Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

We are prisoners in chains of thought. Ours is a language with fingers to count and possessions to protect. How can I filter through the written page the baits that bargained so successfully, and held the addicts to the medium so happily?

It was food, among other things, that brought them to Carrie's Cuisine. Food, the likes of which could not exist outside the medium.

Sand had never been to such a place, even when dining with his father. But to Holly, it was evidently commonplace. He seemed to know everyone, by sight, by name, and by ambition. A leader is in large part a performer. If his audience consists of other leaders, then he must be the best performer. Holly was the best.

Instead of entering at their own table, which they could easily have done, Holly and Sand came in the front door, and walked all the way across the restaurant. It was a grand arena, full of dazzle and glitter. At either end of the great room, just for show, jugglers performed, changing the force of gravity on every ball. They never missed, for they had trained for years to be where they were now.

Carrie's Cuisine.

The extravagance of the rich is such as to refine the skills of others for their amusement. At tables far across the floor, groups of finely dressed customers were seated around mountains of food. They could not possibly have finished it all, but with great ceremony each dish was sampled as it was served, amidst the laughter of sophisticated appreciation.

Holly spoke over his shoulder to Sand as they worked their way across the floor.

"Listen carefully. You must train your attention to discriminate. Those who speak the loudest are not the most important."

Walking behind Holly, Sand noticed that food was forgotten and all heads turned in a wave across the floor.

"Oh, Benjamin!" laughed one portly patron, clumsily raising his bulk from the table. "We were wondering whether your talents will grace the campaign this year."

"I'm sure you were, Helmsman," said Holly, smiling but not stopping. Sand gave a nod to the bewildered man and continued on between the tables after his teacher.

"Look around you," murmured Holly. Sand pressed closer. "More people of importance than flies on a carcass. Him, for example." Holly nodded at a little, red faced man waving at them from across the floor. "That man is the Helmsman for the whole northeast quarter."

The man was shouting something, and the people sitting around him were laughing. "...food must be scarce at The View From The Hilltop."

Holly straightened a little.

"They still think I'm the court jester," he muttered almost to himself. Then, in a soft voice that somehow carried, he said, "Sir, The View From The Hilltop is admittedly a humble setting, but I'm sure you would find a fitting reception there, any time."

The man sat down confused and defensive among his friends. Sand could have sworn he saw the man balding. Holly moved on, with Sand trailing close behind.

At a small table, a beautiful woman sat, all alone. Her hair was dark and her lips were full. She was undoubtedly the finest looking woman there, and greeted them with endless eyes as they approached. Holly kissed her casually on the mouth and motioned for Sand to sit down.

"Making quite a commotion," she laughed.

"Why not?" asked Holly. "It's good for your business."

"Not if you scare them away."

Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Sand. "He thinks the revolution will be good for business. It will, for his." Turning back to Holly she asked him, "So, are you going to introduce us?"

Holly smiled.

"Carrie, this is Sand. Sand, welcome to Carrie's Cuisine."

"I'm honored," said Carrie, with an unfathomable smile. Her breasts were full, and quite fathomable through the blue film of her dress. She was hidden by the table below the waist, and did not stand up as she reached out to take Sand's hand. But he was quite aware of the woman as a whole. Even seated, she was a constant dancer, effortless and unashamed.

"Sand is a very promising student of mine. At least," Holly chuckled, "he's always promising me things." He poured from a cooler of wine, in the best form of the old tradition.

Carrie smiled warmly at Sand, who choked on a bigger sip than he had planned. The food arrived, huge overladen deposits of rich delicacies, which held Sand's attention for a moment until his eyes returned across the table. Carrie's hair was thick enough to grab between your hands. Her eyes shone in the candle light.

"I hope you like my cooking," she said.

"You are a genius, my dear," said Holly. "Here Sand, try some of these." He served Sand some deep fried white meat, layered with succulent jelly and melted cheese.

Carrie explained. "This is a Vubarian dish."

"Umm," said Sand, with his mouth full. "Where's Vubaria?"

Carrie shifted uncomfortably.

"It's not a real country," Holly explained, smiling. "By the way, your father sends his regrets. He's busy with a new piece." Then Sand recalled how Peter had planned to dine with them tonight. Being so compulsive was very unlike his father, but it was just as well. Sand was enjoying himself.

"What's he working on?" Sand asked, helping himself to seconds from a bowl of large buttered shrimp.

"He perfecting an improvisation for Mara," said Holly in a colorless tone. For the first time in a while, Sand noticed the rest of the room.

"Peter and Mara are back together?" asked Carrie. Sand found her tone of familiarity strange, since she had surely never met his mother.

"No, they are still separated," Holly explained. "You see, we were going to try to patch things up between Peter and Mara, but Sand doesn't seem too interested."

Carrie turned to Sand with a polite, but curious look. "Is it true, then? Mara lives near you, at that place...the campus?"

"That's right," said Holly, and they both looked at Sand, who froze, holding an empty fork.

"And you never visit her?" Carrie persisted.

"I couldn't get in," he responded.

Benjamin Holly took a thoughtful sip of wine, keeping his eyes on Sand. "Why are you scared of seeing your mother?"

"I'm not," Sand insisted, a little too strongly, and being unable to think of anything else to say, fell silent. After a moment the conversation continued, with Holly and Carrie supplying it all. As the topics drifted, so did Sand's attention around the room. No one cared about his suffering. He was transparent, forgotten.

Beautiful faces were everywhere, and a wealth of detail was splayed on every wall. Anywhere his eyes rested he found a trace of someone else's perception. The great glass chandelier in the center held his gaze. He could feel the tug of many eyes upon it. The intricate design shifted with each competing view. It was an arena, and for a moment Sand believed he didn't need it. He longed for the solitude of his own work.

But Holly interrupted him.

"Sand, have you noticed who's here? Quite a crowd. Why, there's even some of Weissenbaum's followers. That table over there. The one on the left is Weissenbaum's granddaughter. I understand she's quite a pilot. Been flying since she was a little girl."

Sand looked over at the young colonists. There were seven around the table, all looking very glum. Well they might, he mused, since their town was abandoned, their friends killed in the Pinta disaster. The children of Backdoor were dressed in a narrow shade of gray, and they ate without loud comment, keeping their eyes to themselves.

Holly leaned forward. "Weissenbaum's granddaughter, her name is Tarni, she has an interesting story." Sand looked again at the young woman. Her straight brown hair and downcast eyes gave her the air of a frightened animal.

"The others are from the crew that would have gone next year, but she is from last year's crop. She herself was supposed to be on the Pinta, but was pulled from the crew at the last moment. When the Pinta was wounded, and dangerous," Holly continued, warming to his story, "the vessel was tossed out from behind the moon by the turbulence in the flow of space. Its trajectory would have passed close to Earth, and its status in the loophole was unstable. It could have jumped at any moment, dumping all its energy onto the surface of the Earth.

"In such an event the Pinta was to self-destruct, to protect us from annihilation. Tarni, who was piloting the empty ferry back to Earth when all this happened, tried to divert the Pinta's self-destruct command. Her actions gave me the idea for The View From The Hilltop."

"I haven't heard anything about her," breathed Carrie. "She could have killed us all!"

"It's not widely known," Holly explained. "Tarni wanted to save the Pinta because her closest friends were on board. She didn't think about the rest of us at all."

"But she is a criminal and should be punished," Carrie protested.

"She is untouchable. Tarni has protection," was all Holly would say.

The conversation did not dwell there. Food, wine, and opinions of food and wine all passed fluently between their lips. The cleverness was loud and melodic, leaving Sand to his own thoughts. He glanced at the colonists' table again, but they were gone. Sand wondered about them. Holly's face had darkened momentarily when mentioning Tarni's protection, reminding him of an earlier conversation about enemies, about forces beyond the medium, and someone named Don Andrews.

Sand remembered stories he had heard of Backdoor, the silver crater, the colonists who left without a hope of ever coming back. Where did they go? What was left when the universe had passed?

With voices so loud throughout the room, it was impossible for people not to hear each other. At the center of it all, Holly and Carrie alone seemed able to ignore the rest. Sitting with them, Sand became increasingly aware of his own silence.

"Ah, my dear," Holly was saying. "If only I could make a hundred copies of you..."

Carrie gave him a charmed smile. "But that is precisely why we have the laws, to prevent you from making slaves without souls. Anyway, what would you do with all those women?" Carrie was sitting boldly innocent and erect. The room grew quieter.

Thoughtfully, Holly answered, "If the laws allowed me to make even one such woman out of nothing, I would be sure to fill her with such passion that she would have her own ideas."

Carrie smiled as if captured but unashamed. "But then what would you do, if she desired another man besides yourself?"

Carrie turned to Sand. He had been trying to look busy by eating a piece of bread, but stopped now with his butter knife suspended. Carrie's breathing was audible, and her face captured him. She was inescapably beautiful. Holly was not so beautiful, and made Sand wish for a place to hide.

"Then I would say to that man," Holly spoke louder, "that he had better continue what he was doing, and keep his mind off what he could not have. I might give him a prettier knife to spread his butter."

The little butter knife Sand held lengthened in his hand, and the handle popped with jewels and silver. Sand's ears were hot with shame. With a shaking hand, he continued to reach the knife for the butter. His eyes were on the table. He had no desire for such games.

"Wait!" said Holly. "This man, who would steal my woman, who is he? What does he wear? Surely, he must be better dressed." Tassels sprouted from Sand's shoulders and little gold stars ran down his sleeves.

"Please..." he murmured. But Holly's voice smothered him.

"And to safely encounter the butter, he must really be better armed!"

Sand now held a sizable weapon. The knife was heavy. The restaurant was silent. Carrie was watching.

"Spread your butter with that," Holly finished.

Slowly, Sand tried to move his hand towards the butter. His heart pounded and something approaching nausea welled up within him. The knife was ridiculous.

He made it smaller.

Along his line of sight, people moved to get a better view, or perhaps to get out of the way. But Sand did not hear them now.

Holly pulled back from the table, and seemed larger. The knife expanded suddenly, and pinned Sand's hand to the table. His chest was pounding. Bitterly, he bent his concentration towards the blade.

It shrank a little. But then he heard the audience, and the knife grew heavy once again. He looked up. Holly's eyes were on the weapon, a smile gritted between the master's teeth. He didn't even know that Sand was watching him.

With a sudden lunge, Sand wrenched the heavy weapon from the table, knocking over dishes, spilling wine, and plunged the knife towards Holly's stomach. With a strange unrecognizable word, Holly let the blade be short and dull.

Then Sand stopped. He shoved his chair back and stood up. He held the butter knife up for everyone to see. Then he threw it at the far wall, where its clatter resounded.

"What is this all about?" he yelled.

No one spoke. Not even Holly.

"Why must we thrive on jealousy? Do we live only to compete?"

Holly was motionless, but Carrie rose from her chair, as if lifted. She understood.

She belonged to him. All this time, Sand had been right, stronger, more honest. He had suffered above it all. The others were gone. He was in her bed. She was naked beneath him, needing him everywhere. Her arms and legs encircled him, pulling him on and on.

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