Beyond the main gateway, he entered a maze of courts, lanes, stairs, unexpected little gardens or trees, memorial plaques or statues, between the buildings. Architecture was different here from elsewhere. Even the newer structures—long, porticoed, ogive-windowed, until they rose in towers—preserved a tradition going back to the earliest settlers. Or do they? wondered Desai. If these designs are from ancient Terra, they are crossbreeds that mutated. Gothic arches but Russko spires, except that in low gravity those vaultings soar while those domes bulge … and yet it isn’t mismatched, it’s strong and graceful in its own way, it belongs on Aeneas as … I do not.
Chimes toned from a belfry which stood stark athwart darkling blue and a rusty streak of high-borne dustcloud. No doubt the melody was often heard. But it didn’t sound academic to him; it rang almost martial.
Campus had not regained the crowded liveliness he had seen in holos taken before the revolt. In particular, there were few nonhumans, and perhaps still fewer humans from other colonies. But he passed among hundreds of Aeneans. Hardly a one failed to wear identification: the hooded, color-coded cloaks of teaching faculty, which might or might not overlay the smock of researcher; student jackets bearing emblems of their colleges and, if they were Landfolk, their Firstmen. (Beneath were the tunics, trousers, and half-boots worn by both sexes—among nords, anyhow—except on full-dress occasions when women revived antique skirts.) Desai noticed, as well, the shoulder patches on many, remembrance of military or naval units now dissolved. Should I make those illegal? … And what if my decree was generally disobeyed?
He felt anger about him like a physical force. Oh, here a couple of young fellows laughed at a joke, there several were flying huge kites, yonder came a boy and girl hand in hand, near two older persons learnedly conversing; but the smiles were too few, the feet on flagstones rang too loud.
He had visited the area officially, first taking pains to learn about it. That hadn’t thawed his hosts, but today it saved his asking for directions and thus risking recognition. Not that he feared violence; and he trusted he had the maturity to tolerate insult; however—His way took him past Rybnikov Laboratories, behind Pickens Library, across Adzel Square to Borglund Hall, which was residential.
The south tower, she had said. Desai paused to see where Virgil stood. After two years—more than one, Aenean—he had not developed an automatic sense of how he faced. The compass on a planet was always defined to make its sun rise in the east; and a 25-degree axial tilt wasn’t excessive, shouldn’t be confusing; and he ought to be used to alien constellations by now. Getting old. Not very adaptable any longer. Nor had he developed a reflex to keep him from ever looking straight at that small, savage disc. Blind for a minute, he worried about retinal burn. Probably none. Blue-eyed Aeneans kept their sight, didn’t they? Let’s get on with business. Too much else is waiting back at the office as is, and more piling up every second.
The circular stairway in the tower was gloomy enough to make him stumble, steep enough to make him pant and his heart flutter. Low gravity didn’t really compensate for thin air, at his age. He rested for a time on the fourthfloor landing before he approached an oaken door and used a knocker which centuries of hands had worn shapeless.
Tatiana Thane let him in. “Good day,” she said tonelessly.
Desai bowed. “Good day, my lady. You are kind to give me this interview.”
“Do I have choice?”
“Certainly.”
“I didn’t when your Intelligence Corps hauled me in for questionin’.” Her speech remained flat. A note of bitterness would at least have expressed some human relationship.
“That is why I wished to see you in your own apartment, Prosser Thane. To emphasize the voluntariness. Not that I believe you were arrested, were you? The officers merely assumed you would cooperate, as a law-abiding—citizen.” Desai had barely checked himself from saying “subject of His Majesty.”
“Well, I won’t assault you, Commissioner. Have you truly come here unescorted as you claimed you would?”
“Oh, yes. Who’d pay attention to a chubby chocolate-colored man in a particularly thick mantle? Apropos which, where may I leave it?”
Tatiana indicated a peg in the entry. This layout was incredibly archaic. No doubt the original colonists hadn’t had the economic surplus to automate residences, and there’d been sufficient pinch ever afterward to keep alive a scorn of “effete gadgetry.” The place was chilly, too, though the young woman was rather lightly if plainly clad.
Desai’s glance recorded her appearance for later study. She was tall and slim. The oval face bore a curved nose, arched brows above brown eyes, broad full mouth, ivory complexion, between shoulder-length wings of straight dark hair. Old University family, he recalled, steeped in its lore, early destined for a scholarly career. Somewhat shy and bookish, but no indoor plant; she takes long walks or longer animal-back rides, spends time in the desert, not to mention the jungles of Dido. Brilliant linguist, already responsible for advances in understanding certain languages on that planet. Her enthusiasm for the Terran classics doubtless kindled Ivar Frederiksen’s interest in them and in history … though in his case, perhaps one might better say the vision of former freedom fighters inflamed him. She appears to have more sense than that: a serious girl, short on humor, but on the whole, as good a fiancée as any man could hope for.
That was the approximate extent of the report on her. There were too many more conspicuous Aeneans to investigate. The Frederiksen boy hadn’t seemed like anyone to worry about either, until he ran amok.
Tatiana led Desai into the main room of her small suite. Its stone was relieved by faded tapestries and scuffed rug, where bookshelves, a fine eidophonic player, and assorted apparatus for logico-semantic analysis did not occupy the walls. Furniture was equally shabby-comfortable, leather and battered wood. Upon a desk stood pictures he supposed were of her kin, and Ivar’s defiant in the middle of them. Above hung two excellent views, one of a Didonian, one of Aeneas seen from space, tawny-red, green- and blue-mottled, north polar cap as white as the streamers of ice-cloud. Her work, her home.
A trill sounded. She walked to a perch whereon, tiny and fluffy, a native tadmouse sat. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot it’s his lunchtime.” She gave the animal seeds and a caress. A sweet song responded.
“What is his name, if I may ask?” Desai inquired.
She was obviously surprised. “Why … Frumious Bandersnatch.”
Desai sketched another bow. “Pardon me, my lady. I was given a wrong impression of you.”
“What?”
“No matter. When I was a boy on Ramanujan, I had a local pet I called Mock Turtle … Tell me, please, would a tadmouse be suitable for a household which includes young children?”
“Well, that depends on them. They mustn’t get rough.”
“They wouldn’t. Our cat’s tail went unpulled until, lately, the poor beast died. It couldn’t adjust to this planet.”
She stiffened. “Aeneas doesn’t make every newcomer welcome, Commissioner. Sit down and describe what you want of me.”
The chair he found was too high for his comfort. She lowered herself opposite him, easily because she topped him by centimeters. He wished he could smoke, but to ask if he might would be foolish.
“As for Ivar Frederiksen,” Tatiana said, “I tell you what I told your Corpsmen: I was not involved in his alleged action and I’ve no idea where he may be.”
“I have seen the record of that interview, Prosser Thane.” Desai chose his words with care. “I believe you. The agents did too. None recommended a narcoquiz, let alone a hypnoprobing.”