked and turned, walked and turned, as if by-passing a number of irregularly placed objects. They walked up a stopped escalator and along a corridor that curved toward the right.
She stopped him and asked for his bracelet. He raised his wrist, and his bracelet was pressed tight and rubbed. He touched it; there was smoothness instead of his nameber. That and his sightlessness made him suddenly feel disembodied; as if he were about to drift from the floor, drift right out through whatever walls were around him and up into space, dissolve there and become nothing.
She took his arm again. They walked farther and stopped. He heard a knock and two more knocks, a door opening, voices stilling. “Hi,” she said, leading him forward. “This is Chip. He insists on it.”
Chairs scuffed against the floor, voices gave greetings. A hand took his and shook it. “I’m King,” a member said, a man. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Another hand gripped his harder. “Snowflake says you’re quite an artist”—an older man than King. “I’m Leopard.”
Other hands came quickly, women: “Hello, Chip; I’m Lilac.” “And I’m Sparrow. I hope you’ll become a regular.” “I’m Hush, Leopard’s wife. Hello.” The last one’s hand and voice were old; the other two were young.
He was led to a chair and sat in it. His hands found tabletop before him, smooth and bare, its edge slightly curving; an oval table or a large round one. The others were sitting down; Snowflake on his right, talking; someone else on his left. He smelled something burning, sniffed to make sure. None of the
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