Stringer tossed and turned in his bed, finally giving up any hope of sleep. Wouldn’t those neighbors ever shut up? Even though everyone in this section of Ta-tjenen currently had approximately the same sleeping time, Stringer, after some teclads, was still out of phase simply because his circadian rhythm, floating or not, was not that of a Tjenen, and his waking-sleeping cycle would probably never converge fully to theirs. So the neighbors went on talking regardless of Stringer. He began to doubt that the heat had anything to do with Ta-tjenen’s silence during the Bannk and became convinced that the real reason was because it was so noisy during the Patra. There was little to do but go to school and socialize, and by dawn everyone was sick of one another until the next time around. A very convenient system.
Stringer climbed out of bed and found some clothes to put on, then walked into the corridor whose light tanks had been replaced by ventilated torches. No mistakes allowed during the Patra. Stringer was feeling nervous. He admitted to himself that he was feeling more and more that way as the Patra wore on. The walls of Ta-tjenen were very close. Alhane also paced more and more; the rest of Ta-tjenen seemed as usual, no one the least bit claustrophobic. Perhaps a nestrexa was a good thing for that.
Stringer made a quick stop at one of the communal toilets from which waste would be taken and burned for added heat. He strode down the corridor, climbed down a ladder, then entered a room that was carved out of solid rock. He opened a faucet that was at the bottom of a huge metal tank and gulped down a cup of water. The top of the reservoir was open, above the street, and full of snow. The bottom was here, above a fire to melt the ice and produce drinking water. Stringer turned to the nearby door.
It was his shift in one of the heating rooms. His Alien status did not deprive him of that. Besides, he didn’t mind the work; it was the only exercise he got, and lately his body had been feeling as if it were rotting from the bones up. He glanced at the pipes that entered from the ceiling; frost covered most of their lengths and water vapor fumed into the warmer surroundings. The upper ends of the pipes, like the reservoirs, could be seen projecting above the ground along the streets of the city, taller than a house to be certain they rose above the snow.
Stringer took off his shirt, shivered a moment, and followed the air ducts into the next room. He walked over to a huge pile of wood and began heaving pieces into the furnace. He saw the sparkling white frost on the pipes lose its color and turn to dribbling water as the tubes made their circuits around the heat exchanger to exit into the living quarters above.
For perhaps two telclads Stringer fed the fire until he had tired himself sufficiently to relax. He threw down the last log, breathed deeply, and left the room. He dragged himself up the stairs, passed a classroom and heard a snatch of a lesson on the evils of the Polkraitz, sighed, and wandered on to the nearest communal room.
As always, it was filled with people, talking, running, eating, singing. Such a contrast to the Ta-tjenen of the Bannk, when all the time had been spent preparing for the Patra. Then there had been silence as people went about their business. Now there was noise. In the Bannk, the meeting tent was the only place of association. Now dozens of communal rooms were filled constantly. Was the Patra the time of fear? Or was it a vacation for Ta-tjenen? Stringer was not sure he understood; rather, he was certain that he did not yet understand the cycle of the Tjenen mind.
If anyone took notice of Stringer as he walked in, Stringer himself was not aware of it. He was a grudgingly accepted figure now—and one that was ignored if at all possible. No one bothered to speak to him now. That is, no one but Taljen.
She walked up to Stringer as if they were the closest of cousins, even though they had not spoken to each other for three teclads. At first he did not recognize her; her skin was so fair now, and even her hair had changed color. She could be a fairy-tale princess now, Stringer thought.
Play your rodoft for us, Stringer, so we can
dance.
I have work to do.
Then you would not be here now. Play your rodoft for
us. Your work can wait.
You don’t want to hear me. I’m terrible.
I’ve heard you play when I’ve passed your
rooms. Your melodies are simple, yes, and you do not use all the notes, but
in your own way you are better than our best. You have always learned
quickly, Silent Stringer, learned everything quickly, except that there is
no good in playing the rodoft if no one ever heard you.
All right. Wait while I get it.
Stringer left
and returned shortly with his rodoft. He sat down on a cushion near the
door and began tuning the instrument whose sounds had slowly, painfully,
become one with his ears in the last teclads. So
you say I don’t use all the notes, do you? We’ll see about that.
He picked up the bow, smoothed down the hairs, and placed his fingers on the gut. He started slowly, remembering a tune he had heard at the Festival long ago. Did it go like this? Or did it go like this? No matter, he’d invent his own variation. The bow bit and the dancers started in slow rhythm. Rhythm. Strong, good for dancing. Not too fast now for the calm Tjenen heartbeat. A little more now. Stringer’s fingers began plucking, faster and faster. The dancers whirled in endless patterns. Stringer’s bow became a blur, interrupted only when his fingertips took over the work, faster still. The dancers raised their feet, kicking and stamping. The floor trembled. Faster. Sweat broke out on Stringer’s brow. The floor rumbled, and again. Stringer’s head nodded in tight, quick jerks in time with his music. Faster yet. You are playing as you have never played before. Crack! The sound echoed around his ears. Stringer glanced at his bow, then jerked his eyes to the ceiling. Cold vapor, leaving a visible trail behind it, was falling lazily to the floor.
Everybody out!
he screamed. Get out of this room!
He couldn’t remember what happened next. Another rumble. People running, lots of noise, screaming. He dove for the door next to him, tumbling out the exit, rolling over with his rodoft. He shook his head clear just as he heard an immense crash behind him. He was up in an instant and putting his full weight on the door. Supercooled air curled under the door, reaching his sandal. A sharp, stinging sensation on his toe and the pain was gone.
People filled the corridor. He quickly took off his shirt and jammed it
underneath the door. Get out of the corridor!
he shouted. Seal it off!
The Tjenens obeyed quickly. His was the only voice of Command, and they listened. Was it as easy as that? Stringer wondered.
As he pushed his way through the crowd back to his room, he met Alhane
running in the opposite direction. What happened,
Stringer? Tell me what happened.
It was an earthquake. The roof caved in.
An earthquake? What is that? I have never heard of
such a thing.
I’ll explain later. What can be done? I…I locked
those people in there. I didn’t know how cold…if they could have
survived…
The Time Keeper tugged on Stringer’s arm. Come on,
stop that. There was so little hope. You did the only thing you could. Now
let’s get the quazzats.
Stringer was soon dressed in the heaviest garments he had ever seen. Thick boots with many socks, graskhide sweaters loose with air pockets, and a thick parka with a long hooded snout lined with fur.
I’ve never gone out in midpatra,
Alhane said in
a muffled voice as they finished dressing.
Stringer froze. Are you crazy? We’re going out in
these things and you don’t even know what is going to happen?
I told you, no one ever goes out in the Patra—
Stringer began getting undressed.
—but I have gone out at dawn on many occasion. And,
as I’ve mentioned before, I suspect that it is as cold then as
now. Besides, I’ve read the instructions my father left.…Now, Stringer, let
us get on with it. Just remember to keep moving and breathe through your
nose. The long hood will trap enough warm air to keep you from freezing
your lungs.
My hands, what about my hands?
I’ll give you some chemical heating pads if you
want. But you shouldn’t need them if you keep moving.
Stringer winced as he put on the thick mittens. He hoped that Alhane’s extrapolations from the dawn and the ancient instructions were not as mythical as the Polkraitz seemed to be.
The first thing that Stringer saw as they entered the communal room was a huge gap in the roof and a great pile of debris. An arm jutted out there, a leg here, quick-frozen in the cold of the Patra. Negative one hundred degrees centigrade. Could it really be that cold? Had there been any hope? Had he acted too quickly? If not, then perhaps the Patra was more gentle than the Bannk in that respect: the Bannk killed you a little at the time, broiled you alive, but only if you were careless and stayed out too long. Here, in the Patra, there might not be any hope at all, but at least death was quick, essentially instantaneous. Or was it? Stringer gnawed at his lip, doubting everything all at once.
Suddenly something occurred to Stringer and he began circling the room slowly, pulling out the wires to the lighting tanks.
What are you doing?
he heard Alhane cry out.
Look.
He pointed up.
For perhaps the first time in his life, the Time Keeper saw stars, real stars. Not the one or two or even three or four bright ones to be seen at dawn, but stars heaped one upon another, splattered across the sky, densely thick, in this late stage of the universe, as all galaxies had begun to merge. There were more stars than night here at Ta-tjenen, the Center.
Alhane…Time Keeper.
Alhane didn’t budge. Stringer let him be and went to work clearing out the bodies before the cold penetrated the skin.
After the last of the bodies had been dragged away, now conveniently preserved for their future use as food, Stringer emerged into the corridor and pulled down his hood. Repair would take some time now, but at this moment he needed to rest. Tjenens were walking about, unconcerned since the danger had passed, as if they had already forgotten those who had been killed.
Taljen!
The thought hit him between the eyes. Where was she? He had not seen her since the collapse, nor had he found her body. Was she alive? Stringer began running down the hall as fast as he could, but halted suddenly when he realized that he didn’t even know where her quarters were located. There were twenty thousand people crammed into underground Ta-tjenen, stacked on top of one another, wedged into every nook and cranny. Where could she be? But then again, everybody in Ta-tjenen knew everybody else. Stringer stopped the first person he saw.
There was no mistaking the glare in Benjfold’s eyes when he recognized the
Alien in the heavy parka. What do you want,
Returned? Did you cause this, too?
Stringer ignored the last remark. Taljen, have you
seen her?
Now Benjfold looked back at Stringer with keen amusement. I have a new nesta for this cycle, this Parlztlu; why
would I know where Taljen is?
Were wives so easily forgotten here? Stringer let him go and wandered
on. The corridors were jammed with people who had come to find out whose
husbands
had died and whose nestas’ sister and brothers and
grandfathers.
The head of the nestrexam, the head of families, Kenken Wer, Who Stands at the Center, passed Stringer. He looked the other way and did not see her spit at his feet. After several attempts he learned that Taljen’s room was on the other side of Ta-tjenen, in another sleeping zone, so it took almost a telclad to reach, and his trail was littered with the pieces of heavy clothing he discarded as he hurried in quick lengthy strides.
Her door was open, rather, there was no door to be shut, and she was sitting on her mat, unmoving and quiet. Stringer sat down beside her and she began talking to herself, hardly noticing his presence.
…all of them. My child, Uslid, my first nesta…they
were all killed.…
Then she looked up at Stringer and studied his dirty
face for a long while, eyes blue and intense. You,
Alien Stringer, are the only one left.
Stringer held her. Will you go south with me? When
the Bannk begins?
Taljen looked up, half smiling, half sighing. There
seems to be little reason for me to stay, does there?
Stringer jogged through the corridors because he couldn’t bear to walk any longer, just as he could hardly bear to sit down for more than a few belclads at a time before he got itchy. No one else ever jogged. All sat or worked in the maddeningly calm Tjenen way. This made Stringer even more nervous. His footfalls thumped to a halt outside the Time Keeper’s room. He had not seen Alhane since the collapse and he now needed his help.
Alhane was in his room—where else could he be?—still quazzated in his parka as if Stringer hadn’t left him at all a beclad earlier. He sat at his desk with his hands on his head, running his fingers through his hair.
What happened?
Stringer asked. You obviously didn’t freeze to death.
No, but your watch did, I thank it.
Alhane threw
the useless timepiece on the table.
Stringer shrugged. What do you need it for,
anyway?
This last beclad I discovered that the stars move. I
wanted to clock them with your watch, but it died, so now I can’t.
The chair, as usual, was wedged between bed and desk, and Stringer had to
struggle to sit down. Why not?
Alhane pointed into his auxiliary room. You’ve seen
those clocks; how many read the same thing?
It was true. Now about halfway through the Patra, all the clocks said
something different, sometimes off from one another by half a beclad. I thought you were calibrating them against my
watch.
As well as I could, not having fully deduced the
correspondence between your watch and my clocks.
So now what’s the problem? Why can’t you use your
clocks?
Now your watch is dead. Now if I clock the stars, I
get different answers depending on which clock I use. I ask you, is that a
good state of the world?
Why don’t you take one reading with one clock and
then another with the same?
And when the interval differ in each trial?
Surely your clock is wrong, then.
Surely? Is it the first or second or third reading
that is wrong—
Your clocks must be good enough to be close on
successive readings—
—or is it the stars that are moving
nonconstantly?
Certainly the stars move as constantly as my
watch.
An assumption of faith, I thank you.
No greater faith than assuming the same for my
watch.
Yes, Young Stringer, it is too bad that we have to
assume anything. Why should I assume the stars move constantly? The sun
doesn’t climb at a constant rate. It hovers around Mid-Bannk and drops
quickly toward the Patra. Is that constant?
But surely the only reason the sun seems to move
like that is because we’re standing on the ground. The sun moves
constantly.
It does? I am not convinced. What I need is a
reliably constant unit: your dead watch.
I thought your units were nonconstant.
Then I need a constant unit to know that my
nonconstant units are changing correctly—if not constantly. Besides, as I
once explained to you, it is only the telclads on up that are
nonconstant. So we are back to the same discussion.
Yes, I suppose we are.
Don’t you see my dilemma? To keep my clocks
constant, I need a constant unit of time. If you are right and the stars,
in some way yet to be deduced, move constantly, then I could use the time
it takes for the stars to move such and such a distance. But in order to
know how long it takes a star to move such and such a distance, I need a
good clock—a constant unit of time.
Can’t you just say that it takes a certain amount
of time for a star to move a degree, since we’ve decided to put our faith
in its constancy?
We have? But suppose it is wrong?
What do you mean?
What if I say it take a third of a given beclad for
a star to move a degree, but it really doesn’t. Then what?
Stringer stood up and waved his arms. Well, I
don’t know. How do you check your clocks in the Bannk?
The sun, of course. If I catch sunrise, I set the
clocks then—that is, if I can decided exactly when sunrise is. Doing so
takes so long. The problem is lack of sunrises. The time between sunset and
sunrise is so long that all the clocks are off in between. I wish they came
every beclad. How easy things would be then!
If you had a star that was in a certain position
at Mid-Patra, then you could set your clocks by it.
How would I know when Mid-Patra was?
By your clocks?
You see the problem.
Stringer sighed. I see that you’ve totally
confused me.
The only thing to do is to take my best clock—which
is none too good—and start recording. Maybe after several Patras and some
good guessing, I will know the answer.
Taljen and Stringer faced each other across the table in the refectory, each munching the fibrous root that was a good deal of their diet.
If it weren’t for you,
said Stringer, no one would talk to me at all. I play my rodoft and
people listen. No one says anything to me.
Do you say anything to anyone?
Stringer was
pondering how to answer that, but Taljen continued. How long was it that we did not speak to each
other?
About three teclads.
I hadn’t realized.
And what were you doing all that time?
Mostly working in the kitchen. Teaching a few
classes. And yourself?
The glider.
You haven’t shown it to me yet.
No, I guess I haven’t.
Anything else?
Playing my rodoft. There isn’t much else to
do. Sometimes I want to break down the walls here.
Stringer stared at
up at the low ceiling, which was supported at frequent intervals by
pod-tree trunks; his glance followed the network of ventilator shafts that
skewed this way and that across the ceiling or rose vertically from the
floor.
At that moment Alhane, in a state of great agitation, burst into the room, collided with Kenken Wer, whose food went flying over the floor and under tables, tripped over two benches, and stumbled to his feet in front of Taljen and Stringer while Kenken Wer’s fierce gaze penetrated the back of his head.
I have found it! Stringer, I have found it! A bright
star that moves faster than the others. Could it be another planet moving
around Patra-Bannk, as you thought? Perhaps it is the one we need to check
your gravity.
The Time Keeper grabbed a piece of cold meat as the room
filled with noisy puzzlement and more Tjenens entered to find out what was
going on. They did not have much of a chance because Alhane ran out
immediately, colliding with Kenken Wer once more, scattering her carefully
re-collected food to the four corners a second time. The noise level
subsided for a moment but soon rose again to its initial height.
A Tjenen—a total stranger to Stringer—stopped by his table and leaned close
to his ear. What have you done to him, Alien?
Stringer didn’t respond. He looked straight ahead and kept chewing his food.
But the remark caused Taljen to reflect silently as she herself stared downward, fiddling with the food on her dish and not meeting Stringer’s eyes.
What did I do now?
Stringer finally asked when
the lapse in conversation became too long to ignore.
Taljen shook her head, still not looking up. Nothing,
she said softly, even gently. Stringer, tell me, do stars exist?
What do you mean?
Alhane’s flecks of light. Do they exist? Or are they
illusion?
You haven’t looked?
Alhane had asked me to, but I am afraid to go Above,
especially after what happened.…
Well, yes, stars exist,
Stringer chuckled.
What are they? Balls of ice, as Alhane thought?
No, suns like your own but very far away, so they
look like points of ice to the eye. My own sun is one of them.
How far away?
Very far away. Too far for anyone to conceive,
really. Farther away than the horizon, farther than Glintz or Godrhan,
farther away than the Edge of the World.
Taljen nodded. After another long silence she asked: And how do they burn? Are they made of wood? Of tree
resin?
Stringer laughed again. No, they burn by nuclear
reactions.
And, Stringer, what is a nuclear reaction?
she
asked, slowly articulating her new word.
It is…it is…it is a word that people use for
stars, that’s all.
Taljen did not reply, and the conversation lapsed
again. Have I said something wrong?
This time Taljen laughed, her great flexible laugh that spanned four octaves. She shook her head.
Stringer gazed off for a moment with glassy eyes. You know, Alhane should watch out; people have been
burned for less.
Taljen cocked her head. What do you mean?
I mean that people don’t like sacred doctrines to
be contradicted.
Stringer then raised his earthen mug to eye level,
stared at it momentarily, and said, Well, to those
who burn.…
You are bitter,
Taljen said. She laughed
softly. And you forget that to contradict a doctrine
presupposes one already exists. But as stars were just discovered, their
reality still largely unknown, I don’t see how any belief could have been
attached to them.
Taljen grinned. Perhaps,
Stringer, Kenken Wer will concoct one just to contradict Alhane’s findings,
but I shouldn’t worry about that too much. More likely, he will be allowed
to study his flecks of light, allowed to play his games. No one will care,
even if they do eventually believe that stars exist. After all, as Time
Keeper, Alhane has been useful with his other discoveries. Unless this new
game interferes with his old work, no one will mind his playing.
Why do you call it a game?
It is hard to conceive, Stringer, don’t you think,
what could come of this. Even if he does discover your gravity, what
difference will it make to us here at Ta-tjenen? He will be able to write
down an equation to tell us how gravity works, but it will be the same
gravity which pulls us to the ground nonetheless.
Yes.
Stringer nodded and said very slowly, I suppose it is hard to conceive.