Текст книги "2312"

Автор книги: Kim Stanley Robinson

Соавторы: Kim Stanley Robinson
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They all three shook their heads. All young, Wahram thought. These were the kinds of people who walked around Mercury right before sunrise, torching themselves with solar visions. Although apparently Swan was also one of them. The young in spirit, then.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“We can take the utilidor west till we get to the next spaceport on the nightside,” one of them said.

“Do you think the utilidor is still passable under the hit?” Swan asked.

“Oh,” the one said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“It might be,” said the one with the broken forearm. The third one was looking in cabinets against the wall. “You never know.”

“I doubt it,” Swan said. “But I guess we can go look. It’s only about fifteen klicks away.”

Only fifteen! Wahram didn’t say. They stood there looking at each other.

“Well, shit,” Swan said. “Let’s go take a look. I don’t want to just sit here.”

Wahram suppressed a sigh. It was not as if they had a great number of choices. And if they could get through to the west, and hurried, they could catch up to the night, and hopefully the spaceport where the people from Terminator had gone.

So they went to a door at the west end of the room and went through it into a passageway, lit dimly by a string of overhead lights that were part of the ceiling. The walls of the tunnel were raw faces of rock, in some places cracked, in others bare walls with drill bit marks angling upward on their left and downward on their right. They hiked west at a good clip. The one with the broken arm seemed to be the fastest of them all, although one of the other sunwalkers stuck close by the hurt one. No one spoke. An hour passed; then, after a short rest sitting on some cubical blocks of rock in the tunnel, another hour. “Did your Pauline get an image of the strike?” Wahram asked Swan when they were walking again. The utilidor was wide enough for three or four people to walk abreast, as the sunwalkers were proving ahead of them.

“I’ve looked, but it’s just a flash to one side. Only a few milliseconds of light before the explosion upward and out, coming down fast and hot. But why hot? There’s no atmosphere to heat it, so that doesn’t make sense. It kind of looks like it came from, I don’t know, somewhere else. From some other universe.”

“Seems like some other explanation will be forthcoming,” Wahram could not help saying.

“Well, you explain it,” she said sharply, as if speaking to her qube.

“I can’t,” Wahram said calmly.

They walked on in silence. Presumably at some point they were walking underneath the city. Above them, Terminator would be burning up in the day’s rain of light.

Then the tunnel ahead of them appeared to end. They had all put their helmets back on, as it was the easiest way to carry them, and now they shone their helmets’ headlamps into the darkness before them. A mass of rock rubble filled the tunnel, floor to roof. It was cold here, and suddenly Swan said, “We’d better seal our helmets,” and her faceplate slid down. Wahram did the same.

They stood there looking at the blockage.

“All right,” Swan said grimly. “Can’t go west. We’ll have to go east, I guess.”

“But how long will thattake?” Wahram said.

She shrugged. “If we sit here, it will be eighty-eight days till sunset. If we walk, it will be less.”

“Walk around half of Mercury?”

“Less than half, because we will be walking and the planet will be rolling. That’s the point. I mean, what else are we going to do? I’m not going to sit here for three months!” She was almost in tears, he saw.

“How far is it again?” he asked, thinking half of Titanas he said it. His stomach contracted within him.

“About two thousand kilometers. But if we walk east at, say, thirty kilometers a day, we shorten the wait time to something more like forty days. So we can cut it in half. That seems worth it to me. And it doesn’t have to be continuous walking. I mean, it’s not like the sunwalkers. We walk a day’s worth, eat, sleep a night, then walk again. Set a daily schedule. If we hiked for twelve hours out of every twenty-four, that would be a lot, but it would save even more days. What, Pauline?”

“Can you turn up Pauline’s voice again?” Wahram requested.

“I don’t want to now. She says twelve-hour days of walking would shorter our time down here by around forty-five days. That’s enough for me.”

“Well,” Wahram said. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“I know, but what are you going to do? Sit here for over twice as long?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I guess not.”

Although really it would not be so very long. A rereading of Proust and O’Brian, a few times through the Ring cycle; his little wristpad was very well stocked. But the way she stood there looking at him, these were not thoughts he felt comfortable expressing.

“I’ll turn up Pauline,” she said, as if giving him something in exchange for his agreement.

“ Solvitur ambulando,” Pauline said. “Latin for ‘It is solved by walking.’ Diogenes of Sinope.”

“Thus you prove motion is real,” Wahram supposed.

“Yes.”

Wahram sighed. “I was already convinced.”

Back at the first underground station they took stock. The three sunwalkers were perfectly happy to walk for six or seven weeks; it was very like their usual mode of existence. Their names were Tron, Tor, and Nar. They were gender nondescripts as far as Wahram was concerned, and seemed to him very young and simple. They lived only to hike around Mercury; they seemed to know nothing more than that, or perhaps they didn’t speak much to strangers. But what they did say seemed childlike to him, or provincial in the extreme. There were whole terraria filled with such folk, of course, but he had gotten used to thinking of the Mercurials as highly sophisticated, steeped in history and art and culture. Now he was learning that it was not universally true. He realized he had thought sun worshippers would be followers of the various early solar religions of ancient Egypt, Persia, the Inca—but no. They just liked the sun.

It looked like they were going to have to spend a couple of nights sleeping on the floor of the unimproved tunnel in between each way station. “Every third day,” Swan said, “we can resupply. It sets a good goal.”

“We might even be able to go farther,” Tron said shyly.

Tron was the one with the broken arm, so Wahram refrained from mentioning that for him personally, thirty-three kilometers a day might prove enough, or too much. That he might be the drag on this group was discouraging. In any case Swan was overseeing the filling of backpacks she had found in the emergency supply cabinets: their spacesuit helmets, some emergency air, water bottles, food, air mattresses, a little pot and stove. A roll of aerogel blankets, not very warm-looking, but the utilidor would stay at this temperature, Swan said; and it was pretty warm.

So: tunnel walk. Possibly similar to spelunking expeditions of long duration. Little headlamps were included in the packs too, although for now they were not necessary, as the ceiling held a warm square of yellow-white light every twenty meters or so, illuminating the rough rock of the utilidor very well. They were about fifteen meters underground, Swan said. The tunnel had been drilled through bedrock or regolith, with a heat finish that had imparted frequent swirls and dashes of mineral color, reminiscent of the cut surfaces of certain meteorites. In some stretches silver curves lay over pewter, then jet black. The floor had been chipped to a texture that made for a good grip underfoot. The tight curve of Mercury meant that the most distant overhead lights merged into a single bar of light. It was as if they could see the arc of the planet, which Wahram found vaguely encouraging. He was finding the idea of thirty-three kilometers a day, for more than forty days in a row, daunting. Must recall they were down around the forty-fifth latitude south here, so the distance was not as far as it would have been if they were on the equator. Sometimes Terminator’s tracks went even farther south, as he recalled. Things could be worse.

So. Walk for an hour, in a tunnel that changed very little, and only in iterative ways. Stop, sit on the ground, rest for a while; then walk an hour more. At the end of three hours, stop and eat. Already that interval felt very long, something like a week or more in ordinary human time, in the time of thinking. But they did that three times before stopping to eat a larger meal, then slept for eight or nine hours.

Hour, hour, hour; hour, hour, hour; hour, hour, hour.

The sensation of lengthening time grew very strong in Wahram. Why it should feel so long was hard to tell; the repetition of the elements of the day he would have thought might streamline and thus speed the hours; but no. Instead it was protraction, a very pronounced feeling of protraction. At the end of each day, as he settled down, footsore and exhausted, to sleep, he could stretch out on his air mattress and say, “One down, thirty-seven to go,” or even “thirty-three to go,” and feel a little stab of despair. Every hour felt like a week! Could they endure it?

The sunwalkers usually hiked a bit ahead, and by the time Wahram and Swan joined them at a stop, they were always prepping tea. Then, well before Wahram was ready to get up and go again, the young ferals were off, almost apologetically, with a nod and a wave. His days, therefore, were spent mostly with Swan.

She was clearly not happy at the prospect of this hike, even though it was her idea. She was doing it only because the alternative was worse, in her estimation. It was something to be endured, in misery mute or voluble. Some days she went ahead, some days fell behind. “I’m going to get sick at some point,” she said once. It became clear to Wahram that she liked the situation even less than he did—far less than he did, as she told him herself. She hated it, she said; suffered from claustrophobia; could not stand to be indoors; needed copious daily sunlight; needed lots of variety in her daily routines and in her sensory stimuli. These were necessities, she told Wahram, and in no uncertain terms. “This is so horrible,” she exclaimed often, making the word an emphatic three syllables with fore and aft stresses. “Horrible, horrible, horrible. I won’t be able to make it.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Wahram would suggest.

“How can I? It’s horrrr-i-bull.”

Endless repetition of these points would still occupy only the first hour of their twelve-hour day of walking and rests. After such a first hour, Wahram would usually decide it was appropriate to point out that they would need to talk about something else if they were to avoid undue repetition stress on both their parts.

“Tired of me already?” Swan concluded from these observations.

“Not at all. Vastly entertained. Even interested. But this motif, of the unhappy voyage of necessity, it’s limited. It’s played out. I want a different story.”

“That’s lucky for you, because I was going to change the subject.”

“Lucky for me indeed.”

She trudged on ahead of him. There was no reason to hurry to say the next thing; they had all day. Wahram watched her walk ahead of him: her stride was graceful and long, she was in her home g and sinuous, efficient. Very quickly she could get well ahead of him. She did not seem ill yet. From behind he sometimes heard her having conversations with her qube. For whatever reason, she had shifted Pauline’s voice to exterior audibility; maybe she was keeping that little promise to him. The conversations between the two almost always sounded like arguments; Swan’s voice was clearer and more hectoring, but Pauline’s alto, slightly muffled by Swan’s own skin, was somehow mulishly contentious as well. Depending on how one programmed them, qubes could be real fiends for argument, quibblers to the highest degree. Once Wahram caught up enough to be able to eavesdrop on them, and came in on something that had been going on for a while; Swan was saying, “Poor Pauline, if I were you I would be so sad! I feel so sorry for you! It must feel terrible to be nothing but a packet of algorithms!”

Pauline said, “This is the rhetorical device called anacoenesis, in which one pretends to put oneself in the place of one’s opponent.”

“No, not at all,” Swan assured her. “I really am sympathetic. To be so few qubits, to be just algorithms grinding it out. I mean considering that, you do very well.”

Pauline said, “This is the rhetorical device called synchoresis, in which one makes a concession before renewing the assault.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t really know why I thought you were stupid, given the huge power of these arguments of yours. And yet—”

“This is both sarcasm and aporia in the bad sense I mentioned before, of a momentary expression of doubt, often faked, before renewing the attack.”

“And thisis the defense called casuistry, where when you’ve got nothingyou retreat into a cloud of verbiage. Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s just smart consciousness and stupid consciousness. That would explain a lot.”

Pauline did not seem to be deterred. “Happy to submit our speech acts to a double-blind study to see if any distinctions at all can be made between yours and mine.”

“Really?” Swan said. “Are you saying you can pass a Turing test?”

“It depends who’s asking the questions.”

Swan laughed scornfully, but she really was amused, Wahram could hear it. So at least the qube was good for that.

The two of them swapped the lead every half hour, just to mark time and change the view, such as it was. They did not always talk; it would have been impossible, he thought. In any case they hiked in silence for many minutes at a time. Over them the tunnel lights seemed to move independently backward, as if they walked at the top of a vast Ferris wheel, and only just kept pace with the backward sweep of the wheel. At the end of an hour Wahram’s feet were sore, and he was happy to sit down. They used their aerogel sleeping pads as cushions to sit on. Meals came from foil envelopes found in the emergency gear at the stations, and were bland for the most part. After a while they mostly only wanted to drink water, though there were some powders to mix in if one wanted.

In general their rests were about half an hour long. Any longer and Wahram began to stiffen up, and Swan became fretful. And the sunwalkers would get too far ahead. So Wahram would heave himself to his feet and take off again. “Do you think any of these stations have walking poles in them?”

“I doubt it. We can look at the next one. Maybe something could be used as canes.”

After a time of silence she would sometimes snap. “All right tell me something! Tell me about yourself! What’s your first memory?”

“I don’t know,” Wahram said, trying to locate it.

“My first memory,” she said, “comes from a time that my parents tell me I was three. My parents were part of a house that decided to move to the other side of the city. I think we were trading places north to south, in order to look at the other half of the countryside as we passed by it. Or maybe they just told me that. So a bunch of carts were there, and both houses were moving stuff back and forth. Everything my family owned could fit on the back of one battery cart and two handcarts. My mother took me back inside when the place was emptied, and it scared me. I think that’s why I remember it. My room looked much smaller when it was empty, and that seemed backward and scared me, like the world had shrunk. We fill rooms to make them bigger. Then we went back outside, and the other image that sticks with me, along with the empty room, was all the stuff in the bed of the cart, and everyone standing by it at the curb, under a set of trees. Above some trees I could see the Dawn Wall.”

She hiked on for a time in silence, and Wahram felt the empty grumble in his stomach that marked another mealtime’s approach.

“By now that’s all burned down,” she said.

But now her voice was unusually calm. She was no longer grieving in the same way, it seemed.

“When the sun got high enough that the city was out of the shade of the Dawn Wall,” she added, “it would go quick.”

“I know the tracks don’t melt on the brightside,” Wahram said. “Anything else?”

“The city infrastructure will be fine,” she conceded. “The shell. Some metals, ceramics, mixes of the two. Glassy metals. And then just ordinary tempered steel, stainless steel. Austenite steel. We’ll see. I suppose it will be interesting to see what it looks like when night falls on it again. Everything will have burned away except the frame, I guess. As soon as the sun hit, the plants would begin to die. They’ll be dead by now, all the plants and animals, even the bacteria and such. We’ll have to rebuild it.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think they’ll want to understand what happened to the tracks, and feel they are in a position to stop it happening again. Or else build to a different design. Free the city from its tracks, maybe, and roll over the landscape on wheels.”

“That would require some locomotion,” she pointed out. “As it is, the expansion of the tracks drives the city forward.”

“Well, it will be interesting to see what happens, then.” Wahram hesitated. “It would be pointless to rebuild and then have a recurrence.”

“If it was a low-likelihood accident, then a recurrence wouldn’t be likely.”

“I was under the impression that all such happenstances were already guarded against.”

“Me too. Are you suggesting that it was some kind of attack?”

“Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that, anyway. I mean, consider what happened to us on Io.”

“But who would want to attack Terminator?” she demanded. “Attack it and yet miss it by a few kilometers, killing the town but leaving the people alive?”

“I don’t know,” Wahram said uneasily. “There’s been talk about the conflict between Earth and Mars, how it could even lead to war.”

“Yes,” she said, “but the talk always goes on to declare this impossible, because everyone is so vulnerable. Mutual assured destruction, as always.”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Wahram admitted. “What if a first strike is made to look like an accident, and is so successful that no one knows who did it, and meanwhile the victim is mostly vaporized? A scenario like that might make one think there is not any certain mutually assured destruction.”

“Who would feel that way?” Swan asked.

“Almost any power on Earth could make the calculation. They’re safer than any of us. And Mars is notoriously self-absorbed, and also can’t be punctured with a single dart. No, I’m not convinced there can’t be a power out there that harbors a feeling of invulnerability. Or an anger so great they don’t care about consequences.”

“What could that be, though?” Swan said. “What causes that kind of anger?”

“I don’t know… say food, water, land… power… prestige… ideology… differential advantage. Madness. These are the usual motives, aren’t they?”

“I suppose!” She sounded horrified that he could make such a list, as if this were not part of Mercurial discourse, although really it was simply Machiavelli, or Aristotle. Pauline would know the list.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I’ll be very interested to find out what people are saying when we get out of here.”

“Only thirty days to go,” she said grimly.

“One step at a time,” he said gamely.

“Oh please! Take it like that and it’s eternity.”

“Not at all. But I will desist.”

After a while he said, “Interesting how a moment comes when you feel hungry. You didn’t before, and then you do.”

“That’s not interesting.”

“My feet are sore.”

“That’s not interesting either.”

“Each step is a little pain, or every other. Plantar fasciitis, I reckon.”

“Would you like to take a rest?”

“No. They’re only sore, not hurt. And they get warmed up. Then tired.”

“I hate this.”

“And yet here we are.”

The hour of walking passed. The rest period passed. The next hour passed. The rest following that passed. The tunnel stayed always the same. The stations every third night were almost the same, but not quite. They ransacked these places, looking for something different. Up at the top of the elevator shafts in each station lay the surface, exposed to the full Mercurial sun and approaching seven hundred K on surfaces struck by light; there being no air, there was no air temperature. At this point they were under Tolstoi Crater, more or less; Pauline was managing their navigation, such as it was, by a sort of dead reckoning; down here her little radio too was out of touch. The station phones never worked. Swan guessed they were elevator phones only—or else the whole system had broken in the impact, and because of the ongoing situation with Terminator’s population, and the fact that the crushed part of the tunnel was now out in the sun, no one was available to fix it.

Hour after hour they walked. It was easy to lose track of days, particularly since Pauline would keep track. The pseudoiterative was less pseudo than ever. This was the true iterative. Swan walked before Wahram, her shoulders slumped like those of a mime portraying dejection. Minutes dragged until each one felt like ten; it was an exponential expansion of time, a syruping of protraction. They would therefore live ten times as long. He cast about for something to say that would not irritate her. She was muttering at Pauline.

“I used to whistle when I was a kid,” he said, and tried a single tone. His lips felt thicker than they had when he was young. Oh yes—tongue higher against roof of mouth. Very good. “I would whistle the melodies from the symphonies I liked.”

“Whistle, then,” Swan said. “I whistle too.”

“Really!” he said.

“Yes. I told you. But you first. Do you do Beethoven, like what we heard at that concert?”

“I do, kind of. Just some of the tunes.”

“Do that, then.”

There had been a period in Wahram’s youth when every morning had had to begin with Beethoven’s Eroica, the breakthrough Third Symphony, announcement of a new age in music and indeed in the human spirit, written after Beethoven learned that he was going deaf. So Wahram whistled the two commanding notes that started the first movement, and then whistled the main line, at a tempo that fit with his walking pace. That wasn’t so hard to do, somehow. As he whistled along he was never sure he was going to remember the passage that came next, yet by the time he got to the point of change, the next one followed inevitably from it, and flowed from him quite satisfactorily. Somewhere in him these things remained. The sequence of long elaborate melodies flowed one to the next, in just the compelling logic of Beethoven’s own thinking. And this sequence consisted of one stirring inevitable song after another. Most of the passages should have been stranded by counterpoint and polyphonies, and he jumped from one orchestral section to another, depending on which one seemed the main line. But it had to be said that even as single tunes, inexpertly whistled, the magnificence of Beethoven’s music was palpable in the tunnel. The three sunwalkers drifted back, it seemed, to hear it better. After the first movement was over, Wahram found the other three movements came as fully to him as the first, so that by the time he was done, it had taken him about the same forty minutes that an orchestra would have taken with the real thing. The great variations of the finale were so stirring that he almost hyperventilated in the performance of it.

“Wonderful,” Swan said when he was done. “Really good. What tunes. My God. Do more. Can you do more?”

Wahram had to laugh. He thought it over. “Well, I think I could do the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Ninth. Also some bits of the quartets and sonatas, maybe. I’d lose the thread in a lot of those, I’m afraid. Maybe not in the late quartets. I’ve lived to those sweet things. I’d have to try and see how it went.”

“How can you remember so many?”

“For a long time that’s all I listened to.”

“That’s crazy. All right, try the Fourth, then. You can take them in order.”

“Later, please. I have to rest. My lips are already destroyed, I can feel them twice as big. They’re like a big old gasket right now.”

She laughed and let him be. An hour later, however, she brought it back up, and sounded like she would be very discouraged if he didn’t do it.

“All right, but you join me,” he said.

“But I don’t know the tunes. I don’t really remember the stuff I hear people play.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Wahram said. “Just whistle. You said you did.”

“I do, but it sounds like this.”

She whistled for a while: a glorious burble of music, exactly like some kind of songbird.

“Wow, you sound just like a bird,” he said. “Very fluid glissandos, and I-don’t-know-whats, but just like a bird.”

“Yes, that’s right. I have some skylark polyps in me.”

“You mean… in your brain? Bird brains, put into your own?”

“Yes. Alauda arvensis.Also some Sylvia borin, the garden warbler. But you know that birds’ brains are organized on completely different lines than mammal brains?”

“No.”

“I thought everyone knew that. Some qube architecture is based on bird brains, so it got discussed for a while.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, the thinking that we mammals do in layers of cells across our cortex, birds do in clusters of cells, distributed like bunches of grapes.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“So you can take some of your own stem cells and introduce skylark song node DNA into them, and then you can introduce it through the nose to the brain, and it makes a little cluster in the limbic system. Then when you whistle, the cluster links into your already existing musical networks. All those are very old parts. They’re almost like bird parts of the brain already. So the new ones get hooked in, and off you go.”

“You did this?”

“Yes.”

“How did it feel?”

For answer she whistled. In the tunnel one liquid glissando led to another: bright birdsong, there in the tunnel with them.

“Amazing,” Wahram said. “I didn’t know you could do that. Youshould be the one whistling, not me.”

“You don’t mind?”

“On the contrary.”

So she whistled as they walked along, sometimes for the full hour between breaks. Her burble shifted through all kinds of phases and phrases, and it seemed to Wahram these were so various they must be the songs of more than two species of bird. But he wasn’t sure, as it occurred to him also that she might be as vocally limited by her body as any bird, so these could perhaps be just the variety of songs that a real songbird sang. Glorious music! It was somewhat like Debussy at times, and of course there were Messiaen’s specific imitations of birds; but Swan’s whistling was stranger, more repetitive, with endless permutations of little figures, often repeating in insistent ostinato trills that got their hooks into him, sometimes to the point of irritation.

When she stopped, he could still call to mind some of her tunes. Whales had songs, of course, but birds must have been the first musicians. Unless dinosaurs too had made music. He seemed to recall something about big hollows in certain hadrosaur skulls, inexplicable except as sounding devices. The sound one of those would have made was interesting to try to imagine. He even hummed a bit, testing how it would feel in his own big barrel of a chest.

“So was that the bird, or you?” he asked when she took a pause.

“We are the same,” she said.

After a while she said, “Mozart’s pet starling once revised a phrase he wrote. The bird sang it after he played it on the piano, but changed all the sharps to flats. Mozart described it happening in the margin of the score. ‘That was beautiful!’ he wrote. When the bird died, he sang at its funeral, and read a poem to it. And his next composition, which the publisher called A Musical Joke, had a starling style.”

“Nice,” Wahram said. “It’s true that birds always look intelligent.”

“Not doves,” she said. But then, in a dark tone: “You can either have high specific intelligence or high general intelligence, but not both.”

Wahram didn’t know what to say to that; the thought had turned her suddenly grim. “Well,” he said. “We should whistle together.”

“So we’ll have both?”

“What?”

“Never mind. All right.”

So he went back to the Eroica, and this time she whistled along, in an avian counterpoint or descant to the melodies. Her parts fit his in the manner of internal cadenzas, or jazz improvisations, and at Beethoven’s more heroic moments, which came pretty frequently, her additions rose to a furious pace of invention, sounding as if the bird inside her had been driven into a fit by Beethoven’s audacity.

They whistled some very stirring duets. It definitely passed the time in ways that it hadn’t passed before. You needed the gift of time, he thought, to explore a pleasure like this. He could go through all the Beethoven he knew; and after them, the four symphonies of Brahms, so noble and heartfelt; also the last three symphonies of Tchaikovsky. All the great parts of the soundtrack of his oh-so-romantic youth. Meanwhile Swan was up for anything, and her augmentations added a wild baroque or avant-garde touch to the tunes, additions that often amazed him. The piercing quality of her sound must have carried a long way up and down the tunnel, and sometimes the sunwalkers would slow down and walk just ahead of them, bouncing in time to the music, even whistling themselves, inexpertly but enthusiastically. The finale of Beethoven’s Seventh was particularly successful with them as marching music; and when they got up after a rest to take up their walking again, the sunwalkers often requested the horn cry that began Tchaikovsky’s Fourth, then its first theme, so full of the feeling that there was a fate ruling them now, a fate dark and grand.

At the end of one of their shared performances of Beethoven’s Ninth, they all shook their heads in wonder, and Nar turned back and said, “Sirs, you certainly are good whistlers! What tunes!”

“Well,” Wahram said. “Those are Beethoven.”

“Oh! I thought they called it whistling.”

“We thought you were making them up,” Tron added. “We were impressed.”

Later, when the three youths had gotten ahead, Wahram said, “Are all the sunwalkers like that?”