“Yes?”
“Someone, an adult, with them, with a bird on his wrist.”
“A Mr. Casaubon. Their tutor.”
“Beautiful children. The famous son resembles you as much as they say. Wasn’t there a film…”
“A tape. I’m glad they’re here now; the boy, I think, was beginning to be affected by the publicity. Here he can live a normal life.”
“Ah.”
“The girl has a different mother. Puerto Rican. She’s only come to live here in the last — what? — eighteen months?” He had been pacing steadily in front of the tall windows seamed with metal that looked out toward raw concrete bunkers where men in Blue lounged. Gregorius would have looked well in Blue; its pure azure would have just set off his flawless, windburned skin and tawny hair. Instead, he wore black, noncommittal, well-tailored, somewhat abashing. “How,” he said, “are we to behave today? Can we begin that way? The USE people will be here shortly.”
“Will they bring the safe-conduct?”
“They say they will.”
“And under what circumstances will they hand it over?”
“On receipt of a signed affidavit of mine endorsing the general aims of the Reunification Conference.”
“As interpreted by USE.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll sign it?”
“I have no choice. USE’s bargain with the Federal is that USE will accept the terms of reunification the conference arrives at, if USE can issue these safe-conducts.”
“And since all the Autonomies must have representatives at the conference…”
“Exactly. They will arrive having, publicly at least, endorsed a USE view of reunification.”
Reynard rested his long rufous chin on his hands, which held the stick between his knees. “You could refuse. Attempt to go down there without a safe-conduct…”
Gregorius stopped pacing. “Do you say that to test me, or what?” He picked up a small round steel box that lay on the desk and tapped its lid. “Without the safe-conduct I’d be detained at every border. With or without an armed guard. I certainly don’t intend to battle my way down there.” He opened the box, took a pinch of the glittering blue crystal it contained, and inhaled it. His eyes rested on his father’s portrait. “I’m a man of peace.”
“Well.”
“I know,” Gregorius said, “you’re no friend of the Union for Social Engineering.” He ran a hand through his proud hair. “You’ve kept me away from them. You were right. Those in the Directorate under their influence would have castrated me, with USE’s help.”
“But things have changed.” Reynard could say such things without irony, without implication. It was a skill of his.
“This time,” the Director said, “this time, reunification could work. Because of — well, my strength here, which you have helped me gain — I’m the logical choice, if a plan is arrived at, to direct. To direct it all.”
He sat; his look was inward. “I could heal.”
Beyond the guardhouse the two children could be seen walking their horses; Gregorius looked out that way, but saw nothing, because, Reynard was astonished to see, his eyes glittered with tears.
Sten and Mika had begged one last ride before afternoon lessons began, and Loren had allowed it; he always did, the “one last” of anything, so long as it was truly the one last and not a ruse. That was their bargain, and the children mostly kept it.
“How can he be what you say?” Mika said.
“Well, he is. Loren said so.”
“How.” It was a command, a refusal, not a question.
“They made him. Scientists. They took cells from a fox. They took cells from a person…”
“What person?”
“What does it matter? Some person.”
“It matters because that person would be his mother. On his father.”
“Anyway. They took these cells, and somehow they made a combination…”
“Somehow.”
“They can! Why do you want it not to be so?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Jesus. Some reason not to believe he’s what he is. Anyway, they took the combination, is all, and they grew it up. And he came out.”
“How could they grow it up? Loren says the deer and horses can’t have children. Or dogs and foxes. How could a man and a fox?”
“It’s not the same. It’s not eggs and sperms. It’s different — a mixture.”
“Not eggs and sperms?” There was a sly, small laughter in her eyes.
“No.” He had to keep this on a grown-up level. “A mixture — like the leos. You believe in them, don’t you?”
“Leos. There are lots of them. They’ve got parents. And eggs and sperms.”
“Now they do. But that’s how they were first made: lions and men. The counselor is the same, except he’s new. How do you think they first got leos?”
“Eggs and sperms,” she said, abandoning reason, “eggsandsperms. Hey, Sperms. Let’s play Mongol. Look!” She pointed with her gloved hand. Down the hill, across another collapsing stone wall — the vast property was seamed with them — they could just see Loren, who had come out of the stone farmhouse and was sweeping the yard with a great broom. He wore his bong coat of Blue, which he called his teacher shirt. “Look. A poor peasant.”
“Just gathered in his crop.” He turned his horse. This was their favorite game. It was a dangerous game; that was the only kind Sten liked.
“Poor bastard,” Mika said. “Poor eggsandsperms. He’ll be sorry.”
“Burn the women and children. Rape the huts and outhouses.” He felt a lump in his throat, of laughter or ferocity he didn’t know, He banged his hard heels against the pony’s flanks. Mike was already ahead of him; she clutched her horse’s bay ribs with thighs muscled and brown (“triguena,” she called the colon: “Nutlike,” Loren translated; “Like a nut is right,” Sten said). She was streaking down on the wall; Sten would beat her to it. He gave his Mongol yell and bent low over his careening horse. The Mongol yell was a yell only, no words, sustained until his breath gave out; when it did, Mika took up the yell, a higher, clearer note with no male pubescent descant, and when she had to stop he had begun again, so that the sound was continuous, to keep Mongol spirits fierce and astound the cottagers. They ran as close together as they dared, to make an army, almost touching, the horses’ feet a sound as continuous as their yell.
They took the wall together, Mike sitting neatly and confident, Sten losing his hold for a frightening moment, the yell knocked from him by impact. The farmer Loren looked up. He had been carrying wood back into the farmhouse to get a fire started for lessons, but he dropped it when he saw them and dashed across the yard, coat flying, for the broom. He had it in his hands when they rode down on him.
This was the scariest part, to ride hard right into the yard, without pulling up, as fast as they dared, as fast as the horses dared, coming as near as they dared to being thrown by the horses’ excitement and as near as they dared to murdering the tutor they loved.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Loren shouted, “no you don’t, not this year….”
He flailed with the broom at them, startling the horses, who wheeled around him, throwing up clots of farmyard, snorting.
“Give up, give up!” Mika cried, hoarse from yelling, striking at him with her little crop.
“Never, never, damn barbarians…” He was afraid, and afraid for the children, but not about to give in. He had to play as hard as they did. He gave Sten a swat on the shoulder with the broom, Sten’s horse reared and wheeled, Mika laughed, and Sten went end-over onto the ground with a noise that brought a lump to Loren’s throat.