opportunity to get to the Enigma from the southern coast. She did what Erickson suggested – and more!
When she returned, it was with the recording cubes and notes for the Enigma Score, and she was dizzy with what she knew, bubbling with it. Erickson had only known half of it. If he had had a synthesizer like the current ones…. She had hugged the knowledge to herself, glorying in it. Only Donatella Furz knew the whole truth, the truth about Jubal. No one else knew. No one!
Only some time later did she realize that in seventy years there might have been others who knew or suspected, but if they had, they had been ruthlessly suppressed – only after someone had tried to kill her.
On her return, she had arranged for the Enigma notes to be sent to a Tripsinger citadel for transcribing and orchestration – ‘Send it to that man in Deepsoil Five,’ she had suggested. ‘Tasmin Ferrence. The one who did that great score on the Black Tower.’ Then she had reported a possible breakthrough to the Prior of her Chapter House and had done it with due modesty in language full of ‘perhaps’ and ‘this suggests.’ She had made all the proper moves in the proper order; none of them should have aroused suspicion. If only she could have kept it at that! But no matter what motions she went through, what modest little remarks she made when congratulated, she could not hide her elation. Inside herself, she was bubbling with what she knew, what she thought, what she wanted to prove, what she had proved. She had not been so foolish as to blurt it out to anyone – it was obviously information that some people would want to suppress – but neither had she been sensible enough to keep her obvious euphoria hidden.
Who might have observed that euphoria?
Explorers Martin and Ralth, while they were out at dinner one night. ‘Touch me, boys, because the day will come when you’ll tell people, “I knew her before she was famous.” ’
‘What are you up to now, Don?’ asked Martin, sounding bored. ‘Another new variation for the Creeping Desert? Don’t we have enough Creeping Desert variations already?’
‘Bigger than that,’ she had replied with a laugh. ‘Much bigger.’
‘You’ve got a Gemmed Rampart score that really works,’ suggested Ralth. ‘Or a foolproof way to get through the Crazies.’
‘Why not?’ She had giggled.
‘Which?’
‘Why not both. Why not everything?’
They had laughed incredulously. They had ordered more wine. There had been laughter and arguments among the three Explorers and congratulations on the Enigma score.
Well, what else had she said that night? Nothing. Nothing at all. One bragging phrase. ‘Why not everything?’ Had there been enough in that conversation to give someone the idea that Donatella Furz knew something they would rather she didn’t know? Not really. It could all be put down to her euphoria. Even an untested score for a Presence as famous as the Enigma lent a certain cachet to her name. She hadn’t really said anything at all!
Who else had she talked to? Zimmy. A services employee. A Northwest Chapter House man. Not unlike this Chapter House man, Blanchet, except that Zimmy belonged to Don. He was only hers, he kept saying, and had been only hers for some years now, eager to please her, intelligent in meeting her needs for comfort and affection. Zimmy. She thought of him with both fondness and pleasure. What had she said to Zimmy? Nothing much. ‘Oh, Zimmy, if you knew what I know.’ Something like that. He hadn’t even paid much attention.
And who else? The woman in Northwest City who usually cut her hair.
Don’s head had been bent forward while the woman depilated the back of her neck, quite high, so that the bottom of the wide bell of her hair would come just to the bottom of the ears. ‘How can you do it?’ the woman had chattered. ‘All alone, out among the Presences. I would pee my pants, truly, lady knight, I would.’
‘It isn’t as dangerous
When she returned, it was with the recording cubes and notes for the Enigma Score, and she was dizzy with what she knew, bubbling with it. Erickson had only known half of it. If he had had a synthesizer like the current ones…. She had hugged the knowledge to herself, glorying in it. Only Donatella Furz knew the whole truth, the truth about Jubal. No one else knew. No one!
Only some time later did she realize that in seventy years there might have been others who knew or suspected, but if they had, they had been ruthlessly suppressed – only after someone had tried to kill her.
On her return, she had arranged for the Enigma notes to be sent to a Tripsinger citadel for transcribing and orchestration – ‘Send it to that man in Deepsoil Five,’ she had suggested. ‘Tasmin Ferrence. The one who did that great score on the Black Tower.’ Then she had reported a possible breakthrough to the Prior of her Chapter House and had done it with due modesty in language full of ‘perhaps’ and ‘this suggests.’ She had made all the proper moves in the proper order; none of them should have aroused suspicion. If only she could have kept it at that! But no matter what motions she went through, what modest little remarks she made when congratulated, she could not hide her elation. Inside herself, she was bubbling with what she knew, what she thought, what she wanted to prove, what she had proved. She had not been so foolish as to blurt it out to anyone – it was obviously information that some people would want to suppress – but neither had she been sensible enough to keep her obvious euphoria hidden.
Who might have observed that euphoria?
Explorers Martin and Ralth, while they were out at dinner one night. ‘Touch me, boys, because the day will come when you’ll tell people, “I knew her before she was famous.” ’
‘What are you up to now, Don?’ asked Martin, sounding bored. ‘Another new variation for the Creeping Desert? Don’t we have enough Creeping Desert variations already?’
‘Bigger than that,’ she had replied with a laugh. ‘Much bigger.’
‘You’ve got a Gemmed Rampart score that really works,’ suggested Ralth. ‘Or a foolproof way to get through the Crazies.’
‘Why not?’ She had giggled.
‘Which?’
‘Why not both. Why not everything?’
They had laughed incredulously. They had ordered more wine. There had been laughter and arguments among the three Explorers and congratulations on the Enigma score.
Well, what else had she said that night? Nothing. Nothing at all. One bragging phrase. ‘Why not everything?’ Had there been enough in that conversation to give someone the idea that Donatella Furz knew something they would rather she didn’t know? Not really. It could all be put down to her euphoria. Even an untested score for a Presence as famous as the Enigma lent a certain cachet to her name. She hadn’t really said anything at all!
Who else had she talked to? Zimmy. A services employee. A Northwest Chapter House man. Not unlike this Chapter House man, Blanchet, except that Zimmy belonged to Don. He was only hers, he kept saying, and had been only hers for some years now, eager to please her, intelligent in meeting her needs for comfort and affection. Zimmy. She thought of him with both fondness and pleasure. What had she said to Zimmy? Nothing much. ‘Oh, Zimmy, if you knew what I know.’ Something like that. He hadn’t even paid much attention.
And who else? The woman in Northwest City who usually cut her hair.
Don’s head had been bent forward while the woman depilated the back of her neck, quite high, so that the bottom of the wide bell of her hair would come just to the bottom of the ears. ‘How can you do it?’ the woman had chattered. ‘All alone, out among the Presences. I would pee my pants, truly, lady knight, I would.’
‘It isn’t as dangerous
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