“Something big enough to make Earth change course and reject our proposal?”
“It seems possible,” Alice said. “Casseia, in the morning, you should tell Bithras about your meeting with the ex-President.”
“All right,” I said, staring at the coffee table and my empty glass of wine.
“I believe he will ask you to speak with Charles Franklin.”
I shook my head, but said, “If he asks.”
I told Bithras about my meeting with Muir, and about our suspicions. He asked.
I took a walk alone on the banks of the Potomac in the hour before dawn. The air brushed clear and cool against my bare arms. The sky above the river sparkled a starry, dusty blue. Combs to the south and east shaded the river even after dawn colored the sky deep teal and edged the few wisps of cloud with orange. I walked along the damp stone path, enjoying the mingled scents of honeysuckle and jasmine, giant roses and thick-leafed designer magnolia bushes, blooming in the hectares of gardens beneath the combs. Arcs of steel and mesh guided bougainvillea over the walkway, creating tunnels of deeper shade lighted at foot level by thin glowing ribbons twined around stone pillars. Artificial sun slowly brightened the gardens. Thumb-sized bees emerged from ground hives, intent on servicing the huge flowers.
The last thing I wanted was to intrude on Charles, ask him questions he would not want to answer, be indebted to him. We had caused each other enough distress in our short time together. Besides, what questions would I ask?
I had studied physics texts and vids in the past few sleepless hours. There was mention of the Bell Continuum and the universe as a computational system — mostly in the context of evolution of constants and particles in the early stages of the big bang. I knew enough about academics to pick up the general impression that these theories were not highly favored.
Was Charles’s group of Olympians (what an arrogant name!) alarming politicians on Earth with talk, or had Earth discovered something it didn’t want Mars to know?
I sat on a warmed stone bench, face in hands, rubbing my temples with my index fingers.
I had already composed my message to Charles: pure text, formal, as if we had never been lovers.
Dear Charles,
We’ve run into serious problems here on Earth that may have something to do with your work. I realize you are contracted to Cailetet, and I presume there is some friction with other BMs, which also puzzles me; but is there anything you can tell us that might explain why Earth would be deeply concerned with Martian independence? We are getting nowhere in our own work, and there are clues that the Olympians are in part responsible. I am very embarrassed even asking you to say anything. Please don’t think I wish to intrude or cause trouble.
Sincerely,
Casseia Majumdar
Washington DC USWH
Earth (trunk credit for reply open)
I judged that relations between Cailetet and Majumdar had somehow soured, perhaps on the matter of the Olympians… (Poor Stan! He would be lawbonded within a few weeks to a woman from Cailetet. We were all mired.)
In the Potomac , water welled up in glistening hills and ripples and a line of caretaker manatees broke the surface, resting from pruning and tending the underwater fields. I stood and stretched. There were dozens of other pedestrians on the walkway now. The roses in the gardens sang softly, attracting tiny sound bees in tight-packed silver clouds.
I sent the message. Allen and I attended a concert in Georgetown . I barely heard the music, Brahms and Hansen played on original instruments, lovely but distant to my thoughts and mood. My slate was set to receive any possible reply. None came until the morning we left for Richmond.
Dear Casseia,
There is nothing I can say about my work. I appreciate your position. It will not get any easier.
Luck,
Charles Franklin
Isidis Planitia
Mars (trunk credit not used)
I showed the message to Allen and Bithras, and then to Alice . Charles had said little, revealed nothing, but had confirmed all we really needed to know, that the pressures would grow worse, and that the Olympians were involved.
“Time to exert my own pressure,” Bithras said. “The whole Solar System is shut tight as a clam. Doesn’t make any sense at all.”
I wondered if Charles had made his connection with a QL thinker yet.
A thick rain fell in Richmond . Our plane descended on its pad with a soft sigh. Thick white billows wrapped its long oval form like a paramecium engulfed by an amoeba. Portions of the billows quickly hardened to form passenger tunnels. Arbeiters crawled along ramps within the foam. Behind the passengers, a wall of foam absorbed the seats row by row, cleaning and repairing.
My uncle made a few smiling and cordial comments to a small scatter of LitVid journalists in the transfer area. There were fewer people and more arbeiters among them; the number of journalists attending our every move had dropped by two-thirds since our arrival. We were no longer either very interesting or very important.
A private charter cab took us from the transfer area through Richmond . As a courtesy, we were driven down a cobbled street between rows of houses dating back to the 1890s, past a war monument to a general named Stuart. Alice confirmed that J.E.B. Stuart had died in the Civil War.
As in Washington , the civic center was free of combs and skyscrapers. We might have returned to the late nineteenth century.
The Jefferson Hotel appeared old but well-maintained. Architectural nano busily replaced stone and concrete on the south side as we entered the main doors. The rain stopped and sun played gloriously through the windows of our suite as we hooked Alice into the ex nets and ate a quick lunch, served by an attentive human waiter.
I took an old-fashioned shower in the small antique bathroom, put on my suit, checked my medical kit for immunization updates — each city had new varieties of infectious learning to deal with — and joined Allen and Bithras in the hall outside the room.
An arbeiter sent by Wang and Mendoza guided us to a conference room in the basement. There, surrounded by window-less walls of molded plaster, seated at antique wood tables, we once again shook hands with the senators.
Wang graciously pulled out my chair. “Every time I come down here, I revert to being a southern gentleman,” he said.
“They wouldn’t have let you into the Confederacy,” Mendoza commented dryly.
“Nor you,” Wang said. Bithras showed no amusement, not even a polite smile.
“It’s getting harder and harder to even find a good accent in America now,” Mendoza said.
“Go down to the Old Capital,” Wang said, sitting at the opposite end of the thick dark wood table. “They have fine accents.”
“Language is as homogenized as beauty,” Mendoza said, with an air of disapproval. “That’s why we find Martian accents refreshing.”
I could not tell whether the condescension was deliberate or merely clumsy. I could hardly believe these two men did anything without calculation. If the smugness was deliberate, what were we being set up for?
“We apologize for the inconvenience,” Wang said. “Congress rarely cancels such important meetings. Never in my memory, in fact.”
“We are not impressed by firsts,” Bithras said, still cool.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed we’re not inviting you here in our capacity as representatives of die U.S. government. Not strictly speaking,” Mendoza said.
Bithras folded his hands on the table.
“What we have to say is neither polite, diplomatic, nor particularly subtle,” Mendoza continued, his own face hardening. “Such words should be reserved for private meetings, not meetings which eventually go into public record.”