Shadow's End

  Now she knew what he was thinking. How will she cope then? When he's a big man, what will she do? His mouth opened, then closed again, the words unspoken. Well, at least he learned fast. And what right did he have to disapprove?

  "What kind of treatments have you tried?" he asked.

  She fought down her annoyance. Even though he'd been briefed, he wanted her to talk about it so he could feel what she felt, find his way into her psyche. Damn all Fastigats! Would he be more help if he understood?

  She gritted her teeth and said in a patient voice, "I'm sure you were told, but both Leelson and I had a genome check early in my pregnancy. Both of us are within normal limits. Leely's pattern differs from ours only within normal limits. Physically, he's fine."

  "And mentally?"

  Had the man no eyes? She kept her voice calm as she answered.

  "Well, sometimes he won't leave his clothes on. He won't learn to use the potty, though he does like to eliminate outdoors. He has no speech, obviously. And he doesn't seem to classify. He reacts to each new animal, person, or thing in pretty much the same manner, with curiosity. If one food chip is tasty, he doesn't assume similar-looking ones are. He regards each thing as unique."

  "Really?"

  "Give him a red ball, he'll learn that it bounces and squeezes. He may treasure it. If he loses it and I give him another red ball, he has to start from scratch. Though it looks identical to me, somehow he knows it isn't the same thing he had before."

  "Strange."

  She nodded. It was. Strange.

  "I understand they've tried splicing him."

  It wasn't a question, but she answered it anyhow. "The geneticists spotted a few rare variations that they thought might be connected to behavior, and they tried substituting some more common alleles. Among Leely's unique attributes, however, is a super-efficient immune system. Each time extraneous genetic material is introduced, his body kills it. It may take him a day, or a week, but he manages it every time. That means that even if we hit upon whatever variant might help, it would take him a very short time to get rid of it. And, of course, it may not be in the chromosomes. It may be elsewhere in the cells."

  The geneticists had suggested a complete cellular inventory, but she had resisted that. Perhaps she didn't really want to know. If they found something … Well, how very final that would be!

  Trompe said, "I imagine the doctors are very interested in him! The immune system, I mean."

  "Extremely interested. Particularly inasmuch as he also heals very quickly. At first thought, these traits would seem to be extremely valuable—"

  "But only the healing, the immunity."

  "Right. If they could be separated from the rest of his pattern, but no one knows what particular combination of combinations has resulted in that trait."

  "So, whatever's wrong, it can't be fixed."

  She stiffened. "I object to the word. Leely is all right the way he is! You may as well know that Leelson Famber and I disagreed on that point."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "But … how intelligent is he?"

  "I believe he has a different level of intelligence," she said belligerently. One of her most vehement arguments with Leelson had been on that subject. She tried to be fair. "Though it's hard to be sure because our idea of intelligence is so dependent upon the use of language. He scores quite high on some nonverbal tests, those that don't depend solely on classification."

  "I don't understand."

  "What I said earlier! He doesn't classify things. He can't look at a pile of blocks and pick out all the blue ones. Mere blueness isn't a category for Leely. Nor mere roundness, mere squareness, mere … whatever. Each thing is its own thing."

  "With its own name?"

  "Who knows? If he could talk, perhaps that would be true. He's past the age when most children either learn a language or create one." She heard the pain in her voice, knew Trompe heard it too.

  "So?" He was looking at her curiously, figuring her out.

  Lutha took firm control of her voice. She had to sound objective and calm. She would not start out on this arduous project with a companion who felt she was irrational.

  "Since he's so very healthy, I've considered he might be a new and fortunate mutation. Perhaps he will learn language later than most children."

  There was no legitimate reason for her to believe that, but she believed it anyhow, passionately, with her whole heart. Leelson had said that for every positive mutation, there were undoubtedly thousands of useless or lethal ones. Intellectually, she accepted that. So far as Leely was concerned, she could not. He couldn't be … useless.

  She pulled her mind away from that thought. She didn't want Trompe Paggas to think she was—what? Deluded. A mother who was blind and fond to the point of stupidity? Speak of something else!

  Trompe gave her the opening. "He didn't like those colors you gave him. Why was that, do you suppose?"

  "A mistake on my part," she admitted ruefully. "He loves to paint, as you saw, and I thought the colors would be tempting. I was wrong. They don't please him for some reason. They have the wrong texture or smell. He does quite nice renderings in feces, as you've seen. Or in gravy, or mud."

  "Organic media," mused Trompe. "Probably with organic smells."

  "Perhaps he identifies by smell, categorizes by smell. I don't know. Maybe he has another sense entirely."

  A superhuman sense, she didn't say, though she thought it. A more-than-human sense. She caught herself and flushed. She'd mentioned these thoughts to a few family members, a few friends, all of whom thought she was pushing the limits of reality. And sometimes—yes, sometimes she knew she would trade eventual superhumanity for a Leely who would learn to use the potty and keep his clothes on!

  "No need to get upset, Lutha. I understand." Trompe was smiling at her, squeezing her shoulder. "Fine. I was briefed. I was just digging for some kind of overall understanding, but we've obviously said enough." He seated himself and adopted an expression that said he was getting down to business.

  "It's going to be hard for you," he said.

  She nodded, admitting as much.

  Trompe tapped his front teeth with a thumbnail. "The Procurator wishes you to know you may have all the help you need, both in preparing to go and to keep your business alive while you're gone. Meantime, I made some inquiries of my own. I thought Leelson might be, you know, simply avoiding the issue, but he's truly gone. No one I spoke to had any idea where he was."

  "Limia could go," said Lutha, referring to Leelson's mother.

  "Easier than you," he agreed. "I wonder why she won't?"

  Both sat silently for a time.

  "Let's ask her," he said. "Let's go ask her!"

  "Now?" she cried. "I can't leave—"

  He interrupted her with a finger to her lips. "I'll call a crèche team to take care of Leely, and why not now? If Limia won't go, I think we both should know why. We'll run on over to Fastiga and find out."

  South of Alliance Prime the enclave of Fastiga lay beneath its own separate dome, the towers of the men jutting aggressively above the sprawling domiciles of the women. Nothing separated them but multilevel sculpture gardens and fantastically ritualized behaviors, both well observed.

  In the domiciles the languorous hours between the evening meal and the erotic observances of deep night were set aside for the reception of visitors. Fires were lit in the halls of lineage, dusty bottles were opened and decanted into elegant crystal, children were sent to their own quarters to bedevil their adolescent minders, womenfolk put on their most seductive draperies, and everyone gossiped about everyone else. Fastiga women were much interested—some said obsessed—by lineage. All Fastigats claimed common ancestors; they were all one clan; only the precise degree of kinship was subject to analysis, but of such minor quibbles nightlong conversations could be built.

  Trompe brought Lutha up from clangorous, crowded traffic levels below-ground to the murmuring quiet of a house she had visited once before. And
had not intended to visit again, she acknowledged to herself as he fetched her a glass of wine and ushered her to a sheltered corner of the hall of lineage. It was a secluded niche mostly hidden from the other visitors.

  "Leelson brought me here once," she said, aware of a sudden bellicosity, the flaring embers of old anger.

  He nodded, as though he already knew. Well, Fastigats did know. They knew entirely too much.

  "It may take me a while to get to Limia," he murmured. "Custom demands I work my way around the room. Don't move. I'll be back."

  He left her. She settled into the chair, which was both comfortable and private. The wings on either side hid her from anyone who was not directly opposite, and there was more uninhabited room around her than in her whole apartment and three or four others like it. Behind her, she could hear two Fastiga women making conversation, unaware they were overheard.

  "There's Olloby Pime, with her Old-earth friend," said one voice. "So hairy, Old-earthers. I had an earther lover once. Did I ever tell you, Britta? So relaxing. Such a treasure. Poor thing had no idea what I was feeling, and I can't tell you how refreshing that was."

  Britta paused before responding. "I perceive your satisfaction, Ostil-ohn, but my own experience would lead me to believe such a liaison would be rather frustrating."

  Britta and Ostil-ohn, said Lutha to herself. Ostil-ohn, who had had a terrestrial but non-Fastigat lover.

  Ostil-ohn, who was saying:

  "Oh, my dear, no. For example, if I wasn't in the mood for sex, instead of being coaxed and wooed and pestered for simply hours and having to heat up out of sheer inevitability, I could just pretend I was wild with desire to begin with."

  "He didn't know the difference?"

  "Not at all! He hadn't the tiniest flicker of perception, so he got on with it, and I sighed and yelped a bit, and shortly it was over, while meantime I'd gone on thinking what I was thinking about before he started!"

  "But, Ostil-ohn, this implies … what if you were in the mood and he wasn't?"

  "Ah, well, there are drawbacks to every relationship. It's true one gets in the mood much less often than with Fastigats."

  Britta snorted.

  "I wonder where Limia Famber is," Ostil-ohn murmured next. "I haven't seen her lately."

  Lutha leaned back, listening intently.

  "One assumes she has not been taking part in public life since her son disappeared."

  "I shouldn't think she was surprised! What did she expect? Leelson was destined to disappear. Takes after his father in that regard."

  "Ostil-ohn! You're being cruel. Grebor Two didn't disappear purposely. Any more than his father did!"

  "Listen, when three generations of Fambers stick around only long enough to father one child, then take off and are never seen again, one may be forgiven for assuming a genetic tendency toward vanishment!"

  A pause indicating that Britta was considering this. "Three generations?"

  "Actually four, if you count uncles. Leelson; his father, Grebor Two; his grandfather, Grebor One; and his great-granduncle."

  "Who was his great-granduncle?"

  "Paniwar Famber, son of Bernesohn and Tospia. That's five generations, because Paniwar was an only too."

  "Paniwar was not an only. Paniwar had a twin sister, Tospiann. Boy and girl—"

  "I meant only son," interrupted Ostil-ohn.

  "—and Bernesohn had flocks of children with other women!"

  A moment's silence. "That's right. I'd forgotten."

  "Paniwar had more than one child, too, though it was a scandal! He got some little tourister girl pregnant when he was just a boy. She wanted him to marry her, can you imagine! When he told her Fastigats don't, she went to some remote place and had the child secretly, making Paniwar guilty of improper fathering! The talk went on for years!"

  "My dear, it wasn't a little tourister girl. I remember now. It was someone famous on the frontier! He was only a boy, she was twice his age, and that's what the talk was about!"

  Ostil-ohn murmured, "Whoever. I'll modify my statement. When four generations of Fambers stick around only long enough to father one acknowledged son and then take off never to be seen again, one may be forgiven for assuming it's genetic."

  Britta said, "Limia would argue with you. She doesn't acknowledge the boy Leelson fathered. He had it out of that translator woman he took up with. You know. We met her once. Lutha something. Tall-staff. Basically earthian stock."

  "Did I meet her?"

  "But of course you did," Britta insisted. "Leelson brought her here. Then Limia went to see her!"

  "Oh, yes. To warn her off, don't you suppose? Limia was furious! And what is it about the child? Something not right?"

  Lutha's face flushed. Damn them. What right had they to discuss Leely!

  Britta went on. "It isn't Fastigat. It's not even normal earthian. I haven't seen it, though some of the men have. Oh, look, there's someone who'd know. Trompe Paggas. Trompe knows everything!"

  Lutha looked up, saw Trompe moving toward her, gave up any attempt at concealment, and rose to her full height. She turned to the matrons she'd been eavesdropping upon with a pleasant smile and a nod.

  Both had the grace to flush, though only Ostil-ohn was capable of speech. She murmured politely as Lutha moved to join Trompe, and then the two woman put their heads together once more, to share the full delicious horror of what they'd just done.

  Leelson Famber's mother was in no mood to talk with Lutha Tall-staff. When Trompe insisted, she made them wait a discourteous amount of time before inviting them to her private quarters. During that time she dressed herself with some care and prepared herself mentally for what she supposed would be a request on the Tallstaff woman's part for additional help with her idiot child.

  It turned out, however, that Lutha Tallstaff had something else in mind.

  "I've been asked by the Alliance to go to Dinadh," Lutha announced. "With my son."

  Limia sat back, surprised both at the announcement and at the propriety of Lutha's language. "My son," she'd said. Many women might have said "Leelson's son." Or "our son." "Leelson's and my son." Or even, courtesy forbid, "your grandson."

  Limia sat back in her chair, feeling an unintended frown creeping onto her forehead. "Yes," she said, smoothing both her face and her voice. "What has that to do with me?"

  "I don't want to go," said Lutha. "I've agreed to do so only if no other way can be found."

  "Other way?"

  "The Dinadhi will allow entry to you. The Procurator says you've refused to go."

  "Yes."

  "I thought perhaps you didn't understand how important the matter is and how very difficult the trip will be for me."

  "I am an old woman. You are a young one." Among Fastigats, with their reverence for age, this was all that needed saying. Seemingly, it was not enough for the Tallstaff woman.

  Lutha explained, "In order to be allowed to investigate Bernesohn Famber's life there, I have to be connected with his lineage. This means I have to take my son with me."

  Limia's gorge rose at the word lineage, but she kept her voice calm. "Surely that is not onerous."

  Lutha threw a glance in Trompe's direction.

  Smoothly he said, "Lutha Tallstaff correctly assesses that the visit to Dinadh will be more than merely onerous, mistress. It will be extremely difficult."

  Limia rose and stalked across the floor, her long skirts foaming around her ankles. With her back to the younger woman, she allowed herself a bitter smile. "Leave us, Trompe."

  "Mistress … "

  "Leave us!"

  She waited until she heard the sound of the door sliding shut behind him. "I came to call upon you," she said, turning to Lutha. "At your office. Remember."

  "Of course.

  "When I first heard you were pregnant. I believe I told you then something of the family history."

  "I respect the meaning lineage has for you, madam, but as I said at the time, family histories are most interes
ting to members of the family in question. You'd made it clear you would never consider me as any part of your family."

  "I told you of the saying among Fastigats? Do you remember?"

  "I remember it, madam. 'Mankind, first among creatures. Fastigats, first among mankind. Fambers, first among Fastigats.' "

  Lutha thought it unbearably arrogant, then and now. "I thought it hyperbole, madam. Fastigats are not known as Firsters."

  "Ninety-nine percent of all Firsters are vulgar, but even they may occasionally assert a truth. It is a truth that the universe was made for man, not as Firsters exemplify man but as Fastigats exemplify man. Evolution moves in our direction. It is our pride and our duty. You would have been wise to respect our history and traditions, though you were outside them. I mentioned to you that Leelson's line is composed of only sons."

  A fact that seemed to be generally known, considering what Lutha had overheard downstairs.

  "I thought that interesting, but not compelling, madam. At best it is a statistical anomaly."

  "I asked you—no, I begged you not to go on with your pregnancy."

  "As I told you at the time, it was not something I had planned." She hadn't, and she had no explanation for not having done so. None at all. Against every tenet of her rearing, against every shred of her own resolution, it had simply happened.

  Limia went on implacably: "You chose to ignore what I had to say. I explained that Leelson's child would have a better chance of being valued by his father and by me if born to a Fastiga woman and, if a son, with the Fastigat skills. I spoke from conviction, from concern. As you now admit, you felt my reasoning was not meaningful, not compelling. Why, now, should your conviction be compelling to me? Why, now, should your difficulties or problems be my concern?"

  Lutha stared out the window behind the woman, not wanting to look her in the face. Everything she said was true. The only omission from Limia's account was Leelson's reaction when Lutha had told him of his mother's visit. He had been angered, infuriated. Let Limia keep her opinions to herself. If he wanted to father a child on Lutha, that was his business! At that moment Lutha had loved him most, for he had not spoken like a Fastigat but like a lover.