“Mind you, she’s no good at real science. She comes to me for that.”
“You’re too modest.”
“Mebbe I am.” Aybee was examining Bey with a look of clinical curiosity. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have hair like that all over? I mean, it must drive you crazy.”
Bey held up his hand to show Aybee the open palm.
“Okay you know what I meant.” Aybee grinned. “You think I’m a smart-ass, don’t you?”
“Not at all. Fifty years ago, I was just like you. Brighter than fusion. I’m amazed how much smarter other people are these days.”
“Senile decay?”
“Hang in for a little while. Your turn will come.”
Aybee scowled. “Hey, Wolfman, don’t say that. That’s too true to be funny. Top mathematicians and physicists do their real stuff before they’re twenty-five. After that they’re just hacking. I’ve only got six years left, then it’s all downhill for the next hundred years. How’s it feel to be real old?”
“I’ll let you know when I am.”
“Sylv says you’re pretty well along—after the meeting she got Manx to let her peek at your personal records. She’s nosy. She tells me you been seeing things, and you don’t know how you could have been fed ’em. And the Manxman thinks I could help. Tell me more.”
“Not tonight, Josephine.”
“Who?”
“Somebody even older than me.” Bey advanced slowly on Aybee. “Shoo. You’re leaving now. I’m going to throw you out—literally, if I have to. Catch me in the morning; I’ll tell you all you want to know about me. Even how I grow hair.”
“Sure.” Aybee headed for the doorway. “I guess old people need lots of sleep.”
“I guess we do.” Wolf closed and locked the door after him. If any more visitors were on their way tonight, they would have to break it down. He sat on the bed and considered Apollo Belvedere Smith.
Aybee was young, arrogant, opinionated, brash, and insensitive.
Bey liked him very much.
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Cinnabar Baker had no home, or perhaps she had thirty. Apartments were maintained for her use on every harvester, identical in size, gravity, and furnishings. She traveled constantly and spent at most ten days a year in each one.
She was said to have neither human intimates nor personal belongings. Turpin went with her everywhere, but he was not a possession. He was an old, cross-eyed crow with a big vocabulary and an absence of tail feathers. When he was in a bad mood, which was often, he had the habit of tugging plumage out with his bill.
He was doing that now, and it was an unpleasant sight. Sylvia Fernald found it hard to take her eyes off him. The crow would pause occasionally to glare at her with rheumy, droop-lidded eyes, then go back to his self-destructive preening. He made no attempt to fly; instead, he went waddling back and forth in a piratical roll all over the little round table in front of Sylvia, wings half-open and muttering a bad-tempered parody of human speech. Sylvia tried to ignore Turpin and keep her attention on what Cinnabar Baker was saying. It was not easy. Sylvia had been asleep when the call had come. She bit back a yawn, wondering how it was possible to be so nervous and yet so sleepy.
The latest summons had caught her by surprise, as had the earlier order, a week before, to attend the meeting with Wolf and help to brief him. She worked for Baker, that was undeniable, but the boss of the harvesters had reached down past two intermediate levels of command to get to Fernald and had never offered an explanation.
This new call had been equally casual, as if there were nothing unusual in asking a junior staff member to come to a one-on-one meeting well after midnight. The big woman had been sitting cross-legged in the low-g apartment when Sylvia arrived. She had exchanged the yellow uniform for a billowing cloud of pale-green spun material that left only her head and hands uncovered, and she seemed as fresh and alert as ever.
“Now let’s think a bit more about Behrooz Wolf,” she said, as though continuing a conversation already in progress. “We have Leo Manx’s impressions, of course, and I have now heard from Aybee. But neither one is a close observer of what I might call inner states. You saw as much of Wolf as I did. What sort of man did you find in there?”
Sylvia had expected a discussion of harvester control systems or perhaps of form-change procedures. Her job did not include character assessments, but she could not tell that to Cinnabar Baker. And she was fairly sure that Baker could not be stalled with platitudes.
“Competent but complicated. I don’t think I was ever sure what he was thinking.”
“Nor did I.” Baker smiled like the Gautama and waited.
“He’s obviously intelligent, but we knew that from his reputation. And I don’t just mean for form-change theory. He saw that there were other matters involved here very quickly.”
“Almost too quickly.” Cinnabar Baker did not elaborate. Again she sat and waited.
“And he’s obviously a sensitive type, too. I saw Leo Manx’s reports on Wolf and his relationship to Mary Walton.” (And I can imagine how he felt when she left, Sylvia thought, but I won’t say that to Cinnabar Baker.) “That means he’s still very miserable and thinks he’s not getting much out of life. But he took a lot of interest in what we told him, so I suspect that although he believes he feels things strongly, his intellectual drives are more powerful than his emotional ones. He’s like Aybee; he lives in a thought world more than a sense world. He wouldn’t admit that; maybe he doesn’t even know it. As for his other interests, it’s hard to say anything. How does he spend his time when he’s not at work?”
While she was speaking, Sylvia found herself asking the same question about Cinnabar Baker. The apartment was tiny by Cloud standards, and minimally furnished. The walls were a uniform beige, unrelieved by pictures or other decorations, and there were no personal bits and pieces like the ones that filled Sylvia’s own apartment to overflowing. Cinnabar Baker had a reputation for hard work. On the basis of the evidence, work was all she had.
“Did you find him attractive?” The question was so unexpected that Sylvia was not sure she had heard correctly.
“You mean physically attractive?”
“Exactly.”
“My God, no. He’s absolutely hideous.” Sylvia let that answer sit for a couple of seconds, then felt obliged to add, “I mean, I suppose it’s not his fault. Lots of people from the Inner System probably look like that. And he has an interesting mind, and I think he has a good sense of humor. But he’s revolting-looking, and of course he’s very little, with those short stubby arms. And worst of all, he’s—he’s too—”
“Too?”
“Too hairy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s covered with hair all over him, like an ape, everywhere. Even on—” Sylvia suddenly became aware of how extreme she must sound. “Of course, I suppose he can’t help any of that. Though with form-change equipment available…”
“I’m sorry you find him a little unattractive.” Cinnabar Baker apparently had a great gift for understatement. Reaching out to stroke the back of the crow standing in front of her, she looked down so that her eyes were hidden from Sylvia. “You see, I wish to make an unusual request of you. And since it’s outside the usual range of duties, it has to be no more than an informal request.”
“If I can do anything to help you, naturally I will.” The day has been crazy so far, she reflected. Let’s see if it can get any stranger.