Vernor Vinge - Tatja Grimm's World

Then the girl glanced at him, and for an instant it seemed the Termiter would run off. Instead, he bowed … and they talked.

From up on the editorial deck. Cor couldn’t hear a word. Besides, they were probably speaking Hurdic. It didn’t matter. She could imagine the conversation.

They were an odd combination: the priest sometimes shaking, sometimes bowing, his life’s beliefs being shot from under him; the girl, still slouched against the railing, paying more attention to the sea than to the conversation. Even during the Welcoming Back she had been like this. The praise had left her untouched; her listless replies had come from far away, punctuated by an occasional calculating look that Cor found more unsettling than the apathy.

After several minutes, the priest gave a final bow, and walked away. Only now, he didn’t need the railing. Cor wondered what it must be like to suddenly learn that supernatural fears were unnecessary. For herself, the turn of belief was in the opposite direction.

Rey said, “There’s a rational explanation for Tatja Grimm. For years we’ve been buying Contrivance Fiction about alien invaders. We were just too blind to see that it’s finally happened.”

“A visitor from the stars, eh?” Cor smiled weakly.

“Well, do you have a better explanation?”

“… No.” But Cor knew Tatja well enough to believe her story. She really was from the Interior. Her tribe’s only weapons were spears and hand axes. Their greatest “technical” skill was sniffing out seasonal springs. She’d run away when she was eight. She moved from tribe to tribe—always toward the more advanced ones. She never found what she was looking for. “… She’s a very quick learner.”

“Yeah. A quick learner. Tredi Bekjer said that, too. It’s the key to everything. I should have caught on the minute I heard how Jimi found her 'praying' to the noontime shadow of her quarter-staff. There she had reproduced one of the great experiments of all time—and I put it down to religion! You’re right; there’s no way she could be from an advanced civilization. She didn’t recognize my telescope. The whole idea of magnification was novel to her. Yet she understood the principle as soon as she saw the mirror.”

Cor looked down at the print deck, at the girl who seemed so sad and ordinary. There had been a time when Cor felt the start of friendship with the girl. It could never be. Tatja Grimm was like a hydrofoil first seen far astern. For a while she had been insignificant, struggling past obstacles Cor scarcely remembered. Then she pulled even. Cor remembered the last day of rehearsals; sympathy had chilled and turned to awe—as Cor realized just how fast Tatja was moving. In the future, she would sweep into a faraway Coronadas Ascuasenya could never imagine. “And now she understands us, and knows we are just as dumb as all the others.”

Rey nodded uncertainly. “I think so. At first she was triumphant; our toys are so much nicer than any tribe’s. Then she realized they were the product of centuries of slow invention. She can search the whole world now, but she won’t find anything better.”

So here she must stop, and make the best of things. “I—I really do have a theory, Boss. Those old stories of fate and gods, the ones you’re so down on? If they were true, she would fit right in, a godling who is just awakened. When she understands this, and sees her place in the world… She talked to me after the Welcoming Back. Her Spräk is good now; there was no mistaking her meaning. She thanked me for the Hrala coaching. She thanked me for showing her the power of fraud, for showing her that people can be used as easy as any other tool.”

For a long while, Rey had no response.

The tavern was old, luxurious—even respectable. Its slopping floor and high ceiling created the illusion that the hall was an open bowl. Crystal spheres cast an even, unwavering twilight over tables and patrons. Svir Hedrigs squinted gloomily at the newly polished table surface. Barely visible beneath the varnish were three centuries of minor vandalism. Krirsarque had been a university city for almost ten generations; unnumbered students had carved their names in the durable furniture of the Bayside Arbor.

It was still early and not a third of the tables were occupied. The jongleurs were up on their platform, playing songs and doing acrobatics. So far their amusements had not drawn a single couple onto the dance floor. Svir grunted his disgust, and extended long legs under the table. He absently caressed the furry body of the creature sitting on the table. The animal turned its outsized head toward him and regarded him with limpid black eyes. A deep purring sound came from its wide, pointed ears. Then it turned away and scanned the hall. The ears that were not ears flicked this way and that. Far across the hall, a waiter looked severely in their direction, and began walking toward them. When he got to within three tables of Svir, he stopped, puzzled, with the air of someone who has forgotten his purpose. The waiter shook his head confusedly and headed back to the bar.

“Good boy, Ancho,” murmured Svir. Tonight he didn’t want to argue with anyone about his pet’s presence in the tavern. He had come out for one last fling before sailing tomorrow. Fling—hah! He knew he would just sit lumpishly till closing time. For the thousandth time he cursed his bad luck. Who’d have thought that his thesis topic would require him to sail all the way to Crownesse? Because of the season, that was more than ten days sailing time, unless one could afford hydrofoil passage—which he certainly could not.

The hall was filling now, but there weren’t many unattached girls. Svir concluded with sick self-pity that this night he didn’t have the courage to play either side of catch-and-be-caught. He slouched back and made a determined effort to finish his drink in one draft.

“May I join you?” The soft voice came from behind and above. Svir choked violently on his skaal. He looked up to see that the speaker was as pretty as her voice.

“Please do!” he gasped painfully, trying to regain some shred of poise. “Miss, uh…?”

“Tatja Grimm.” The miracle lowered herself gracefully into the chair next to his, and set her drink on the table next to Ancho’s forepaws. Svir felt himself staring. He constantly daydreamed of encounters like this, but now that he was confronted by reality he didn’t know what to do. In fact, Tatja Grimm was not pretty: she was beautiful, beautiful in an especially wonderful way. From a distance she would have appeared to be a slender girl with a superb figure and reddish-brown hair. But Tatja Grimm was more than six feet tall—nearly as tall as Svir himself. Her hands were slim and delicate—and larger than the hands of most men. But the most wonderful thing of all was the look of genuine interest and intelligence in her gray-green eyes.

“And your name?” Tatja smiled dazzlingly.

The wheels went round and Svir remembered his name: “Svir Hedrigs.”

Tatja rubbed Svir’s pet about the neck. “And that,” spoke Svir, happy at finding something to say, “is Ancho.”

“A dorfox? They’re awfully rare, aren’t they?”

“Uh-huh. Only a few can survive ocean voyages.”

Tatja played with Ancho for a few seconds. The dorfox responded with satisfied humming. The human female was accepted.

But Svir’s hopes were shattered almost as quickly as they had crystallized. Three men came over and sat down, without a word to him.

“Miss Grimm, did you…?” one began. Then he noticed the dorfox. The newcomers sat silently and watched her and the animal. Svir didn’t know what was going on, but there was obviously more competition here than he could handle.