A Rumor of Angels Page 5

  His ego was annoyingly intact. “Don’t worry your head about that. Old Julie’’d be here by the next transport if he thought things weren’t going just right.”

  “How would he know?”

  “Gut instinct, even across dimensions.” Clennan shifted. “Besides, I’d tell him.”

  She tried not to whine. “Well, couldn’t we at least have a look at the Quarter, kind of a dry run? I’ve been scouring these files for two weeks and still I know nothing about the Natives. When do I get to meet this guy?”

  “Soon, soon.” Her expression brought him vast amusement. “Hey, girl, he doesn’t wear two heads or screw with his feet, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ve seen the pictures. They look pretty much like us.”

  “But you keep away from them.”

  Clennan shifted, for once ill at ease. “Well, I never know what to say to them. I mean, you can’t just hand them a string of beads and smile, for Christ’s sake.”

  Jude was dissatisfied. “I can’t understand why everyone pretends that these creatures aren’t important. Think of what we could learn from them! They live in this crazy world!”

  Clennan put up a defensive hand. “We’ve tried all that, dammit. These folks are basic medieval. They’re better off by themselves in the Quarter, weaving their baskets and giving the tourists something tame to point at. What could they tell us about aircraft that don’t fly? They don’t even use electricity. Take my advice, crusader. Just do your job. Don’t get involved. Landed you in the Wards last time, eh?” His wink was a genial warning.

  “What makes you think the others Out There, if there are others Out There, will be any different?”

  “With luck, they won’t be. When we move in, the less resistance the better.”

  In the fifth week, an appointment was set to meet the alien guide. Jude was to find him in, of all places, the main reading room of the notoriously unvisited Museum of Cultural Anthropology. The museum was near the Quarter, thus presumably convenient for a Native to get to without undue harassment in the streets, but Jude suspected someone of a heavy taste for irony in the choice of meeting place. Clennan? It didn’t seem likely, somehow, irony being hardly his strong point. The Native himself? Jude tried to envision one of those stubby peasants in the photo files possessing a flair for grim humor. It didn’t compute.

  In the early morning, Clennan escorted her to the museum, watched her climb the already sun-baked steps, and settled in to wait in a shadowed doorway. The alien had demanded that she meet him alone.

  Inside the museum, it was cool and shaded. Jude padded down long silent halls lined with half-empty cases. The anthropologists had little to show for their thirty years of study. She lingered in the hallways, postponing her meeting a little longer, hoping to glean a few more morsels of information to make this creature she was about to confront somewhat less mysterious. She listened to tape loops until she could no longer abide their patronizing tone. She read hand-lettered labels, dusty beneath the glass. She scrutinized artifacts: wooden spoons and hoes and crude garments of cracked leather, some lovely pottery and thick handblown glass. But for the lack of weapons, the normal trappings of a primitive society. She thought it bizarre that there were so few of them, less than a few thousand living in the Colony, yet with a racial diversity that anthropologists could not explain within so small a community. They theorized a past plague or cataclysmic natural disaster that had wiped out the population, but could find no reference to it in native memory or legend. Jude understood why someone had come up with the idea of Others, out of sheer desperation. For instance, who had built the ruined tower that had terrified her from the monorail?

  Further down the hall, life-sized models of the three racial types rested dully in their glass cases: the blond and stolid peasant, inclined to farm work; the tallish, ruddy-skinned craftsman; the third, the least human, whom the anthropologists had christened fishfolk. The hands and feet were delicately webbed, the limbs shone silver, tarnished here by a layer of dust. Jude rather hoped her Native would be one of those. The mannequin’s full round eye seemed to regard her kindly.

  When at last she faced the door of the reading room, she stopped to take a deep breath. Not at all fortified, she slid open the big door.

  It was a long high-ceilinged room, lined with tape racks and small sections of real books. Microfilm readers and video monitors were scattered among the tables and couches. At the far end of the room, a tall figure stood alone before a wall of windows. Beyond him, in blue-and-white splendor, rose the Guardians. As she entered, he turned crisply but did not come toward her.

  “Ms. Rowe? I am Ra’an tel-Yron.”

  What she had expected she would never recall afterward, so struck was she by his appearance. Nothing had prepared her for a creature of such extraordinary beauty. He was not handsome, though his features, lean and regular, could pass for Terran in a dim light. The full effect defied so ordinary a description. His skin was russet, his long thick hair so black it was like an absence of light. He had high cheekbones, white teeth, a face of startling color contrasts and keen intelligence. His long-fingered hands hung stilled at his sides. His carriage was erect, almost military. Oddly, he was dressed in Terran clothing, black shirt and pants, without ornament. He was unarmed, as the Colonial Authority did not allow natives to possess weapons. The alien was beautiful, yes, but closer study revealed a tension about him that eroded his beauty, that lent a disturbing severity to his expression, angularity to his stance.

  Primitive? Medieval? Jude stared at him.

  “Is there something wrong?” he demanded coldly.

  She glanced away, chagrined. “No… ah… no. It’s just that… you’re not exactly what I’d been led to expect. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “Of course not,” he replied.

  Either she had to stare, or not look at him at all. She chose the latter. “Well, Please sit down, ah, Ra’an… is that what I should call you?”

  He came toward her but did not sit. “Ra’an is my given name, as you would say. There are no other forms of address among the Koi—‘tel-Yron’ conveys birthplace and… other things that need not concern you.”

  Jude dragged a heavy chair up to a big round table. There must have been a diplomat or two in the Wards, she grumbled inwardly, better suited to this job. Where do I start? I should have written my questions down, but that’d make a book. “The sooner I start learning about your… the Koi, did you call them?… the better.”

  His sculptured chin lifted icily. He hates me, she decided. I’m a total stranger and already he hates me.

  “Linguistic subtleties, Ms. Rowe. To appreciate them would require a more extensive command of the language than I gather is yours at present.” His eyes surveyed her briefly through a veil of dark lashes. “I hesitate to place an… employer in that most difficult position of having to say that one understands what one does not.”

  Jude pursed her lips, momentarily stymied. He’s an alien, she warned herself. You have never met an alien before. Don’t immediately assume that he’s being obnoxious. This behavior could be the height of Koi hospitality, unlikely as that may seem. She pretended to adjust her chair closer to the table. Whatever his intent, his command of Terran was certainly complete. A sort of rolling slur of the hard consonants was the only trace of an accent. It gave his speech a soft, cornerless quality totally at odds with his precise wording and officious manner.

  “Is your language difficult?” she asked finally, wondering if normal conversation would ever be possible with this creature.

  “For Terrans, it seems. Few ever learn.”

  “Well, I shall do my best.”

  “Do not feel obligated, Ms. Rowe. One language between us should prove sufficient.”

  Sarcasm. No doubt this time. “Perhaps you could find time to instruct me?” The Wards had taught her bottomless patience. She would use it to defuse him.

  “There is no need.”

  “But I want to learn.” />
  “Why?”

  I’m not really sure. “Is it so odd to learn a language for its own sake?”

  The alien looked straight at her for the first time. His eyes were the color of purple velvet. “Frankly, yes. For a Terran, it is odd.”

  Jude felt dwarfed by the high curved back of her chair. “Tell you what. I’ll toss away my preconceptions about you, if you will do the same. Well start over again with clean slates.”

  He smiled faintly, looking down at her. “Whatever you wish.”

  He’s baiting me, she decided. That’s it. There’s some hostile game being played out here. I’ve walked into the middle of it with no rulebook, and I’m losing already. She backtracked in hopes of regaining her advantage.

  “How did you come to speak my language so well?”

  He shrugged, barely restraining his contempt.“Language comes easily to the Koi. We have four of our own, and are perhaps more used to being polylingual than you who have only one.”

  “Regional languages are still spoken in many parts of Terra,” she retorted, piqued. “A universal tongue is imperative in a mobile, centralized society.” Then she thought, Wait a minute. Since when did I become a defender of the faith?

  “We have no universal, as all four are known to all Koi.”

  “Then why have four at all?”

  “Language is more than a practical necessity to a people who are…” He stopped himself, then added merely. “It’s an art form. You’d have to learn them all to understand.”

  “You were going to tell me how you learned Terran,” she pursued. If she was going to be swept up in this game of linguistic one-upmanship, she might as well squeeze some information out of it.

  He made an awkward gesture of dismissal. “When I was younger, there was a man, a Terran, with whom I became acquainted.”

  He obviously intended this to close the topic, but she smiled, trying out a little casual cheer, Bill Clennan style. It felt like an oversized garment, graceless. “Well, I’m glad to hear that there’ve been some Terrans who’ve taken an interest in your people. This museum is a disgrace.” Too late, she realized how patronizing she sounded.

  “He did not regard us as a subject for academic study, Ms. Rowe!” The alien had not raised his voice, but there was anger in the room, humming like the static electricity before a storm. Suddenly, he was menacing.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said quickly. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t seem to know how not to offend you.”

  But he was mistrustful of her apology. The intense violet eyes watched her as if scanning for subtext. Then he turned and went to stand at the window again, his back straightening. It was as if a door had closed in her face. When he spoke again, his tone was stiffly businesslike. “Have you ever done any mountain climbing, Ms. Rowe?”

  “Er… no.” She attempted a laugh. “Not much chance for that anymore on Terra.”

  “Ah, yes. You’ve torn most of them down, haven’t you? Well, even if there were, the Guardians are not ordinary mountains, you understand.”

  She laughed again, nervously. “Is there such a thing as an ordinary mountain?”

  “What makes you think you will fare better than all the others who have attempted them?”

  Actually, I don’t think anything of the kind. But she made an effort at nonchalance. “Sounds like you’re trying to scare me off.”

  “No. I am trying to discover why you want to go.”

  I don’t! “To take pictures. Didn’t they tell you? I’m a photographer.”

  A sharp movement of his head negated her explanation. “You are afraid of the mountains, are you not?”

  She was losing ground. “Well, who wouldn’t be, with their history?”

  “You were afraid when you walked into this room,” he accused, stalking her. “Not knowing what kind of monster you might find. You are afraid of me now. Why are you forcing yourself to go out there?”

  The aura of scarcely restrained power about him threatened to overwhelm her. She rubbed the table with her hand, finding strength in its wooden solidity. “I guess there are a few things they didn’t tell you.” She paused, collecting herself. “Do you know what the Wards are?”

  His brows arched. “You?”

  She nodded. He certainly knows a lot about Terrans.

  “What did you do?” For the first time, there was interest in his voice.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering he laughed, a short ironic bark. Then he asked, “Did you know, by the way, that you will be the first to attempt the Guardians with a ‘Native’ guide?”

  “So they tell me.” She noted that he spat out the word “Native” as if it were something vile.

  “Has it occurred to you to wonder about that?”

  She blinked. Who’s conducting this interview? “It occurs to me that you are probably no typical, ah, Native.”

  “Ah. Perceptive. Not in the way you might think, but I’m sure the other ‘Natives’ would agree with you.” His long regal fingers clenched tight over his thumbs.

  She couldn’t play this hateful game any longer. “It’s an ugly word,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it.” There was a silence as the alien paced around irritably, glowering at her. Then he stopped, and a moment of decision-making passed over his face. “Well, I’ll take you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, bewildered, not having realized this was in question. If she had considered having any respect for Clennan’s Alien Division, it was gone now. They obviously had no idea what they had on their hands in this extraordinary creature. He was rude and scary, totally unpredictable, and one hell of a lot more than medieval. Winning him over was not going to be easy, but she must, if she was going to face the Guardians with only him for protection.

  “Have you seen any of the photos taken by the early expeditions?” she asked finally.

  “Some.” He had put on his chill formality again.

  “Do they look right to you? I mean, does it seem to you that they”—that phrase again—“lose something in translation?”

  “That depends on what you expect the original to have been.”

  Well, that’s rather evasive. She approached him from another angle. “Do you find the photos interesting?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I am not familiar with the workings of the instrument. We have no such things here.”

  That’s odd, she thought, for one so sophisticated and well versed in Terran ways. But it went along with Clennan’s claim that the Koi had no interest in technology. “Perhaps I’ll teach you,” she offered brightly. “I’ll trade you your language for my camera, what do you say?”

  “I am not sure you would find it an even trade.”

  “I’ll risk that.” She smiled at him, which seemed to unnerve him, for he turned away, his beautiful face as hard as a stone wall.

  “If there is nothing more you require at present…”

  Surprised, she leaned forward. “I have a thousand questions, but I suppose they can wait.”

  He nodded abruptly. “Good.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  “We’ll talk again soon,” she called weakly as the massive door slid shut behind him. Then she collapsed back into her chair. The aged plastic seat creaked as she swung her leg back and forth, exhausted. Next time, I’ll bring a camera and take some pictures of him, and see how they come out. If he’ll let me.

  They’ve no idea what they’ve got here, she repeated to herself. And dammit, neither do I. But as she contemplated the mysteries he presented, an inkling of hope began to work its way through the deep layers of acceptance and inaction the Wards had laid down in her mind. What if…? What if the alien could take her over the mountains? Who was to say she had to come back?

  Chapter 8

  The great steel gate to the Native Quarter stood
open in the still tropical heat of the late afternoon. Two guards slouched in the shade of the wall, one fanned himself lazily with his hat.

  A brightly dressed tourist family walked tentatively up the street and stopped by the gate. The children waited wide-eyed while the parents peered inside at the old shop-lined market square where Native handicrafts were sold. The husband mopped his face with a striped handkerchief. Other tourists bustled up and down, in and out of stores, meeting friends, laughing through armloads of purchases, ignoring or avoiding the occasional lone figures wearing the regulation orange tunic. One passed the gate carrying a covered basket, and the tourist father touched his wife’s arm and pointed. The children stared.

  The guards nudged each other. The shorter shook his head and produced a coin, balancing it in his palm.

  The tourist woman looked longingly at a stall hung with woven rugs. She gave her husband’s hand a reassuring pat, and in they went. Each held a child firmly by the hand.

  The second guard chuckled and caught the coin as his partner flipped it to him with a shrug.

  “Takes ’em longer to decide every day,” the loser grumbled. “Most haven’t been taking their kids in lately.”

  The coin changed hands several times that day. It was a silly game, but it passed the time.

  Across the market square, Mitchell Verde sweltered in his tiny office, trying to generate enough patience to finish the day’s mail. The street door, a marvel of hand-hewn planks, was propped open with a filing cabinet in hopes of luring a stray breeze inside. The white stucco walls sweated, and Verde muttered to himself as he ripped open envelopes and added to the weeks-old piles of litter crowding his ancient desk.

  At the rear of the office, a lanky adolescent in an undershirt worked a hand-cranked mimeograph machine.

  “You would insist on an office in the Quarter, Verde,” the boy grouched as the machine squealed and jammed. His short, straw-colored hair stuck out like porcupine quills. “I mean, anywhere else you could have air conditioning and a computer to do your printing. Some technology makes sense, you know.”