manner.
They both beamed at him.
“So we added a healthy dose of vitamin A to the tranquilizer to damp down beta-carotene activity,” the assistant finished triumphantly.
“Fine,” Bram said with a judicious nod. He looked around for a way to make his escape. “Well, that seems to take care of it, so I’ll—”
“Of course, you’ll want to review our total hormone strategy while you’re here, Captain,” Jao’s granddaughter said. “Shall we start with the tree-turning maneuver?”
Bram gave in to the inevitable and let her lead him over to the far end of the hollow, where a battery of young technicians, wearing the leaf tabards that seemed to be the working costume of the new generation, busily tended the array of giant fermentation tanks where hormone synthesis started.
A half hour later, his eyes slightly glazed, Bram found himself blessedly alone in the brilliant corridor that ran through the trunk’s heartwood. Alcoves branched off on either side, each with its neatly painted street sign. Here, forty miles beneath Yggdrasil’s bark, a lot of specialized work went on—plastics manufacturing using leaf sugars as feedstock, the Message broadcasting facility whose vital work could not be interrupted by yearly bough migrations, the central observatory.
There was also a recreation complex with guest suites, increasingly popular with the younger set and the advanced retroyouth crowd, with facilities for sports, swimming, and small-craft sailing. After Yggdrasil left the galaxy and acceleration ceased, it would be a center for such weightless pursuits as flying, flat-trajectory handball, three-dimensional ballet, and, Bram didn’t doubt, free-fall sex.
Bram paused to look at the bulletin board. Some members of the trunk staff were choosing up sides for a game of teamball in what would eventually be the flydome. Bram was tempted to join them. But he knew that he’d be invited only through courtesy and deference to his position. At his present chronological age, he’d only be a liability to whatever team was willing to suffer him; better stick to playing with his peers on the occasional Tenday.
Feeling pleasurably sorry for himself—refraining from reminding himself that he was not as old as he had been twenty years ago—he gave the bulletin board a regretful last glance and set off down the long arcade toward the observatory.
At least that was one treat he could give himself.
Jun Davd looked up from his work and smiled at Bram with a third set of teeth that were as white and flawless as they had been when he had grown them a quarter century ago.
“Nice of you to play truant just so’s you can come visit an old man,” he said.
“The captain never plays truant,” Bram said, smiling back. “Everything I do is always in the line of duty.”
He raised both hands, and they touched palms in the old gesture.
Jun Davd chuckled. “So your duty brought you up to Yggdrasil’s attic to rummage through the stars.”
He was bent, frail, attenuated, but in remarkably good shape. Bram guessed that his biological age was down to about eighty. There were even traces of gray in the cap of white curls. Flesh was returning to the dark, mummified face, filling in the wrinkles. They had gotten to Jun Davd just in time.
“Is that what they look like now?” Bram asked, gesturing at the extrapolated display Jun Davd had been studying when he came in. The screen showed a splendid panorama of multicolored stars, glowing clouds, and luminous streamers swimming past in relative motion. Quite a few of the stars had disks.
“More or less,” Jun Davd said. “The computer’s having a hard time keeping up. That nice orange star you see coming toward you has been reconstructed from gamma rays in the ten-to-the-minus-six-nanometer range. The light that kills. The rear view’s even more of a challenge. We’re seeing those stars by ultralong radio waves—past the hundred-kilometer range. We’ve got almost a
They both beamed at him.
“So we added a healthy dose of vitamin A to the tranquilizer to damp down beta-carotene activity,” the assistant finished triumphantly.
“Fine,” Bram said with a judicious nod. He looked around for a way to make his escape. “Well, that seems to take care of it, so I’ll—”
“Of course, you’ll want to review our total hormone strategy while you’re here, Captain,” Jao’s granddaughter said. “Shall we start with the tree-turning maneuver?”
Bram gave in to the inevitable and let her lead him over to the far end of the hollow, where a battery of young technicians, wearing the leaf tabards that seemed to be the working costume of the new generation, busily tended the array of giant fermentation tanks where hormone synthesis started.
A half hour later, his eyes slightly glazed, Bram found himself blessedly alone in the brilliant corridor that ran through the trunk’s heartwood. Alcoves branched off on either side, each with its neatly painted street sign. Here, forty miles beneath Yggdrasil’s bark, a lot of specialized work went on—plastics manufacturing using leaf sugars as feedstock, the Message broadcasting facility whose vital work could not be interrupted by yearly bough migrations, the central observatory.
There was also a recreation complex with guest suites, increasingly popular with the younger set and the advanced retroyouth crowd, with facilities for sports, swimming, and small-craft sailing. After Yggdrasil left the galaxy and acceleration ceased, it would be a center for such weightless pursuits as flying, flat-trajectory handball, three-dimensional ballet, and, Bram didn’t doubt, free-fall sex.
Bram paused to look at the bulletin board. Some members of the trunk staff were choosing up sides for a game of teamball in what would eventually be the flydome. Bram was tempted to join them. But he knew that he’d be invited only through courtesy and deference to his position. At his present chronological age, he’d only be a liability to whatever team was willing to suffer him; better stick to playing with his peers on the occasional Tenday.
Feeling pleasurably sorry for himself—refraining from reminding himself that he was not as old as he had been twenty years ago—he gave the bulletin board a regretful last glance and set off down the long arcade toward the observatory.
At least that was one treat he could give himself.
Jun Davd looked up from his work and smiled at Bram with a third set of teeth that were as white and flawless as they had been when he had grown them a quarter century ago.
“Nice of you to play truant just so’s you can come visit an old man,” he said.
“The captain never plays truant,” Bram said, smiling back. “Everything I do is always in the line of duty.”
He raised both hands, and they touched palms in the old gesture.
Jun Davd chuckled. “So your duty brought you up to Yggdrasil’s attic to rummage through the stars.”
He was bent, frail, attenuated, but in remarkably good shape. Bram guessed that his biological age was down to about eighty. There were even traces of gray in the cap of white curls. Flesh was returning to the dark, mummified face, filling in the wrinkles. They had gotten to Jun Davd just in time.
“Is that what they look like now?” Bram asked, gesturing at the extrapolated display Jun Davd had been studying when he came in. The screen showed a splendid panorama of multicolored stars, glowing clouds, and luminous streamers swimming past in relative motion. Quite a few of the stars had disks.
“More or less,” Jun Davd said. “The computer’s having a hard time keeping up. That nice orange star you see coming toward you has been reconstructed from gamma rays in the ten-to-the-minus-six-nanometer range. The light that kills. The rear view’s even more of a challenge. We’re seeing those stars by ultralong radio waves—past the hundred-kilometer range. We’ve got almost a
Similar Books
The Would-Begetter
Maggie Makepeace
Noah
Kelli Ann Morgan
One Wild Vegas Night
SJ Thomas
Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel
Quintin Jardine
Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4)
Sue London
Stealing the Bride
Mary Wine
Golden State
Stephanie Kegan
Angle of Attack
Rex Burns
