Текст книги "Forge of Heaven "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Do you possibly think its thoughts?”

“No, Mr. Ambassador. My cultureis Earth. I assure you I think the thoughts of a person born in Paris.”

“While you support a living museum and collect pots from the Ruined Worlds. Immune to time. Literally immortal. Resistant to change.” The sphinx moved off, touring the room.

“Sir,” Reaux said to the sphinx’s back, “I gave Earth up, Mr. Ambassador, not because I don’t love Earth, but rather because I do.”

“A pretty speech.”

“I was born in Paris.”

“You married a colonial, however.”

“My wife, sir, is first-generation. Her grandfather, Martin Mandes-Callendish, is the second son of Astrid Jorgensdottir, head of…”

The sphinx turned slowly and faced him across the room. “I know the Mandes family. Very respectable.”

At last, a personal connection. Approval. Thank God. Dig long enough in the foreign service, and there tended to be some personal connection recent enough to touch. “She’ll be delighted to have any news of them, I’m quite sure.”

“Her grandfather is quite well placed, isn’t he? One assumes the family exchanges messages.”

“With every ship.” Reaux didn’t like this tactic—pretend ignorance, and then reveal a far deeper knowledge once he answered Gide’s question.

“Information flows throughout the system.” The sphinx glided back toward him and stopped. Extended fingers toward the vase. “Information down to the atomic level.”

Now he had an inkling what this revolved around. “I assure you, anything that we replicate here is pottery or fabric, containing absolutely nothing else.”

“Replication that was not permitted, in the beginning.”

“We deal in fractals of reality. It’s completely reorganized in the process. It can’t transmit unintended information, and it relies on a technology which I’m told is extremely reliable in that regard, that there’s no more chance of accidentally replicating a nanism than there is of a five-year-old coming up with the formula for chocolate. Are you suggesting there isa hazard?”

“The information, Governor. The information of a pot still on Aldestra is in this pot.”

“Still not carrying nanotech. I assure you, those records reside down on the planet, and no nanocele and no nanomachine ever goes through replication.”

“Not as a contaminant in a pot. But the information that produces the pot—is just information. Are you so sure what you’re saying is true—is true?”

“Information doesn’t get off the planet. It does not come to our labs, sir, in any way, shape, or form.”

“Old Earth families still maintain their ties.” The sphinx moved toward him and rested. It had only a face, at the moment, no arms. “One might say that, too, about old Outsider connections. One wonders if they ever go away, either.”

“There’s been no breath of it. Has there?” Reaux caught a breath and pursued the question to the end. “Are you suggesting—are you possibly suggesting someone might transmit something of that nature from the planet? The only people that communicate are the Project taps.”

“Exactly.”

“I can assure you they’re very thoroughly screened.”

“I’d rather have that assurance from the head of the PO.”

“I have no authority to ask him to meet with you. I can’t guarantee it.”

“You can ask, however.”

“I can ask.” He was stunned, over all, with the implications in Gide’s assertion: information. Data, escaping the planet, not through replication, but simply through one of the taps physically writing things down. But those were not simple notations. Was that what Gide was suggesting? Was thatcrackpot notion what had brought a starship out here off schedule?

“The ondat,” Gide said. “ Kekellen.Is that how he says it?”

“He or she, we don’t exactly know.” God, another threshold he had to defend, while his stomach was still riled from the last inane maneuver. “He, by convention. Let me say, Mr. Ambassador, I strongly discourage any direct address to his office. Even through our experts.”

“Come now. I’m told this entity sends out inquiries to local flower shops and food vendors. That he has robots making occasional forays out into the station.”

“And takes orange juice and liquid chlorine, the combination of which I don’t want to imagine. We don’t understand him, and this office has worked with him for generations. This entity surveys the entire station at random, for his own reasons. If he wants something, he takes it, and we absorb the cost. That’s Treaty business, and I have to stay by my understanding of my duty, sir. If he does contact you, I urge you in the strongest terms, consult with my staff, and we’ll gladly assist you.”

“You refuse my request to speak to him?”

“The law,Mr. Ambassador. I have no choice but refuse.”

“I’m duly impressed. The correct answer.”

Damn him. These were demeaning games. Exceedingly demeaning. And wearing very thin, considering the performance at the plaza. “If you’re satisfied with your accommodation, Mr. Ambassador, I’m sure you’d like to rest. I have to get back to my office.”

“Premature, Governor. I assure you I have no designs on the ondat. But I do come with a purpose, and I do require your cooperation in achieving it.”

“In every regard, sir.” Pots. Fabrics. Nanotech replication. And taps connected to First Movement tech, writing complex formulae by hand. “You have only to make the request.”

“The Outsider who deals with Marak. This is a new man.”

“Reasonably new.”

“I’d heard the old one had died. Natural causes, I assume?”

“Very advanced age.”

“Knowledge and prior agreements undoubtedly went with that individual.”

“The taps, Mr. Ambassador, are completely under the PO. And they don’t, to my knowledge, have any ability to conceal any business from their own authority. They’re intensely monitored.”

“This new man. I want to see him.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I can’t possibly promise that.”

“You say you have a tolerably good relationship with Chairman Brazis. Get his cooperation. I want this man here.”

A damned diplomatic disaster.

And did he confess to Brazis what the scope of this inquiry might be? “I’ll have to contact the Chairman. And I can’t at all guarantee he’ll consent.”

“This tap is a very young man, I understand. An untested young man. Jeremy Stafford is his name, isn’t it?”

“I’d have to look up the name. I’ll assume you do know.”

“The selection of taps is governed entirely from planetside, isn’t it?”

Was he implying something wrong or dangerous in that selection?

That a First Movement survivor, on the planet, might have affected that selection?

Impossible.

“I’m certain the Chairman doesn’t install questionable people in a position to be selected. Downworld may not run background checks, but I’m very sure the Chairman runs thorough ones.”

“You have great faith in him.”

“That he wouldn’t install someone who wasn’t under his orders…I have every confidence.”

The sphinx nodded. “Exactly.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Ambassador?”

“In absence of an interview with the principals themselves, Governor—which I wouldn’t expect you could arrange—I’ve come here specifically to see this young man. Get me that. Tomorrow morning at 0900h. I rely completely on your resourcefulness.”

God. Intrigues and accusations. He trusted Brazis’s essential honesty more than he trusted this stranger, this heartbeat-reading monster. Two years to get information to Earth and back. Two years. It was plausible, nearly, that the ambassador was telling the truth—that it was news of this replacement that had launched his mission. The time line could work. Just barely—if the ambassador had left Earth like a shot.

But it could work much better if the ambassador had been visiting worlds somewhat closer, and diverted here on the continuation of a mission. “I’ll talk to the Chairman,” Reaux said. “That’s all I can do. I can’t possibly guarantee you his response will be positive.”

A tone of mild surprise. “But I take you completely at your word, regarding this close cooperation. I expect it.” A hand lifted, an ancient emperor waving off a courtier. “Good day, sir.”

The man-half of the sphinx ebbed down, became featureless carapace. The whole surface turned from blue and violet to shining gold, smooth-shelled beetle.

Reaux hesitated, wondering if a good-bye would even be heard, and asking himself if he was possibly that great a hypocrite. In the end he said nothing, and, tight-jawed, let himself out the door.

His security escort was waiting, by the palm trees in the garden.

Talk to the taps. Talk to one of Marak’s taps, for God’s sake. Suspicions of First Movement tech leaking through their contacts with the planet. Subtle accusations, threatening the foundations of civilization itself.

God! What did a man straight from Earth know about Marak and Brazis’s staff? What judgment could Gide possibly make on what he had never tracked?

Except he came fluent in a language difficult to learn except on Concord, clearly prepared for this inquiry.

Knowledge, however, of what went on day to day in the life of a man, Marak, who’d personally seen the last gasp of the Gene Wars—or the woman the human worlds simply called the Ila, who might once have been Ilia Lindstrom, a combatant in those wars—what couldGide really know, when lifelong students of their biographies were frequently puzzled by their actions?

And the ondat,mention of whom Gide had passed so casually, untroubled by threat? Fool. Earth came along periodically bran-dishing some new idea, confident it knew best, sure of the brilliance of some new theory of how the universe ought to run.

Now Earth wanted to get directly, hands-on, involved with a Project tap, because replicated pots and fiber were visually identical to the originals and Marak’s newest watcher was exceedingly young?

The investigator seemed well-enough prepared he ought to know better—if he weren’t neck deep in some damn theory, some assumption or some set of orders that wouldn’t let him budge from his purpose. That was worrisome in the extreme.

Earth and its quarantine had frozen their own genetic type like a fly in amber, defining by exacting law what was human and what was not. Earth, they’d declared, didn’t evolve anymore, would never evolve again. Nor would the Inner Worlds. Any deliberate genetic change was anathema. Any natural mutation was examined with great suspicion. Natural change in the human genome was allowed, but…scrutinized.

On record, he’d agreed with the premise that there should be an agreed, broadly defined standard of what was human in the Outside. Humanity was capable of being each other’s predator if they grew too different, or, if re-encountering a profoundly variant group, apt to produce tragic problems in their offspring. He was Earth’s appointed governor out here, and he was bound to enforce certain boundaries.

But was a policy of no-change going to profit a species that wouldn’t flex, as if pinning down the genome, they’d forever reached the be-all and end-all of what was human? The theory was that humans were aptly fit for a cosmos that changed locally but not universally, and therefore evolution was no longer a good thing. But he’d slowly changed his opinions in a lifelong journey from the center. He’d begun to think that Earth, while disparaging Concord’s ancient language, was itself as stuck in that ages-past era as the immortals on Marak’s World—the latter of whom at least had a clear memory of catastrophe, and who lived in a changed and changing world. Earth insulated itself from Outsiders who’d gone on evolving, Outsiders whose genome, escaping the bottleneck of the emigration from the motherworld, showed, yes, a modest diversity from Earth’s standard, but the protections were extravagant, more to drive home the point than to protect Earth from any real threat. Granted, Outsiders had taken hellacious chances with deliberate tinkering with the genome, and, yes, deliberately modified planetary settlements had come to grief in very tragic circumstances, not least of them the Hammerfall, but Outsiders didn’t legislate the surviving planetary residents out of the human species.

Earth was legitimately worried about some imported problem hitting its ecosystem, the mother of all human environment, but over such a span of time and distance there were human groups whose divergences arguably had less to do with nanoceles and engineering than just isolation—isolation while eras of Earth’s internal confusion meant no ships had called there, eras when the whole system of trade and genetic exchange had broken down and left pockets of Outsiders completely stranded. In those dark ages, some stations had died altogether and some had developed unique looks, unique accents, odd political institutions, all of this. Were all these less than human, when you could drop most of them back into Earth’s gene pool and they’d become mere lumps in the batter, not anomalous except in their concentration of certain traits?

Reaux didn’t ordinarily entertain such rebel thoughts, not all at once. Gide had provoked them to the surface, and outright engaged his temper. Adapted to live out here? Well, yes, he was. He’d become adapted, mentally, if not physically. He had a daughter here, who had developed notions more in agreement with the Outsiders than with her own family, and that was what happened to pure Earth households this remote from Earth. The children did,some of them, go into the Outsider gene pool.

But did he love his daughter less, because she wanted to live on this station, because this station was her entire future?

Ask Judy how the purity laws worked—Judy, whose great-grandfather’s branch of the family had purged certain of their own relatives, banishing Judy’s own mother from the Inner Worlds to the Outside, because her genetic tests had failed the standard and a contact was suspect, third-hand. Judy, born at Arc, had married into the political elite—but never quite salved that social wound. Was her exile fair, or beneficial to the species? Had those questionable genes contaminated Kathy?

And for specimens—the Earthborn out here were by no means the prettiest, the swiftest, the best-looking or the brightest. Outsiders in general tended to be in far better physical condition than first generation Earth exiles, or than Mr. Andreas Gide himself, Reaux was willing to bet, inside that shell. It took a strong ego to live out here among the beautiful and the bright…

One only needed take a clear-eyed, unprejudiced look at Concord. One could see on this station how it all ought to work, in Reaux’s not humble opinion: not only Earth-exiles and Outsiders in daily face-to-face contact, but the ondatpeacefully resident among them abovea world where the absolute worst had happened.

And nothing else catastrophic had happened to humans down there. That was the very point on Concord, wasn’t it? That was the very point, after ages of watching and waiting for another runaway to break loose—nothing happened. Hospitals could remediate eighty percent of the most serious mistakes individuals made down on Blunt, absolutely clean bad bugs out of a human body. The other twenty percent, well, those that survived, were under close watch, and didn’t spread their problem, and weren’t self-modifying or transmissible—nothing they’d found, ever, had been on that level, nothing like First Movement nanoceles at all.

Certainly somelevel heads in the Inner Worlds saw all those facts in operation and recognized a state of affairs that contradicted near-religious dogma back on Earth: the Restorationists had been a flourishing party that actually talked about relaxing the Purity Laws in the Inner Worlds. The problem was, the majority on Earth were scared—had been taught to be scared and were kept scared by precautions like Mr. Gide’s. And in the last ten years the Restorationist Party had unhappily suffered murders and scandal on its staff, and was now being outlawed by Earth’s legislatures, in region after region, with whispers that such behavior was what one got for bedding down with such thinkers.

A slight cynic—and Reaux had long counted himself in that camp—suspected covert sabotage and planted evidence. A politically savvy cynic could wonder if a more restrictive regime was gaining a foothold on Earth, taking advantage of the Restorationist scandal. A paranoid cynic might even ask if this visitor that had come here to Concord so conspicuously making demands might represent those interests. Gide might be looking to stir up a cause célèbre in the very place Earth feared most.

And that could not be good news for the governor.

Damn it all, remediation itself wasgenetic change. Remediation was the whole basis for the human– ondattreaty he was supposed to be administering out here, out of one side of his mouth, and now he had to avoid saying anything or doing anything that indicated that was the case.

Sometimes, with a certain periodicity, the universe just went crazy. Maybe there was such a thing as too long a history for a species—or too much recorded knowledge of where they’d been for any human mind ever to absorb it all. Fashions recycled. Political movements did. Ideas did.

But fear of the ondatwould surely protect Concord from the greatest insanity. It had a way of reminding fools, in the breach of basic rules. And a clever governor could survive out here, independent of the madness at the heart of the system, because ultimately, nobody dared interfere here.

One thing Reaux did take as an article of faith, what he called his own rule: that if two parties followed rigid party lines long enough, the political parties would actually switch positions on some essential issue and each of them end up defending the position the other side had used to defend. Political migration, he called it. The opposition consequently picked other issues, until the other party moved onto that ground, too—because as public consciousness advanced, political parties usually took on the very behaviors and alliances they had once most loudly decried—perhaps because those were the issues they had most passionately focused on and most thoroughly understood.

It was why he resolved he had to talk to Brazis honestly about this situation, and if Brazis was halfway reasonable, it might force him to make common cause with Brazis regarding this Mr. Gide, before Mr. Gide did something incredibly stupid in the service of some political party on distant Earth.

Dangerous. Dangerous in the extreme to approach Brazis. The ambassador’s ship had presented credentials electronically. Beyond a doubt the ship was from Earth, not the Inner Worlds, and beyond a doubt it was authorized at highest levels. Gide’s credentials were therefore solid.

And a governor, however right, couldn’t just out and say, twice, as he’d tried to do, Excuse me, do you really realize the repercussions of what you’re doing? Do you realize your stupid foreign prejudices are leading you to insane conclusions about perfectly ordinary situations?

He couldn’t say, even once: No, sorry, you’re patently out of line and I’m not going to let you do what you’ve come hundreds of light-years to do at the behest of your remote, stupid, and abysmally ignorant party leadership.

Politicians. Scientists. And guns, assuming that ship was prepared to enforce its opinions. Gide had raised certain legitimate questions about planetary security, given a certain loosening of laws about replication techniques that meant, yes, if they weren’t careful with that technology, some fool someday could attempt to replicate First Movement tech—but they were careful. The Refuge didn’t let technical information off the planet, and certainly the requisite underground laboratory to create a threat didn’t fit in a shopping bag. So where on Concord did they think an illicit operation resided?

In the taps, of course: Earth wanted to be suspicious, so it had to find a focus for its suspicion. Of coursesome tap was taking notes so voluminous they’d mean a sizable bundle of storage and getting them past the room monitors. Of coursesomeone had bodged a replication apparatus designed to fractally reproduce, say, a pot the size of one’s head, into one capable of producing an item so small and exacting that the creator couldn’t even find it without a labful of equipment unrelated to the replicators.

On the other hand, maybe someone on that ship was educated in the actual technology, and after a cursory glance and a romp through station records, would have to find that there was no basis in actuality for those suspicions. Maybe Mr. Gide would ultimately be forced to listen to his own experts—if anyone on the mission dared advance any truth to the contrary of Mr. Gide’s party’s foregone conclusions of what it was going to find.

But once he called Brazis in for conference, as Gide himself requested, then ultimately Gide and his party wouldbe forced to listen to the Outsider Chairman. Brazis had the right, the Treaty-mandated right to tell Mr. Gide, sorry, no, you aren’t talking to one of my people.

And if the ambassador persisted or tried to bully the Chairman, Brazis was the man who would tell Mr. Gide to present his credentials in hell. Brazis had a notorious temper, and he had an armed and independent government to back him. It might be a new experience in the universe for Mr. Gide, to be told that Earth’s rule didn’t extend to the PO.

What the ondatwould decide was going on, meanwhile, with this ship arriving and Mr. Gide throwing his weight around was another worry, and one that couldn’t wait for events to make the matter a crisis. He had to figure how to tell Kekellen in advance of any question that they were on his side regarding any disturbance the ambassador or that ship produced…without inciting the likes of Lyle Nazrani and his friends to charge that there was any chancy politics going on in that message-flow. No intent to sabotage Mr. Gide. Oh, never.

God, what a situation.

Being an honest Earther, he didn’t have a personal tap. He did have a coded-relay phone in his pocket, and he flipped it open as he reached the safe interior of the lift. Storage blinked, jammed with fifty-six messages, as the scroll informed him. Small wonder: every department on the station wanted information. Ernst, however, was doing his job and, when he pressed the button for a breakdown of those messages, only four had actually gotten through the sieve and into the for-your-eyes basket.

He checked them as the lift made its sideways trip to its destination. Judy and Kathy—sorry, Mignette—were having another round. The Trade Board had inquired, complaining of an outrageously low opening bid on a new plastics synth. Dortland sent a report up from Blunt, and, yes, the Southern Crosshad indeed invaded a sensitive area with a probe and just blitzed an expensive and delicate system with the finesse of a solar hiccup. Technical people were on it, repairing the damage.

He phoned Brazis.

“This is Governor Reaux. I need to speak with the Chairman, immediately.”

Inside that apartment, he was well aware, Gide could already be sending other probes into their communications, trying to bypass their security by eeling his way through wide-open domestic systems.

Well, Gide could guess again: they weren’t wide open. Gide would hope to establish a private link with his ship that would let the ship in its turn try to get into their systems. It had all happened before. There had been protests from companies, from the PO, and from the ondat,on those occasions, angry protests that racketed all the way to Earth and Apex. And he had no plans to file a protest again, not using Southern Crossas a courier, at least. No, he was meditating a scathing letter to be carried by the next regular contact ship, on which his letter might not be lost.

“Governor?”Brazis himself answered.

“My office. Please. Immediately. I need to talk to you.” He hung up, not wanting to commit anything else to the phone system at this particular moment, hoping Brazis would realize the reason for such a cryptic invitation, drop everything, and come.

Perhaps the quick exchange did leave detail behind to be sifted by Earth’s investigators.

A record of his call, oh yes. That would exist inside their secure network, which might be a target of a probe.

But hadn’t Gide just requested him to talk to Brazis? To use his diplomacy to gain an interview with a certain young tap?

He was guiltless, whatever that ship’s probe turned up.

The lift slowed to a sedate stop. Dortland met him at the exit—his chief of security, thin, gray fellow who wouldn’t look remarkable either in a riot or a board meeting, except the eyes, which were likewise gray, and never held a vestige of liveliness.

Not his favorite person, Dortland, of people he dealt with—no sense of humor, not even at the grimness of his own position. Dortland was just what he was, and Dortland’s whole world was dependably what Dortland imagined it to be, the universe that Dortland created around himself: bleak and full of treachery and problems. Reaux always felt like taking a very long walk after he’d had to deal with Dortland, but at the moment Dortland took the walk with him, their two bodyguards lagging far to the rear.

Dortland reported in a low voice about the activity of the ship, which was nuisanceful but not destructive—yes, the ship had gotten into the network and fried that one system. It wasn’t critical and didn’t damage their security. Yes, the ondathad sent another query when that happened, but the office that dealt with such things was dealing with it, and Kekellen didn’t sound particularly disturbed, only curious.

The notion upset Reaux’s stomach.

“And what did Gide want, sir?” Dortland asked.

“Hell if it’s that clear,” Reaux said. “He wants Marak’s junior-most tap on a platter, is what he wants. He’s upset about replicated pots and he’s afraid of bugs coming in with them.”

“That’s not technically possible.”

“That’s what I understand. More to the point, he’s worried about taps taking notes from the onworld First Movement. As I understand, such notes wouldn’t be easy to hand-take or to hand-carry.”

“It could be done, in computer storage.”

“You think it hasbeen done?”

“Not likely, without our notice.”

“So, outside of the usual paranoia about rogue nanisms, what’s he after?”

“Clearly, this junior tap,” Dortland said. Who had no sense of humor. It was worth a second glance, to be sure, but Reaux decided in the negative. No sense of humor, and an imagination utterly devoted to predicting other people’s mischief.

“I’ve called Brazis in. I’m trusting him to say no to the interview with this young man, and that’s that.”

Dortland frowned and concentrated on the walk ahead of them, toward his office and inside.

A middle-aged woman in a gray courier’s uniform sat, prim and proper, in Ernst’s office, and stood up as he entered.

Outsider tap-courier. She was clearly waiting for him, dispatched from some location likely on this level. He didn’t like that. But it was Brazis’s personal presence—in a sense. And secure communication—it certainly was that.

“Governor Reaux, sir,” she said. “I’m asked to mediate your request of the Chairman.”

“Hell,” he said, peevish. He’d wanted Brazis in person—he hated dealing this way. But if he insisted, he’d raise warnings in Brazis’s very wary security. “Can you manage here?”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t at all like it that a PO courier’s relays operated inside his office foyer, inside all his electronic shielding. He didn’t think Dortland liked that either.

“Where’s your base unit?” he asked. “Point of fact, you’re not supposed to be operating up here.”

“It’s amped a bit.” It might be Brazis speaking through her. “Ordinarily we don’t. But it’s convenient, today.”

Bloody hell. He didn’t at all like the notion of Outsider relays in his ceilings or anywhere near them.

“Dortland. You can be in on this.”

They moved inside. Shut the door between them and Ernst.

“Antonio?” Reaux asked.

“Yes?”from the mouth of this passive gray-clad woman, the antithesis of Brazis himself.

“The ambassador wants to interview one of your taps. One of Marak’s taps. One Jeremy Stafford. Which I’m sure you’re not going to permit.”

“Why? Did he say?”

“He’s got some intel who this tap is. That he’s young, and in this post. This is apparently some matter of concern. Is there any reason this young man would be a concern?”

“Curious. Very curious.”

“Is there a reason we should think anything’s wrong with this young man?”

“I’m disposed to find out. When does he want him?”

Brazis’s curiosity. Brazis’s damnable curiosity, which had had him meddle more than once in an investigation. No, no, that wasn’t at all the answer he wanted.

“Why would you possibly agree?” he ended up asking Brazis, and Brazis, through his living transceiver, answered:

“This ambassador has come so far on his mission. And I’m sure he’ll give something of his intentions away, just in the questions. When does he want this person?”

“As soon as possible, I gather. I don’t like this. If you’re going to agree to this, and I very much advise against it—”

“I understand that. But I’m extremely curious.”

“Curious!”

“Yes.”

“I want to see this young man first. In my office. Antonio, I have to stress—there can’t be any provocation.”

“Soul of discretion. This is a young man who deals with very volatile personalities on the planet. He understands diplomacy and certainly appreciates the value of understatement. I doubt there’d be physical danger to him in meeting this person. Would there?”

“I’d earnestly hope not. No, I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll send him to you and let you make the exact arrangements. I must say I’m interested in the outcome.”

“Antonio,—” he began to say, thought of telling him frankly what the ambassador implied about his operation being full of leaks. But while he was drawing breath to do just that, the courier shut her eyes and opened them again. Her expression changed.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said. And turned to leave the office.

“Damn it.” He hatedtap-couriers. They jangled human nerves. You couldn’t delay one. You couldn’t get anything additional. They cut out on you. Rudely.

And on a second thought, he wasn’t that sure that he should forewarn Brazis of what Gide intended.