Keith looked at Rhombus. Lights wexe flashing in unison on his web.
"What's so funny?" Keith asked.
"Nothing," said the Ib.
"No, come on. What is it?" "I was just thinking of a joke Thor told today. How many Waldahudin does it take to change a lightbulb? Answer: five — and each one has to get credit."
Keith frowned. "Lianne told you that same joke weeks ago."
"I know," said Rhombus. "I laughed then, too."
Keith shook his head. "I'll never understand how you Ibs can find the same thing funny over and over again."
"I'd shrug if I could," said Rhombus. "The same painting is pretty each time you look at it. The same dish is tasty each time you eat it.
Why shouldn't the same joke be funny each time you hear it?"
"I don't know," said Keith. "I'm just glad I got you to stop telling me that stupid 'that's not my axle — it's my feeding tube' joke every time we met. That was irritating as hell."
"Sorry."
They continued down the corridor in silence for a while, then: "You know, good Keith, it's a lot easier to understand the Waldahudin if you've spent time on their world."
"Oh?"
"You and Clarissa have always been happy together, if you'll permit me to say so. We Ibs don't have such intimacy with other individuals; we shuffle our own genetic material amongst our component parts, rather than bonding with a mate. Oh, I take comfort from my other components — my wheels, for instance, are not sentient, but they have intelligence comparable to that of a terrestrial dog. I have a relationship with them that gives me great joy. But I perceive that the relationship you enjoy with Clarissa is something much, much more.
I only dimly understand it, but I'm sure Jag appreciates it.
Waldahudin, like humans, have two sexes, after all."
Keith couldn't see where this was going, and, on the whole, thought Rhombus was presuming on their friendship.
"Yes?"
"Waldahudin have two sexes, but they do not have equal numbers of each sex," said the Ib. "There are, in fact, five males for every female.
Yet, despite this, they are a monogamous race, forming lifetime pairbonds."
"So I've heard."
"But have you contemplated the ramifications of thatT' asked the Ib.
"It means that four out of every five males end up without a mate — end up being excluded from the gene pool. Perhaps you had to fend off some other suitors in your pursuit of Clarissa — or maybe she had to fend off others who were pursuing you; forgive me, but I've no idea how these things work. But I imagine in such contests it was a comfort to all the participants to know that for each male there was a female, and vice versa. Oh, the pairings might not end up as one might wish, but the chances were good that each man would find a woman, and vice versa — or a mate of their own gender, if that was their preference."
Keith moved his shoulders. "I suppose."
"But for Jag's people, that is not the case. Females have absolute power in their society. Every single one of them is — courted, I believe is the word — by five males, and the female, when she reaches estrus at thirty years of age, will pick her one mate from the five who have spent the last twenty-five years vying for her attentions. You know Jag's full name?"
Keith thought for a moment. "Jag Kandaro em-Pelsh, isn't it?"
"That's right. Do you know its derivation?"
He shook his. head.
"Kandaro is a regional designation," said Rhombus. "It refers to the province Jag traces lineage to. And Pelsh is the name of the female of whose entourage he is a member.
She's quite a significant power on Rehbollo, actually. Not only is she a famous mathematician, she's also a niece of Queen Trath. I met Pelsh once, while attending a conference.
She's charming, intelligent — and about twice Jag's size, as are all adult Waldahud females."
Keith contemplated a mental picture, but said nothing.
"Do you see?" asked Rhombus. "Jag has to make his mark. He has to distinguish himself from the other four males in her entourage if he is to be chosen. Everything a premating Waldahud male does is geared toward making him stand out. Jag came aboard Starplex looking for glory enough to earn him Pelsh's affection… and he's going to find that glory, no matter how hard he has to push."
That night, lying in bed, Keith rolled onto his back.
All his life, he'd had trouble sleeping — despite the advice people had given him over the years. He never drank caffeinated beverages after ! 1800. He had PHANTOM play white noise through the bedroom speakers, drowning out the sound of Rissa's occasional snoring. And although there was a digital-clock display built into his night table, he'd covered its readout with a little square of plastic card slipped into a join between the pieces of wood composing the table.
Staring at a clock, worrying about how late it was, about how little sleep he was going to get before morning came, was counterproductive.
Oh, he could see the clock face when standing in the bedroom, and he could always reach over and bend down the plastic card to look at it in bed if he was really curious, but it helped.
Sometimes, that is. But not tonight.
Tonight, he tossed and turned.
Tonight, he relived the encounter in the corridor with Jag.
Jag. Perfect name for the bastard.
Keith rolled onto his left side.
Jag was currently running a series of professional-development seminars for those Starplex staff members who wanted to know more physics; Rissa was running a similar series for those who wanted to learn some more biology.
Keith had always been fascinated by physics. Indeed, while taking a range of sciences in his first year at university, he'd thought seriously about becoming a physicist.
So much neat stuff — like the anthropic principle, which said that the universe had to give rise to intelligent life. And Schredinger's cat, a thought experiment that demonstrated that it was the act of observing that actually shaped reality. And all the wonderful twists and turns to Einstein's special and general theories of relativity.
Keith loved Einstein — loved him for his fusion of humanity and intellect, for his wild hair, for his own knight-errant quest to try to put the nuclear genie he'd made possible back into the bottle. Even after choosing sociology as his major, Keith had still kept a poster of the grand old man of physics on his dorm wall. He would enjoy taking some physics seminars… but not with Jag. Life was too short for that.
He thought about what Rhombus had said about Waiclud family life — and that turned his mind to his older sister Rosalind and younger brother Brian.
In a way, Roz and Brian had shaped him as much as his genetic makeup had. Because they existed, he was a middle child. Middle children were the bridge-builders, always trying to make connections, to bring groups together. It had always fallen to Keith to organize family events, such as parties for their parents' milestone anniversaries and birthdays, or Christmas gatherings of the clan. And he'd organized his high-school class's twentieth reunion, thrown receptions in his home for colleagues visiting from out of town, supported multicultural and ecumenical groups. Hell, he had spent most of his professional life working to get the Commonwealth off the ground, the ultimate exercise in bridge-building.
Roz and Brian didn't worry about who liked them and who didn't, about whether there was peace between all parties, about networking, about whether people were getting along.
Roz and Brian probably slept well at nights.
Keith switched back to lying on his spine, an arm behind his head.
Maybe it was impossible. Maybe humans and Waldahu-din could never get along. Maybe they were too different. Or too similar. Or…