Everybody sipped in silence.
Professor Masha MacGregor-Gawrys finally said, “There’s a rumor that exotic Magnates of the Concilium intend to reintroduce the loyalty-oath legislation.” She smiled expectantly at the Poltroyan. “Have you heard anything about it, Fred?”
The exotic looked like a sweet-faced schoolboy in his mustard-colored corduroy jacket and dark slacks. “I have heard the rumor myself, but I don’t know whether to give it credence. The Amalgam of Poltroy would certainly vote against any such rigorous measure … unless there seemed no alternative.”
“Would you care to explain further?” Hiroshi Kodama invited.
The Poltroyan responded with caution. “Our response may be dependent upon the attitude of the Rebel Party leadership.”
Paul Remillard was not in the mood for diplomacy. He drained his wineglass and slapped it down onto the table. “Fred means that if Marc behaves himself, Poltroy will keep sticking up for the Human Polity. And if he doesn’t, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Hiroshi turned to the First Magnate. “And do you think that your eldest son will exercise restraint?”
“On the contrary,” said Paul in a level voice. “I think he’s going out of his way to inflame the situation.” He was not looking at the suave Dirigent of Satsuma but at his own erstwhile tormentor, Ruslan Terekev, who returned an insouciant smirk. “For some time I’ve suspected Marc of encouraging militant factions of the Rebel Party to collect conventional and CE weaponry. When I prove it—and I will, make no mistake—I’ll get up before the Concilium myself and demand the loyalty oath.”
“Is that wise, Papa?” Jack asked.
“It’s necessary,” said Paul.
“You will thus cut off any hope of compromise,” warned Ruslan Terekev.
“No,” Paul retorted, “I’ll knock some sense into the vacillating human magnates who think they can have their cake and eat it, too. When they see Marc and the other Rebel hard-liners expelled from the Concilium, they’ll finally realize that the Milieu is deadly serious about sequestering ununified humanity. Our race is going to have to choose between membership in a galactic confederation and reversion to a horse-and-buggy socioeconomy.”
“They can’t quarantine us,” Masha declared stoutly. “Our scientific capability exceeds theirs.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Jack the Bodiless.
The others stared at the young man, so unassuming that he was almost invisible standing beside his spectacularly costumed wife.
“Jack is correct,” the Poltroyan chimed in. “It may be that at some time in the future the human race will surpass the Milieu in—er—martial potential. But that time has not yet come. I am afraid that certain Rebels have mistaken forbearance for weakness.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of doing that,” said Ruslan Terekev. “As to human martial potential—Director Jon Remillard may not be the best judge of it.”
“I know you’ve got weapons,” Paul said to the Russian quietly.
Ruslan poured more wine for himself. “Prove it.”
Fred’s kindly features twisted with deep concern. “Oh, please! You Earthlings must believe that the Milieu cherishes and esteems your race! The Amalgam of Poltroy, the only other Milieu polity to share your human heritage of malignant aggression, knows the great risk taken by the Lylmik in their Intervention. It was calculated and fully justified by the immense potential of the Human Mind, and we still hope and pray that this potential of yours will be fulfilled to the magnification of truth and beauty in the universe! Nevertheless, Poltroy cannot stand by while the destruction of the Galactic Milieu is secretly contrived by an immature, uncoadunate faction. Even though we love humanity, we will vote for your permanent sequestration if we must.”
“Just let us go,” Hiroshi Kodama said with quiet intensity.
Fred shook his bald, lilac head miserably. “You refuse to understand.”
Paul said, “What Fred means is that the Milieu knows that humanity wouldn’t stick to its own interstellar bailiwick after a breakaway. We’d still seek intercourse with the Milieu worlds, perhaps interfere with the thousands of developing exotic races the Milieu is shepherding toward operancy. And when that intercourse was frustrated, there would be war.”
“There will be war,” Hiroshi said, “if the Milieu attempts to rescind the Intervention. Do the exotics understand that?”
Fred said, “We trust that humans loyal to the Milieu will forestall such a dire consequent.”
“I’ll prove you’ve been stockpiling weaponry,” Paul said to the Rebels, his mind exuding icy authority. “I’ll demonstrate to the whole Human Polity how you plan to destroy the peaceful confederation of planets that saved Earth from its own folly and gave us the stars. And I’ll see the Rebel magnates purged from the Concilium and replaced with loyalists. Believe me. Whatever I have to do to save the Milieu, I will do.”
Ruslan Terekev gave a great theatrical exhalation. “My friends, I think I have heard enough threatening talk for one night.” He headed for the exit door, then turned. His dark eyes twinkled at Paul. “Until we meet again, First Magnate.”
It was over three hours before the liftoff of the starship that would take Paul and Fred to Orb. Dorothea suggested that the battered defenders of Unity go for a stroll along the new Broomielaw Esplanade that had been constructed beside the Firth of Clyde following the diatrematic quakes.
They walked for some time, saying little, unwinding from the tension of the debate. It was a rare Caledonian evening, chill and clear, and the moon, Ré Nuadh, was nearly full, painting a path of molten gold across the wide estuary. Ships and smaller craft were everywhere on the water, their decks and masts and superstructures picked out with a myriad of amber lights according to the Callie custom, so as to be more visible to the eye when the inevitable mists rolled in. Numbers of other citizens were abroad on the esplanade, coming in and out of the hotels and apartments that fronted the Firth. With Scots tact they feigned not to see their Dirigent and her four distinguished companions as they ambled along the broad, landscaped walk, the humans shortening their stride to accommodate the small Poltroyan. Ornamental lamps stood on stone plinths surrounded by tubs of tartan-bright foliage plants and wooden benches. Below the steep embankment were marinas full of moored small craft, landing stages for tour boats and passenger ferries, and commercial quays. Night-rinkies flew overhead, uttering melancholy cries. A few food-vendors were still out, driving slow-moving mobile kiosks with wide sheltering roofs, hawking pizza and cheeseburgers and Arbroath smokies and Scotch eggs and sausage rolls and beer and Pepsi-Cola.
“Shall we get snacks out here and sit on a bench and watch the boats?” Dorothea asked the others. “Or would you care to try a new little pub that the staffers at Dirigent House have been raving about? It specializes in some of our local fungoids, and the food is supposed to be very good.”
Davy MacGregor pricked up his ears. “You don’t mean the Couthy ’Shroom! I was there yesterday, when I first arrived. The hotel folks recommended it. A grand wee place—and with a good selection of single malts as well.”
“I’m game,” Paul said. “Although after tonight’s fiasco I may just opt for some tasty Amanita virosa.”
“We don’t have the Destroying Angel on Callie,” Dorothea said.
“Only his little brother and sister-in-law,” Jack muttered.
Davy and Paul laughed, and then the wry joke had to be explained to the mystified Poltroyan, who had yet to encounter the pejorative new nicknames for Marc Remillard.
The pub called the Couthy ’Shroom stood on Strobcross Street just off Dirigent House Plaza, looking as though it had been plucked up by the roots from a street in old Scotland, transported 533 lightyears, and set down across from a park full of gigantic multicolored coleus plants. Looming in the moonlight beyond it was Dirigent House itself, a slender white obelisk with lacy buttresses, soaring three hundred storeys high.
They went into the pub, which was redolen
t of hot butter and savory cooking smells. Each table had a tiny brazier in its center, sitting in a dish of sand, and a cone-shaped smoke hood with a built-in lamp. Many of the patrons were cooking tidbits over the glowing artificial coals, wielding tiny sauté pans, or dipping morsels into bubbling pots of cheese fondue.
“Do it yourself, eh?” Paul Remillard observed. “Looks like fun.”
“The fun,” Davy MacGregor said, “is in watching your dinner grow.”
The proprietor, a spade-jawed nonoperant with sandy hair, pretended not to recognize the celebrities he had just viewed on the big Tri-D hanging over the bar. “Table for five?” he inquired offhandedly. “I hope ye don’t mind a dark comer.” He led them to a perfect spot, partially shielded from the eyes of curious customers by a latticed partition.
“We’d like an assortment of ’shrooms,” Davy told the innkeeper, “whatever interesting is on tonight, and especially the sulfurs if they’re available.” He winked at Fred the Poltroyan. “You’ll love those. Taste like sauerkraut.”
They ordered drinks—club soda for Jack and Dorothea, double drams of Highland Park for Davy and Paul, a stein of crème de cacao for Fred—and settled down. Surrounding the brazier and inset into the thick wood of the table were shallow ceramic culture dishes. “You grow the ’shrooms in there,” Davy said. “They mature quick as a wink. Never saw anything like it.”
“Our fungoids are never exported,” Dorothea said, “because of the potential ecohazard. But they’re one of our most popular local delicacies, and lately, mycophiles from other worlds have actually organized mushroom-tasting tours of Callie’s subcontinents. Our travel ministry is ecstatic.”
The proprietor returned, bearing a huge tray. He unloaded the drinks and unceremoniously put down piles of plates, tableware, and napkins, which the diners distributed to one another. Long broiling-skewers were provided, together with two of the small sauté pans, wooden spatulas, a pot of sheep-cheese fondue, a crock of orange Callie butter, shakers of salt and pepper, garlic cloves, little dishes of chopped shallots, parsley, and thyme, and a cruet of lemon juice. There was also a big bowl of tossed salad with rainbow-hued leafage, a flute of crisp-crusted bread over a meter long, and a big carafe of water. The main course of the meal came in a dozen little plass pill bottles with handwritten labels.
“Eat hearty,” said the pub owner, and went away.
Inside the bottles were dry dark nodules like large poppy seeds. Davy began sorting the containers and passing them around to the others. “Here’s the sulfurs for Fred, and some green morchellitos and cuddies and earth-oysters to fry up, and—um—golfballs, microtams, yellabrellas, and porkies that they say are for toasting, and pinkhorns and bagels for the fondue dip, and popstars and clachan to eat raw with a dash of salt! A fine assortment, and half of ’em new to me. Shall we begin?”
“I’ve got a tummy ready and waiting,” Jack said, licking his lips.
“Wait a moment,” said Dorothea. “I think I deserve a treat tonight, too. I haven’t had ’shrooms since I was eleven.” She pulled her diamond mask away from the studs embedded in the sides of her skull and tucked the appliance away in a belt pouch.
Paul, Davy, and Fred uttered startled exclamations.
“But your face is perfectly normal!” the First Magnate whispered. “I thought—”
“Only on very special occasions,” the Dirigent said. “Among friends.” She smiled and gestured at the waiting pill bottles. “Never mind me. It’s ’shroom time!” She held up a pill bottle labeled YELLABRELLA. “Even though it’s been a long time, I know what we have to do. Every Callie child plays games with our weird, fast-growing mushrooms, and some of the games are a wee bit gruesome!… Now, each of these containers has macrospores of a different variety, with suggestions on how to cook them. You simply shake a few spores into one of the culture dishes, add mineral water, and watch your supper grow.”
She demonstrated. Within twenty seconds, the small dish in front of her was full of golden ribbed caps with stiff narrow stems and thready mycelia. “You bum up the rootie things and any parts that are hard,” she said, breaking off and tossing the discards into the brazier. Then she threaded the succulent caps onto one of the skewers, spread on butter and a bit of garlic, and began broiling the exotic fungi.
Jack, Paul, and Davy pitched in; but the Poltroyan, who sat next to Dorothea, held back. He had not taken his eyes from Dorothea’s unexpectedly revealed face.
“So that is why the Lylmik call you Illusio.” Fred spoke to her in a low, awed voice. “The creation is quite substantial, and yet if one exerts deepsight—” The little man broke off, blushing a deep aubergine. “I most humbly beg your pardon. I should never have mentioned it.”
She touched his arm, smiling. “Dear Fred. Think nothing of it. Most humans aren’t psychosensitive enough to see through me—although I did have a tricky moment with a group of coadunating operant schoolchildren on our Nessie subcontinent last month. All kids try to see what’s behind the mask.”
“Coadunating?” Davy cried, nearly dropping his pan full of sizzling earth-oysters and shallots. “Lassie, are you joking?”
“No,” she said, sliding cooked yellabrellas onto her plate and beginning to eat.
Davy wagged his great head in astonishment. “We’ve had a few spontaneous outbreaks of mental coadunation on Earth, but I never dreamt it was going on elsewhere.”
“It’s happening all over the colonies,” Paul said. “But we’re keeping it sub rosa on the advice of the Panpolity Directorate for Unity.”
Jack said, “It was only logical that the operant children would be the first to experience the phase change. In some cases, there seems to be not only coadunation but also momentary episodes of actual Unity—linkage with the Mind of the Galaxy. We haven’t publicized it because of the potential for misunderstanding. We don’t want a repeat of the old Sons of Earth anti-operant hysteria. The coadunate children themselves are mostly unaware of what’s happening. They only feel a kind of profound peace and a sense of warm fellowship with other minds. Sometimes there’s an unconscious metaconcert effect and inadvertent mental focusing. That’s how the Caledonian kids saw through Diamond’s illusory flesh. Preceptors had to redact away the memory.”
“I’ve beefed up the impenetrability of the illusion,” Dorothea said matter-of-factly. “From now on, anyone who peeks will see a face they think is beautiful. No more nightmares for unsuspecting little coadunates. The real face is mine alone.” And his …
“My God,” said Davy. Jubilation spread across the craggy features of Earth’s Dirigent. “Unifying children! Perhaps we’ve a chance to lick Marc and his Rebels after all—with a grand protective metaconcert of coadúnate human minds.”
“But we’ve no idea how to focus such a novel construct,” Jack said. “It would be so diffuse, with the participants on widely scattered worlds. Some of the exotic scholars I’ve consulted say that the Lylmik know how to do it—but the Supervisors have thus far declined to discuss the matter with me.”
“Dear friends,” Fred said gravely, “you must not get your hopes up too high. The coadunation of the Simbiari took several galactic millenaries to accomplish, and they are still not fully enfolded in Unity. Who knows how long it will take for all of the human operants to experience coadunation? As yet, there have been no reliable reports of adults experiencing the phenomenon.”
“Two people may have,” Dorothea said. And Jack nodded.
The others sat for a moment in stunned silence, somehow knowing that they must forbear any question. Finally, the First Magnate said:
“The current human population is ten thousand six million. In theory at least, we’ve reached our coadúnate number. But the magical figure of ten billion is only a rough approximation of the number of sapient individuals required to initiate the true phase change. As Fred pointed out, the effectuation of Unity in a racial Mind can take a long time.”
“Or,” the Poltroyan said in a tone of suppressed e
xcitement, “it can happen in an instant—as it did with our own Poltroyan Mind! Our legends say that a single brilliant individual perceived the way in a flash of insight. There was a fulminating confluence, a flowing together, a momentary unanimity. It did not last, but it laid the groundwork for the true Unanimization that took place some two galactic years later.”
“I’ve done my best to analyze the phenomenon,” Jack said, “but there are almost no precedents except in mystical experience. Diamond and I are doing the best we can, but we have to be cautious. Whatever it is that the two of us have experienced … is new. It’s distinct from the coadunation of the children but it’s also incomplete and impermanent. Please say nothing about this to anyone.”
Davy and Paul murmured their acquiescence. Little Fred stood and took the hands of Jack and Dorothea. His ruby eyes brimmed with tears but he was careful not to inflict his emotions on any of the humans.
“I pray that the Prime Entelechy will grant you the power to persevere. Of course I shall respect your confidence! But I also thank you from the depths of my heart for having shared this glimpse of hope with me. In recent years …” His voice trailed off and he shook his head, applying himself to his bowl of sulfur mushrooms.
“We’ve all had our moments of despair,” Dorothea said. “Humankind is a perverse ilk.”
“If we only had more time,” Paul said. He speared a big golfball fungus and began roasting it like a marshmallow. “If only Marc hadn’t taken over the Rebel leadership! There must still be conservatives in the party, reasonable people who’d understand the appalling danger inherent in the arms buildup. But they’d never listen to me if I appealed to them. Nor Jack, nor any of the other Unity proponents.”
A sudden pensive gleam came into the dark eyes of Davy MacGregor, Dirigent of Earth. “I wonder if they’d listen to me.”