Vernor Vinge - Rainbows End

Lord ! An hour had passed! He took a quick glance downstairs. Nobody had been to the front John. There was a pending message from Tommie Parker. The cabal wanted to know when or if he was going to come through with his contribution.

He looked downstairs again. Strange. He couldn't see into the living room anymore. Normally that was on the house menu, but now it was as private as the bedrooms. He stood and walked over to the door, quietly eased it open half an inch, snooping the good old-fashioned way.

They were arguing! And Bob was white-hot. His voice grew louder and louder, finally breaking into enraged shouting. "I don't give a fuck if they do need you! It's always just one more time. But this time you've — "

Bob hesitated in midflame. Robert leaned forward, ear to the door. Nothing. Not even the mumble of circumspect speech. Son and daughter-in-law had taken their spat into ethereal realms. But Robert continued to listen. He could hear the two moving around. At one point, there was the sound of a hand slapping down like a pistol shot. Alice whacking the dinner table? There was half a minute of silence and then a door slammed.

Vision returned a second after that. Bob was alone in the living room, staring at the door of the ground-floor den. He stood there for a few moments, then circled the living room and dropped himself down in his favorite chair. He pulled a book off the coffee table. That was one of the three physical books downstairs — and even it was a just-in-time fake.

Robert Gu quietly shut his bedroom door and returned to his chair. He thought a moment, then tapped on his virtual keypad.

Robert — > Miri: What was that all about?

Miri was twenty feet down the hall. So why didn't he just walk a few feet and knock on her door? Or present virtually? Maybe it was the habit of staying out of her way. Maybe it was easier to hide behind words.

Maybe he wasn't the only one hiding. It was almost a minute before a reply floated back.

Miri — > Robert: They're not mad at you.

Robert — > Miri: Okay. But what is the problem?

Miri — > Robert: There is no problem. That was the whole message, but then Miri sent another.

Miri — > Robert: Alice is getting ready for some new job. That's always hard on her. And then Bob gets mad. There was another pause.

Miri — > Robert: This is Corps business, Robert. I'm not supposed to know about it. You're even more not. I'm sorry. EOR

EOR That was space cadet for "that's all she wrote." Robert waited; nothing more came. But this had been more real conversation with Miri than he'd had in two months. What did that little girl do with her secrets? They were surely more significant than he had ever guessed. She had better communications facilities than all of twentieth-century civilization, but her prissy standards kept her from sharing her pain. Or maybe she has friends she can talk to ?

Robert Gu, Sr., didn't have any friends, but he didn't need any; tonight he had plenty of crisis and suspense to distract him. He kept an eye on the front bathroom, and another on the door to the den. Bob was still reading, every so often sliding a look of his own at the den.

"Is now a good time for us to talk, Professor?" The voice came from just behind his shoulder.

The shock all but levitated Robert from his chair. He swung on the sound. "Jeez!"

It was Zulfikar Sharif.

Sharif backed away, startlement in his face.

"You could have knocked," Robert said.

"I did, Professor." Sharif sounded faintly hurt.

"Yes, yes." Robert still hadn't figured out all the quirks of Epiphany's "circle of friends" feature. He gestured for Sharif to stay. "What's on your mind?"

Sharif did a creditable job of sitting on a chair without sinking halfway through. "Well, I was hoping we could just talk." He thought a moment. "I mean, we might continue with my questions about your Secrets of the Ages"

Still no action downstairs. "… Very well. Ask." So who is this ? True-Sharif? Stranger-Sharif? SciFi-Sharif? Or some ungodly combination? Whatever, it was too much coincidence that he showed up just now. Robert sat back to watch and listen.

"um… I don't know." Miserably forgetful? But then Sharif abruptly perked up. "Ah! One thing I'm hoping to get at in my thesis is the balance of worth between the beauty of expression and the beauty of underlying truth. Are they separate?"

A question to be answered in cryptic depth . Robert paused significantly and then launched into flimflam. "You should know by now, Zulfi, even if you can't create poetry yourself, that the issues can't be separated. Beauty captures truth. Read my essay in the Carolingian . …" blah blahblah

Sharif nodded earnestly. "Then do you ever expect an end to one and therefore the other? Beauty and truth, I mean?"

Huh ? Now, that was sufficiently bizarre to derail him. Robert parsed and reparsed the stupidity. Will you run out of beauty? And the answer for me is yes; I cant create beauty anymore . So maybe this was just Stranger-Sharif jerking him around while they both waited for the little gray box to do its thing.

"I suppose… there could be an end." And then he thought about the other half of the question. "Hell, Sharif, truth — new truth — ended long ago. We artists sit atop a midden ten thousand years deep. The diligent ones of us know everything of significance that's ever been done. We churn and churn, and some of us do it brilliantly, but it's just a glittering rehash." Did I just say that ?

"And if they're linked, then beauty is gone too?" Sharif had leaned forward his elbows on his legs, his chin cupped in his hands. His eyes were large and serious.

Robert looked away. Finally, he choked out, "There is still beauty. I will bring it back." I will regain it .

Sharif smiled, mistaking Robert's assertion for some general faith in humankind in the future? "That's wonderful, Professor. This goes beyond your essay in the Carolingian ."

"Indeed." Robert sat back, wondering just what in heaven's name was going on.

Sharif hesitated a moment, as if uncertain where to go next. "At the UCSD library, how has your project there progressed?"

Still no action downstairs. Robert said, "You see some connection between my art and… the Librareome?"

"Well, yes. I don't want to intrude, but ultimately what you do at UCSD seems to be very much a statement about the position of art and literature in the modern world."

Maybe this was SciFi-Sharif, trying to figure out what Stranger-Sharif was up to. If only I could use one against the other . He gave his visitor a judicious nod. "I'll talk to my friends about this. Maybe we can arrange something."

That seemed to satisfy whoever-it-was. They set a time for another chat, and then the visitor was gone.

Robert turned off circle-of-friends access. No more surprise visitations tonight.

And downstairs, there was still no action. He watched through the walls for almost fifteen minutes. That was certainly a productive use of time. Think about something else, damn it .

He blew off the top of the house and looked across West Fallbrook. Un-enhanced, the place was very dark, more like an abandoned town than a living suburb. The real San Diego had less skyglow than he remembered from the 1970s. But behind that real view were unending alternatives, all the cyberspace fun Bob's generation could have ever imagined. Hundreds of millions were playing out there tonight. Robert could feel — Epiphany could make him feel — the thrum of it, beckoning. Instead he tapped out a command Chumlig had mentioned; here and there across North County, tiny lights glowed. Those were the other students in his classes, at least the ones who were studying tonight and had any interest in what the others were doing. Twenty little lights. That was more than two-thirds of the class, a special kind of belief circle, one dedicated to pushing up their cooperation scores as far as possible. He hadn't appreciated how hard these little third-raters were working.