Wait, now she saw it! Their guide was their cook, too!
The cook spun the "table" hard with his hand and it continued to rotate. With a practiced air he wiped it with a small paper cloth, gave the table an extra spin, and waved at the pit, which dutifully roared into flame, as he proceeded to carefully portion stuff onto the cook surface.
Theo did as she was told: she watched. His implements were wood and ceramic, his hands quick and sure.
"Thus we clearly see," Veradantha said, bringing their attention to herself, "that the universe encompasses more than the classrooms and grounds of Anlingdin Academy. The choices are varied, and the methods, as well. Some assume that a proper education instills particular beliefs and necessities as much as it instills knowledge; indeed, some would have it that the failure to assume these beliefs indicates a lack of knowledge."
Theo took the cue, offering, "The Simples are like that on Delgado—in fact Delgado is like that on Delgado!"
Her companions looked on, alert, interested, so she continued with, "I mean, the whole thing about the university is that they want to raise people to do what they do, the way they do it."
The flight instructor coughed lightly. "Yes, and after all, pilots wish there to be more proper pilots. This is the way of the universe, is it not?"
Theo paused as the cook flashed his knife rhythmically across something on the inner section of the whirling disk, heard it sizzle as a flash of vinegar was added . . .
She put her hand to the side of her head, where it itched, then drew it away suddenly, glancing at her hand to make sure she hadn't compromised the dressing on her wound.
"No," she said after a moment, "there's a difference. If an instructor tells me that I ought to use landing gear, and I don't, then I have probably made a mistake, a bad one. A demonstrably bad mistake! If someone tells me that I need to read a particular chapter of a book three times each year and repeat a sentence from that book every day else the universe will collapse on itself . . . that is not demonstrable."
Neither of the pilots spoke: still they watched with intent interest. Maybe she hadn't explained fully—
"We need pilots. We need people who know about rugs, and people to sell things, to cook, and . . . but they're all doing something. I want to do something. I don't want to go to a meeting and . . . I mean look, my mother and father have to go to meetings and spend time—waste time is more like it!—because they have all these silly levels of things to keep track of, all these holes to put people into.
"Adjunct," she said firmly, holding up her left hand, one finger up. Using her right to tap that hand she said, "Assistant adjunct. Associate adjunct. Associate assistant adjunct. Assistant associate adjunct."
She stopped, gathered herself. "I don't want to spend my life worrying about how many credit-months I've sat listening to someone tell me about something I know about already!"
She made a face, scrinching up her eyes, and when she opened them found a beverage cart.
So many choices . . . but, "Nothing with alcohol," she said austerely. "Not for me, I'm flying."
"Of course, Pilot. Something to increase attention? Soft drink, tea, water, coffee?"
"Do you have real tea? Liaden tea?"
The cart driver laughed.
"Yes, real tea, Pilot. It could be worth my life to offer anything else."
* * *
The meal was served with flourish, each plate filled first with a third of the food on the outer circle of the wheel, then with a third of the next orbit, and finally from the center, each expertly scooped, each precise.
The sauces were extravagant, and Theo too busy eating to speak. The cook stayed, using the now still disk over the warm pit to encourage a slowly rising bready dessert, which was covered in fruit and folded on itself before serving.
"And so," yos'Senchul offered as the cook was arranging their final dish, "what would you, Theo Waitley, if you had no need to sit in classrooms for a certain number of hours? If your flight time was counted and found adequate, what would you do? Would you hire yourself off to Tree-and-Dragon?"
Theo waited a moment, raised her hands from the table, palms up, in question, then flashed repeat query please.
The instructor sighed, very gently.
"Do you not sit with your classmates of an off-hour, pining for a ship—perhaps a cruise liner or a yacht? Don't you wish for a berth with a particular company, or have plans to own a freight line of your own?"
Theo shook her head, nibbling delicately at her dessert.
"This pilot, your father." Veradantha took up the questioning. "He did nothing to aim you to a company, a preferred ship? The Moon-and-Rabbit, perhaps, if not the Dragon?"
Theo put her fork down, suddenly finished with dessert. There were questions in back of the questions Veradantha was asking. She could feel them, but she didn't understand them. Sighing, she answered the surface, hoping the back questions would come clear. Sometimes, that happened.
"My father didn't even tell me he was a pilot until Captain Cho offered to sponsor me to Anlingdin. Then he warned me how dangerous it is!"
The instructor touched the empty left sleeve where his arm should be.
"Danger, yes. There can be danger, after all."
Theo nodded. "I'm learning that. On Delgado—on Delgado, danger isn't acceptable." She looked down at her plate. "My father did help me bring my math up, and he taught me how pilots pack. When I was ready to ship out, the last thing he told me was to remember that really big problems went to Delm Korval. I thought he was making a joke, to take my mind off—" She looked up at yos'Senchul's eyes. "But that might have been advice, too."
"So it might. As you say, Liadens place a certain value on subtlety—and a father would wish to care for his child."
She nodded again, fiddled with her fork, but didn't pick it up.
"I played bowli ball with some cruise liner pilots—there are like six on at a time, working as a team." She paused, then looked to Veradantha.
"I'm not sure I'm good with people, really. I'm not sure about being part of a six-team. I just want to . . . pilot, to fly. If I had everything Pilot yos'Senchul said, and all the choices were mine—that's what I'd want."
"To pilot, eh?" yos'Senchul waved across the terrace. "You'll have your chance to pilot on the way home, I assure you. Look!"
She'd been so busy eating and talking that she hadn't noticed what she should have: the breeze off the lake had filled the sky with fog.
"You have a morning class and I have an early meeting," Veradantha said conversationally, "and I intend to sleep through the return trip. Please, Pilot, do your duty."
Seventeen
Ops
Anlingdin Piloting Academy
The King Six sighed, or maybe it was Theo. Systems counted their fingers and toes one more time, reporting in to the pilot so she could shut them down or bank them as needed; the only oddity was waiting for her passengers to finish gathering themselves together. She'd never had passengers before this trip.
Her copilot had been awfully active. He'd watched without comment as Theo used the plane's credit to top off the tanks, heard her call in an amended flight plan to avoid a towering storm predicted for Lake Sawya, and carried on a running hand-talk conversation with Veradantha the entire time they were on the runway and lifting to cruise. For that matter, he'd periodically turn during the flight, chattering by hand for extended periods that seemed to have nothing to do with the progress of the flight. For all she'd vowed to sleep through the return trip, Veradantha's fingers were often active on her small keyboard, the tiny rhythmic clicks distinct in the plane's otherwise steady aural background. When the clicks stopped, that was when yos'Senchul would hold forth.