Look to Windward

The car was a large one, half full; crowded by local standards. At the far end, through a few embroidered hangings and a screen of plants, he could hear a group of young, all shouting and laughing. One calm adult voice sounded like its owner was trying to keep them in order.

A child burst through the screen of plants, looking back the way it had come, almost tripping. It glanced round at the adults in this end of the car. It looked to be about to throw itself back through the plants again until it saw Quilan. Its eyes widened and it walked over to sit beside him. Its pale face looked flushed and it was breathing hard. Its dark straight hair was plastered to its forehead with sweat.

“Hello,” it said. “Are you Ziller?”

“No,” Quilan said. “My name is Quilan.”

“Geldri T’Chuese,” the child said, putting out its hand. “How do you do.”

“How do you do.”

“Are you going to the Festival?”

“No, I’m going to a concert.”

“Oh, the one at the Stullien Bowl?”

“Yes. And you? Are you going to the concert?” The child snorted derisively. “No. There’s a whole bunch of us; we’re going round the Orbital by car until we get bored. Quern wants to go round at least three times in a row because Xiddy’s been round twice with his cousin, but I think twice is enough.”

“Why do you want to go round the Orbital?” Geldri T’Chuese looked oddly at Quilan. “Just for a laugh,” it said, as though it ought to be obvious. A gale of laughter burst through the screen of plants from the far end of the car. “Sounds very noisy,” Quilan said.

“We’re wrestling,” the child explained. “Before that we had a farting competition.”

“Well, I’m not sorry I missed that.”

Another peal of high-pitched laughter rang down the car. “I’d better get back,” Geldri T’Chuese said. It patted his shoulder. “Nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy the concert.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

The child took a run at the screen of plants and jumped through between two of the clumps. There were more screams and laughs.

~ I know.

~ You know what?

~ I can guess what you’re thinking.

~ Can you?

~ That they will probably still be in the underground car system when the Hub is destroyed.

~ Is that really what I was thinking?

~ It’s what I’d be thinking. It is tough.

~ Well, thank you for that.

~ I’m sorry.

~ We’re all sorry.

The journey took a little longer than it would normally; there were a lot of people and cars stacking up to unload at the Bowl’s sub-surface access points. In the lift, Quilan nodded to a few people who recognised him from the news-service pieces he’d done. He saw one or two frowning at him, and guessed they knew that by coming he was probably going to prevent Ziller from attending. He shifted on his seat and inspected an abstract painting hanging nearby.

The lift arrived on the surface and people walked out into a broad, open concourse beneath a colonnade of tall, straight-trunked trees. Soft lights shone against the dark blue of the evening sky. Smells of food filled the air and people thronged cafes, bars and restaurants at the sides of the concourse. The Bowl filled the sky at the end of the broad way, studded with lights.

“Major Quilan!” a tall, handsome man in a bright coat shouted, rushing up to him. He offered his hand and Quilan shook it. “Chongon Lisser. Lisser News; usual affiliations, forty per cent take-up and rising.”

“How do you do?” Quilan kept on walking; the tall male walked to one side and a little in front, keeping his head turned towards Quilan to maintain eye contact.

“I’m very well, Major, and I hope you are too. Major, is it true that Mahrai Ziller, the composer of tonight’s symphony here at the Stullien Bowl, Guerno Plate, Masaq’, has told you that if you attend the concert tonight then he won’t?”

“No.”

“It’s not true?”

“He hasn’t told me anything directly.”

“But would it be correct to say that you must have heard that he wouldn’t attend if you did?”

“That is correct.”

“And yet you have chosen to attend.”

“Yes.”

“Major Quilan, what is the nature of the dispute between you and Mahrai Ziller?”

“You would have to ask him that. I have no dispute with him.”

“You don’t resent the fact that he’s put you in this invidious position?”

“I don’t think it is an invidious position.”

“Would you say that Mahrai Ziller is being petty or vindictive in any way?”

“No.”

“So would you say he’s behaving perfectly reasonably?”

“I am not an expert on Mahrai Ziller’s behaviour.”

“Do you understand people who say you’re behaving very selfishly by coming here tonight, as that means Mahrai Ziller won’t be here to conduct the first performance of his new work, so reducing the experience for everybody concerned?”

“Yes, I do.”

By now they were near the end of the wide concourse, where what looked like a tall, broad wall of glowing glass extending over the breadth of the pavement was slowly alternately brightening and dimming. The crowds thinned out a little beyond here; the barrier was a field wall, set up to admit only those who’d won out in the ticket lottery.

“So you don’t feel that—”

Quilan had brought his ticket with him, though he’d been told it was really just a souvenir and not required for entry. Chongon Lisser obviously didn’t have a ticket; he bumped softly into the glowing wall and Quilan stepped around him and passed on through with a nod and a smile. “Good evening,” he said.

There were more news service people inside; he continued to answer politely but minimally and just kept on walking, following his terminal’s instructions, to his seat.

Ziller watched the news feeds following Quilan with an open mouth. “That son-of-a-bitch! He’s really going! He’s not bluffing! He’s actually going to take his seat and keep me away! From my own fucking concert! The stub- cocked son-of-a-prey-bitch!”

Ziller, Kabe and the avatar watched as several remotes followed Quilan to his seat, a specially prepared Chelgrian curl-pad. There was a Homomdan seat next to it, a space for Tersono, and a few other seats and couches. The camera platform showed Quilan sitting, looking around at the slowly filling Bowl, and calling up a function on his terminal which created a flat screen in front of him holding the concert programme notes.

“I think I see my seat,” Kabe said thoughtfully.

“And I mine,” Tersono said. Its aura field looked agitated. It turned to face Ziller, seemed about to say something, then did not. The avatar did not move, but Kabe had the impression that there had been some communication between Hub Mind and the Contact Section drone.

The avatar folded its arms and walked across the room to look out at the city. A cold clear cobalt sky arched over the jagged surround of mountains. The machine could see the bubble that was Aquime’s Dome Square. There was a giant screen there, relaying the scenes at the Stullien Bowl to a swelling crowd.

“I confess I didn’t think he’d go,” the avatar said.