Halfway Human Page 18

  Patternists form orders: they are focused on information creation & control, like our infocompanies, but not so commercial. Communities are commercial, but materially oriented, like our governments—they specialize in building, manufacturing, agriculture, “sapping” (harvesting tree sap), other basic economic activities. They are hierarchical, ruled by mattergraves. All are decentralized: hundreds, perhaps thousands, of orders and communities arranged in loose networks, scattered geographically in many convergences. No wonder they are at odds how to handle us. They have no apparatus for making global decisions, only local ones. No, not even that—communal ones.

  I know now why I see no poor. No one can be poor who belongs to an order or community, since they take care of their own. The only poor are the placeless ones, outside the system by their own choice. My guides say there are few; I can see why. How would they support themselves? Where turn in an emergency? No family, no property—independence is impossible. Or at least, undesirable.

  Caught sight of another neuter, cleaning rooms in a hallway. It scurried away before I could get close, like a shy animal. I must find where they all live.

  ***

  Finally, the decision about what to do with us. The “scatter them widely” faction won—probably less from fear of us (we are not very fearful) than from eagerness of all the competing orders and communities to have an alien visitor of their very own. Fancy being a status symbol.

  I am to be assigned to a patternist order in Tapis Convergence, a midcontinent backwater. Apparently they pegged me as a patternist type. I will be the only Capellan at Tapis, which suits me fine—all the more opportunity to foster ties with the locals. I shall be “adopted” into an order—they simply cannot relate to us as long as we remain outside their social system. Mine is an order of “questionaries.” No precise Capellan parallel, something between journalist and social scientist.

  I will be sorry to leave this convergence. It is lively and lovely. There are three central lightwells ringed by stacked balconies. They grow trailing plants to drip over the balconies, and wind the leaves through with little sparkling lights, so that it looks like a green waterfall by day, a cascade of stars by night. Everyone goes to lean on the balconies and people-watch. There are strolling musicians, and the music echoes nicely up and down the shaft. I asked one minstrel if he belonged to an order. Yes, of course—he busks in his spare time, just for the joy of it.

  Their dress is colorful and creative, but rather unisexual—I can tell no difference between that of men & women. Men may wear jewelry & feathers in their hair, women wear boots & overalls if they please. Reflects the egalitarian nature of gender roles. Exposure of sexual organs is frowned on (though, I gather, practiced in certain “wild” settings by young people). I have gotten a rather Puritanical sense from them, but not gloomy or repressive—more high-minded & stoic. The main variation in dress is between orders & communities, each of which have a characteristic color & cut of clothes, a kind of uniform, though interpreted very individualistically by members. When “off duty,” they wear anything they please.

  They tell me Tapis is a very “liberal” convergence, though what that means I don’t know. It was said as if I should welcome the news.

  ***

  The head of my new order came to fetch me. She is called Ovide Hornaday Questionary—a smallish dynamo with a droll, sarcastic sense of humor. I liked her instantly. Soon we were joking like old buds. How well this is all turning out!

  We traveled to Tapis by aircar, a conveyance that specializes in meal extraction—lurching, nauseous swoops both up & down. I barely managed to keep hold of my dignity & breakfast. I have no idea what keeps the damned vehicle aloft, which added to my discomfort. Interstellar lightbeam travel I can manage, but this suspension in air is terrifying.

  Tapis proves to be just as lovely as Magnus Convergence. Though smaller, it was designed with a real eye to architecture. Their central “shaft,” as they call the light-well, is very irregular—each floor is a different geometric shape stacked on the one below. A triangle on a hexagon on a rhomboid, & so forth. At one point there is a six-story waterfall right down one side of the lightwell. Each order and community in the convergence has its own subsidiary shaft, with all its facilities opening off it, and radiating hallways that intersect confusingly with the hallways of other stacks, so that I know I will be lost most of the time. I praised the beauty of the place to Ovide, and she said it has always been a center of the arts. It was, she said, the place where the Sensualist Movement originated 40-plus years ago. This was not, I gather, what it sounds like, but rather a school of aesthetic & religious thought that later verged into social reform.

  Ovide has assigned me a guide named Annika Hornaday Questionary. I asked thoughtlessly if the names meant they were related, & received a rather disapproving response from young Annika. Seems the second name is called the honorific; everyone chooses one to honor some mentor they admire. So they often indicate schools of thought or political alliances within the order. The first name is given at “birth” (i.e., matriculation), and people have no choice about it. The last name indicates the order or community one belongs to. I am now Alair Galele Questionary.

  Annika is very bright, but young and rather naively doctrinaire. She spent our first tour feeding me the party line about her culture. She is quite aware of the evils of gender discrimination, apparently having studied it in history, and has formed the idea that I come from a gender-biased culture. “We have no subordination of women,” she told me (her tone implied I ought to be apologizing). “Our socialization process is almost entirely without gender bias. We are raised in a strictly egalitarian environment. We never have to separate our identities from role models of one sex or the other. Protos see women and men in every role: nurturing, authoritarian, educational, physically demanding. They form no stereotypes or prejudices. As a result, very few feel uncomfortable with their sex, since it carries so few cultural or behavioral restrictions with it.”

  I think I was hearing her thesis.

  She feels that the Gammadian social arrangement is responsible for the almost complete absence of war & strife. When she went so far as to say there was no conflict, I finally challenged her. She admitted bad things happen—“But who wants to dwell on them?” Don’t know if this denial is political or personal. I pushed—what sort of bad things? People cheat, fail to meet their goals. I pushed more. Lying? (Yes.) Theft? (No, property mores too communal.) Murder? (Uncomfortably, yes. She claims it is occasional.) Rape? (I didn’t know the word, so described it. She said there was no word for it, quite disgusted at the idea.) Very enlightening conversation. Made her very uncomfortable.

  My quarters here are more modest than at Magnus, as befits a member of a not-very-large order—though I still have bedroom, workroom, lounge, kitchen, and bathroom to myself. There is a wall screen, but no entertainment on it—just information services. Every day the place is cleaned and linen replaced by invisible elves. I never see them. I asked Annika who my benefactors were and she said, “The blands do the cleaning.” I asked if it were appropriate to leave them a tip, and she said, “Oh no, don’t encourage them.” (Odd. Why not?) I shall try it anyway. And some day I will lurk in my room to see them.

  Meals are served in a communal hall, though there are also restaurants and cafes on the Questionaries’ shaft (“Questishaft”) where one can eat privately for a fee. For the moment, I prefer the refectory. It is completely automated. The menu is listed on a screen, and you simply touch the items you want. Presently they appear on a roundtable server, and you take your tray to a table. Afterwards you bus your dishes to a similar roundtable, and they disappear. All quite neat & efficient. The first time we went, Annika introduced me to a tableful of questionaries who were quite friendly & curious, and rather surprised I wasn’t being given a more VIP treatment. I tried to convince them that would be counterproductive.

  “Don’t worry,” one man said ironically, “it wouldn’t suit Ovide’s a
genda. No doubt she wants you mingling with the riffraff.”

  I was very curious what this meant, but the others seemed uncomfortable at the man’s statement, so I couldn’t pursue it. I will have to look him up privately. His name is Gambion.

  I got all the other usual questions—what my planet is like, what I’m here to study, what’s my impression of Taramond. I’m getting very good at answering without saying much. The F.C.s would be proud.

  The second night there was a reception in my honor. They gave me questionary regalia to wear—black pants and high-necked, long-sleeved shirt, with a scarlet sleeveless robe (knee length) over the top. Surprisingly comfortable. The more distinguished members of the order wear sashes across the chest, and medals. Black boots, and for very formal occasions (or outdoor work) a hat. Women & men dress the same, of course. We looked like a flock of marsh blackbirds.

  Ovide introduced me all round, and I answered the 10 questions again & again. They are quite excited to have me, and all want to show me their research. No way to tell them I’d rather see their living arrangements.

  I saw Gambion there, and made a point to go over to him. Annika was trailing me, so I asked her to fetch me a drink. Gambion watched as she left, and said, “She’s very pretty. Are you screwing her?”

  I was taken aback. Was this the vaunted sexual equality? I stammered, “Is that...expected?”

  “Only if she’s offered,” he said.

  “She hasn’t.”

  “Probably wise to keep your distance anyway. Ovide might get jealous.”

  From which I had the revelation that Ovide and Annika are lovers. Is this an added implication of the names?

  I had a thousand questions then: homosexuality, monogamy, teacher-student relations, privacy strictures, sexual taboos. But I wasn’t sure this was the proper setting for such intimate matters; then Annika came back. So we exchanged pleasantries for a while. All quite boring and socially acceptable.

  The next day I asked Annika where people go to enjoy themselves when they’re not at parties for visiting aliens. “I go to Heller’s on the main stack,” she said, “but you wouldn’t want to go there.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “It’s for young people.”

  “Oh, my poor ego!” I said.

  She was immediately concerned that I was serious. “I’ll take you, if you want.”

  “No, tell me where the decrepit old people go.”

  “There’s a coffeehouse the senior faculty like.”

  “Are you sure I can hobble that far?”

  “It’s right on the Questishaft,” she said seriously. The girl has not a trace of humor.

  “Well, show me the way,” I said.

  It proved indeed to be a place offering specialty coffees (bless the Diasporans and their terraforming kits—they knew what was really important to bring along). In addition, there was a bar that served a very good fermented grain beverage they call hopscotch. Very few people were there, so we took a table alone.

  “Tell me, Annika, what do people here do when they fall in love?” I said.

  “Why, are you in love with someone?” she said, startled. I think she half suspected I was making a pass at her.

  “No, this is what I study,” I said.

  “You study love?”

  “Among other things. Mating habits, sexual mores, that sort of thing. It’s often a key to understanding a culture. Tends to be an emotionally charged topic.”

  “Oh.”

  “So answer my question.”

  “Well, they often move in together...” Her voice trailed off. I waited, expecting more, but no more came. I couldn’t tell if she were uncomfortable.

  “Does this embarrass you?” I said. “Is it inappropriate for me to ask?”

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “Well, go on then. Is there such a thing as marriage any more?”

  “There’s partnership,” she said, “when two people have a lasting relationship. But they don’t have to be in love to become partners. It helps, of course.”

  “Does partnership have any legal standing?”

  “No. There’s not supposed to be any obligation on either side. No property or anything. But, you know...” She looked down. Something was bothering her.

  “Do you have a partner?” I asked.

  “Ovide,” she said. There was no hesitancy to the admission, so apparently no stigma was involved here.

  “Is that public knowledge?” I asked to make sure.

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, the whole point is, she’s supposed to be helping me, sponsoring me. Like she’s done by letting me be your guide. Everyone envies me. But I’m not sure any more that that’s a good thing. People are sniping at me, you know. They can be so petty. It doesn’t matter as long as I’ve got Ovide’s protection. But if she dumps me... She could, you know. Any time she decides she likes someone else better. There’s no obligation. I could dump her, too, but why would I? It’s my whole career at stake.”

  “So you feel pretty insecure?”

  “That’s right. Insecure.”

  “Do you love her?” I asked gently.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I do. I need her, that’s the thing. I was never going to be anything till I caught her eye.”

  “Does this happen to many young people?” I asked. “Partnership with an older person, a sponsor in their order?”

  “Only to the lucky ones,” she said.

  “But you don’t feel very lucky right now.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, I’ll tell her what a good job you’re doing,” I said.

  She looked up at me, and I saw the first flash of real warmth in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

  I felt sorry for the girl, but couldn’t tell why she thought her problem was so earth-shattering. Adolescent angst, no doubt.

  ***

  Some of Annika’s observations about gender roles appear to be true. Male & female roles are not at all distinct. Women will ask men to help them in a task requiring strength, but only as one might ask a person with good eyesight to read a sign, or a person with a good voice to lead a song. There is no sense of superiority or inferiority, just difference. To me, Gammadian men seem less aggressive than Capellans, certainly less than Oremen. They dominate conversations less, do not lead the way when walking. Women quite unconsciously assume more competitive roles than in gender-polarized societies, for instance in arguments or shared tasks. Both men and women seem less judgmental of the other sex, watch each other less, manipulate less. They still flirt quite overtly, but not while business is involved—only in social situations.

  Q: Can it be they have, as Annika claims, a violence-free society (or close to it)? Can one eliminate crime and conflict by the simple expedient of eliminating gender tension?

  The above observations may be quite superficial, coming as they do from an afternoon strolling around the Questishqft and sitting at a cafe table, noting down behaviors and eavesdropping on conversations. Annika thought me quite lazy, to spend my time lounging at a cafe while I could be doing research.

  Ovide called me in to chat. She apologized for neglecting me, said she’d been busy. True to my word, I told her Annika had been taking care of me nicely.

  “You have been shocking the pants off her,” Ovide said, looking at me in that forthright, humorous way she has. “Every night she comes home rattled about something else you’ve done or said.”

  I realized then that Annika was spying on me for Ovide. It had been naive of me not to realize it before.

  “I’m sorry if I violated any standards of behavior,” I said. “But...

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I think Annika needs a little shaking up.”

  Ovide broke out laughing. “So she does. You are good for her, I suppose.” She grew thoughtful then. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that there are a lot of things that need shaking up around here.”
>
  She seemed to be fishing for some reaction from me, and it made me quite uncomfortable. I am not foolish enough to criticize their social system to a member of the power structure, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.

  Seeing my difficulty, she adopted a more businesslike tone. “I want to put the resources of the order at your disposal so that your research will go smoothly. It would help if I knew what you hope to learn.”

  The unspoken question: What is your agenda here? Of course, I don’t have an agenda, but try to convince them of that. I said, “I don’t know what I’ll learn until I learn it. Really.”

  I must have seemed evasive. She said, “I hope that your findings will prove useful to us as well as to you.”

  Ordinarily, I would have assumed that this meant, I hope you justify the current power structure. But her remark about things needing shaking up had thrown me badly off balance. I stammered some cardboard cliché about helping them understand themselves better. I’m sure she thought I was hiding what I was really up to. But I’m blessed if I know what she is up to.

  ***

  Did I ever say these people are Puritanical? I was absolutely wrong! I have just come back from my first casual visit to a Gammadian at home, and my impression of them has taken a complete turn.

  Gambion asked me over for “dinner and a swim.” Annika did not altogether approve of the company I was going to keep, which reinforced my impression that Gambion is of a different clique than Ovide. When I asked if it were appropriate to bring a gift, she said absolutely, and offered to help me choose one from a little shop on the Questishaft. She picked a specialty cheese with a worm in the center; I suspected her of rather pointed symbolism, but she assured me it was a great delicacy, and the reaction I got when I presented it was quite appreciative.

  As a senior patternist, Gambion lives in very nice quarters—quite a lot more spacious and, of course, more personalized than mine. There were three other guests: a thin, artistic-looking older woman named Auri and a young couple, Linna (the woman) and Bors (the young man). At first I could not sort out their relationships. From the conversation I gathered that Auri and Gambion were partners, and had been for years. She must have been his sponsor when he was an up-and-comer, since she is somewhat older. But then someone referred to Gambion and Bors as partners, despite the fact that Bors and Linna were sitting on a couch with their arms around one another. I finally had to call time out and ask directly.