Nan moistened her lips with the whiskey and said brightly, “But it is all so exciting. Could you perhaps show me around this aircraft?”
“Show you around?”
“Yes, please. It is so new to me.”
“What’s to see, love?” Then he shrugged. “Matter of fact, yes, there are a few features I’d like to call to your attention.”
She stood up gratefully, glad to get his hand off her knee. The headaches had lessened, perhaps because now they were breathing quite pure air instead of the Glaswegian smog, but she was annoyed. He had made it clear that they were the only passengers; that was not deceitful. But she had expected at least the chaperonage of the stewardesses, and they, all three of them, had retreated to their little cubbyholes in the aft of the aircraft. The little paneled lounge was far more intimate than she liked.
But worse was in store. What she had thought was a service cubicle turned out to be a tiny, complete bedroom suite. With — could one believe it? — a waterbed. Easily a metric ton of profligately wasted mass! For nothing, surely, but profligately immoral purposes!
“Now there,” said Sir Tam over her shoulder, “is a feature worth studying. Go ahead, Nan. Let your impulses carry you. Try it out.”
“Certainly not!” She moved away from his touching hand and added formally, “Sir Tam, I must tell you that I am an engaged person. It is not correct for me to allow myself to be in a situation of this kind.”
“How quaint.”
“Sir Tam!” She was almost shrieking now, and furiously angry, not only with him but with herself. If she had used a tiny bit of intelligence she would have known this was coming and could have avoided it. A delicate hint that this was the wrong time. A suggestion of — what? Of a social disease, if necessary. Anything. But she was trapped, the waterbed before her, this gland case behind, already with his lips against her ear, whispering buzzingly so that her headache exploded again. Desperately she caught at a straw.
“We — we were speaking of Godfrey Menninger?”
“What?”
“Godfrey Menninger. The father of my good friend, Captain Marge Menninger. You spoke of him in the hotel.”
He was silent for a moment, neither releasing her nor trying to pull her closer. “Do you know God Menninger well?”
“Only through his daughter. I was able to keep her from going to jail once.”
His arm was definitely less tight. After a moment he patted her gently and stepped away. “Let’s have a drink,” he said, ringing for the stewardesses. The satyr’s smile had been replaced by the diplomat’s.
The conversation was back on its tracks again, for which Ana was intensely grateful. She even managed to return to the little cubicle with the armchairs and to persuade the stewardess to bring her a nice cup of strong chai instead of the whiskey Gulsmit suggested. He seemed greatly interested in the story of Margie Menninger’s little episode, in every detail. Had they been fingerprinted? Was the people’s magistrate a court of record, whatever that was? Had Ana spoken to anyone in the militia about the incident later on, and if so what had they said?
Such trivial things seemed to interest him, but Nan was content to go on dredging up memories for him all the way across the Atlantic, as long as it meant his keeping his hands to himself. When she was wrung dry he leaned back, nursing the new drink the stewardess had poured for him and squinting out at the blue-black and cloudless sky.
“Very interesting,” he said at last. “That poor little girl. Of course, I’ve known her since she was tiny.” It had not occurred to Ana that Margie Menninger had ever been tiny. She let it pass, and Sir Tam added, “And dear old God. Have you known him long?”
“Not in a personal sense,” she said, careful not to add lying to the fault of being untruthful. “Of course he is of great importance in cultural matters. I too am deeply concerned about culture.”
“Culture,” repeated Sir Tam meditatively. He seemed about to produce a real smile but managed to retain the diplomatic one instead. “You are a dear, Nan,” he said, and shook his wristwatch to make the red numerals blink on. “Ah, almost there,” he said regretfully. “But of course you must allow me to escort you to your hotel.”
The morning session of the UN was exhausting. There was no time for a real lunch because she had to post-edit the computer translations of what she had already translated once that morning before they could be printed. And the afternoon session was one long catfight.
The debate was on fishing rights for Antarctic krill. Because it was food, tempers ran high. And because sea lore is almost as old an area of human interest as eating, the translation was demanding. There were no places where she could coast, no technical words that were new-coined and common to almost all languages. Every language had developed its own words for ships, seamanship, and above all, eating, at the dawn of language itself. Only three of Nan’s languages were in use — Bulgarian, English, and Russian. The Pakistanis were not involved in the debate, and there were plenty of others proficient in the Romance languages. So there were long periods when she could listen without having to speak. But there was no rest even in those periods; she needed to remember every word she could. The UN delegates had the awful habit of quoting each other at length — sometimes with approval, sometimes with a sneer, always with the risk of some tiny hairsplit that she had to get just right. Her headaches were immense.
That was, of course, the price you paid for having the two hemispheres of your brain surgically sliced apart. Not to mention the stitching back of parts of them that kept you from stumbling into things or falling down, or the DNA injections that left your neck swollen and your eyes bulging for weeks at a time and sometimes caused seizures indistinguishable from epilepsy. That had been a surprise. They hadn’t told her about those things when she signed up to become a split-brain translator — not really. You never did know what pain was going to be until you had it.
What made the whole day an order of magnitude worse was that she was starved for sleep. Sir Tam had followed her to her very door and then planted a foot inside it. His hands had been all over her in the limousine all the way in from the airport. The only way she could think to get rid of him was to pretend such exhaustion that she could not stay awake another second, even though it was just after lunch, New York time. And then she found she had talked herself into it.
So she did go to sleep. And woke up before midnight with the chance for any more sleep gone. And what was there to do with the eleven hours before the morning session would begin?
A letter to Ahmed, of course. A few hours with English irregular verbs. Another hour or so listening to the tapes she had just made to check her accent. But then she was tired and fretful. What she needed most was a walk from her apartment past the university into the fresh morning air of the park, but that was ten thousand kilometers away in Sofia. In New York you did not go walking in the fresh morning air. And so she had turned up for duty in the translator’s booth feeling as though a hard day’s work was already behind her, and her head throbbing and pounding in two different rhythms, one in each temple…
Her mind had wandered. She forced it back. It was Sir Tam asking for the floor now, and she had to put his words into Bulgarian.
His face was purple-red, and he was shouting. With one half of her brain Nan wondered at that while the other half was automatically processing his words. So much passion about such little fish! Not even fish. They were some sort of crustacean, weren’t they? To Nan, “krill” was something that old-fashioned peasant grannies stirred into their stews to give them body. It came as a grayish-white powdery substance that you bought in jars labeled “fish protein concentrate.” You knew that it was good for you, but you didn’t like to think about what organs and oddities were ground up to make it. In food-rich Bulgaria, nobody grew excited about the stuff.