“You want their damn what-are-they here? Prodding and poking. You want their nasty little researchers upsetting things?”
There was a moment’s silence while they considered things that might be upset. At this time of the year only the Hunt could be upset, for it was the only important thing going on. During the winter, of course, no one went anywhere, and during the summer months it was too hot to travel except at night, when the summer balls were held. Still, “research” had an awkward sound to it. People asking questions. People demanding answers to things.
“We don’t have to let them upset anything,” Figor said doubtfully. “They’ve told us why they want to come. There’s some plague or other and Sanctity’s setting up missions here and there, looking for a cure.” He rubbed his arm again, scowling.
“But why here?” blurted Gerold bon Laupmon.
“Why not here as well as anywhere? Sanctity knows little or nothing about Grass and it’s grasping at straws.”
They considered this for a time. It was true that Sanctity knew little or nothing about Grass except what it could learn from the Green Brothers. Foreigners came and went in Commoner Town, allowed to stay there only so long as it took to get the next ship out and not allowed to come into the grass country at all. Semling had tried to maintain an embassy on Grass, unsuccessfully. Now there was no diplomatic contact with “elsewhere.” Though the word was often used to mean Sanctity or Terra, it was also used in a more general sense: Grass was Grass; what was not Grass was elsewhere.
Eric broke the silence. “Last time Sanctity said something about someone having come here with the disease and departed without it.” He rose awkwardly on his artificial legs, wishing he could so easily depart, without his disability.
“Foolishness,” Gustave barked. “They couldn’t even tell us who it was, or when. Some crewman, they said. Off a ship. What ship, they didn’t know. It was only a rumor. Maybe this plague doesn’t even exist,” he growled. “Maybe it’s all an excuse to start proselytizing us, snipping at us with their little punches, taking tissue samples for their damned banks.” Even though the bon Smaerloks had come to Grass long ago, the family history was replete with accounts of the religious tyranny they had fled from.
“No,” said Figor. “I believe the plague exists. We’ve heard of it from other sources. And they’re upset about it, which is understandable. They’re running about doing this and that, not to much purpose. Well, they will find a cure for their plague. Give them time. One thing you can say for Sanctity, it does find answers eventually. So why not give them time to find the answer somewhere else, without saying no and without upsetting ourselves? We’ll tell this Hierarch we don’t take kindly to being studied, blah and blah, right of cultural privacy—he’ll have to accept that, since it’s one of the covenants Sanctity agreed to at the time of dispersion—but we’ll say we’re sensible people, willing to talk about it, so why not send us an ambassador to discuss the matter.” Figor made an expansive gesture. “Then we can discuss and discuss for a few years until the question becomes moot.”
“Until they all die?” Gerold bon Laupmon asked—meaning, Figor supposed, everyone of human origin not upon Grass.
Figor sighed. One was never certain with Gerold that he quite understood what was going on. “No. Until they find a cure. Which they will.”
Gustave snorted. “I’ll give that to the Sanctified, Gerold. They’re clever.” He said it in the tone of one who did not think much of cleverness.
There was a pause while they considered it. Eric bon Haunser urged at last, “It has the advantage of making us look perfectly reasonable.”
Gustave snorted again. “To who? Who is it looking at us? Who has the right?” He pounded on the arm of his chair, scowling, turning red in the face. Ever since the accident which had cut short Gustave’s riding career, he had been irascible and difficult, and Figor moved to calm him.
“Anyone can, Gustave, whether they have the right or not. Anyone can look. Anyone can have an opinion, whether we want them to or not. And if we should ever want something from Sanctity, we’d be in a good position to ask that the favor be returned.”
Eric nodded, seeing that Gustave was about to object. “Maybe we’ll never want anything, Gustave. Probably we won’t. But if we did, by chance, we’d be in a good position. Aren’t you the one who always tells us not to give up an advantage until we have to?”
The older man simmered. “Then we have to be polite to whoever they send—bow, scrape, pretend he’s our equal, some fool, some off-planeter, some foreigner.”
“Well, yes. Since the ambassador will be from Sanctity, he’ll probably be Terran, Gustave. Surely we could suffer that for a time. As I mentioned, most of us speak diplomatic.”
“And this fragras will have a silly wife and a dozen bratlings, probably. And servants. And secretaries and aides. All asking questions.”
“Put them someplace remote, where they can’t ask many. Put them at Opal Hill.” Eric named the site of the former Semling embassy with some relish, repeating it. “Opal Hill.”
“Opal Hill, hah! Farther than nowhere! All the way across the swamp-forest to the southwest. That’s why the people from Semling left. It gets lonely at Opal Hill.”
“So, the man from Sanctity will get lonely and leave as well. But that will be his fault, not ours. Agreed? Yes?”
Evidently they were agreed. Figor waited for a time to see if anyone had any second thoughts or if Gustave was going to explode again, then rang for wine before leading his guests down into the grass gardens. Now, in early fall, the gardens were at their best, the feathery seed heads moving like dancers to the beat of the
