The Companions (5 page)

Shiela nodded. “The Corps makes great use of technology in its work. But, according to Gainor, some of their technology falls short in unfamiliar situations. Technological devices can do only what they're designed to do; one has to ask a certain question before a device can be designed to obtain an answer. But, if one doesn't know what question to ask…” She shrugged, her hands held wide, miming confusion. “Gainor tells me that some of the scientists attached to ESC have felt that some answers to technical questions may be found in the senses of nonhuman creatures, Earthian and ET. Dogs, for example, can smell things we cannot. They can detect a coming earthquake. That's been known for centuries, of course. Though we've developed excellent technology, we still have no idea how dogs themselves process the information. Other animals also have senses we don't know how they use…other animals whose senses we might learn to use…”

“You mean, experiment on dogs?” I cried, horrified.

Shiela reached out a calming hand. “Not vivisect, dear. Certainly not. Nothing painful or invasive. There's been informal research going on for some time, unlicensed, I regret
to say, but heaven knows, if we had to license it, nothing would happen.”

“Research?” Now it was Witt's turn to question.

“Attempts at modifying humans to become hyperacute, have hearing like bats, for example, or noses like dogs…”

I studied the far wall, letting the words
unlicensed
and
informal
slide over me as Shiela continued.

“None of which is the point! Whether there's anything to it or not, it will serve as an excuse, a justification for saving the dogs!” Shiela patted my knee. “I'm rattling, aren't I, dear? But I was getting to the point, eventually. We'll bring your dogs here. Whether we actually can accomplish anything useful or not, working under the aegis of ESC will make us attack-proof, at least for a while.”

“Here?” I said, disbelieving, staring at the costly elegance around me.

Shiela laughed, a pretty, social sound. “Not in this room, no. But my family is small—one son, a couple of elderly cousins, and the servants. We use only a score of rooms on this side of this one floor. You can see that we have what's called a sea-view these days, though I'm not that fond of algae harvesters, and I much prefer my Bonner wall vistas to an expanse of green soup. The inner rooms on this floor are mostly galleries and humidity-controlled storage rooms for artworks that would otherwise be discarded to make space for people. We have sculptures, paintings: Rembrandts, the last Picassos, the last van Goghs and Gaugins, all salvaged from the wreckage after the museum riots. I have the very last Ambruster, too, and all that was left of Oakal's works after the Europa pogrom, and some unedited originals of Lipkin's Mars work…”

“My mother,” I said, surprised. “Matty Lipkin. And Joram Bonner is my stepfather.”

Her expression changed, and she really looked at me for the first time. I was not someone Witt had dragged into her house because he was a do-gooder. I had become a person she already knew something about. She took my hand. “My
dear, what a wonderful artist Matty Lipkin was. And Joram Bonner! Well. We would all lose our sanity if it weren't for the Bonners, First through Third. But then, I'm sure you know that! At any rate, people who have these fantastic artworks leave them to me in their wills. I throw charity parties every now and then, and people pay a fortune to see them.” She paused, shaking her head, leaning forward to pat my hand. “I'm rambling again…

“The next floor up is vacant and windowless. The top floor is a park floor. Though it was roofed with solar collectors, I insisted they leave large sections open so trees could grow up through it. So, the 260th floor will serve as exercise ground, and we can build whatever else we need on Floor 259.”

I said, “If Gainor Brandt doesn't get a delay, we have only a little time.”

“I know. The dogs you're concerned about should be brought here today, now. Bring them by flit along with the poor man who's been taking care of them. I have dog-owning friends who don't have exempt estates, and they need a place for their animals as well, so an experienced kennelman will be invaluable. If you're interested, Jewel, I should think we could also employ you very profitably!”

“Are you ready for all that?” I cried.

Shiela patted my knee again, this time a fond, almost maternal gesture, as she twinkled at me. “Of course not, my dear. One is seldom ready for disaster, but one just has to cope, any old how.”

We settled a few details with Shiela; she added more appreciative words about Matty and Joram while Witt shifted impatiently; and we left.

Witt said, “I'm hungry, and you look starved.”

“Food hasn't tasted very good lately.”

“Earth food never tastes very good. I'd like something different.”

He took me to an expensive little restaurant high up in Tower 50 something, a place that specialized in off-planet foods. He ordered, and I ate what he ordered. It was the first
time I'd tasted anything I could call delicious. Though Worldkeeper uses engineered flavors and aromas, all earth food ends up tasting alike, and even that is better than Mars food. That night I learned that cheese from a dairy planet is not in the same category as algae-cheese, even when the algae-cheese is labeled
AGED CHEDDAR FLAVOR
.

Witt grinned at me, he said, because I was scrunching up my eyes when I was chewing as though I was using my whole face to squeeze out every bit of taste. He also said I was looking nice, half-starved, but nice. Mostly we talked about the food.

“No faux pepper,” he remarked.

I took a deep breath and smiled. “And no coffee 10, no pretend-cinnamon, no maybe-ginger.”

“No can-this-possibly-be vanilla?”

“I know the answer to that one. It can't. No matter what Worldkeeper says.”

He laughed. “Give Worldkeeper credit for seeing that we're all fed, Jewel.”

I made a face. “Worldkeeper doesn't have to eat meat substitute or simulated vegetable flakes. It's always weeks or months between the times we get fresh stuff.”

“Special-license places like this always have fresh food.”

I was annoyed at the way he said it, offhand, as though I was being absurd. “Always for the wealthy, Witt. You're rich, and other people aren't. You keep forgetting that.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, flushing slightly. “I don't forget it. It just…gets in the way sometimes.”

I put down my fork and frowned. “You can be glad you're rich. Most of the rest of us can't eat like this ever!”

Witt muttered. “Many humans used to eat like this. Many of us could eat this way if we got rid of the Law of Return.”

“Why don't we? Everybody on Earth hates it.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Unfortunately, that's not quite true. The outer worlds don't hate it. They want to keep high birthrates to have lots of workers available for develop
ment. Development is everything. If things aren't getting bigger and faster and higher, people aren't satisfied. The trouble is, high birthrates eventually result in very large numbers of elderly people who have to live somewhere, and even at the price of space travel, it's much less expensive to send them back to Earth than to support them on the outlying planets.”

“But why do we let them?” I asked. I really didn't know why, and it had always bothered me.

“The law was pushed through Worldkeeper Council the same way it's kept on the books today: Any councilor who votes for it gets lots and lots of campaign money from the outer worlds, along with the guarantee of a luxury retirement on an uncrowded planet.” He frowned, fiddling with his fork. “My family knows a great many of them, the retired ones. They have mansions, and private lakes, and acres of grass and trees…”

I felt a sudden pang, nostalgia for some time or place I had never actually been. “I want to go off world,” I cried.

I didn't realize my voice had risen until I saw people at nearby tables turning to look at me. I flushed, ducking my head, terribly embarrassed. One simply does not speak loudly in public places.

Witt said, “Really, Jewel. Don't shout about it. If you really want to go off world, you probably can. Find out what professions are being solicited and learn one.”

“I've done that. They want sewage system managers and city planners and warehouse operators. They want all kinds of engineers.”

“They don't use any salespeople or expediters?”

“Oh, of course, they do. It's just that the jobs they're recruiting for aren't the least bit exciting.”

He sat back in his chair, twirling the stem of his wineglass slowly left and right, watching the light gather and spin in the pool of dark liquid. “I want to get away from here. I've wanted nothing else for as long as I can remember, but for the next couple of years, I'll be finishing my business course
with all those damned ET contract studies. Dame Cecelia insists on that.”

I chased the last bit of something delicious to the edge of my plate and captured it with a bit of chewy bread that was nothing like Worldkeeper bread. “I've never asked you, Witt, but I've always been curious. What're those titles your parents use? The Dame and Sir thing?”

His raised his eyebrows. “Hereditary titles from way, way back. Ten or fifteen generations, at least. Before space exploration. Even before pod transport, or aircars. The family was British…”

“British?”

“Some islands off Euro-sector, West. They don't exist as a residential place anymore. All noncrop lands in what used to be Britain and the former Scandinavian countries are covered with algae and desalinization plants because they have long coastlines.”

I was still thinking about his parents. “I've met your sister, Myra. How come you've never let me meet Dame and Sir?”

His mouth tightened “Jewel, you wouldn't…enjoy meeting my mother. My father is at least polite to people he…well, people he doesn't know, but there's no way you can meet him without meeting her. She thinks that Dame stuff sets her above the rest of the world. What actually sets her anywhere is the Hargess-Hessing money. She's from the Hargess side; she and my father are cousins, sort of, and she believes the family is…well, aristocratic.”

“You mean I'm not their class of people.” I was absurdly wounded by this. I had always thought of myself as of quite a good class of people. Certainly his friend Shiela had thought so.

“No, you're not,” he replied. “Nobody is. The Hessing-Hargess are…completely in a class by themselves, them and their cousins and aunts and uncles and so forth. Anyhow, the Dame expects me to take over the Hargess-Hessing empire eventually, when Sir Dahlish and his brothers are ready to give it up. None of the brothers has any children to in
herit. I've told Mother when I do take it over, it'll be from Faroff, but she pretends not to hear me. When it happens, she'll be surprised to learn that I mean it. If you really want to go off world, you should be studying something that will help you do it.”

He hit a nerve with that one. My innards went into the familiar spasm that was half embarrassment, half fear. I forced myself not to sound whiny. “I know that, Witt. Paul is only twenty, but he's doing advanced-level language studies, specializing in ET lexicology…”

“And taking personal credit, no doubt, for having inherited his father's talent for languages,” Witt said in his topstory, very superior voice.

“Yes, that's true. He does have the talent, however, so it doesn't really matter where he got it, for I don't have the talent despite having Delis as my father, too. Paul will be a linguist, and linguists are in demand.”

He nodded. “Every time we encounter a new race we need squads of new translators.”

I went on, “Taddeus is more modest about inherited talent, but he got Matty's artistic skills, and I didn't, even though she was also my mother…”

“He could have inherited from Joram…”

“He could, yes, or from both of them. Whichever, he's been exhibiting since he was twelve, and his future as Joram IV is all mapped out. By the time they were halfway through general schooling, both of them knew exactly what they wanted to do, and I haven't a clue. I got all the way through general schooling without any idea what to do next. I've worked with Jon at the kennel since I was eight. I've taken vet courses and animal behavior and nutrition courses. I've become more and more able to do things that are needed less and less, things that are either illegal or impossible.”

He lowered his voice. “How about the ark planets?”

I whispered, “At the shelters, they say arkists don't take anyone under fifty years old.”

“They don't?” He sounded both surprised and pleased, which I couldn't fathom.

I said, still in a whisper, “The iggy-huffo terrorists have sworn to wipe out animals and the people who care for them on any ark world they can find. Since it could possibly happen, the arkists only take mature people who are willing to risk losing their lives…” I stopped for a moment as I tried to sort my confusion into sensible words. “So, I ask myself, why go on to school? To learn what? With this sanctuary thing happening, I'm sure I'll have a lot to do, but only for a while. Once it's over, if I want to go off world, I'll have to settle for doing something not very interesting.”

“You might settle for joining me in a cohabitation liaison, instead.”

It came completely without warning. I thought he was joking. I started to laugh, but stopped when I saw the intent, totally focused expression on his face, as though he had been working toward this remark all evening. I said doubtfully, “You don't mean that, Witt.”

He sat back, smiling. “Oh, yes. I do very much mean that. We get on very well together. People our age need…companions. Even if I haven't said…well, I've thought about it. We could make it work, Jewel. I've already taken a single apartment in the University Tower. With my income from the family trust, we can get along until we're ready to go off world.”