Anvil of Stars

about the Killers getting strategic information.”

Giacomo shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Maybe we’re being a little too self-critical,” Martin suggested. “Letting our guilt complexes lead us by the nose.”

“Let’s not worry about it for now,” Jennifer said. “What we need to worry about is how much in their libraries is new and useful to us. I think in a couple of tendays, we’ll know enough to make a strong report to Hans.”

“You should talk with the snake mothers,” Giacomo suggested. “Not Hans. You.”

“Bring Paola with you,” Jennifer said. “They may think we’re more stable in male-female pairs.”

“Too bad Theresa couldn’t be here,” Giacomo said wistfully. “You and she, together, would have been just what they’re looking for.”

“They like working with dyads,” Jennifer said. “They really like Giacomo and me.”

“If we could all be in love and connected to each other—” Giacomo began.

“They’d feel more affinity for us,” Jennifer concluded.

Martin grinned. “We’ll try to make do.”

PART THREE

Martin found Twice Grown in the schoolroom, coiled in deep discussion with Erin Eire and Carl Phoenix. Paola squatted on a cushion to one side and knitted a blanket, clarifying when necessary.

“But you don’t have fiction in your literature,” Carl was saying. “And you don’t have poetry. You have these symphonies of odors… I suppose they’d be like music to us. But nothing comparable to literature.”

“It has made things difficult for learning,” Twice Grown said. “I we have adjusted to thoughts that things described in your literature, in fiction, did not actually happen. Even your recorded history is indefinite. Is it not better to know something is truth before communicating?”

“We like experiencing things that didn’t happen,” Erin Eire said. “There’s a difference between writing fiction and lying.”

“Though I’ll be damned if I can pin it down,” Carl said, smiling.

“Carl means,” Paola said, lifting her chin but keeping her eyes on her knitting, “he can’t easily describe what the difference is between writing stories and lying. But there is a difference.”

Erin turned to Martin. “We’re having difficulty explaining this to him,” she said.

“We we do not create situations for our stories,” Twice Grown said. “It seems possible to confuse, especially the young.”

“I we—” Erin cleared her throat. “I think we know the difference. Fiction is relaxing, like dreaming. Lying, not telling the truth, is to gain social advantage.”

“We we do not dream,” Twice Grown said. “We our method of sleep is unlike yours. We we sleep rarely, and are not braided when sleeping, but we our cords are inactive for a time every few days.”

“Do cords dream?” Paola asked, looking up from her knitting.

“Cords have mental activity not accessible to braided individuals,” Twice Grown said. “They are not smart, but behave on programmed paths.”

“Instinct,” Carl Phoenix suggested.

“Does this make fiction a kind of waking dream, something two or more people do together?” Twice Grown asked, smelling of peppers and salt sea. He was intensely interested; but Martin also detected a whiff of turpentine, and that might have been nervousness.

“I suppose,” Erin said. “One or more people make up a story—”

“But it is known to resemble the real?” Twice Grown interrupted, coils rustling.

“Fiction is based on real settings, sometimes,” Carl said.

“We’re getting into pretty abstract territory,” Martin warned.

“Based on real behaviors, such that it is not unlikely for humans to behave in such a fashion?”

“Well…” Martin said.

“Characters in fiction sometimes do things real people would like to do, but don’t dare,” Erin said, pleased that she had scored a point of clarification.

Twice Grown did not understand. “I we have a question about this. I we have read short stories, and are now reading novels, which take long to eat.”

“Finish,” Paola suggested.

“To finish a novel. In some pages, I we see closeness with human behavior in a story, and in reality. But in other pages, other texts, behavior surpasses what I we have experienced. Are these behaviors not available to the humans we we know?”

“Which behaviors?” Erin asked.

Martin wished he could end the conversation now. The smell of turpentine had intensified. Twice Grown was either nervous, feeling threatened, or wanted to flee.

“Harming and other violences,” Twice Grown replied. “The wishing to kill, to inactivate. I we have read Beowulf, and I we have read Macbeth. I we have also read The Pit and the Pendulum.”

“Physical conflict is important in fiction,” Martin said. “It plays a much smaller role in our everyday life.”

Erin gave him a look that as much as said, Always the politician. “Some humans are capable of violence,” she said. “Sometimes, when we’re frightened…”

“This fear emotion, when you wish to flee or hide,” Twice Grown interrupted, “it is different from we our fear. You not only wish to flee and hide, but to destroy the thing which causes fear.”

“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Carl asked.

“But I we do not know this fear emotion. Is it akin to wishing to flee, or is it akin to a wish to do violence?”

“It’s part of getting ready to run or fight back,” Carl said. “An urge to protect oneself, or one’s family and friends.”

“But is it also awareness of the unknown? We we find the unknown powerful, like a stimulant. We we willingly sacrifice to the danger of unknown for experience in knowing, understanding. You do not?”

“We’ve had people willing to do that,” Martin said.

“But they’ve been rare,” Erin said. “Mostly, we try to conquer or protect ourselves against danger.”

“That is difficult,” Twice Grown said. “Are new friends not unknown? Do you wish to conquer new friends?”

“I think maybe we should put together a discussion group later,” Martin said. “We need to think through our answers and not give wrong impressions.”

“Need for more thinking, yes,” Twice Grown said. “For looking at humans, there is a mystery not like looking at we ourselves; a wondering if perhaps there is death here, without cause, like a sharkness in the waves.”

Erin’s eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said. “Fiction is a way of letting off steam.”

“What?” Twice Grown asked.

“She means, releasing personal and cultural tensions,” Paola said. “I think Martin’s right. We should think this over and let humans and Brothers debate and ask questions. We’re just making things muddier.”

Twice Grown grew still and tightened his coils. His odors had dissipated; Martin could smell nothing now. “I we would enjoy such a debate,” he said. “To rid of the mud.”

A snake mother and a mom awaited Martin, Paola, and Ariel, and two Brothers—Stonemaker and Eye on Sky—in empty quarters along the boundary between human and Brother territory.

Paola Birdsong seemed surprised that Martin had chosen her for this meeting, but Martin had grown more and more impressed with her skills in dealing with the Brothers.

Ariel was quiet, alert, and slightly nervous. Neither asked why they were chosen; he did not volunteer to tell them.

Martin had conferred with Hans about the meeting; he had been a little surprised when Hans had decided not