Fledgling (8 page)

"Oh," Ella said, "him." She tipped her glass in an easterly direction. "Over at the receiving area, last I saw. Looks stiff and chilly and stern. He'll fit right in with the rest of the tenured."

Kamele grinned.

"I do feel for him," her friend continued; "just a bit. His back has got to hurt like destruction. Mine would, after all those bows."

"Bows?"

"One for each of the seniors, as they passed by on review," Ella said. "Very elegant, each one. The Chancellor and Director Varlin were positively
aghast,
you could tell by the way they just stood there next to him, like they'd been dipped in plastic and left to dry. I suppose they didn't go over protocol with him, or expect that he'd bring his own."

Kamele choked a little on her sherry.

"Did you introduce yourself?" she asked.

"I was waiting for
you
," Ella answered repressively.

"That was noble." Kamele had a last sip of sherry and regretfully placed the nearly full glass on a nearby tray. "Since I'm here, I guess we'd better do our duty and introduce ourselves, so we can be promptly forgotten."

"What else are junior faculty for?" Ella asked rhetorically, placing her glass on the tray as well.

"Waste of perfectly good sherry," she muttered, as she slipped her arm through Kamele's and the two of them stepped out into the light.

Gallowglass Chair Professor Jen Sar Kiladi was not a tall man; indeed, Kamele thought, he was slightly shorter than her own somewhat-less-than-average height. He was, however,
upright,
and wore his formal robes with an air; right hand resting lightly on the head of the black ironwood cane that was the badge of his station. His face was sharp-featured, and displayed a certain patient politeness. One received the impression that he could stand there, coolly elegant and not at all discommoded, the whole night through and into tomorrow morning.

Arm-in-arm, she and Ella tarried at a polite distance while a junior in the dusky purple robe of the Hard Sciences offered a trembling introduction in a voice too soft for them to hear.

"Not a beauty," Ella whispered, leaning her head companionably against Kamele's. "More's the pity."

Kamele bit her lip. Ella had an eye for a pretty man, though surely Professor Kiladi was so far above either of them that it hardly mattered if he was easy on the eyes or a three-headed ogre.

The Gallowglass Chair had done with the trembling junior, who was walking rapidly in the direction of the nearest source of sherry.

"Our turn," Ella whispered. She slipped her arm free and stepped forward.

At the edge of the receiving area, she paused and brought her hands together in the Scholar's Text.

"Ella ben Suzan," she said, her voice perhaps, Kamele thought, a shade too crisp. "History of Education."

Professor Kiladi bowed, graceful as a dancer.

"Scholar ben Suzan," he murmured, his voice deep and grainy.

Ella gave him a firm nod and moved aside. Kamele stepped up to take her place.

Looking at a point just over his right shoulder, she brought her hands together to form the open book. "Kamele Waitley. History of Education."

Professor Kiladi tipped his head. "You are a singer, Scholar Waitley?" he asked, and for a moment she thought he had caught her out; knew of her lateness and the reason and was about to call her to the attention of the Chancellor.

Gasping, she met his bold black gaze—and managed a quick smile and a head shake.

"I'm a member of a chorale," she said, speaking carefully. "Recreational only, of course. My studies are my life's work."

"Certainly," he replied, "study illuminates the lives of all scholars. Yet there must be room for recreation as well, and joy in those things which are not study. I myself find a certain pleasure in . . . outdoor pursuits."

"Outdoor?" She looked at him doubtfully. "Outside the Wall?"

He raised an eyebrow. "There is a whole planet outside the Wall," he murmured. "Surely you were aware?"

Was there, Kamele wondered, a thread of dry humor in that craggy voice?

"I've heard it said," she answered, matching his tone as nearly as she might. "But tell me—what manner of pleasure may be had outside of the Wall?"

"Why, all manner!" he declared, bold eyes flashing. "Gardening, fishing, walking among the trees and growing things, watching the sun set, or the stars rise . . ."

"Watching the sun set?" Was he having fun at her expense? "That seems a very . . . fleeting pleasure."

"I have heard it argued that the highest pleasures are ephemeral, and best enjoyed in retrospect." He paused, then added, softly, "Though there are those of us who disagree."

Kamele caught a motion of robes from the edge of her eye and turned to look. Ella was moving away with the new adjunct from Mathematics—Norz? Vorz? She couldn't recall, though he was excessively pretty. And that was doubtless the last she'd see of Ella tonight.

Abruptly, she recalled herself, and looked back, surprising a look of . . . sympathy on Professor Kiladi's face.

"Forgive me," he began, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

"I think we must have been the last faculty to introduce ourselves," she said seriously. "Would you like a glass of sherry? I'd like to learn more about the pleasures of watching the sun set, if you'd be kind enough to teach me."

Some time later, with the hall all but empty, they were still talking. Professor Kiladi had not grown prettier; indeed, the best that could be said was that he had an
interesting
face. Kamele found it became more interesting—found
him
more interesting—as they continued to talk. The black eyes were quick, and the humor disguised by the deep, rough voice surprisingly—and enjoyably—wicked. It was probable, Kamele conceded, that Professor Kiladi was something . . . less than . . . compliant.

"I have undertaken the impossible!" he declared at last, with a rueful smile and a regretful shake of his head. "I cannot
teach you
a sunset, Scholar. You must experience it at first-hand."

Kamele put her—second? third?—empty glass down on the tray and considered him. "All right," she said equitably. "Show me."

Both well-marked brows rose, and he lifted his hand, the twisted silver ring on the smallest finger catching the light.

"Scholar, you must forgive an old man his—"

He paused, his expression arrested, seeming scarcely to breathe. Concerned, Kamele dared to touch his deeply braided sleeve.

"Professor Kiladi, are you all right?"

He blinked as if he were bringing her back into focus and gave her a smile that seemed . . . less genuine than his other smiles.

"A consultation with my muse; I did not mean to alarm you." He glanced down into his half-full glass, then up into her face.

"If you wish it, I will be pleased to show you a sunset, Scholar Waitley. We merely need to find a time when our schedules—and the planet's rotation—align."

"Thank you," Kamele breathed, her eyes still on the violet-drenched horizon. "That was . . ." Words failed her; she smiled and turned to face him. "Thank you," she said again.

He returned her smile.

"It was no effort of mine, I assure you," he said. "You might experience a sunset yourself every day, if you wished to do so."

"Not every day," she said wistfully. "You saw my schedule!"

"So I did," he acknowledged. "But the fact that you are here proves that there is at least one evening when you may partake of this pleasure."

She nodded, her eyes drawn again to the horizon, where the gaudy display was deepening to black.

"And this is only one of those pleasures you told me of," she said. "Is watching the stars as . . . glorious?"

"The stars impart a different, but I find, equally satisfying pleasure," he said softly.

"I imagine that it would be difficult to time that particular pleasure," she murmured. "Night Eyes open at tenbell."

"Surely the monitors would not consider someone quietly sitting and looking at the sky a danger?"

"It would be . . . odd behavior, even if it wasn't specifically on the danger list," she pointed out. "For the purpose of public safety, odd is dangerous."

There was a small pause, and a light sight. "I do keep forgetting," Professor Kiladi said ruefully. "Delgado is a Safe World."

"You say that as if it were . . . unsavory," Kamele said, turning to look into his face.

He raised an eyebrow. "Unsavory . . . no. Far different from other worlds? That . . . yes." He looked out though the final light had faded into night, and was silent long enough that Kamele dared a question.

"What are you thinking?"

"Eh?" He blinked and raised his head, offering her an absentminded smile.

"I was thinking that perhaps I should acquire quarters outside of the Wall."

She turned to stare at him. "
Outside
of the Wall?" she repeated, shocked to the core of her Mouse's heart.

"Indeed," he said coolly, as if there were nothing remarkable in the plan at all. "A small house, perhaps, down there—" He pointed downhill from their shared seat on the bench in the faculty green.

"In Nonactown?"

"Not, I think, in Efraim itself," he murmured; "the lights would spoil the stars. No . . . perhaps over there, to the right of town. A small house, with a walled garden, so that I might sit out all night if the fancy takes me, without embarrassment to the Directors."

"Would you do that?" Kamele looked at him doubtfully. His sense of humor was so dry that it was sometimes difficult to know when Professor Kiladi was joking. On this instance, however, he did appear to be serious.

He smiled at her. "I have, alas, been known to take odd fancies. Shall I escort you inside now?"

"Not . . . just yet," she said, looking down at the lights of the town. She struggled to understand him. To want to live outside of the Wall; distant by choice from one's intellectual colleagues. How odd. And yet—a sunset every day? That might tempt, she thought.

"Will you grow . . . crops in your garden?" she asked, as if it were the most usual thing imaginable.

He laughed. "Flowers, I assure you! Perhaps some shrubs. A tree . . ." He took a breath, and shook his head slightly, as if amused by his own plans.

"Is that another—Outside pleasure?" she asked. "Growing flowers?"

"I fear that it may be," he confessed.

Lights were coming up in the town below. A garden, Kamele thought, with . . . flowers.

"I would like to see that," she said finally.

"I would be delighted to invite you, once all is accomplished," he answered gallantly.

"And I'd be delighted to accept the invitation." She smiled and rose. "I have to go in and grade papers," she said. She held out a hand and he placed his palm against hers. "Thank you again, Professor Kiladi."

"Please," he said, his rough voice serious, "let me be Jen Sar."

That was another shock, but a pleasant one. She smiled.

"And let me be Kamele," she said.

"Assuredly," he murmured. He stood and offered his arm. Together they strolled back toward the Wall.

University of Delgado
Faculty Residence Wall
Quadrant Eight, Building Two

Theo's mumu sang its
you're-this-close-to-trouble
tune as the bus pulled into the Wall terminal. She threw herself down the exit ramp and ran across the plaza for the entrance.

"Chaos and destruction!" Night Eyes opened at tenbell, but Mice who hadn't had their
Gigneri
were supposed to be inside by ninebells, or they'd better have a bluekey to show the Safeties at the entrance. Being Outside after curfew without a bluekey—
that
was a trip to the Safety Office, Kamele and Marjene called in for an instant meeting with a Safety Liaison, and herself presented with a Plan of Behavior. At least, Theo thought, running as fast as she could,
that
kind of trouble wouldn't pull down the Team average.

"You didn't get enough notes in your file for one day?" she muttered as she slapped her palm against the scan plate and waited in an agony of impatience for the main door to open.

Open it did, painfully slow. She slid through when the gap was wide enough to admit her skinny self, took a breath and walked—
calmly
—past the Safety station and the Eye, toward the belt platform.

Her mumu thweeped ninebells as she stepped onto the belt for Quadeight Twobuild. Theo sighed in relief—then shook her head. She'd managed to dodge trouble with the Safeties, but she still had her mother to face.

"The bus was late," she said experimentally. While this was actually true, it sounded like an excuse. Kamele—and Father too, if it mattered—would say that it was her responsibility to be sure of the timetable before she traveled, and to plan in advance. She had just
assumed
that the evening bus would run the same route, and take the same time, as the morning commuter bus—and she'd been wrong.

Unlike the daytime commuter, the late bus wandered the streets of Nonactown, picking up and setting down an astonishing variety of passengers, most of whom stared at her coveralls and sweater like they'd never seen a student before, and two who were definitely the kind of people that Father
Looked At
. People Father
Looked At
inevitably looked—and often moved—away. Without Father there, they stared, and then they'd moved, all right. They came over to sit in the seat behind her, whispering loud enough for her to hear.

"Fluffy-headed dacky girls shouldn't be on the bus all alone, should they, Vinter?" the first whispered.

"Dacky girls think the whole world's safe," the second, presumably Vinter, whispered back. "Dacky girls think the Eyes never close."

"The Eyes don't watch everything—even we know that!"

"Got another maybe," Vinter said.

"What's that?"

Vinter's voice sank, though it was still perfectly intelligible to Theo, where she sat very still, with her head turned toward the side screen, pretending hard not to notice them.