“Nazareth?” she said gently. “My dear. Have you fallen asleep there?”
Nazareth jumped a little, startled, and she turned away from the transparent walls to the Interface where her youngest child was serenely stacking up plastiblocks under the friendly gaze of the current Alien-in-Residence.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Clara,” she said. “I didn’t hear you… I’m afraid my mind was a million miles away. Do you need me for something?”
Putting it off, Clara gestured with the point of her chin at the child, now laughing at some comment from the A.I.R. “He’s doing well, isn’t he?”
“I think so. He seems to be putting sentences together already… little ones, but certainly sentences. Not bad for just barely two years old, with three languages to sort out at once. And his English doesn’t seem slowed down at all.”
“Three languages,” mused Clara. “That’s not so bad, dear… I’ve known them to lay on half a dozen, when there weren’t so many infants available.”
“Ah, but you remember Paul Hadley? Remember how worried we all were? Three years in the Interface with that northern Alphan, and nothing in any language but a half dozen baby words.”
“It turned out all right,” Clara reminded her. “That’s all that matters. That sort of thing happens now and then.”
“I know that. That’s why I worry that it might happen again. Especially this time.”
Clara cleared her throat, and her hands made a small useless gesture. “It’s not likely,” she said.
Nazareth raised her eyes, then, and looked at her aunt. Her face was the faded yellow of cheap paper.
“You’ve come from the men, Aunt Clara,” she said, “and you’re trying to avoid telling me what they decided. It’s no good… we could find a dozen frivolous topics to postpone it with, but you will eventually have to tell me, you know.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not good, is it?”
“It could be worse.”
Nazareth swayed then, and put one hand against the Interface wall to steady herself, but Clara made no move to go help her. Nazareth allowed no one to help her, and she had good reason.
“Well?” she asked. “What have they decided, Clara?”
“You’re to have the surgery.”
“The laser surgery.”
“Yes. But not the breast regeneration.”
“Are the women’s accounts so low as all that?”
“No, Natha — it wasn’t a financial decision.”
“Ah… I perceive.” Nazareth’s hands moved, one to each of her breasts, and she covered them tenderly, as a lover might have covered them against a chill wind.
The two women looked at each other, silently. And in the same way that Clara ached for the woman who must accept a wholly avoidable mutilation, Nazareth ached for the woman who had been ordered to carry that message. It was the way of the world, however. And as Clara had pointed out, it could have been worse. They could have refused to authorize the surgery — except that the media would have seized on the story as yet another example of the difference between the linguist and the normal human being.
“You’re to go right away,” said Clara when she could no longer bear the sight of that blind anguish. “There’s a robobus due by in about fifteen minutes, that stops at the hospital. They want you on it, child. You needn’t take anything with you — just get yourself ready for the street. I’ll help you if you like.”
“No. Thank you, Aunt Clara, I can manage.” Nazareth’s hands dropped, to be clasped behind her back, out of sight.
“I’ll have someone authorize the transfer of credits to the hospital account, then,” said the older woman. “No need for you to have to sit there waiting for it to be verified. I can have it done before you get there, if I can find a man not occupied with anything urgent.”
“Like the tobacco accounts.”
“For example.”
“If it can be done,” said Nazareth stolidly, “that would be a pleasant development. If not, don’t worry about it. I am one of the most accomplished wait-ers in the Line. Another few hours won’t do me any serious damage.”
Clara nodded. Nazareth was always accurate.
“Any instructions about the children? Anything I should see to?”
“I don’t think so. Judith and Cecily know my schedule, and if there’s anything not on the usual list they’ll know about that — they’ll alert you. You might tell them to check my journal in the mornings to be certain.”
Clara waited, but Nazareth had nothing more to say, and at last she made the useless gesture again and murmured, “Go in lovingkindness, Nazareth Joanna.”
Nazareth nodded, lips tight and gray in the stark face. The nodding small jerky motions like a windup toy, such as you could see in the museum collections, went on and on, until Clara turned helplessly and left her there. Nazareth did not look again at little Matthew or at the AIRY, except to arrange her body in the obligatory parting-posture of PanSig that politeness required. It was not the Alien’s fault, after all.
Think about that, Nazareth instructed herself. Think about the Alien-in-Residence. Use your unruly mind for something constructive. This is no time for wild thoughts.
The Alien was interesting, by no means always a characteristic of AIRY’s. She looked forward to knowing more about its culture and its language as Matthew grew older and became capable of describing them. Three legs rather than two, and a face was more “face?”… tentacles, in a mane from the top of the head down the entire spine, tentacles that either reacted to something in the environment and moved in reflex or were under voluntary control… There had been lengthy discussion before it had been accepted, some question as to whether it was truly humanoid. It had taken the unanimous vote of the Heads of the thirteen Lines to put it through and get the contract approved, and the old man at Shawnessey Household in Switzerland had taken considerable persuading.
My child, she thought, her back turned to him. My little son. My last son, my last child. And if they made an error, if that being is not truly humanoid, my child who will be a vegetable, or worse.
There you go again, Nazareth, with your mind that does not behave! She clicked her tongue, “tsk!”, and clasped her hands more tightly. Better to occupy that mind with the interesting characteristics of this latest AIRY, or a review of the current inventory of her children’s linguistic skills. Better to occupy that mind with anything at all but the bitter gall of the simple truth, vile in her throat.
Make herself ready for the street, they had said… what did they want of her? She looked down at herself and saw nothing to criticize. No ornament. A plain tunic with modest sleeves to the elbow, in a color that was no color. Clingsoles on her feet, nothing more. Her hair she knew to be orderly. No one could have looked at her and thought “There goes a bitch linguist!” unless they spotted her for a degree of impoverished appearance that could only be the result of having a choice about such things.
She would leave her wrist-computer; there was nobody who did not have one, and hers was plain and worn. She would need it in the public wards, to be able to contact the Household from time to time.
I am all right as I am, she thought. Ready for any street. And any data that the hospital might want from her was easily available from the tattoos in her armpits.
Nazareth went out to the front of the house to wait for the robobus. She did not bother to get anything at all from the room she shared with Aaron. She did not touch her breasts again.