The Shadow and Night (15 page)

Finally, Merral came to rest at the base of the tree beneath a great bent branch and amid great snakelike roots that burrowed deep into the ground. Dead leaves blew around them and strange insects with long silver wings flickered silently past.

“It's more than enormous!” he heard Vero say, in awed tones. “It's bigger than any building. It must be the size of a town.”

“Look up,” Merral said and swung his gaze upward. Through the gigantic spreading branches that lay overhead, the great tree trunk towered as if it were an overhanging cliff. At the very top, the trunk and branches passed into wreaths of mist.

He heard Vero gasp. “How high is it?”

“About three hundred meters. Three, four times higher than any living tree. But the volume is something else. Let me show you an aerial view.”

Merral touched the glasses again and heard a sharp intake of breath from Vero as they raced upward, passing soundlessly through smears of green and brown branches and foliage, up through the mist patches, until finally, they were high above the highest branches.

Merral looked down. Through the wreaths of low cloud and mist, the vast, hollow inner heart of the tree was clearly visible, and below the outstretched inner branches he could make out the gray waters of a lake.

“The tree is a tube?”

“No, a spiral.” Merral began a slow swoop down over the foliage. “I designed this tree. It's like nothing in nature. The size is really incidental; I wanted something that would grow in places where there are high winds and frequent dry periods.”

“The Made Worlds.”

“Exactly. So it starts low and grows sideways as well as upward. But in growing sideways it makes a spiral like snails do. The result is an enormously strong structure—more like a hill than a tree.”

Merral tilted his head and dived under some of the topmost fronds.

“Yow!” Vero exclaimed. “Gentle with the maneuvers, my friend. I know it's not real, but no one has told my stomach. The water in the middle? How does that get there?”

“Sorry.” Merral slowed his motion. “It's a design feature. The core of the spiral slowly rots, so you get an inner water body. The branches drain down into it. It acts as a reservoir. And do you see how the inner branches are so much bigger and more delicate? They are protected from the winds.”

“Elegant.”

“Thank you. Seen enough?”

“I'd like another browse sometime. At my own pace. But it's wonderful.”

The image went dark and Merral took off the glasses.

Vero was staring at him, blinking. “So, that is what you do in your spare time?”

“Yes. It's my relaxation. I spend my spare stipend in setting it up and renting computer time. That sort of personal creation system is pretty heavy in processing time.”

“I can imagine.”

Vero put the glasses carefully down on the table. “How long has it taken you to create that?”

“Five years. The early attempts were disasters. Finding a way for a tree to pump water that high is hard work”

“Could we make it for real?”

“It works, if that's what you mean. The world in this creation is accurate. But it is beyond our skill and—as you know—well beyond the gene-engineering limits we impose. Bacteria, fungi, some crops, yes. But to create totally new trees? Hardly.”

Vero nodded agreement and Merral continued. “Actually, the real problem is that it takes time. A castle tree would take three thousand years to get to that sort of size. It's hardly suitable for a Made World.”

Vero closed his eyes. “A pity. But a wonderful vision, my friend. The city-sized tree. I shall treasure that image: the D'Avanos castle tree.”

There was a moment's silence between them before Merral said, “And what do you do with your stipend, Vero? Give it all away?”

Vero smiled. “Ah, there has been much discussion about that. We Sentinels have toyed, as other organizations have, with having no money, but we think Assembly policy is right. Free food, lodging, clothing, and welfare, and a standard stipend for all on top to spend or give away. Totally money-free societies are dull; how can you give a present when it cost you nothing?”

“I'm sorry I didn't have time to get you anything today.”

“Send me some castle tree images; they will do.”

After a moment's silence Merral spoke. “So, you are off tomorrow? That's sooner than you had expected.”

Vero flexed his legs and seemed to look at his shoes carefully. He spoke slowly. “Yes. Sooner.”

Merral said nothing, and eventually Vero leaned forward on the chair, his hands clasped together, and looked up.

“What I'm about to say is really for sentinels. But that's advice, not rules. Do you know why I am here?”

“Not really; I have ideas.”

“Well, two weeks ago, Brenito—who is very respected, by the way—made an urgent call to Earth with a warning. We only have that happen every century or so. He simply said that he had had a vision that Farholme was under threat.”

“But what sort—?”

Vero raised a hand and gave a mock grimace. “Exactly our problem. I don't want to go into the details. But he couldn't clarify the danger. ‘Under threat,' that was all. Physical, spiritual, mental? He had no idea. So they weighed it all up and, bearing in mind that he is a hundred and five, they decided to send me. Well, everybody else was busy or had commitments.”

“You drew the Farholme card?”

Vero smiled slightly. “I suppose so.”

“What other options did they have?”

“A full threat evaluation team. So I'm here to try and find what the threat is and whether there is anything really wrong.” Vero looked at his feet again.

“And?”

He looked up. “Well, I have to say it's a tough assignment. You see, everything is strange here. The sun, the clouds, the buildings, are all peculiar. I can barely understand the dialect, and some aspects of your society are totally alien to me.”

“Really? Such as?”

“Don't sound so surprised. Many things that you take for granted. Like that thing you are wearing now.”

“My night-suit? What's wrong with that?” Merral looked down at his one-piece winter suit, trying to find anything odd about it.

Vero grinned and shook his head as if in despair. “See? You don't even realize it! That orange thing is an active thermal suit designed to protect you if you are forced to evacuate your building overnight or it collapses on you. It is visible on almost every waveband from ultraviolet to infrared and has a passive signal emitter so they can find your body under ten meters of titanium or magnesium-cored concrete debris. And it has your name and career and specialization encoded on it should they need to decide whether you are a priority to resuscitate when they find you.
That's
what's wrong with it.”

Merral found himself looking at his night-suit in a new way. “Oh,” he said.

“On Ancient Earth, Merral,” Vero continued, “we sleep in whatever we want. Some of us choose hopelessly impractical soft, fluffy things in pastel colors called pajamas or nightshirts. And we can choose and go to bed with a reasonable confidence that there will still be an atmosphere we can breathe in the morning.”

“I see. I suppose that could make a difference. . . .”

“A
difference
?” Vero laughed. “Oh, it does. Believe me. But you see that's what I mean. How can I find out what is wrong here when even your night clothes are odd!”

Merral raised a hand. “Sorry! But you Ancient Earthers are the odd ones out numerically!”

They laughed together until Merral managed to ask whether Vero had found anything.

Suddenly becoming quiet, the sentinel shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing to alarm me, nothing to persuade me that there is something wrong. But then I don't know what I am looking for. No one does. So I have decided to go tomorrow to Isterrane, and there in your capital I will try to see what ideas Brenito has. I may come back here, or I may travel around. But I do need to talk to Brenito.”

“I see. Do you think he has made a mistake?”

There was a thoughtful pause. “You are nearly as bad as Isabella with your questions. Yes, I am beginning to think it possible that the good Brenito may have overreacted. I have so far found nothing remotely odd or peculiar. Nothing at all. I'm glad of the chance of seeing Farholme. But I see, I feel, nothing.”

“If he has, what will you do?”

“Stay around for a bit, just in case. It was a long journey out, and without an emergency, it will be hard booking a passage on the route back in hurry. I need to write a report, anyway. I will be suggesting better ways of handling this sort of thing. Asking some hard questions.”

“Sounds radical.”

“
Radical?
That is a familiar word to me. ‘Where, Verofaza, is the boundary between being radical and being rebellious?' That was the dean of political history. Anyway, I shall find somewhere that reminds me of Earth and sit down and write a long review.”

He stood up. “I'd better leave you. I hope to be off on the early flight, so I'd better be in bed soon too. I'll be in touch.”

As Vero stood by the door, Merral went over and shook his hand. “Vero, I'm afraid I wish your mission total failure. But when Brenito confesses to having let his fruit juice ferment, come back and see what we are doing here. And I'll take you out of the town into the country. That's what you should see.”

Vero grinned and shook his hand firmly. “Let's indeed hope we can do that.”

Then with a quiet “Blessings,” he left the room.

After Vero had gone, Merral switched the light off, prayed, and then lay down and closed his eyes. But Vero's conversation had disturbed him and would not leave his mind. He wondered about the odd things that had happened at Herrandown.
Perhaps I should have discussed them with Vero.
However, as he considered them, it all seemed too unlikely to be of interest. The entire case hung on Barrand's words and now he was pushed to remember exactly what it was that he had said. No, there must just have been some misunderstanding there. One or both of them had overreacted, and Vero's arrival at the same time was just a coincidence.

Then he thought about the eleven thousand years of peace that the Assembly had had and that put his mind at rest. After all, one of the many lessons taught by that awesome span of history was that almost all potential crises had ended up being very much less than that.

Quite plainly, there was nothing to worry about.

6

O
ne morning some three months later, Merral looked up from his work on the map of the proposed northern extension of the Great Northern Forest and gazed out of his office window. The view looked eastward over the waters of Ynysmere Lake, and Merral had positioned his desk so that whenever he glanced up he saw the water and the rolling hills beyond. In winter, it encouraged him to come in early and catch the sunrise. But today the only view he had was one of a buffeting dull gray wetness in which it was hard to distinguish between the spray of the breaking waves, the blowing rain, and the clouds above.

Wondering at the weather, Merral shook his head. Winter had dragged on this year, and spring was more a fickle, fleeting guest than a permanent resident. Dry, sunny weather would come, and for a few days spirits would lift, windows would be opened, and jackets left at home. Then abruptly, out of the north would come a bitter whistling wind, or cold, soaking rains would blow in from the ocean far away to the east, and winter would be back. He consoled himself with the certainty that spring and summer would come in the end. Besides, he thought with a certain amusement, if the tropics posting—now almost certain—did come through, then he would doubtless miss the longs wet winters of northeastern Menaya.

He bent over the map again, but as he did so, the diary adjunct link on his watch pulsed gently three times. He glanced at his diary lying on the desk and saw that the screen confirmed an urgent and private call. He tabbed an acknowledgement back, and then got up and closed the door, trying to remember when he had last had such a message. He sat down and rotated the diary so its lens could image him and ordered it to open the link.

The image that flashed onto the tiny screen was that of Barrand and Zennia. They were sitting at the desk in his uncle's cluttered narrow office. The moment he saw them, Merral knew something was wrong. Zennia was plainly agitated, her face pale and taut, her eyes constantly flicking toward her husband while she clasped and unclasped her slender hands. Barrand, by contrast, was sitting still, but his hands were tightly folded together and his stern face had a determined look.

“Greetings, Uncle Barrand, Aunt Zennia.”

“Greetings to you, Merral. Thank you for your prompt response.”

His uncle's voice had a strange formality, and his aunt's smile seemed weak, strained.