A sour note entered his mind. As he pondered, wondering why this notice had been sent him, Norbert realized that to discuss the calendar while the Earth was under fire might be considered an act of sedition, and not keeping in the best interest of the Starfarers.
He thought longer, seeking an escape from this conclusion, any escape.
While it was Guild policy in theory not to interfere with terrestrials’ affairs, it was also Guild policy in practice to minimize local disturbances in the cliometric calculus, to tamp down spikes or disburse strange attractors in the matrix of history, lest some revolution in technology or social continuity interfere with the smooth launching and landfall of the great ships.
Was this such an event? Even a few hundred thousand parallel calculations of six billion variables in his head showed that it must be an attractor basin, if not a vortex.
Norbert felt a suffocating moment, almost claustrophobic, when he realized that the decision was his. It could not be palmed off on any local or current authority, or any other member of the Guild, nor could he hire a bravo or roughneck to do the work. The verdict and its consequences would have his name affixed to it, and forever. He must find Zolasto, find Hieronymus, question the man, under torment if need be, run the calculations, weigh the dangers to the Guild, and spare or slay a human life. The ship ghosts were as unhelpful on the question of Zolasto Zo’s whereabouts as they were about the manual for the desk and its printing slot.
Fieldwork was needed. He rang for his adjutant.
The wrong man came.
6. Ar Thurp End Ragon
His adjutant was supposed to be Nochzreniye of Nocturne of Epsilon Eridani, a star famed for its theonecromancers, and haunted by the still-speaking fragments of a long dead Power. Nochzreniye’s people, the Zarya, were from the longitude of globe called First Hour, parallel to the motionless twilight terminator bisecting his world, and so their sun was always no more than a red-orange reflection against distant clouds and mountains. As their name implied, the Nocturnals were nocturnal, and Norbert appreciated being able to keep his cabin lights dimmed to a tolerable level.
Nochzreniye was also derived from a gene stock far removed from mankind’s monkeylike origins. Ironically for a tree-dwelling species, it was remnants and echoes of man’s monkey ancestors which made him prone to vertigo and fear of heights. When this gene-line had been removed from certain spacetraveling subspecies in order to correct for inner ear maladaptation to zero gee, it accidentally rendered certain lineages immune to fear of falling, Nocturnals and Rosicrucians among them.
Partly as a joke and partly out of the sheer bloody-mindedness for which the Brash archetype was famous, Norbert had removed the outer wall leading to his office and narrowed the resulting unrailed balcony to half a standard gangway width, leaving a windy ledge overlooking the Village rooftops so far below. It amused him to see earthmen, so proud of their base-stock genes, when summoned to his office, to come down the gangway, gripping the wall and taking baby steps, trying not to look down.
But this new adjutant was different. When he stepped out on the unexpectedly narrow and railless ledge, like an earthman he touched the wall and measured the depth of the fall with his eyes. His first step was tentative. But by his second step, he was gliding along with the goat-footed grace of a non-orthogonal biopsychological type like a Nocturne or Rosicrucian. But everything else about him, facial hair, number of teeth, vestigial tissue linking thumb and hand, even (if Norbert was any judge of footwear) separate toes, indicated a very conservative gene profile ergo an orthogonal brain structure.
The new adjutant gave a crisp salute, holding up his glove to his eyes, palm out, and had his orders flicker across his palm, along with his name and rank, duty station and other general data, licenses, qualifications, tolerances and immunizations. Norbert did not rise, but returned the ceremonial salute casually, holding his shining palm toward the data so that his uniform would have a record of the new man’s files and preferences. Both men lowered their hands when the gloves showed transmission sent and received, the new man sharply, Norbert by covering his mouth in a yawn.
“Ar Thurp End Ragon? By the dangling Bachelor, what kind of name is that? I don’t recognize the format. Which part is your privy name and which is your gene-line? And why is your age marked as classified? I’ve never seen anyone’s age marked classified.”
“A remarkably old name, sir. We put the family name last.”
The new man’s voice was surprisingly deep and melodic, rich with nuances of tone. Norbert did not know, even after so long on the senile homeworld of man, what archetypes the baselines and firstling folk used. But this man must have downloaded psychological structures for the magnetic personality type. The ringing voice was regal, genial, jovial, slightly sly, slightly dangerous. It was the kind of archetype that dumb kids eager for rank and ladies’ favors would like.
Norbert would have wagered that this was a guy who fenced with a blade, threw red roses to damsels, and invented sonnets in iambic pentameter to mock his foes after a swordfight but before escaping through a kicked-out window on a white silk line. Norbert knew enough about mudra and mandala to recognize the nerve-muscle traces of the type. It was something about the devilish twinkle in his eye.
And yet something did not fit. Norbert could not figure how the Firstling had adapted from baseline to non-orthogonal psychology so quickly. No one could swap out a sub-personality that promptly. It was almost as if the fellow had rewritten his base neural structural command sequences, his own instinctive reactions, on the fly.
“End Ragon, then?” said Norbert, attempting an avuncular smile. “Well, Able Starman End Ragon, the mission here concerns a calendar reformer. Describe the controversy to me.”
“Sir,” the squire said crisply, “according to the Unrevised Vindication Calendar, Jupiter should have ignited the Fourth Great Burn of the deceleration beam four hundred fifty years ago, but the Revised Anomaly Calendar says the Fourth Burn is not due for another one thousand five hundred fifty years, and we all must fast on short energy rations and conserve until then.”
Norbert nodded. “Go on.”
“The Revisionists say that since no flare of launch light from Canes Venatici was detected at the due time, an X-ray anomaly two thousand years later was the launch. Hence, the Swan Princess who stole a star doubtless tarried at M3, and the Vindication of Man will be long delayed. The Vindictive say the Vindication comes on schedule, but that the Authority at M3 has given some novel means of propulsion to the vessel, which humble Earthly science cannot detect; and they say the anomaly was some small exogalactic matter swept into the bowshock of her sail at near-lightspeed, suffering total conversion.”
“Perfect,” said Norbert. “Your answer comes straight out of the Political Officer’s Correct Attitude Manual. So the Vindictives are as mad as everyone on this mad world here, and curse the darkness of the deceleration beam, and are shooting at the cities of the machines in protest, to show one and all what near-lightspeed can do. Therefore, what is your opinion of the matter?”
“That it is an injudicious matter to discuss openly.”
“Correct! But if you are directly ordered to voice your opinion by a superior? What is your opinion then?”
“That, given the Treaty of Jupiter which ended the Crusades, every loyal man should follow the calendar of the local prince and current lord placed over him. For the Inner System of Sol, that means to follow the Summer Kings, who are Revisionists.”
“More correct! And what should we Starfarers do, since we sail from star to star, and are loyal to no local princes, but loyal only to the dream of the Vindication of Man?”