The Nine-Limbed did not respond. Worrier pressed. “And this matter of what they call the categorical imperative?”
The Nine-Limbed covered a yawn. “It is how these creatures wish to run their planet. They want us to do the same. And actually”—it leveled its ninth limb at one of the Machine-Stored pilots, who was following the conversation with his own Nine-Limbed translator—“some technology transfer has already begun.”
Worrier, who knew that quite well, sighed. “And when the Grand Galactics come back, what will we tell them?”
The Nine-Limbed gave her an impatient hiss. “They will return one second from now, perhaps, or in ten thousand years. Time is not the same for them. You know the Grand Galactics.”
Worrier gazed at the Nine-Limbed in silence for a moment. Then, shivering inside her light armor, she said, “Actually, we don’t know them at all. However, having no better alternative, we accept the proposal. And, if we are lucky, by the time the Grand Galactics come back, we may all be dead.”
Before Worrier would come back into the command center, she insisted that it be flushed with ionized gases. Even so she paused in the doorway to sniff before entering.
This caused the other occupants to do the One Point Five equivalent of exchanging amused smiles. The one called Manager, however, was the only one who spoke up. “They are gone, Worrier,” he called to her. “Even their smells are gone. There is no longer anything to be afraid of.”
Worrier gave him a reproving look as she took her seat. But he was, after all, not only her superior in the One Point Five hierarchy but, when possible, her mate. “You know I am not afraid of the Nine-Limbeds,” she informed him and, even more, the others in the room. “Would you like me to tell you why I dislike them?”
Manager said meekly, “Please do, Worrier.”
“It is not because of their offensive odor,” she said, “and not because their ninth limb, which is their organ for manipulating things, is also their sexual organ. These things are unpleasant. Sometimes they even use that limb to touch me, which is offensive. But they cannot help their biology, can they?”
“No, Worrier, they cannot,” Manager confirmed, and there were shrill hisses of agreement from the others in the room.
“What they can help, however, is the way in which we can teach and mentor the aborigines of this planet as they grow to be as civilized as we are. We can no longer accept that all our dealings with them must be through the Nine-Limbeds, since only they can speak their languages.”
The hisses abruptly dried up. Even Manager was silent for a moment before venturing, “Our superiors do not want us to be able to talk to other races directly. That is why only the Nine-Limbeds have been authorized language skills.”
Worrier was steadfast. “But our superiors are not here now. We have only one proper course for the future. We must begin at once to learn human languages…. Or would you prefer that when these human beings grow up they take after the Nine-Limbeds instead of us?”
47
PARTING
When Ranjit and Myra went back to see Surash, it was quite a bit after their previous meeting—two surgeries later, by the way the old monk had come to count time. By then their world—the world of everyone alive on Earth—was new twice over, and still changing.
“It’s not just the technology, either,” Ranjit told his wife. “It’s, well, friendlier than that. All the Egyptians hoped for was a share of the Qattara power. The One Point Fives didn’t have to give them all of it.”
Myra didn’t immediately respond, so Ranjit gave her a quick look. She was gazing out at the waters of the Bay of Bengal, with what might have been a slight smile on her face. When she felt her husband’s eye on her, the smile broadened. “Huh,” she said.
Ranjit, laughing, turned his attention back to the road. “My darling,” he said, “you are full of surprises. Have you run out of things to be suspicious of?”
Myra considered. “Probably not. Right now I can’t think of any big ones, though.”
“Not even the Americans?”
She pursed her lips. “Now that that horrid Bledsoe man is a fugitive from justice, no. I think the president isn’t going to make any more waves for a while. Bledsoe is what deniability was invented for.”
Ranjit listened quietly, but what he was thinking was not really about what she was saying. More than anything else he was thinking about Myra herself, and in particular what incredibly good fortune he had to have her. He almost didn’t hear the next thing she said to him. “What?”
“I said, do you think he can get reelected?”
Before he answered, Ranjit made the turn onto the uphill road where Surash waited. “No. But I don’t think it matters. He’s played the hard-as-nails role about as long as he can. Now he’s going to want to show himself caring.”
Myra didn’t respond to that until Ranjit had parked the car. Then she put an affectionate hand on his arm. “Ranj, do you know what? I’m feeling really relaxed.”
The old monk’s days of freedom were over. He lay on a narrow cot, his left arm immobilized so that a forest of tubing could stream unimpeded, from a wildflower bed of multicolored bags of medications at the head of the bed to the veins in his wrist. “Hello, my dears,” he said as they came in, his voice fuzzed and metallic because of the throat mike taped to his larynx. “I am grateful that you came. I have a decision to make, Ranjit, and I don’t know what to do. If your father were still alive, I could ask him, but he is gone and I turn to you. Shall I let them store me in a machine?”
Myra caught her breath. “Ada has been here,” she said.
The old monk couldn’t nod his head, but he managed a movement of the chin. “Indeed she has,” he agreed. “I invited Dr. Labrooy. There is nothing more that medicine can do for me except let the machines continue to breathe for me and continue me in this great pain. In the news it said that Ada Labrooy had another possibility. She says she can do as these people from space have taught her. I can leave my body but live on as a computer program. I wouldn’t hurt anymore.” He was silent for a moment before he found the strength to go on. “However,” he said, “there would be costs. The way to salvation through doing good works in karma yoga would no longer be possible for me, I think, but jnana yoga and bhakti yoga—the way of knowledge and the way of devotion—are still there. But do you know what that sounds like to me?”
Ranjit shook his head.
“Nirvana,” said the old monk. “My soul would be released from the cycle of eternities.”
Ranjit cleared his throat. “But that is what everyone seeks, my father used to say. Don’t you want it?”
“With all my heart, yes! But what if this is a deception? I can’t trick Brahman!”
He lay back in the bed, the ancient eyes fixed on Ranjit and Myra imploringly.
Ranjit frowned. It was Myra, however, who spoke. She laid one hand on his shrunken wrist and said, “Dear Surash, we know you would never do anything for a base motive. You must simply do what you think is right. It will be.”
And that was the end of their talk.
When they were outside again, Ranjit took a deep breath. “I didn’t know Ada was ready to try recording a human being.”
“Neither did I,” Myra said. “Last time we spoke, she told me they were getting ready to record a white rat.”
Ranjit winced. “And if Surash is wrong, that’s what he’ll be reborn as.”