—Kahlil Gibran
The room was not small, but smaller than I had expected, and further surprised me by being furnished more like a den or a study than an office. At the far end of the room was a conversational grouping of four chairs. Rennick was just reaching the leftmost of the two that faced away from me. The two facing toward me were already occupied. In each sat a man who appeared to be approximately Rennick’s age. The fourth chair, its back to me, was obviously the hot seat.
My feet wanted to stop in their tracks again. But I managed to keep leaning forward. As I headed for the death chair, I invoked my very sharpest self-criticism. You have not thought this through.
Myself replied with some asperity, And how the hell was I supposed to do that, chum? Using what data?
Social customs on Ganymede are considerably simpler and more direct than those on Earth: a frontier society is just too busy for indirection, innuendo, and ceremony. Nevertheless, I had, under Jinny’s tutelage, gradually managed to soak up enough Terran manners to get by, in the sorts of social situations in which I found myself. It had been some time since I’d heard anyone mutter, “Hayseed!” under their breath after a conversation with me.
But college life had not prepared me for this. I was in a milieu where I knew I had no faintest idea what constituted correct behavior—and I was already saddled with some complex and difficult social problems that I had about a dozen steps to solve, for the toughest audience on the planet.
When in doubt, I decided, fall back on analogy. Okay…royalty always takes precedence, that gets you started. Which one next? And how…?
I’d expected those twelve steps would seem to take forever. They turned out to be just long enough.
Part of what threw me was the apparent ages. Both men I was here to meet seemed to be middle-aged, somewhere between thirty and sixty. Neither visibly deferred to the other by body language or chair placement. Both were dressed equally well, which was very well. Both carried themselves with authority and confidence, and had “the look of eagles”—a constant hyperalertness I had seen before only in certain very good bodyguards like the Gurkhas out in the hallway, and in a Zen priest I met once.
So which one was Jinny’s dad…and which one merely owned half the inner Solar System?
When I reached the decision point, I put down my money, made my bet, and quit worrying. The rest of the necessary choices seemed to have been made while I was busy.
I stopped in front of the man to my right, bowed almost as deeply as I would have for the Secretary General or for Jinny, and said, “Good morning, Conrad. I am Joel Johnston. Thank you for taking me into your cubic. Your home is most gracious. Pardon me a moment, please.”
Without waiting for a response I turned on my heel and gave Rennick my warmest smile. “It was very kind of you to escort me here, Alex. I’m sure with Leo’s help I’ll find my way back to my quarters.”
His own smile congealed slightly at the edges, and he opened his mouth as if to reply.
“Thank you,” I said pointedly.
After an instant’s hesitation, spent in reappraisal of me, he did a little indescribable thing with his mouth that was a rueful salute, and nodded. He said, “You’re welcome,” on his way to the door.
Again without pausing, I turned to the second man, bowed almost as deeply as I had to the first, and said, “Mr. Albert, I am Joel Johnston of Lermer City, Ganymede. My parents were Ben and Evelyn Johnston of that city. I am a recent graduate of Fermi Junior College. I love your daughter Jinnia—more than I can say!—and she loves me. I’m declaring now my intention to ask you for her hand as soon as I can. I will supply Dorothy Robb with what is necessary to allow you to inspect my background and records.”
I was done. I had shot my bolt—nothing to do now but wait and see just how badly I’d screwed things up. The door whispered shut behind Rennick, and sealed me in here in the lions’ den.
The man last addressed stared up at me, absolutely expressionless, yet with an attention that was almost a physical force, as if any slightest muscle twitch on my face might tell him something crucial. He stared for so long I began to suspect that I had botched the whole thing, guessed wrong—that he was not Mr. Albert, but the Lord God Conrad himself. I wished I could sneak a glance at the other man for a clue, but did not dare take my gaze away from his.
“Well and boldly spoken,” he said at last. “My daughter has made an interesting choice, Mr. Johnston. Good luck to you.”
It wasn’t until I exhaled that I realized I’d been holding my breath. Those were the last words he said to me.
“How did you know which of us was which?” the other man asked. “You can’t have seen a picture of me. There are none.”
For a split second I thought about claiming to have had the foresight to google up a picture of my fiancée’s father, last night. Rennick’s advice came back to me. Don’t bullshit. “I did not know, Conrad. I was forced to guess.”
He nodded. “On what basis?”
I didn’t have a clue. But my mouth did. It opened, and out came, “Jinny’s cheeks.”
“What did you say?”
Why, yes. I could see what my mouth meant, now that I looked. “Jinny’s cheekbones, s—Conrad. Cheekbones and ears. They’re distinctive. Mr. Albert has them, too.”
He mimed the word “ah,” without actually emitting sound. Mr. Albert was poker-faced.
I was beginning to understand why there were no pictures of Conrad of Conrad. There’s an expression actors use: “He can’t wear the clothes.” Meaning that actor, however talented he may be, just isn’t right for that part. No one would have cast this man as Conrad.
Not that he was in any way unimpressive, quite the contrary. He just didn’t look nearly heartless or soulless or ruthless enough to fit my preconceptions of the head of a multiplanet empire. He looked…learned, and wise, and kind. He would have been excellent casting for, say, a brilliant college professor. In some warm, fuzzy subject, like ecology, or sociobiology, or poetry, or even theology. His students would all love him, and write him letters years later to tell him he’d changed their lives. But he would never make department chairman because he wasn’t willing to kill for it.
I knew this impression had to be utterly false. This was Conrad of Conrad. But he did not bear the kind of face that would inspire the countless armies of remorseless sharks in suits who constituted the Conrad empire. He had the kind of face that would reassure their mothers. He was more effective as a Man of Mystery, never seen.
“Have a seat, Joel,” Conrad said.
It was a superbly comfortable chair, and became more so the longer I sat in it. This wasn’t going so badly…
“I am informed that my granddaughter Jinnia Anne has revealed her true identity to you, and you have accepted her proposal of matrimony—”
I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
He went on quickly, as one who is determined to get through his little speech however banal it may be. “I commend you heartily on your good fortune, Jinny on her good sense, and both of you on your good taste; I wish you both every happiness; I am confident you will prove a welcome and valuable addition to our great family; we will now define the terms and conditions under which that may occur—”
I opened my mouth even farther. Even less sound came out.
His eyes narrowed very slightly. The department chairman reluctantly suspected me of plagiarizing my thesis. “—unless you would feel more comfortable represented by counsel?”
I had to reject the slander. “No!” I managed to say, and got nearly halfway through my follow-up monosyllable, “I—” before he steamrollered ahead.
“No, of course not. Excellent. I’m sure Jinny has made her family situation clear to you, explained all the ramifications, brought you up to speed.” She damn well had not! “Preliminary genetic analysis is satisfactory, as expected given your heritage.” Apparently my consent had been assumed. “I might add that I consider such analysis a mere pro forma
check on my granddaughter’s intuition and judgment: you were in the moment she said you are. But I am pleased with her choice. I met your father, you know. Many years ago, when he came Earthside to receive his prize.”
“Then you met me,” I blurted out.
“Eh?”
“I never left his side, that trip.”
“Ah.” He did the math, worked out how old I would have been. “Oh!” He started slightly at a memory. “Uh…”
The only vowel he had not tried in front of an “h” yet was “i”—and perhaps “y” What was his problem?
Then all of a sudden I remembered, too.
“Ih!” I gasped. “I bit you.”
I’d never seen anyone try to unfrown, before. “Yes.” He gave up and surrendered to the frown. “You did.” Then without warning he smiled, so broadly it was as if another man had burst out laughing. “Good for you!” It made him look much younger, and it took me an instant to work out the sad reason why: his smile wrinkles were almost entirely nonexistent. I tried to remember why I had felt he needed biting, back then, but failed. All I could recall was the fuss after I had done it. Everyone had been upset…except Dad. He had apologized for me—once—and then stopped hearing conversation about the matter.
“And good for Jinny, too,” he went on. “I’m more convinced than ever that she’s found just the man we need. And just when we need him, too.”
“‘We’?”
We frowned at each other for a few seconds.
“I don’t understand your question,” he said. “Unless you are speaking French.”
“I guess,” I said slowly, “I had the idea marriage involved the needs of just two people, and the interests of the rest of their families. So far, I’ve been thinking exclusively of Jinny’s needs and mine. If you need me for something, it has not yet been explained to me, and I have not yet agreed.”
His jaw did not drop. But his lower lip went slack, and his eyes unfocused slightly for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I know you are not stupid; I’ve seen your genes. I know you are not ignorant; I’ve seen your transcripts. It has to be…a rather staggering naïveté.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Joel, do you honestly believe your marriage is going to be a normal, mundane union? Do you think its purpose is simply to provide the two of you with agreeable companionship and licensed sexual relief? Can you really imagine that your life together will be anything like what you were picturing as recently as yesterday morning?”
Well, no. But neither could I imagine what it would be like. The furthest I had gotten in my thinking so far was trying to encompass the preposterous notion that I could stop balancing my checkbook, now: that I would never again be short of money, no matter how much I developed a wish for. “What will it be like?”
“You kids will marry and continue in school under the name Johnston, but your legal name will be Conrad. Your training has been planned for you by experts familiar with your background and capabilities—at least ten years, and as a minimum you’ll take degrees in engineering, law, business administration, one of the practical sciences, and a language. I suggest Portuguese, but of course that’s up to you. It won’t all be academic fun and games, of course: you’ll need field experience in the company, as many areas of it as you can handle. Plus additional special coaching in social skills, and in politics, both governmental and corporate, and—”
“But you’re sure you won’t mind if I go for Swahili instead of Portuguese?”
“Anything but French.”
I gave up on sarcasm. He honestly didn’t know what it was. “You’re talking about grooming me for a top executive position in the Conrad empire. What makes you think—” I stopped because he was shaking his head.
“Not a top position,” he said.
I felt the blood start to drain from my head. “Are you trying to tell me—”
“Listen to me, Joel.” He leaned forward slightly, and his chair adjusted at once. “It is conceivable that one day you might sit in this chair and give the orders. It is even likely, on the basis of what can be extrapolated from your ancestry, present abilities, and accomplishments to date. It is certain that one or more of your children will sit in this chair one day. I’ve had you most fully investigated, else Jinny would never have received permission to propose to you.”
I felt two extremely strong and inappropriate impulses, fortunately so contradictory they canceled each other out: the urge to faint, mid the urge to giggle.
“Oh, I understand,” he said. “Really I do, son. Your interest in music is commendable in one of your age, a sign of a mathematical mind, and Jinny assures me your work is agreeable, not at all like this…well. But surely you see the time for childish things is now behind you. The real world is now open to you: you’ve been given the opportunity to become one of those men music is written about.”
Conrad continued speaking for several more minutes, and I kept an attentive look on my face, but I’m afraid it all pretty much went in one ear and out the other from that point on. To the best of my addled recollection he was explaining my destiny to me. Telling me about challenges I would face, and things I would need to know to meet them—about looming crises and how to resolve them—about potential achievements and how best to realize them. He used the word “scarcity” several times. I think he was trying to give me a short course in how to run a commercial empire over the next hundred years or so. He went on and on about the crucial importance of making sure humanity was firmly established outside the Solar System. Something about the System, any system, being too fragile a basket for the human race to keep all its eggs in. It seemed paranoid thinking even for a Conrad.
I have no doubt there were thousands of people in the System at that time who would have given a limb, maybe even one of their own, to hear that lecture from that man. It’s a real shame I missed it. But my brain was so busy trying to think six contradictory thoughts at once that it had no processing power left over for new incoming audio or video. He could have told me the exact hour and manner of my own death, and I’d have kept on looking him in the eye and nodding thoughtfully. I think Mr. Albert may have realized I wasn’t tracking, but he kept silent.
Sooner or later, he would pause long enough for me to speak. I had until then to come up with some really smooth, diplomatic way to begin explaining to him how many erroneous assumptions he was making, how vast was the gulf between his picture of my future and my own. The trouble was, for the life of me I could not think of any diplomatic way to express the concept, “I’m not remotely sure I want any part of you or your family or your empire, and I’m having serious second thoughts about your granddaughter.” I could think of no gentle way to ask, “Excuse me, but are my own wishes, plans, thoughts, or opinions of any interest to you at all?” There didn’t seem to be a polite circumlocution for, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Besides, I knew perfectly well who the hell he thought he was—and he was right. He was assuming my assent, not because I looked like some kind of patsy, but because nobody, weak or strong, ever said no to him. He assumed that I wanted to become him one day because everybody he knew did, because who would not? Jinny would never have taken up with me if I weren’t sensible.
I heard a story once about a PreCollapse songwriter named Russell who’d written a song called “I’m Lost in the Woods,” and because its melody sounded African, he decided he wanted a background chorus to sing the title in Zulu. But all the translators he found told him the same frustrating thing: there was no way to say “I’m lost in the woods” in Zulu. They didn’t have that concept. Zulu didn’t get lost in the woods. He had to settle for a chorus singing the Zulu for, “I am in the woods and I have gone crazy”
There was no sense even trying to tell this man, “I do not want to become infinitely rich and infinitely powerful”—it would come through as noise. When that pause in his flow of words finally came, he was going to hear whatever I said as, “I have gone
crazy”
Well, if it didn’t matter what he heard, then I could say whatever I liked; the only question was what I wanted to say. Ideally, something that would not make me cringe every time I remembered this day in years to come. Something that would not force me to lie when asked what I’d told the old buzzard then. Something respectful, but dignified; polite but firm.
As I worked on it, I became aware of distraction. I played back the last fifteen or twenty seconds and spotted a plausible cause: a few sentences ago, he had dropped a subtle remark that implied, without stating it explicitly, that he was sure I had figured out Jinny’s real identity long ago…and that he applauded my good sense and good taste in continuing to play dumb for the sake of her feelings. It was annoyingly difficult to work out which of us he’d insulted worse—a distraction from the distraction.
But that wasn’t even the distraction. Suddenly I realized what had really bothered me enough to try to demand my attention in the middle of an important conundrum—a problem far more urgent than an insult to me or a beloved I was thinking seriously of strangling.
I was on my feet. In motion. Walking toward the door.
Being walked toward the door, by Mr. Albert. His hand rested far too lightly on my shoulder to be steering me, exactly. But it did make it a little easier to keep going than to stop or turn around.
The conversation was over already. The insult I’d focused on had been part of some larger pattern of unnoticed sentences that had ended it, somehow. The pause I’d been waiting for, in which I could have my say, had simply never happened. Or had come and gone in an instant, while I was thinking of something else. It was too late, now. My choices were to keep on walking, or to make a scene. Albert had handled me as smoothly as an awards presenter getting the disoriented winner the hell offstage so they can get to the next, more important award.
I was angry at myself for having been outmaneuvered so effortlessly, for letting somebody march me around like a show dog with nothing more than a combination of body language cues, feather-gentle touch, and total confidence.