means or an instrument, anything but a People, or as she said “a People People”) he began to lead the file toward the door, with the girl coming next, a green tube in the middle of her mouth, the two nuns clinging together in shock, the bald-headed boy swaying a little as he walked, as if to unheard music, the lieutenant and the artist—who lingered.
“Where’d they pick you up?” he said, blinking again and fingering one eye.
“Off Tyre,” said Alyx. “Where’d they pick you up?”
“We,” said the artist, “are rich tourists. Can you believe it? Or refugees, rather. Caught up in a local war. A war on the surface of a planet, mind you; I don’t believe I’ve heard of that in my lifetime.”
“I have,” said Alyx, “quite a few times,” and with the lightest of light pushes she guided him toward the thing that passed for a decent door; the kind of thing she had run through, roaring with laughter, time after time at her first day at Trans-Temp, just for the pleasure of seeing it open up like a giant mouth and then pucker shut in an enormous expression of disgust.
“Babies!” she said.
“By the way,” called back the artist, “I’m a flat-color man. What was your profession?”
“Murderer,” said Alyx, and she stepped through the door.
* * *
“Raydos is the flat-color man,” said the lieutenant, his feet up on what looked gratifyingly like a table. “Used to do wraparounds and walk-ins—very good walk-ins, too, I have a little education in that line myself—but he’s gone wild about something called pigment on flats. Says the other stuff’s too easy.”
“Flats whats?” said Alyx.
“I don’t know, any flat surface, I suppose,” said the lieutenant. “And he’s got those machines in his eyes which keep coming out, but he won’t get retinotherapy. Says he likes having two kinds of vision. Most of us are born myopic nowadays, you know.”
“I wasn’t,” said Alyx.
“Iris,” the lieutenant went on, palming something and then holding it to his ear, “is pretty typical, though: young, pretty stable, ditto the older woman—oh yes, her name’s Maudey—and Gavrily’s a conamon, of course.”
“Conamon?” said Alyx, with some difficulty.
“Influence,” said the lieutenant, his face darkening a little. “Influence, you know. I don’t like the man. That’s too personal an evaluation, of course, but damn it, I’m a decent man. If I don’t like him, I say I don’t like him. He’d honor me for it.”
“Wouldn’t he kick your teeth in?” said Alyx.
“How much did they teach you at Trans-Temp?” said the lieutenant, after a pause.
“Not much,” said Alyx.
“Well, anyway,” said the lieutenant, a little desperately, “you’ve got Gavrily and he’s a conamon, then Maudey—the one with the blue eyebrows, you know—”
“Dyed?” asked Alyx politely.
“Of course. Permanently. And the wienie—”
“Well, well!” said Alyx.
“You know,” said the lieutenant, with sarcastic restraint, “you can’t drink that stuff like wine. It’s distilled. Do you know what distilled means?”
“Yes,” said Alyx. “I found out the hard way.”
“All right,” said the lieutenant, jumping to his feet, “all right! A wienie is a wienie. He’s the one with the bald head. He calls himself Machine because he’s an idiotic adolescent rebel and he wears that—that Trivia on his head to give himself twenty-four hours a day of solid nirvana, station NOTHING, turns off all stimuli when you want it to, operates psionically. We call it a Trivia because that’s what it is and because forty years ago it was a Tri-V and I despise bald young inexistential rebels who refuse to relate!”
“Well, well,” she said again.
“And the nuns,” he said, “are nuns, whatever that means to you. It means nothing to me; I am not a religious man. You have got to get them from here to there, ‘across the border’ as they used to say, because they had money and they
“Where’d they pick you up?” he said, blinking again and fingering one eye.
“Off Tyre,” said Alyx. “Where’d they pick you up?”
“We,” said the artist, “are rich tourists. Can you believe it? Or refugees, rather. Caught up in a local war. A war on the surface of a planet, mind you; I don’t believe I’ve heard of that in my lifetime.”
“I have,” said Alyx, “quite a few times,” and with the lightest of light pushes she guided him toward the thing that passed for a decent door; the kind of thing she had run through, roaring with laughter, time after time at her first day at Trans-Temp, just for the pleasure of seeing it open up like a giant mouth and then pucker shut in an enormous expression of disgust.
“Babies!” she said.
“By the way,” called back the artist, “I’m a flat-color man. What was your profession?”
“Murderer,” said Alyx, and she stepped through the door.
* * *
“Raydos is the flat-color man,” said the lieutenant, his feet up on what looked gratifyingly like a table. “Used to do wraparounds and walk-ins—very good walk-ins, too, I have a little education in that line myself—but he’s gone wild about something called pigment on flats. Says the other stuff’s too easy.”
“Flats whats?” said Alyx.
“I don’t know, any flat surface, I suppose,” said the lieutenant. “And he’s got those machines in his eyes which keep coming out, but he won’t get retinotherapy. Says he likes having two kinds of vision. Most of us are born myopic nowadays, you know.”
“I wasn’t,” said Alyx.
“Iris,” the lieutenant went on, palming something and then holding it to his ear, “is pretty typical, though: young, pretty stable, ditto the older woman—oh yes, her name’s Maudey—and Gavrily’s a conamon, of course.”
“Conamon?” said Alyx, with some difficulty.
“Influence,” said the lieutenant, his face darkening a little. “Influence, you know. I don’t like the man. That’s too personal an evaluation, of course, but damn it, I’m a decent man. If I don’t like him, I say I don’t like him. He’d honor me for it.”
“Wouldn’t he kick your teeth in?” said Alyx.
“How much did they teach you at Trans-Temp?” said the lieutenant, after a pause.
“Not much,” said Alyx.
“Well, anyway,” said the lieutenant, a little desperately, “you’ve got Gavrily and he’s a conamon, then Maudey—the one with the blue eyebrows, you know—”
“Dyed?” asked Alyx politely.
“Of course. Permanently. And the wienie—”
“Well, well!” said Alyx.
“You know,” said the lieutenant, with sarcastic restraint, “you can’t drink that stuff like wine. It’s distilled. Do you know what distilled means?”
“Yes,” said Alyx. “I found out the hard way.”
“All right,” said the lieutenant, jumping to his feet, “all right! A wienie is a wienie. He’s the one with the bald head. He calls himself Machine because he’s an idiotic adolescent rebel and he wears that—that Trivia on his head to give himself twenty-four hours a day of solid nirvana, station NOTHING, turns off all stimuli when you want it to, operates psionically. We call it a Trivia because that’s what it is and because forty years ago it was a Tri-V and I despise bald young inexistential rebels who refuse to relate!”
“Well, well,” she said again.
“And the nuns,” he said, “are nuns, whatever that means to you. It means nothing to me; I am not a religious man. You have got to get them from here to there, ‘across the border’ as they used to say, because they had money and they
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