“Charlie,” I said, my voice low and urgent.
Trumbull laughed. “Miss Marsh, your people are always so politely circumspect about these things. Do you think we’re ashamed? Ephraim Waite wanted to live forever, and failed—as all must, sooner or later. What we seek isn’t individual immortality, but the preservation of memories. As a child, I would have submitted to that purpose if called on—as most are—and I still will, someday, if I lose the ability to carry my recollections with the respect they’re due. But for as long as I can carry them I’ll remember the taste of your saltcakes, the sensory impressions that never transmute properly to words, after this world is barren rock. The young mind that nurtures my next body through its development stewards no such store of experience.”
Caleb glared at her. “You didn’t even like the saltcakes.”
“I don’t have to appreciate something personally to know that it’s beautiful. Or to know that it’s an important record.” To Audrey: “This is a story I tell my offspring. I was born two worlds before Earth, and on that world I sojourned among a people who communicated by stimulating their bioluminescent symbionts—something like fungi that grew on the surface of their bodies. The symbionts went extinct ten thousand years before the people who spoke through them. After that, they communicated only through writing; they forgot the rhythm of their own songs. But I remember. Song and scent and taste, what it looks like to be conscious of every part of the electromagnetic spectrum, what every sort of sapient body feels like from within—these things matter. And they matter, too, to the children who accept mortality that their ancestors’ memories might be carried a little further through the universe.”
“Well,” said Charlie after a moment. “I suppose if you tell yourself something for a few billion years, it gets convincing.” He stood. “If you all will excuse me, I need to get some rest. Mr. Marsh, do you want to come along?”
I put a hand on my brother’s arm. “Do you mind staying? I still want to talk.”
“Good night, then.” Charlie nodded to all of us save Trumbull, and left. I heard the thunk of his cane on the stairs, then the door. I would have to speak with him later, as well.
“I, too, will rest,” said Trumbull. She held up a hand, smiled grimly at it. “I must have gotten what I needed from the ceremony, if I find myself trying to explain rather than simply record. It is the place of the Yith to attempt understanding across vast gulfs of experience; there is no purpose in expecting you to do so.” With a nod, she rose and left.
The three of us who remained sat silent for a minute.
“I think,” Caleb said at length, “that there’s a reason most people who meet a Yith in the modern era only spend a few hours in their presence.”
“Because that’s about how long it takes for their arrogance to overcome your awe at the great keepers of the Archives?” I said. “Or because sooner or later, one feels compelled to pass judgment on them? I have no idea what to do with such judgment.”
“There’s nothing to do,” Caleb said. “She’s right—everyone goes out of their way to appease the Yith, but they don’t care whether we approve or condemn. I told you I didn’t want to know her for what she was.”
“Hard to avoid, though.” I saw Audrey staring quietly at the door, and asked: “Are you all right?”
She laughed. “That’s an interesting question. I’m more all right than I was Wednesday morning. Leroy’s hurt, but everything else … all that’s changed is that I know more.”
“That’s not a small thing,” I said.
“Are you gonna keep looking at me that way? Because I promise, I’m no more likely to explode than I was yesterday.”
“I know. And I saw this morning what you’re like under pressure. You don’t lose your mind in a crisis, and that’s huge.” I paused; I had a feeling it wouldn’t do to be dishonest with anyone in my confluence. “I’m sorry. I grew up hearing stories about the Mad Ones, and I suspect knowing one will take a little getting used to. I’ll do my best.”
“Like I said, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few days, it’s to be suspicious of the stories everyone knows.”
“The stories of the Mad Ones come from many sources,” I said reluctantly. “The Yith, the people of the air, the people of the water. All have testimony from those who stumble under the earth—the few that come back. All those travelers agree about what they’ve seen.”
“Which is what, exactly? If the people of the rock learned their suspicion of outsiders from meeting the Yith … maybe they’re just a little more willing to pass judgment than the rest of us.”
Caleb flinched, but said sharply: “And a little more willing to torture trespassers to death, and breed thinking creatures as cattle for food. Of all people, they’d see nothing wrong in what the Yith do. They might be confused that the Great Race gives any justification other than their own passing desires.”
Audrey considered that, then nodded. “Even the ancestors I know about have done some nasty things. However awful my secret crazy relatives were, they did something decent leaving their kids alone. Letting us grow up unburied by duty, or whatever it is they stick on kids in place of duty.”
“Duty’s not a bad thing, necessarily,” I said. “It depends what it is—and who’s defining it.”
“You gonna have those babies, then?”
I started—not because I hadn’t been thinking about the question, but because I hadn’t intended to discuss it with anyone but Caleb. “Maybe. After our conversation with Trumbull, having children and doing right by them feels more important. But if some part of my mind thinks I’m going to prove a point to Trumbull that way, it’s going to be disappointed.”
We talked more: nothing adequate to the revelations of the day. Perhaps it was a flaw in our language, or in our species.
CHAPTER 17
At last we noted the hour, and Audrey realized that the bus to Kingsport had already stopped running. She asked to stay the night, and we went downstairs to check the idea with Neko.
I was relieved to see that she was alone in the living room. “There you are,” she said. “I heard Professor Trumbull go to bed a while ago.”
“It’s been a long night,” I said. “Do you mind bunking with me? Audrey’s missed her bus.”
“That’s fine.” She held up the Plato. “Have you read this thing? He wants people to hand over their babies to the state, and have just a few people raise them all!”
It sounded like a horrible idea, and yet. “He could have worse suggestions.”
She put the book down on the side table, stood to wrap her arms around me. I returned the hug, grateful.
“Before you share a room with me,” said Audrey, looking at her hands, “you should know that I’m part inhuman monster.”