government.' Cherenkov put him off balance. He sipped his tea to cover his discomfort, to conceal the intensity of his interest. He wondered if he could get Cherenkov to talk about the past without putting his own cover at risk. Griffith glanced
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at Mendez, sitting beside him and holding a teacup with surprising delicacy. 'So you're part of one percent for art,' he said.
'I'm a gardener,' Mendez said.
'But the general said—'
'It was a joke,' Mendez said, looking down, embarrassed.
'A joke'' Cherenkov said. 'Hardly. You are an artist, and my admiration is sincere. Floris, did you admire Infinity's work when you walked through the garden?'
'*! used to have roses,' she said. 'But when I moved, there wasn't any room for roses.'
'We don't have too many roses up here yet,' Infinity said.
'We needed ground cover first. Annuals are fastest. Roses take a while to get established, and they need a lot of hand labor.'
'Oh.' Ms. Brown's voice was small and sad and disappointed.
'I could try to get some, though,' Infinity said.
Griffith decided the old woman was self-centered at best and getting on toward senile at worst, and he did not understand what she was doing here. The one percent program was bad enough; who ever heard of an art department on a scientific expedition? But grandparents^ Next thing, they would be shipping kids up, or having their own. He supposed that if he were planning to create a generation ship he might want to begin with a complete age-mix. He filed the information away for further use.
'Floris,' Cherenkov said, 'will you consent to be my neighbor for a week? If at the end of that time you prefer to move, I will speak to the housing committee on your behalf.
I have some credibility here.'
She hesitated, watching him and blinking, like some elderly cold-blooded reptile waiting for the sun to warm her enough that she could move and think.
'They said I had to stay even if I didn't like it,' she said. 'I had to sign a paper.' She waited expectantly.
'Transportation is expensive,' Cherenkov said. 'But papers can sometimes be changed. This I cannot promise, but if in a week you ask for my help in the respect of returning to earth, I will do what I can.'
Though it would be better for Griffith's purposes if Ms.
12 0 Vonda N. Mdntyre
Brown stayed, he thought Cherenkov would be doing the expedition a favor to have the old woman sent home whether she wanted to go or not. He could not imagine anyone refusing a request that Cherenkov made.
'I'd like to go to my house now.'
Ms. Brown made Griffith fee! creepy, the way she responded to comments without really acknowledging them.
'Excellent,' Cherenkov said. 'Infinity, 1 will entrust FIoris's comfort to you. I must hurry—I have another obligation.'
He left the room. Griffith put his cup down with a clatter and hurried after him.
'Sir! I mean, Kolya—'
He caught up to Cherenkov, who continued without pause.
The cosmonaut had a strange, careful way of walking, as if he feared that gravity would trap him forever on the ground.
'You said your name was Griffith,' Cherenkov said. 'Is that your surname or your given name?''
'Surname.'
'And your given name?'
Griffith felt a blush rising. He had not blushed for years.
He hoped his tan concealed it; he hoped Cherenkov did not notice. Then Cherenkov glanced at him, and Griffith knew that even if his tan did conceal the blush, Cherenkov noticed
it.
'It's Marion, sir.'
'It's Kolya, sir,' Cherenkov said, mocking him a little.
'I don't use my given name.' Griffith tried to keep his reaction cool, his tone cold.
'Everyone uses given names here. The informality is refreshing.'
Griffith kept his silence.
'You do not agree.'
'I think informality leads to sloppiness. There's no clear chain of-command here. I think that's dangerous, especially in an environment as severe as space.'
'Spoken like a military man,' Cherenkov said, 'ora government worker,' he added before Griffith could object. 'But you are wrong. In such a self-contained environment, a certain democratic sloppiness can be turned to advantage. Why did you follow me?'
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'You said you were going outside. Would you iet me tag along?'
'Outside? I think not. That is dangerous without training.'
'Just to the staging area, I mean.'
'You may do that without my permission. The ship is open to inhabitants and visitors alike. You may be required to pass training to engage in certain activities, but no one is denied the opportunity to attempt the training.'
Griffith frowned. 'That seems awfully loose to me.'
'Spoken like a true—government man.'
Griffith wondered again if Cherenkov were laughing at him, deep down under the intensity of his gaze. And yet even if the cosmonaut had pegged him as a military observer, what could he do? Exposed, Griffith might expect some uncomfortable moments. The more recalcitrant expedition members might denounce him. It would be verbal, not physical, abuse;
of that he was certain. If Cherenkov blew his cover, Griffith would have to return to earth. Having to send another observer could delay Griffith in implementing his plans. On the other hand, he already had most of the information he needed.
A few more days . . .
He found it difficult to understand the core of resistance against the changes that had to occur. The deep space expedition was all very well when it was planned, two decades ago in a time of prosperity, civil international relations, and silence from the Mideast Sweep. All of that had changed. Starfarer had to change, too.
Griffith's job would have been much easier if he had not had to deal with thz researchers, the stubborn, self- centered idealists. As the starship had to change, the people had to change, too.
If Griffith coufd arrange to antagonize a few more countries into withdrawing from the expedition, the remaining personnel would not be able to continue alone.
He was doing a good job. No one would fault him for giving himself a few minutes. He wanted to get Cherenkov to talk about his experiences, and he knew it would not be easy. The general obviously felt no nostalgia for the past. Griffith held no power over this man; he could not demand a reply. He would have to be patient.
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Kolya wished the young officer would follow someone else.
It mattered little to him if Griffith were here under false pretenses. Kolya ignored politics with the strength of visceral aversion. He hated politics almost as much as he hated violence.
He also did not like to be followed. Nikolai Petrovich Che-renkov had been followed by people who wanted to kill him and by people who wanted to worship him. The two experiences were not all that different.
He had become more and more private over the past two decades. One morning in the company of Infinity Mendez and Floris Brown tired him to a startling degree. The effort
of remaining civil, pleasant, even cheerful, had drained him of the anticipatory energy he experienced before his spacewalks. Human contact affected him with a kind of sensory overload that only the emptiness and
