A Talent for War (24 page)

"Sounds familiar."

"Maybe there's only one kind of ethical system that works. Although, with the mutes, it doesn't seem to have taken."

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"No. Just a minute." She scrolled back to the title page, and pointed to the dedication. For Leisha Tanner.

None of the librarians knew anything about Parrini. To them, he was simply a couple of crystals in the reference room, and three boxes of documents in a storage area on the third floor.

(Or maybe there were four boxes. No one was sure.) At our request, they moved the boxes down to a viewing room and showed us the contents. We found student reports, grade lists, financial records that had been old when Parrini died, and invoices for furniture, art work, books, clothes, a skimmer. You name it.

"There has to be more," Chase said, after we'd removed our headbands and started on a hot lunch. "We're not looking in the right place. Parrini couldn't simply have accumulated the material for the first volume without simultaneously getting large chunks of material for the succeeding books."

I agreed, and suggested that the place to start was the literature department.

Jacob had a transmission code ready for us when we finished, and we linked into a shabby office with run-down furniture and two bored-looking young men who lounged at old terminals, their feet propped up and their fingers laced behind their heads. One was extremely tall, almost two and a half meters. The other was about average size, with clear, friendly eyes, and straw-colored hair. A monitor was running rapidly through blocks of text, but no one seemed to be paying any attention.

"Yes?" inquired the smaller of the two, straightening slightly. "Can I help you?" He really asked the question of Chase.

"We're doing some research on Charles Parrini," she said. "We're particularly interested in his work on Walford Candles."

"Parrini's a hack," said the other, without moving. "Schambly is much better on Candles. Or Koestler. Hell, almost anybody except Parrini."

The one who had spoken first frowned and introduced himself. "Korman," he said. "First name's Jak. This is Thaxter." Thaxter's lips parted slightly. "What do you need?" he asked, still talking to Chase. His eyes traveled swiftly down her anatomy. He looked pleased.

"Are you familiar," I asked, "with his translation of Tulisofala? Why did he dedicate it to Leisha Tanner?"

Korman smiled, apparently impressed. "Because," he said, looking in my direction for the first time, "she made the first serious effort to translate Ashiyyurean literature. Nobody really reads her anymore, of course. Modern scholarship has left her efforts behind. But she led the way."

Chase nodded in her best academic manner. "Have you read his work on Wally Candles?" she
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asked. Her diction was a bit more pronounced than usual. "The Letters?"

Thaxter inserted his foot into an open drawer and rocked it back and forth. "I know about it,"

he said.

"There were to be additional volumes. Did they ever get completed?"

"As I recall," Thaxter said, "he died in the middle of the project."

"That's right." Chase looked from one to the other. "Did anyone else finish what he started?"

"I don't think so." Thaxter drew the words out in a way that suggested he had no idea. He tried a tentative smile, got an encouraging response from Chase, and consulted his computer. "No," he said, after a few moments. "Only Volume I. Nothing after that."

"Dr. Thaxter," I said, bestowing a title I doubted that he owned, "what would have happened to Parrini's records after his death?"

"I'd have to look into that."

"Would you?" asked Chase. "It would be helpful."

Thaxter stirred himself enough to straighten up. "Okay, I can do that. Where can I find you?"

He seemed to be talking to Chase's anatomy.

"Might you have an answer for us this evening?"

"Possibly."

"I'll be back," smiled Chase.

On his death, Charles Parrini's files passed into the hands of Adrian Monck, his frequent collaborator. Among other projects, Monck was to have completed the second and third volumes of the Candles letters. But he was working on the now-forgotten historical novel Maurina, an epic retelling of the Age of Resistance through the eyes of Christopher Sim's young wife. He didn't live to complete either the novel or the Candles collection, and Maurina was finished by his daughter. Parrini's papers were eventually donated by her to the University Library at Mount

Tabor, where Monck had received his undergraduate degree.

Mount Tabor is located outside Bellwether, a relatively small city in the southern hemisphere eight time zones away. The university's name is a trifle misleading: the land around Bellwether is dead flat.

The institution is church-affiliated, and "Mount Tabor" is a scriptural reference.

Moments after Chase returned from her conversation with Thaxter, we presented ourselves to the AI who maintained the University Library after hours. (It was just before dawn in Bellwether.) No unpublished materials were listed in the inventory under either Monck or Parrini.

In the morning, we were back when they opened. The young assistant whom we approached with our questions checked his databanks and shook his head after each entry. No Monck. No Parrini. Sorry. Wished he could help. It was exactly what the AI had said, but humans are easier to negotiate with.

We insisted they had to be there somewhere, and the young man sighed and passed us on to a dark-complexioned woman who was even taller than Chase. She was big-boned, with black hair and an abrupt manner that suggested her time was extremely valuable. "If anything does arrive,"

she told us peremptorily, "we'll get in touch with you immediately." She'd already begun to walk away. "Please leave your code at the desk."

"If they're not here now," I said, "they aren't coming. The Parrini papers were bequeathed to the university more than twenty years ago."

She stopped. "I see. Well, that's before my time, and obviously they're not here. You have to understand that we receive a great many bequests in the form you describe. Usually, they're materials that the heirs have no earthly use for. But in our grief, Mr. Benedict, we are inclined to exaggerate the importance of whomever has just passed on—You might wish to try the Literary
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Foundation."

"I would be extremely grateful if you can help us," I persisted. "And I'd be happy to pay for your time." I'd never tried to bribe anyone before, and I felt clumsy. I managed a glance at Chase, who was having trouble keeping a straight face.

"I'd be pleased to take your money, Mr. Benedict. But it really wouldn't do you any good. If it's not in the inventory, we don't have it. Simple as that."

I wondered aloud whether it might not create a disturbance if the Mount Tabor Board of Governors learned that the heritage of Charles Parrini had been treated so cavalierly by their librarians, and she suggested I should take whatever action I considered appropriate.

"End of the line, I guess," I told Chase when we were back in the study. She nodded, and we got up from the chairs in which we'd been sitting for the better part of two days. It was well past midnight.

"Let's get some air," she said, pressing her fingers to her temples.

Outside, we strolled gloomily along one of the forest footpaths. "I think it's time," I said, "to write the entire business off."

She looked straight ahead and didn't say anything. The night air was cold and had a sting to it, but it felt good. We walked for maybe a half hour. She seemed preoccupied, while my relief that it was finally over gradually gave way to an awareness of Chase's long-legged physical presence.

"I know how frustrating this must be for you," she said, suddenly.

"Yes." Her eyes were on about a level with mine, and I was very conscious of them in that moment. "I would have liked to get some answers," I said shamelessly.

"It would also be nice to catch up with whoever was playing games with you."

"That too." Like hell.

I tried to assuage my conscience by admitting that I was glad to turn my mind to other things, and I went on for some minutes about my responsibilities to Gabe's estate, and a few problems of my own, and whatnot. All lies, but it didn't matter. Chase wasn't listening anyway.

"I have a thought," she said, breaking in as though I'd said nothing whatever. "We know the documents were donated by Monck's daughter. The bequest might have been cataloged in her name, which would not necessarily have been Monck. The problem might just be that the library doesn't cross-reference very well."

She was right.

The materials themselves, like the documents at Mileta, were packed away in a plastic container in a storage room.

The tall dark-complexioned librarian argued briefly that the materials were not available for public viewing. But she conceded quickly when I threatened again to go to her superiors, this time with a considerably more detailed accusation.

She had the container delivered to a viewing room and, when we arrived, everything had been laid out on a couple of tables. The young assistant we'd met the previous day was assigned to us, to load data storage units, and hold things up to the light, and turn pages, and do the various other physical tasks that a headband projection cannot to for itself. He was very responsive and patient with a job that must have quickly become tedious for him, and was on the whole quite the opposite of his supervisor. I thought also that he was somewhat taken with Chase.

We spent two days going through the material. A substantial portion of it was correspondence originated by and sent to Walford Candles. It was on crystals; on some of the old spools and cylinders and fibres of various types that you don't see anymore; in lightpad memory systems; and on paper. "It's going to create a problem," said Chase. "We won't be able to read most of this stuff. Where would you find a reader that would accept this?" She held up a cube, turning it in the light. "I'm not even sure whether it's a data storage unit at all."

"The University will have the equipment," I said, directing the comment to the young man, who
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nodded vigorously.

"We have adapted readers for most systems," he agreed.

In all honesty, I have to confess that it was difficult to get through those letters. As Candles's reputation grew, his correspondence was no longer limited only to his band of friends. Parrini had found communications from both the Sims, from most of the people whose names live in the histories of the period, from statesmen and the men who fought the war, from weapons manufacturers and social reformers, from theologians and victims. There was even a description of a graduation of Khaja Luan at which Tarien Sim was a featured speaker. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the podium to himself, except that the Ashiyyurean ambassador also showed up to state his case. The alien's interpreter was Leisha Tanner!

"The woman," commented Chase, "really liked to ride tigers."

The event was described by Candles to a forgotten correspondent. It was dated a few weeks before the fall of the City on the Crag: If a passion for ceremony signifies anything, Candles comments, our two cultures may be more alike than we wish to admit. Both formalize passages of various types, births and deaths and whatnot; sporting events; public displays of the arts; assorted political functions; and the ultimate ceremonial war.

So, despite everything, the robed and hooded figure of the Ambassador, folded onto a bench well apart from the dignitaries on the parade stand, did not look entirely out of place. It sat quietly, its robe folded in a manner that suggested its forelimbs were placed on its lap. No face was visible within the hood. Even on that bright sunlit afternoon, I had the sense of gazing down a dark tunnel.

Leisha, who knows about such things, had informed me that this is an extremely trying experience for the Ambassador. Other than that it may well be in some physical danger, since the massive security forces surrounding the gathering can not really protect it from a determined assassin, it apparently also suffers from some sort of psychological oppression, induced by the presence of people in large numbers. I suppose I'd feel the same way if I thought they all wanted me dead.

There was a substantial amount of official talk about academic accomplishment and bright futures. And I wondered at the self-control of the Ambassador, stiff and erect among us.

I felt uncomfortable in its presence. In fact, if I aim to be honest, I must admit I did not like the creature very much, and would have been pleased to have it gone. I don't know why that should be. It has nothing to do with the war, I don't think. I suspect that we will never feel entirely comfortable when faced with intelligence housed in an exotic physical configuration. I wonder whether this isn't the real basis for our reaction to the aliens, rather than the sense of mental intrusion to which it is usually ascribed?

The University asked Leisha to act as interpreter. That meant reading the alien's speech.

Everybody she knew advised her strongly not to do it, and a few people made it clear that she was behaving in a treasonable fashion, and that, if she persisted, they would see that she paid a price. Sometimes we forget who the enemy is.

I'd like to tell you that the friendship of those who threatened her in this way would not have been worth keeping. But unfortunately this is not so. Cantor was among the group. And Lyn Quen. And a young man whom I believe Leisha loved.

No matter. When the time came, she was up there beside the Ambassador, looking as cool and lovely as I've ever seen her. She's a hell of a woman, Connie. I wish I were younger.

Tarien Sim was there too, of course, resplendent among the notables. He has become a person of such incredible political dimension that one cannot but expect to be disappointed by his physical appearance. And yet—there is a sense of greatness about him that one can see and feel.

Shafts of sunlight catch his eye, if you know what I mean.

His scheduled address was the reason for the Ambassador's appearance, actually. The
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