Rogi felt himself relaxing, his eyes closing …
He saw a bleak and frostbound woodland, and beyond it a frozen river. On its opposite bank was an ancient Russian walled town. The moon was setting, and dawn had broken. Cocks crowed. As the heavens brightened, it seemed that millions of birds winged through the air toward the forest, finishing their long journey from the south. A little faun sat on the root of a hollow tree, watching the spectacle happily. He sang that Spring would be arriving at any moment.
And then she came, carried down in a green-and-golden chariot drawn by swans and geese, surrounded by other colorful singing birds. She began to tell Rogi a strange musical story.
Spring had once fallen in love with King Winter and borne him a daughter, the lovely Snow Maiden, Snegurochka. But Winter kept the girl in his power, taking her away each springtime to the dreary Northland that never thawed. Now that she was sixteen, the Snow Maiden longed to live with human beings, away from her coldhearted father’s domination.
Suddenly the landscape that Rogi imagined was swept by a brisk snowstorm, and King Winter himself strode into the scene. Spring pleaded with him to let the lovely little Snow Maiden go free.
Winter agreed but gave a grim warning: If the girl should ever fall in love and have that love returned by a mortal, the jealous sun god Yarilo would slay her—for love and the sun’s warmth were akin, and both were forbidden to the Snow Maiden.
Then Snegurochka herself appeared.
Rogi realized that his eyes were wide open, and the illusion—could Teresa be creating it?—was suddenly penetrated by a living person. She was dressed in white robes trimmed with snowy fur and seemed to sparkle with silvery frost crystals.
And Teresa was singing—really singing again, as she had in her prime—her marvelous living voice somehow blending seamlessly with the recorded orchestra and the other singers. All the magic that had seemed to be lost forever was restored, and Rogi sat paralyzed in the midst of its glory, almost unwilling to believe that it was not part of the illusion.
The Snow Maiden rejoiced that she was to be allowed into the human world. She had seen a young man and fallen in love with him and the songs he sang. The very sound of his voice made her heart melt. “Melt!” cried King Winter, and warned her of her fate if she should have her love returned. But she could think only of the happiness that lay ahead of her.
Winter went off to his icebound lair, and Spring transformed the woods. The tiny Ape Lake cabin seemed to open wide into a huge green meadow full of flowers, and the delighted Snow Maiden was caught up in a mob of happy villagers, who danced and sang and welcomed her and took her home with them.
And the imaginary curtain fell on the Prologue …
Teresa stood there between the two glowing lamps, smiling at Rogi. Her splendid white gown and headdress were diminished, Cinderella-like, into ordinary cotton flannelette trimmed with the fur of snowshoe hares, with spangles and snowflakes cut from shiny foil. But she was still beautiful, still full of triumphant magic.
“Do you like the opera so far?” she asked.
“C’est fantastique!” Rogi cried. “But how are you projecting the illusion? I didn’t think your creative metafunction was up to such elaborations.”
“It’s not. But Jack’s is.”
“The baby …”
“He finds the sets and the appearance of the other characters in my memories, and he realizes them. And now … Act One!”
Much later, Rogi would again not be able to recall too much of the opera’s fairy tale plot; what he did remember was the haunting figure of the Snow Maiden, the girl begging her mother, Spring, for the very thing that was bound to kill her, which she declared she could not live without. Spring answered her daughter’s plea. Snegurochka fell in love at last with a man who dearly loved her. She was about to be married along with the other village maidens at the yearly spring fertility festival.
But then came the most disturbing part of the fairy tale. The villagers sang a grain-planting song, in which a ransom was required if there was to be a good harvest:
Nous vous donnerons une jeune fille.
Et nous serons un de plus,
Et nous serons un de moins.
We will offer you a young maiden.
And there will be one more of us,
And there will be one less of us.
The Snow Maiden then sang a dazzling aria proclaiming her love. “Mon coeur,” she cried, “mon sang, mon être tout entier s’embrase et brûle!” My heart, my blood, my entire being is set aflame and burns!
And a beam of sunlight suddenly pierced her, and she melted away in death.
Her bereaved human lover drowned himself in despair, unpersuaded when the local Tsar told him that the Snow Maiden’s presence among the people was an affront to the sun god Yarilo, who would have withheld his light and warmth from the land had Snegurochka continued to live.
Yarilo himself then appeared atop his sacred mountain, holding in one arm a sheaf of grain and in the other a glowing human head, and the people saluted him with a final hymn.
When the opera was over, Rogi applauded until the palms of his hands hurt. The enceinte diva, completely exhausted and with tears of happiness coursing down her cheeks, slumped into his arms and had to be laid on her bed, costume and all.
“You’ve overdone it,” Rogi said, trying to hide his alarm.
“No, no. I’m fine. It all went beautifully. I sang, Rogi! I sang.”
He eased the Slavic diadem off and propped one of the moss-stuffed pillows under her head. “You were tremendous! And that finale—I’m not sure that I understood the meaning of it …”
Teresa closed her eyes. “The fairy tale is a borrowing from an ancient Slavic religious rite. In order to placate the sun god and ensure that good weather would prevail and the grain would grow, the people would sacrifice a maiden. Too bad about her—but ever so satisfactory for the rest of the people, who got to survive and prosper and dance in the sunshine.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him calmly. “Aren’t you glad we don’t have gods like that anymore?”
25
SECTOR 15: STAR 15-000-001 [TELONIS] PLANET 1 [CONCILIUM ORB]
GALACTIC YEAR: LA PRIME 1-378-597 [6 JANUARY 2052]
HE WAS DANCING WITH HIS COUSIN ADRIENNE, A GIRL HIS own age whom he considered the least loathsome of his young female relatives. Marc had always loved dancing (which surprised everyone except his mother), and he was very good at it, except when his partners attempted to inject romantic overtones. Sex, that great nuisance, was the last kind of distraction he wanted out on the dance floor. The dance offered a safe relinquishing of personal power to the irrational. Perfectly attuned to a like-minded operant partner such as Adrienne, Marc was able to surrender his precious self-control for brief intervals without feeling threatened, and his guarded features would relax in a onesided smile of rare sweetness.
The eldest daughter of Adrien Remillard and Cheri Losier-Drake was a tall girl, plain-faced and usually brusque and authoritarian in her manner. In her secret heart, Adrienne thought her cousin Marc was the handsomest, most excruciatingly adorable boy in the entire universe. But she would have died rather than let him know it, so when he asked her to dance, she hid behind her sternest mind-screen and feigned bored indifference. He seemed to appreciate that. The band went into the jazz-waltz dissonances of “I’m All Smiles,” and she whirled away in his arms, so consumed with hidden ecstasy and oblivious to her surroundings that she almost missed the entrance of the Lylmik.
But Adrienne’s ultrasenses were never completely off-line, even when she was semiorgasmic. They zeroed in on the unusual auras of the latecomers to the Human Polity Inaugural Ball without any volition on her part, and she stiffened, and the spell of the dance was broken.
“It’s them!” she whispered, staring aghast over Marc’s shoulder.
He didn’t miss a beat, but his gray eyes lost their abstraction and were instantly wary. “By God, you’re right
, Addie. All five of them, and not wearing any simple Greek-god robes this time, either. They’re spiffed to the teeth.”
“What do you suppose they’re doing here?”
“God knows. They might just want to socialize.”
The furor that had attended the appearance of the incarnate Lylmik at the Concilium inauguration that afternoon was nothing compared to the astonishment now sweeping the ballroom. Earlier, many of the Earthlings had not fully appreciated the unprecedented honor granted their race when the five Supervisors materialized upon the Dais of Presiders in the Concilium Chamber wearing human form. The reaction of the exotic First Magnates and their congeners had been mixed: The Krondaku were mildly taken aback, the ecstatic Gi hovered on the brink of cardiac arrest (but adroitly eschewed the ultimate gesture), the Poltroyans uttered involuntary whoops and squeaks of appreciation, and the Simbiari were scandalized to their toewebs, reminding each other waspishly behind imperfectly woven thought-screens that the Galactic mentors hadn’t condescended to honor them in such a dubious fashion when the first Simb magnates were inaugurated.
The Lylmik had presided over the brief ceremonial installation of the new human magnates. They had watched as Paul Remillard was elected First Magnate of the Human Polity by a small margin. They listened as Paul addressed the entire Concilium on behalf of humanity, and then applauded gravely as the Simbiari Proctorship was formally dissolved and all Earthlings were finally granted citizenship in the Galactic Milieu. (The probationary period of one Galactic year was diplomatically left unstated.) With the formalities concluded, the Lylmik Supervisors vanished, and everyone thought that was that.
Invitations to the Human Polity Inaugural Ball had been extended to every Magnate of the Concilium, with the expectation that only a few of the nonhumans would accept. The Krondaku had no tradition of dancing on dry land and sent polite regrets. The straitlaced Simbiari thought dancing was inane; they also knew very well that the humans didn’t really want their ex-Proctors at the ball, so all except a handful of luckless high-ranking officials who felt obliged to show up and mingle also declined. The Gi would have loved to come, but their own parties inevitably climaxed in exuberant displays of communal licentiousness, and they thought it the better part of interspecies etiquette to pass. The kindly little mauve-skinned Poltroyans enjoyed dancing to human music, so fair numbers of them did accept.
And now bore witness to the phenomenon.
The jazz waltz played on to its conclusion, but many of the dancers left the floor to gape and whisper at the newly arrived Lylmik. The five Supervisors seemed not to notice that they were causing a sensation. Nodding and smiling and often pausing to give the dignified operant greeting, palm to palm, they mingled with the crowd and chatted. The venerable leader wore classic white tie and tails; his Caucasoid male comrade sported a fashionable jumpsuit of glittering green Nebulin; the third male, whose features had an Amerind cast, was attired in the black formal costume of a Latin caballero, with a ruffled shirt and scarlet faja. The two Lylmik in female guise were even more spectacular: the African wore a turban and caftan of cerise set off with heavy gold armlets and necklaces, while the Oriental’s costume of turquoise and white silk brocade dripped with pearls.
The orchestra began to play “Dindi,” a delicate Brazilian classic by Antonio Carlos Jobim, and the Lylmik did an even more astonishing thing: they asked humans to dance with them.
The Supervisor dressed as a caballero stepped out with Lucille Cartier, and the dapper fellow in the Nebulin bowed over the hand of Laura Tremblay. Davy MacGregor, wearing the kilt of his clan and a velvet jacket with silver buttons, found himself dancing with the Asian beauty, while Paul Remillard, his urbane composure shaken for only an instant, squired the statuesque Africaine.
Marc and Adrienne almost jumped out of their skins as a voice spoke behind them:
“I think I shall take this charming young lady away from you, my boy.”
Marc whirled about and found himself face-to-face with the person who had foiled his attempt to stow away on a starship back to Earth. Sitting in the spectator gallery of the Concilium Chamber and watching the mysterious robed figures on the Dais of the Presiders, the boy had not recognized his nemesis. But now the Lylmik overlord named Atoning Unifex towered over him and Adrienne, resplendent in his archaic black-and-white formal wear.
“You!” the boy exclaimed. “You’re a Lylmik!”
“More than that,” said the exotic, with a charming half bow. “I am the Lylmik.” His deep-set eyes held the boy with irresistible coercion. “Before I dance with Addie, I have some further instructions for you, young Marc: Comport yourself with docility and good sense. When you are finally allowed to return to Earth, render to your father your strict obedience and respect in the difficult times to come. No matter what you may think, he is deserving of them.”
Adrienne was struck dumb. They knew each other!
“And … what about the others?” Marc asked.
The Lylmik made an airy gesture. “You need not be concerned about their accommodation and comfort. That is all being taken care of. Later, you must assist the young one to the best of your ability.” He turned to Adrienne, who was nearly paralyzed by awe, and brushed the backs of her fingers lightly with his lips. The inhuman eyes that had glittered with irony when he spoke to Marc were now gentle, almost sad. “How very lovely you look tonight, ma petite. No—you are more than that, dear Addie. You are beautiful! Shall we dance? I would like this to be a night you will remember all your life.”
Homologous Trend danced with Lucille Cartier, and they were an amazing sight—the Lylmik with his chiseled copper features and dashing Latin garb, and the petite matriarch in a glittering cape of black, green, and silver beadwork with meter-long bead fringe, and a spectacular chapeau with bead plumage and multiple antenna-like filaments springing from the brow.
“May I compliment you on your ensemble, Professor Cartier,” Trend murmured. “It is beyond question the most gorgeous attire at the ball.”
“And the heaviest,” said Lucille, giving him a radiant smile. “The beaded gown and the cape weigh fifteen kilos, and the hat weighs nearly five. If I didn’t exert my PK every single minute, I’d collapse. Why I always end up choosing gowns like this I don’t know! But I’m having the most marvelous time.”
“One is delighted that you are temporarily distracted from the family problems.”
Lucille locked onto the Supervisor’s turquoise eyes. “You Lylmik know all about them, do you?”
“Not everything, Madame Professor. But enough. And we would like to help you. The Remillards are of great importance to the future of the Galactic Milieu, and we have been very disturbed by your recent … tragedies.”
“How kind.” Lucille was screening her mind as if her life depended upon it, realizing at the same time that the Lylmik was undoubtedly scanning her like a book-plaque. “Does your solicitude go so far as revealing who was responsible for the murders of my son-in-law and Margaret Strayhorn?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have no useful data on those crimes. But I might be able to suggest a solution to another matter that distresses you.”
Lucille lifted a single eyebrow.
Homologous Trend danced her across the ballroom and indicated a Poltroyan male and female who were conversing with Denis Remillard.
Lucille frowned. “Why—it’s Fred and Minnie! I didn’t think they’d be here. Neither one of them is a magnate.”
“Their attendance was specially arranged. But unlike the Magnates of the Concilium, who have business to transact before they can depart from Orb, the two Poltroyans will be leaving for Earth tomorrow in their private starship, so that they may minimize their absence from the classes they teach at Dartmouth. Their craft travels at an extremely high displacement factor. They should arrive on Earth in two Weeks. I realize that you would prefer to remain here to supervise the—uh—motherless children of your son Paul. But if your husband Denis should wish to return home with th
e Poltroyan couple, they would be delighted to accommodate him. Denis will also find that both Fritiso-Prontinalin and Minatipa-Pinakrodin are extremely sympathetic to humanity’s difficulties with the Milieu Reproductive Statutes.”
Lucille stared at her Lylmik dancing partner with blank astonishment.
“Many Poltroyan ships have both superluminal and subluminal capability,” Trend continued patiently. “They can travel quite easily in planetary atmospheres, and they can penetrate the relatively weak force-fields generated by human security devices with impunity. And without trace, if such a maneuver is desirable.”
Lucille danced in the Lylmik’s arms for some minutes, her mind spinning. Finally she was able to whisper, “Would Fred and Minnie be willing to risk it? Or are you telling me that they have your permission to …”
“You Remillards are very important to the future of the Milieu,” Homologous Trend repeated. “All of you.”
Davy MacGregor was normally an awkward dancer, but with the lissome, silken-gowned Asymptotic Essence in his arms he was a man transformed. She was exerting metaredactive healing upon him, of course, assuaging the lingering grief of his bereavement with matchless expertise—while he was aware only of their two bodies swaying together, and her gentle smile, and the oblique, glowing eyes so incongruously set within her classic Oriental features.
He smiled at her. “You’re redacting me, aren’t you.”
“Do you object?”
His gaze slid away from hers, and the smile faded. “I want to remember what was done to Margaret. Remember her. I loved her, and I intend to find the person who killed her and see that he’s punished. The hurting—” He paused, and she finished the thought for him.
“You think it will aid your resolution. But you are wrong. It would only distort your judgment. However, the point is moot, since you are not the person who will be responsible for the apprehension of your wife’s killer. That task belongs to another. You have a different job to do, which will require your complete attention.”