Schismatrix plus - Bruce Sterling [74]
"You'll notice there are two of them," the Shaper academic said. "I believe that the physical goings-on are tastefully concealed beneath the water. The fluid, rather."
"They don't look much alike," Lindsay said. "It seems more likely that one is eating the other. If they're alive at all."
"That's what I said," rasped Sigmund Fetzko. The Mechanist renegade, by far the oldest of the six of them, lay back in his chair in exhaustion. Words came to him with difficulty, propelled by flexing rib-braces beneath his heavy coat. "The second one has dimples. Shell collapsing. Juice sucked out of it." A Vetterling child came into the room, chasing a runaway gyroscope. Vet-terling Looked at Neville Pongpianskul, changing the subject. The child left. "It is a good marriage," Pongpianskul replied. "Mavrides grace with Vetterling determination: a formidable match. Mikhaila Vetterling shows promise, I think; what was her split?"
Vetterling was smug. "Sixty Vetterling, thirty Mavrides, and ten percent Garza on a general reciprocity deal. But I saw to it that the Garza genes were close to early-line Vetterling. None of that new-line Garza tampering. Not till there's proof behind it."
"Young Adelaide Garza is brilliant," said Margaret Juliano. "One of my advanced students. The Superbrights are astounding, Regent. A quantum leap." She smoothed the lapel of her medal-studded overvest with graceful, wrinkled hands.
"Really?" said Ross. "I was married to the older Adelaide once."
"What happened to Adelaide?" said Pongpianskul.
Ross shrugged. "Faded."
A faint chill crossed the room. Lindsay changed the subject. "We're planning a new veranda. Nora needs this one for her office."
"She needs a bigger place?" said Pongpianskul.
Lindsay nodded. "Tenure. And this is our best discreet. Wakefield Zaibatsu did the debugging. Otherwise we have to have the debuggers in again; it'll turn the place upside down."
"Building on credit?" Ross said.
"Of course." Lindsay smiled.
"Too flaming much loose credit in G-T these days," Ross said. "I don't hold with it."
"Ah, Ross," Vetterling said, "you haven't changed those digs of yours in eighty years. A man can't turn sideways in those core ratholes. Take us Vetter-lings, now. The bridegroom just delivered us the specs for a new complex of in-flatables."
"Jerry-built crap," Ross opined. "G-T's too crowded these days anyway. Too many young sharks. Things smell good now but there's crash in the air, I can feel it. When it comes, I'll pull up stakes and head for the cometaries. Been too long since I last tested my luck."
Pongpianskul Looked at Lindsay, communicating in the set of his wrinkled eyelids his amused contempt for Ross's incessant luck-bragging. Ross had made his big mining strike a century ago and had never let anyone forget it. Though he incessantly goaded others on, Ross's own risk-taking was confined almost entirely to his odd choice of waistcoats.
"I have a Clique candidate," Vetterling said. "Very polite, very well-spoken. Carl Zeuner."
"The playwright?" said Margaret Juliano. "I don't care for his work."
"You mean he's not a Detentiste," Vetterling said. "He doesn't fit your pacifism, Margaret. Mavrides, I believe you know the man."
"We've met," Lindsay said.
"Zeuner's a fascist," said Pongpianskul. The topic galvanized the elderly doctor; he leaned forward intently, knotting his hands. "He's Philip Constan-tine's man. He spent years in the Republic. A playground for Shaper imperialists."
Vetterling frowned. "Calm yourself, Neville. I know the Concatenation; I was born there. Constantine's work there should have been done a hundred years ago."
"You mean fill his garden world with broken-down assassins?"
"To bring a new world into the Shaper community—"
"Nothing but cultural genocide." Pongpianskul