Empire & Ecolitan (42 page)

J
IMJOY SET THE
second basket beside the table, checking again to see that the green linen cloth would remain in place against the light breeze from the east. With the chill of the wind came the scent of fallen leaves.

On the table were two large crystal goblets rimmed in thin bands of gold and green, two smaller goblets with the same pattern, two sets of gold-plated dinner utensils, two green linen napkins, two butter plates, two salad plates, and two luncheon plates. All the plates were of pale green china with a single golden rim. An armless chair sat behind each setting.

In the unopened basket were the various courses he had arranged for the luncheon, as well as the small bottle of Sparsa and the thermos of ice water.

He stood and surveyed the lookout. The stained wooden railings, smoothed to the finish of glass, still guarded the drop-off. Behind him, the saplar forest covered the crest of the hill from which Quayle Point projected.

With a wry smile, he recalled the first time he had climbed the hill, right through the forest. The sap secretions had ruined that set of greens. Then, like now, there hadn't been the small buckets attached to the trees, since the Institute tapped the sap only during the spring. Even upwind from the trees, he could occasionally smell their mintresin odor.

He and Thelina had watched the sunrise, and she hadn't spoken to him then, either, even though they had walked back to the Institute together.

From where he had placed the table, the center of the Institute was visible, although the outlying training areas were not. Nor were the underground facilities. Even now he doubted that he knew of more than half the hidden emplacements—if that. The Institute was like an old Terran onion, pungent and with layer hidden behind layer.

The sun warmed his back, even as the wind from the east cooled his chest. He wore only a set of heavy formal greens. Still, the breeze was nothing more than a fall zephyr to a man born and raised on White Mountain, although those years had been two lifetimes ago.

A shadow made its way up from the Institute and across the forest as, overhead, a scattered handful of puffy white clouds swam toward the west, along the southern mountains to his right.

After a glance at the flat strip on his wrist, he reached down and pulled the thermos from the provisions basket. The dark organic-based plastic felt smooth against his fingers. 1314 Harmony Standard Time. Even though he pursed his lips, his hands were sure in filling the two large goblets three-quarters full with the spring water.

There was always the possibility she wouldn't come. He hadn't asked for an RSVP, probably a grievous breach of etiquette in itself. 1315 Harmony Standard Time. With a frown, he stared at the Institute, wondering…hoping.

Crunnchhhh
…The footstep on the path was so faint, almost fainter than the susurrus of the wind, that he almost missed the sound.

Stepping away from the table, he waited.

Like him, Thelina wore formal greens. Her short silver hair glittered in the sunlight as she walked from the path and across the grass. Her eyes widened slightly at the formal setting of the table.

“You did mean formal, didn't you?”

He bowed at the waist, slightly. “The setting is formal, the locale informal, and the repast, alas, probably not up to either, or to the guest.”

She inclined her head. “The speech is also rather formal.”

“It's been suggested that one should know someone, their likes and dislikes, before attempting informality.” He stepped forward and gestured, pulling out the chair for her.

“I think I'd better help with this.” Thelina helped guide the chair she was taking into place. “Chairs don't slide on grass very well.”

“I'll talk to the plant biology department about improving that characteristic.” He reached for the basket. “Please pardon some informality. Do you like Sparsa?”

She nodded, her eyes traveling toward the lookout, and to the Institute beyond and below.

Thwupppp
…Jimjoy uncorked the green-tinted bottle, then eased the sparkling wine into the smaller goblet before Thelina. He filled his own goblet and sat down across from her.

“If I might ask,” she began, “where did you get such a coordinated setting?”

“In Harmony. Thought I might have some use for it in the future. At least I could dine in style. The setting would make up for my cooking.”

“You do cook?”

“I'm from White Mountain. That's a long time back, but how could I be male and not cook? Certainly I'm not up to my father's standards, but…” Jimjoy shrugged, and waited for Thelina to taste the Sparsa.

She caught the flick of his eyes from her face to her goblet. Her hand reached for the goblet and lifted it, holding the crystal for a long instant before carrying it to her lips for a small sip.

Jimjoy followed her sample, although his was a short swallow, rather than just a sip.

“Grand Sparsa in crystal. Perhaps the second time in my life.”

“You like it?” he asked, wishing as he did so that he hadn't.

Her lips quirked. “How could I not? What did this set you back?”

He smiled faintly. “If I told you, would you enjoy it more or less? Please enjoy it.” He took a second, smaller sip, letting the taste linger.

“Are you—”

“No.” He cut off her question, knowing where it might be leading. “I only asked you for luncheon, and I selected the lookout as a place to enjoy the best I could provide. That's all.”

Her smile was part annoyance, part amusement. “Do you always answer questions before they're asked?”

“Usually not. I apologize. You wanted to ask…?”

“I'll phrase it a bit more delicately. Aren't you concerned I might not fully appreciate what could be considered more than a little ostentatious?”

“That is a possibility. I had hoped that you would wait until after the luncheon to make a final judgment.”

She took another sip of the Sparsa as the breeze fluttered her silver hair. “That's a fair request.”

He eased his chair back, careful to avoid snagging the legs on the grass, stood, and bent to open the basket again. From the insulated plastic came the two rolls and the butter. From the bowl, after he unsealed it, came the salad. With the tongs, he deftly laid each piece of mixed greenery on the salad plates. From another small container came the nut garnish. Then he removed the clinging seal from a small pitcher, again of the same gold-rimmed green china, and placed the pitcher in the middle of the table.

Without another word, he replaced the basket and reseated himself, retrieving the linen napkin from the grass next to his chair, where it had been carried by a brief gust.

He nodded. Thelina nibbled at the warm roll, leaving the butter untouched. Then she set the remaining half roll back on its plate, picked up her fork, put it down, and reached for the pitcher. She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, nothing special. Call it a house dressing. As close to my father's as I could make it.”

Thelina poured a thin line of the amber, spice-tinged liquid over the greenery. She extended the pitcher to Jimjoy.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she answered. Her tone was gentle. She waited until he had added the dressing to his salad before lifting her fork. “Very good.”

He acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a soft “Thank you,” and followed her lead in addressing the greenery. The first taste told him that, this time, he hadn't overdone the lemon, and the dressing had just the touch of tang he had wanted.

After another measured mouthful, he set down his fork along the edge of the salad plate, watching Thelina finish her salad, enjoying the relish with which she ate.

Another shadow from the fluffy overhead clouds crossed the table, and the wind ruffled the green linen.

“A little chilly when you lose the sun.”

“It does make a difference,” he agreed.

“You look…comfortable. Are you wearing just your greens?”

A touch of a smile crossed his face. “Just my greens. I'd hoped it would be a little warmer—the way the long-range forecast had predicted.”

“You're not cold?”

“No. Are you?” His voice carried a touch of concern.

“No. But I took certain precautions, like thermals.” She smiled. “Would this really be considered a warm day on White Mountain?”

“Not a summer day, but certainly a pleasant fall day. What about where you're from?”

She tilted her head. “Call it a crisp fall day or a warm winter day.”

He stood and returned to the basket, pulling forth two insulated, self-heating containers. From the first he eased the contents onto Thelina's plate—thin white slices of meat, covered with a golden sauce containing dark morsels; split green beans sprinkled with a mist of nutmeats; and a circlet of black rice. He repeated the process with his own plate, replaced the empty containers in the basket, and reseated himself.

Although the cloud had passed and the fall sunlight bathed the table, thin wisps of vapor still rose from the plates.

“If I could, I would have managed hot plates, but that just wasn't practical.”

Her eyebrows rose again as she picked up her dinner fork. “You actually cooked this yourself?”

He nodded.

“Every bit of it?”

He nodded, then grinned. “I'm out of practice. I tried each course twice over the past week. This was the first time they all worked out together, and I wasn't sure they would.” He inclined his head. “Go ahead. It's better warm, and it won't stay that way very long.”

Thelina took both knife and fork and the invitation. Jimjoy followed, although eating more slowly, tasting the sauce critically, noting that it had almost separated again, although he'd gotten the taste right.

“You really did this?”

“Yes.”

“It's marvelous.”

He nodded, knowing that it was good, although not as good as he had secretly hoped.

She stopped and looked at him, putting her utensils down. “It's not as good as you wanted, is it?”

He sighed. “It's good, perhaps even a bit better. I'd really hoped it would be spectacular.”

“I'm flattered.” She paused. “I really mean that. I am flattered. No one has ever done something like this for me. Especially not with their own hands.”

Jimjoy couldn't help smiling. “I'm glad. Shouldn't say that, but I am.” He took another bite, hoping Thelina would still enjoy the remainder of her meal after his confession that it had not reached his standards.

She did, finishing everything on her plate, and even using the remainder of her roll to catch the last of the sauce. She took another sip of the Sparsa, emptying her goblet.

He stood, refilled it, and removed all the plates, stacking them neatly in the basket.

“Could we just talk for a bit?”

He closed the basket and sat down, his forearms on the table, leaning slightly, but only slightly, toward her, noticing how her hair sparkled in the afternoon light, how graceful she looked sitting there.

“No matter how much you protest, you listen, don't you?”

Nodding, he waited.

“You don't like to ask questions, and you wait for people to talk. Sometimes, though, people won't talk unless they're asked.”

“Sometimes,” he responded, “people don't know what questions to ask, or when.”

“You don't like women very much. You can love them, but you don't like them.”

He pulled at his chin, conscious of the wind riffling the linen tablecloth and his hair, conscious that he was squinting to see as he faced the slowly lowering sun. “You may be right. And you? Do you feel that way about men?”

“Does it show that much?”

“I'm not sure anything shows, except I seem to bring out stronger feelings in people. Something, maybe a lot of something, hits you wrong. And I…anyway…”

She ignored his unfinished statement, looking out beyond the lookout. “I don't trust men. The men you trust are the ones who hurt you the most.”

He took a deep breath, slowly. “You may be right about that, too. Except I'd say that whoever you trust can hurt you the most. It doesn't mean they will. They can, though. Could you trust your father?” Even as he asked the question, he wondered whether he should have.

“I don't know. He died when I was twelve. And he was too sick to care before that.”

Jimjoy frowned, wondering how anyone on any civilized planet would be condemned to a lingering death.

“He was on the proscribed list.”

Jimjoy kept his mouth in place. The proscribed list—there had been rumors of the device, how the Matriarchy had used it to punish its opponents long before the Military Directorate of Halston had fallen. He pursed his lips, then looked at Thelina, and guessed. “Didn't they keep their word? Or was it too late?”

She met his eyes. “When he found out, he committed suicide.”

“And you kept your part of the bargain?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No. But I will…if you'll tell me how you got from White Mountain to the I.S.S.”

“All right.” Even in the sunlight he could see the tenseness that might have been caused by the cold. “I have liftea or cafe. And dessert. Would you like either?”

“I'll wait on the dessert, The liftea would be nice.”

He took almost the last items out of the basket—the china cups and saucers and another thermos, from which he poured.

“Thank you.” Thelina immediately took a sip of the liftea, without the sugar Jim joy was placing in the center of the table.

He added sugar to his, waiting for her to begin.

“We lived on an out-continent in one of the ring systems. That's where the Matriarchy has always been the strongest. They controlled the health network. My father was a magistrate, and he ordered the doctors, and they were mostly women, to abide by the Spousal Consent Laws…”