Interestingly, the same effect had been noted on the Mute side. They, too, had a long history of internecine struggle, which had slowed perceptibly. Nothing like a common enemy to bring people, or Mutes, together.
I came out of jump status three days away from Takmandu. I let their ops people know I was in the neighborhood and started one of the mysteries I’d brought along.
But I’ve never been able to read six or seven hours at a crack, so I found myself watching more sims inspired by the Margolian legend. In Tiger-Men of the Lost World, a mission finds the lost colony, but it is covered with trackless forests and the colonists have devolved into ravenous beasts. (How that could happen in a few thousand years isn’t explained.) Vampire Below posits a freighter that encounters a Margolian ship with a lone pilot, who turns out to be-Well, you guessed it.
The majority of books written on the subject weren’t serious. Most of the authors were true believers of one kind or another, generally pushing occult visions of what had happened and sometimes claiming that the lost colony exercises a mystic influence over certain individuals. (Send money and learn how to apply Margolian power in your own life.) The most popular theory by far was the demon star notion that had arisen shortly after the colonists had departed. Harry Williams’s celebrated comment that they would travel so far that even God couldn’t find them gained notoriety as depicting an antireligious spirit. The notion took hold that the Margolian mission was therefore doomed from the start. Someone launched the idea that a red star would arrive over their chosen world, the eye of God, and that it would herald the destruction of the colony.
Stories began to circulate that many of the people who had donated money and time to the Margolians had died prematurely. As the years passed, and no message ever came back, talk of a curse became widespread. The eye of God no longer sounded so far-fetched.
I thought about what a truly free society might accomplish in nine thousand years.
Harry Williams’s refugees had started with the intention of avoiding the old mistakes and applying the lessons of history. Their society would throw off all strictures except those imposed by compassion and common sense. Education would emphasize the sciences and philosophy and stress the value of independent thought. Everything would be open to question. Professional politicians would not be allowed.
It sounded good. But we’re all conditioned to assume that utopian notions are, well, utopian. Not practical. Utopias always collapse.
I sat on the bridge of the Belle-Marie, watching Takmandu gradually grow into a disk.
To port, I could see the vast star-clouds of the Veiled Lady, including one small gauzy group near the tip of what was perceived as her right ear. It was the Versinjian Cluster, in which, according to completely unsupported legend, the Margolians had planted their colony. But there were tens of thousands of stars in the group. I wondered whether, at that moment, I was seeing light from the Margolian sun.
The Josef Hennessy Foundation maintains an operational office in orbit. I called ahead and made an appointment, citing research. They told me they’d be delighted to see me.
Takmandu is an outpost. Nothing in the Confederate polity is closer to Mute country.
The Ashiyyurean world Kappalani is less than three light-years away. Consequently I’d expected to see some signs of their proximity. Maybe a docked ship. Or even a couple of Mutes loose in the concourse.
But it didn’t happen. I found out later that there were occasional Mute visitors, but that the experience seemed to unsettle everybody on both sides so much that there was a mutual agreement in effect. If they came, they were escorted off the ship, their path was cleared, and nobody got to see them except the escorts, who are specially trained.
The Takmandu station is probably the biggest functioning orbiter I’ve seen. There’s a magnificent view of the Veiled Lady that draws thousands of visitors, and nearby Gamma is a naval base, so there’s a lot of traffic, and a lot of accommodation for tourists. The concourses are crowded with clubs, VR sites, souvenir shops, and even a live theater.
I checked into one of the hotels, showered, dressed, and went out to take care of business.
There’s a plethora of industrial, operational, and scientific offices scattered around on several decks. They line wide, garishly painted, gently curving passageways.
The Foundation was located between a travel agency and a first-aid station. I could see one woman inside, seated at a desk, apparently absorbed by a data screen. A banner dominated the wall behind her. It read OUR FRIENDS THE ASHIYYUR. I paused in front of the door and told it who I was. It said that it was glad to see me, and opened.
The woman inside looked up and smiled. “Ms. Kolpath,” she said, “welcome to the Hennessy Foundation.” She tilted her head. “Or is it Dr. Kolpath?”
“Ms. is fine. Chase works, too.”
“Well, hello, Chase.” She extended a hand. “I’m Teesha Oranya.” She had red hair and animated blue eyes, combined with the suppressed energy of a social worker.
“How can we help you?”
“I’m interested in the Foundation,” I said. “I wonder if I may ask some questions.”
“Of course. Ask away.”
“You’re trying to foster better relations with the Mutes. How exactly do you go about that?”
“The Ashiyyur.” She looked briefly pained, as if another bigot had surfaced in front of her. “Basically, we try to keep communications open. We talk with them. We train others to talk with them. And we learn to overlook the differences.”
“What sort of people? Diplomats? Tourists?”
She motioned me to a seat. “Traders. Fleet people. Researchers. Sometimes people who just want to meet them. To say hello.”
There was a framed picture on her desk: Teesha standing with a Mute under a tree.
She followed my gaze, and smiled. “That’s Kanta Toman,” she said. “ ‘Kanta the Magnificent,’ he calls himself.”
“Is he serious?”
She laughed and shook her head at my provincialism. “He’s my counterpart. He works for an organization much like this one. They have bureaucracies, too, Chase.
He’s stuck in his, and he feels invisible.”
“That sounds like a human reaction.”
“Ashiyyureans and humans have far more in common than what separates them.
Don’t let the fangs fool you. Or the telepathy. They take care of their kids, they want to be good at whatever it is they choose to do, they want affection. They expect to be treated decently. And they abide by a code of principles as ethical as anything we have.”
Kanta the Magnificent was half again as tall as she was. He had gray skin and redrimmed eyes set far apart. A predator’s eyes. His mouth was open in what was probably supposed to be a smile, but it was hard to look past the dagger bicuspids. He wore a ridiculous-looking broad-brimmed hat, baggy red trousers, and a white pullover. The pullover said BELLINGHAM UNIVERSITY.
“The director’s school,” she explained.
“Where was it taken?”
“During a visit here two years ago.” She sighed. “It’s a good thing he had a sense of humor.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ever been in the same room with an Ashiyyurean?”
“No,” I said.
“When he was here, I invited a few people in off the concourse to say hello. Ordinary travelers. I was new then.” She smiled and shook her head. “A couple of them had to be helped out.”
“Really?”
“It was probably from trying not to think about anything. Trying to keep their minds blank. If there’s a major difference between the species, it has to be that you and I are more easily shocked. And are less honest. In a society where everybody’s thoughts are open, you don’t have many hypocrisies.”
“Naked on the street corner.”
“That’s about it.”
“You seem to be doing okay.”
“Good training,” she said. “Now, let’s get back to you. What else did you want to know?”
“I’m interested in a superluminal that the Foundation purchased from Survey in 1392.”