understand?”
This last remark is obscure, but I do not follow it up. There will be time to establish the methodology tomorrow, when I am taken to the Library for my twenty-four-hour visit. I wait for her to leave, though I trust my body language does not betray any impatience.
But she does not leave, not yet. Instead she gestures again towards the Library building and says, “I share your pain.”
The same cryptic disclosure. This time, the inflexion of it sounds like a question.
Perhaps, I theorize, they have detected my impatience and are empathizing on that level. I say nothing in reply, not knowing what could cause offence among this undemonstrative people. Then she leaves, presumably to tend to her whelps.
The view through the diamond picture window is now more somber: it is after sunset, and few lights adorn the turrets and domes. I take a seat on the end of the chaise, and drag closer my portmanteau, to check that the three decamole storage satchels are still green-lighting. Remembering the heft of the portmanteau as I carried it across the room earlier today, I am envious of the Cygnids’ rumored mastery of atomic-level storage, suggestive of a capacity for miniaturization which still eludes us.
The amount of memory in my storage satchels is, almost certainly, excessive, but I do not wish this unprecedented access to their Library to be compromised by device failure. I do not think I could live that down.
I place the Cygnid reader device atop the portmanteau; then, on a whim, pick it up again and point it towards the floor. I press the button indicated by the Gamma female: the machine thrums, in a rhythmic, unsettling fashion, but displays no other activity. I press the button again, and the vibration ceases. At least it has power, though I do not understand its operation. I close my eyes, running through a meditation routine to still myself, to attempt to brush away the anticipation of tomorrow’s activity. Then I rise, feeling the need to use the body-waste alcove.
An hour later, I have almost succeeded in chasing down sleep when the door scissors open and a Beta scurries into the room, its orange fur bedraggled. “Apologies,” it ventriloquizes.
I nod in response, pulling myself to a sitting position, yawning.
“ I share your pain?” it asks.
I shake my head, unsure as ever of the intent of this phrase – presumably it refers to some hospitality ritual of which I had not been made aware, but it can certainly wait until tomorrow. I would have been informed, surely, if this was a necessary prerequisite for my Library visit.
The Beta looks discomfited, but bows and retreats back through the doorway.
The morning sun shines through a break in the sepia cloud cover to illuminate me into wakefulness. I check my chrono. It reads 0630 local, so I can expect my Cygnid escort to ferry me to the Library at any time after the next hour or so.
Again, awaiting instructions, I inspect the reader device and the storage satchels, which all display normal activity (whatever that indicates, in the case of the Cygnid reader). I wish, anew, that I had brought some reading matter with me. I attempt to meditate once more, but lack the patience. Time drags.
After a brooding half-hour or so, breakfast is brought. The Gamma – another female, but older I think than yesterday’s – stands and, inevitably, offers to share my pain. “That won’t be necessary,” I inform her, keen to avoid the awkward pause that has followed the Cygnids’ previous requests of this type. She looks unhappy nevertheless – though I may be mistaken, I am no master of Gamma body language, even after twenty years as liaison officer here – and bows out, leaving me to my breakfast.
There are, during the morning, five more visits by five different Cygnids:
This last remark is obscure, but I do not follow it up. There will be time to establish the methodology tomorrow, when I am taken to the Library for my twenty-four-hour visit. I wait for her to leave, though I trust my body language does not betray any impatience.
But she does not leave, not yet. Instead she gestures again towards the Library building and says, “I share your pain.”
The same cryptic disclosure. This time, the inflexion of it sounds like a question.
Perhaps, I theorize, they have detected my impatience and are empathizing on that level. I say nothing in reply, not knowing what could cause offence among this undemonstrative people. Then she leaves, presumably to tend to her whelps.
The view through the diamond picture window is now more somber: it is after sunset, and few lights adorn the turrets and domes. I take a seat on the end of the chaise, and drag closer my portmanteau, to check that the three decamole storage satchels are still green-lighting. Remembering the heft of the portmanteau as I carried it across the room earlier today, I am envious of the Cygnids’ rumored mastery of atomic-level storage, suggestive of a capacity for miniaturization which still eludes us.
The amount of memory in my storage satchels is, almost certainly, excessive, but I do not wish this unprecedented access to their Library to be compromised by device failure. I do not think I could live that down.
I place the Cygnid reader device atop the portmanteau; then, on a whim, pick it up again and point it towards the floor. I press the button indicated by the Gamma female: the machine thrums, in a rhythmic, unsettling fashion, but displays no other activity. I press the button again, and the vibration ceases. At least it has power, though I do not understand its operation. I close my eyes, running through a meditation routine to still myself, to attempt to brush away the anticipation of tomorrow’s activity. Then I rise, feeling the need to use the body-waste alcove.
An hour later, I have almost succeeded in chasing down sleep when the door scissors open and a Beta scurries into the room, its orange fur bedraggled. “Apologies,” it ventriloquizes.
I nod in response, pulling myself to a sitting position, yawning.
“ I share your pain?” it asks.
I shake my head, unsure as ever of the intent of this phrase – presumably it refers to some hospitality ritual of which I had not been made aware, but it can certainly wait until tomorrow. I would have been informed, surely, if this was a necessary prerequisite for my Library visit.
The Beta looks discomfited, but bows and retreats back through the doorway.
The morning sun shines through a break in the sepia cloud cover to illuminate me into wakefulness. I check my chrono. It reads 0630 local, so I can expect my Cygnid escort to ferry me to the Library at any time after the next hour or so.
Again, awaiting instructions, I inspect the reader device and the storage satchels, which all display normal activity (whatever that indicates, in the case of the Cygnid reader). I wish, anew, that I had brought some reading matter with me. I attempt to meditate once more, but lack the patience. Time drags.
After a brooding half-hour or so, breakfast is brought. The Gamma – another female, but older I think than yesterday’s – stands and, inevitably, offers to share my pain. “That won’t be necessary,” I inform her, keen to avoid the awkward pause that has followed the Cygnids’ previous requests of this type. She looks unhappy nevertheless – though I may be mistaken, I am no master of Gamma body language, even after twenty years as liaison officer here – and bows out, leaving me to my breakfast.
There are, during the morning, five more visits by five different Cygnids:
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