Thraso said.”
“I know,” Cadell says, looking backward briefly.
“Actually, Thraso said, I like you better since you met her.”
Cadell nods. Other people have said the same thing. “We’re good for each other. I’m very lucky.”
“Thraso hoped that one day he, too, would be so lucky and find such a woman for himself.”
Cadell smiles. Thraso’s predilections do not run toward women. “I like your outfit,” Cadell says, to change the subject.
Thraso is dressed in an almost featureless trapezoid, running from wide, starched shoulders down to ankle cuffs. Skin-tight sleeves protrude from the front.
“Thraso thanked him,” Thraso says, “but wondered to himself if Cadell was truly sincere, or if he was merely flattering.”
Cadell thinks about it. “I don’t really know which it is.”
“Thraso laughed,” Thraso says without laughing. “That was the best kind of flattery — when even the flatterer himself did not know if he was lying or not.”
Cadell looks at his feet. Thraso’s remark has hit a sore point. Cadell considers Thraso a good friend, but what if Thraso were not his superior, if it were not to his advantage to be his friend? He doesn’t know.
Thraso puts his arm around Cadell’s shoulder. “Thraso liked Cadell,” he says. “His honesty amused him.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“The time for chitchat had passed,” Thraso announces, looking up at the ceiling. “Thraso looked his friend in the eye and told him that he had decided to make him one of Thraso’s personal lieutenants.”
Cadell stops short. “Really?”
“It was primarily a ceremonial title, Thraso reminded him, but it looked great on a resumé.”
“Thank you, Thraso. I don’t know what to say.”
“Thraso shook his hand and congratulated him.”
HISTORY LESSON
At the other end of the hall, Dancer is being toasted by friends and strangers. After each toast, someone else offers another. Dancer raises her glass and drinks, her smile growing less gracious each time. Her mind is spinning from the shampagne, and her new earshells are so large they threaten to throw her off balance every time she turns her head. The toasts keep coming, even from those people who know how much Dancer and her brother despise each other. Dancer watches these people with a cold eye, remembering them. Finally she manages to convince the crowd to let her go. They applaud again as she slips off.
In a corner, her current lover, a whip-thin man in a black velour cover-up, is waiting for her.
“By the Stone,” she says, “what a bore this is.” Unceremoniously she sits on the floor. A stitch pops in her tight, scarlet dress.
He smiles, still leaning against the wall. “People are such idiots.”
“You know,” she says, “it reminds me of a story I heard once about Koba, back when he was at the height of his power. Every time he gave a speech before the Assembly, they gave him a standing ovation. Koba would usually listen for a while, then silence them with a wave of his hand.
But one time, for some reason, he just stood there while they applauded. He gave no signal to stop. So the people clapped and clapped. They clapped for five centichrons, then ten, then fifteen. Their arms began to ache, and they looked at each other nervously, but no one wanted to be the first to stop . So they kept on clapping. By this time their hands were red and sore, but they kept clapping. Finally, after twenty-five centichrons, one man stopped. Everyone around him stopped clapping and they all sat down, exhausted.
“The next day Koba had that man taken away and hanged.”
“Cheery story.” Her lover slides down beside her and puts his arm around her. “I have an idea. What do you say you and I forget all this nonsense and go off and have a little fun?”
She looks him in the eye and strokes his cheek. “What do I say?” She moves her hand down, placing her thumb and middle finger against the nerve clusters below
“I know,” Cadell says, looking backward briefly.
“Actually, Thraso said, I like you better since you met her.”
Cadell nods. Other people have said the same thing. “We’re good for each other. I’m very lucky.”
“Thraso hoped that one day he, too, would be so lucky and find such a woman for himself.”
Cadell smiles. Thraso’s predilections do not run toward women. “I like your outfit,” Cadell says, to change the subject.
Thraso is dressed in an almost featureless trapezoid, running from wide, starched shoulders down to ankle cuffs. Skin-tight sleeves protrude from the front.
“Thraso thanked him,” Thraso says, “but wondered to himself if Cadell was truly sincere, or if he was merely flattering.”
Cadell thinks about it. “I don’t really know which it is.”
“Thraso laughed,” Thraso says without laughing. “That was the best kind of flattery — when even the flatterer himself did not know if he was lying or not.”
Cadell looks at his feet. Thraso’s remark has hit a sore point. Cadell considers Thraso a good friend, but what if Thraso were not his superior, if it were not to his advantage to be his friend? He doesn’t know.
Thraso puts his arm around Cadell’s shoulder. “Thraso liked Cadell,” he says. “His honesty amused him.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“The time for chitchat had passed,” Thraso announces, looking up at the ceiling. “Thraso looked his friend in the eye and told him that he had decided to make him one of Thraso’s personal lieutenants.”
Cadell stops short. “Really?”
“It was primarily a ceremonial title, Thraso reminded him, but it looked great on a resumé.”
“Thank you, Thraso. I don’t know what to say.”
“Thraso shook his hand and congratulated him.”
HISTORY LESSON
At the other end of the hall, Dancer is being toasted by friends and strangers. After each toast, someone else offers another. Dancer raises her glass and drinks, her smile growing less gracious each time. Her mind is spinning from the shampagne, and her new earshells are so large they threaten to throw her off balance every time she turns her head. The toasts keep coming, even from those people who know how much Dancer and her brother despise each other. Dancer watches these people with a cold eye, remembering them. Finally she manages to convince the crowd to let her go. They applaud again as she slips off.
In a corner, her current lover, a whip-thin man in a black velour cover-up, is waiting for her.
“By the Stone,” she says, “what a bore this is.” Unceremoniously she sits on the floor. A stitch pops in her tight, scarlet dress.
He smiles, still leaning against the wall. “People are such idiots.”
“You know,” she says, “it reminds me of a story I heard once about Koba, back when he was at the height of his power. Every time he gave a speech before the Assembly, they gave him a standing ovation. Koba would usually listen for a while, then silence them with a wave of his hand.
But one time, for some reason, he just stood there while they applauded. He gave no signal to stop. So the people clapped and clapped. They clapped for five centichrons, then ten, then fifteen. Their arms began to ache, and they looked at each other nervously, but no one wanted to be the first to stop . So they kept on clapping. By this time their hands were red and sore, but they kept clapping. Finally, after twenty-five centichrons, one man stopped. Everyone around him stopped clapping and they all sat down, exhausted.
“The next day Koba had that man taken away and hanged.”
“Cheery story.” Her lover slides down beside her and puts his arm around her. “I have an idea. What do you say you and I forget all this nonsense and go off and have a little fun?”
She looks him in the eye and strokes his cheek. “What do I say?” She moves her hand down, placing her thumb and middle finger against the nerve clusters below
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