"The petitioner goes alone to First Rank at 2214 and returns by 0600."
"Impossible."
"Sir?"
"The minister is my personal responsibility. I can't permit him to go alone for such a length of time. What could possibly take so long about a question?"
"The conditions of audience are uniform and inflexible. There are other petitioners, sequestered in other areas of Second Rank; scheduling is therefore complex. The audience time is a very brief portion of that schedule. To ensure privacy, there must be time built into the program." Segrane began walking, the Servant keeping pace with him. He stared grimly at the floor, reckoning with increasing distress how little control they had of things.
"Who are these other petitioners?" he asked. "The Confederacy, perhaps?"
"I couldn't say, sir. The Enclave is partitioned in such a way that we ourselves are not in contact with visitors in other sections."
"Or politics? I'm sure you're well versed in that."
"We advise our visitors not to discuss external affairs with the staff. Aneth has no politics."
"None?"
"None, sir."
Segrane stopped, flicked a glance over the Servant, paused at the badge, continued back to the clear expressionless eyes. "You're very well trained . . . Jen. Is that your name, Jen?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"I shall compliment your service."
"All that you say to me is noted by my superiors. It's unnecessary to trouble yourself, sir. All staff-visitor exchanges are monitored to ensure satisfaction."
"Are you human, Jen?"
Jen flashed a broad smile. "Yes, sir. But without species politics."
"Where were you born?"
"All Servants are born within the enclaves."
"Your ancestors had outside origins." Segrane locked his hands behind him and began to move in the direction of his quarters, Jen walking beside him. "And the Oracle itself. . . maybe your ancestors built it too, the whole thing."
"No, sir. Hardly."
"You believe that tale about the Builders, eh?"
"It's true, sir. About the sixth millennium before founding of your calendar, the Builders occupied Aneth and built the vault and the Oracle."
"What did they look like, these Builders? Where did they come from?"
"The Oracle is their sole known artifact. We have no clue to either, sir."
"How convenient. Has no one thought to ask the Oracle?"
"You are a skeptic, sir. I detect it."
"Does the Oracle reject skeptics?"
"No, sir."
Segrane laughed, and stopped and faced the man . . . bland-faced and young, this Servant, like all other Servants in his white uniform, close-cropped hair, earnest, unoffending face. "You aresincere, aren't you? What's the story? Some Bellan archaeologists stumbled into this place two hundred years ago, and a Corielli team moved in on the find . . . sequestered themselves—with whose backing? Who paid for all this?"
"Initially a grant, sir, from fourteen worlds earliest involved in the research. The Enclave was established when the vault was opened and the Oracle was first activated. The value of the installation was immediately clear and the area had to be protected against exploitation for private purposes. Thus, the Enclave. Visitors' fees are now sufficient for its support."
"Corielle didn't build the rest of this."
"Ah, the Enclave, yes, sir; but the Oracle . . . no."
"The Oracle: person or machine?"
"Both, sir. That is, Oraclerefers to both or either."
"The name of this person."
"First Rank is a sealed enclave, sir. We don't know."
"Female, the rumor is."
"All First Rank is female."
Segrane was surprised into reaction. That fact the researchers had not uncovered. And what do they do for amusement? he wondered. The politics of the arrangement occurred to him instantly: no matings, no marriage, no intrigues of consorts.
"How do they," he asked, "find replacements?"
Jen shrugged. "Their dead arrive here. We send in the nextborn female infant of Second Rank. It's utterly random that way. We have no influence on it. The integrity of the Oracle is absolute."
"How many Oracles have lived and died since the Enclave began?"
"The bodies which come out are not distinguished by signs of rank, sir. We don't know."
"But there must have been more than one Oracle in two hundred years."
"One supposes, sir, that such is the case."
"And she makes her predictions . . . how?"
"She enters rapport with the machine."
"Precognition. Telegnosis. Prophecy."
"Yes, sir."
"Nonsense."
"We make no claims, sir. Only those who visit here and leave know whether they have profited. And visitors do come back."
"She spills what she knows from one client to the next."
"We advise all our visitors to reveal nothing in conversation in any enclave. Ask your single question, and depart; that's all that's required. I've given you information. I have asked for none."
"But you've researched us."
"Generally available knowledge, sir, for your comfort. We do maintain a library."
"And some do come here and talk freely."
"Yes, sir, but we do discourage it."
"Telepath. She probes minds."
"Telepaths are among our clients. Mindshielding is a refined art among them. Such skills are even practiced among nonsensitives—perhaps you have them, sir. I'm sure telepathic contact has been tried on the part of such visitors; they would know the result of their efforts. But if you should have any anxiety about the meeting with the Oracle, you have only to request to return to the port. It's not compulsory to continue."
"Fee nonrefundable."
"Indeed, sir. But few choose to withdraw."
"Perhaps the Technarchy will."
"Advise us as soon as possible if that is your decision, sir. You'll receive every cooperation." Segrane scowled and turned, stalked off with such rapidity that the Servant took the cue and failed to follow. It was surely the Servant's confidence that the Technarchy would not withdraw; the Oracle had expended much in preparing for this encounter, expense far more than the fee. He earnestly wished it were possible to surprise them all.
A new face: Mishell, Mishell, was it?
But known, awaited.
Maranthe smiled, unaware whether her face smiled, hut her mind did. The design which was Mishell took shape under her hands.
The Eye saw. The mind made intricate helices, chains of life, diamonds in the web, colors of intent, scents of longing, and taste, and height and depth and sound. This was Mishell. This was the one who would come.
Maranthe smiled.
And grew tired, and yielded herself again to the Shadows.
"Drink, Maranthe."
"Eat, Maranthe."
"Sleep, Maranthe."
The old woman lay still.
Mishell sat among the Servants, consumed with her desire. White-robed, immaculate, the Servants sat ringed about the sleeping Oracle. They were fourteen, they of the Intimates. The total of the Servants of the Inner Enclave was ninety-nine. The Oracle herself was the hundredth. Old, most of the Intimate . . . pure of intent, without ambition, without even the remembrance of passion. They served with downcast eyes and soundless steps, speaking seldom among themselves, and that in whispers. They lost their strength, serving, and passed to the Elder Circle, to mutter into their nameless fate, to be bartered at last for infants. Cycle after cycle passed before Maranthe's unseeing smile. The Intimates were honored to tend her . . . old and silent and without farther desires.