Vernor Vinge - Tatja Grimm's World

Tatja Grimm looked up from the dorfox. “Men, this is Svir Hedrigs. Svir, meet Brailly Tounse, Svektr Ramsey, and Kederichi Maccioso. They are respectively the printmaster, overeditor, and barge captain for Tarulle Publishing Company. I serve as the science editor for Fantasie.”

Like hell. Svir knew he was naturally gullible. Once, in this very tavern, a couple of netscrapers managed to convince him they were hot-air balloonists. Since then, he had always been on guard. No way could his new “friends” be what they claimed. The Tarulle fastboats weren’t due in the Krirsarque area for another three days. Svir had been very upset to learn that his ship would stay a day ahead of the Tarulle fleet as the publishing company sailed east through the Chainpearl Archipelagate. He wouldn’t receive the latest copies of Fantasie— all two years’ worth—until he reached Bayfast in Crownesse. In any case, people like Svektr Ramsey and Ked Maccioso were for too important to sail ahead of the barge, just for the sake of slumming in a Krirsarque dance hall. The frauds at his table had aimed far too high in their impersonation. Of all the literary corporations in the world, Tarulle was the most prestigious. In a very real way, Fantasie had molded Svir’s life: as a teenager, it had been stories like “Pride of Iron” that turned him to astronomy. Svir had long admired Rey Guille and the Overeditor, Svektr Ramsey. But never had he seen a Science Department in Fantasie, nor heard of Tatja Grimm.

Well, he determined, I can trade you lie for lie. Aloud, “So happy to meet you. I find a lot of your stuff especially provocative since my specialty is astronomy.”

“An astronomer?” The over-muscled bruiser identified as Ked Maccioso seemed impressed.

“That’s right,” Svir affirmed. And, actually, he was an astronomer. But the others might assume from his unmodified assertion that he worked with the Doomsdaymen who manned the sixty-inch High Eye on the Continent. Life in the Doomsday mountains was a constant struggle against asphyxiation, cold, mountain apes, and Hurdic tribesmen. “I’m out here to deliver some speeches at Krirsarque University.” This last was an inversion of the truth. Svir was a graduate student in astronomy at Krirsarque. For the last two years he had worked with the thirty-inch telescope at the university. The most recent journals from the Continent had brought news that the priests of Doomsday had duplicated some (or—gods forbid— all) of Svir’s work. Now he had to journey to the coast to meet with the Doo’d’en and thrash the problem out.

“What’s your preference in astronomy?” asked Tatja. “Seraphy?”

“No,” replied Svir. Seraph was not visible from Doomsday. “I’m in positional astronomy. Using very delicate trig techniques, we measure the distances to some of the nearer stars.” And someday I’ll do much more.

“Really! I bought an article on that very subject for the latest issue.” She snapped her fingers. “Brailly Tounse” reached into a side pouch and handed Tatja a magazine. She gave it to Svir. “See.”

Svir gasped. There was the familiar masthead of Fantasie. In small letters beneath it were the words: “Issue of the 162nd Meridian. Whole Number 5,239.” Here was physical proof that the Tarulle fleet had already arrived.

The cover was a Togoto pastel, at least the equal of that artist’s Lindolef study. Svir opened it to the table of contents. Beneath the magazine’s famous motto, “Things are not as they seem,” were listed ten stories by authors from all over the world, including new works by Ivam Alecque and Enar Gereu. Svir flipped through the pages and came across one that caught on his fingers. It wasn’t made of the usual seaweed pulp, but of some heavier, lacquer-coated material. At the top of the page was written: “Meet the Fantasie staff.” There were six portraits, done in tones of green. They weren’t acid-etch prints, or even paintings. Though green tinted, these pictures seemed realistic beyond all art. And one was a perfect likeness of… Tatja Grimm.

Svir wondered if he looked as embarrassed as he felt. These people were everything they claimed to be. And now Tatja Grimm was even more desirable—if that were possible—than she’d been before the others appeared.

Tatja placed her hand on his arm as she saw what he was looking at. “How do you like those pictures? It’s something we picked up in the Osterlais. Those pictures are made by a machine that looks at its subject and instantly ‘paints’ the picture, just like in the Diogens stories.” Her hand slipped down onto his. For a moment Svir’s vision blurred. A warm glow spread through his body. “My picture is at the bottom there because the Science Department was only introduced last year, when Svektr here gave in to the increased popularity of Contrivance Fiction… How long have you been acquainted with Fantasie?”

“Ever since I was in triform school. Ten years. The Tarulle Barge has come through the Archipelagate five times in that period. I’ve looked forward to each arrival more and more eagerly. I’ve worked part time for the University Library’s Restoration Department, seen all the issues they have.”

Tatja laughed, a friendly, intimate chuckle. The men at the table receded into the far back of Svir’s consciousness. “Such restoration is a worthwhile job. Did you know that in all Tu, there is only one complete collection of Fantasie?”

“You mean the proof copies on the barge?”

“No. Not even the Tarulle Company has a complete version. Remember, there was a fire on the Old Barge three hundred years ago; all the copies to that date were lost. Up to twenty years ago there were several complete collections, but a series of accidents has destroyed all but one.” She put a faint accent on the word “accidents.”

Svir had never thought about it, but it was possible that only one complete collection existed. As the Tarulle Company toured the world, they sold their magazines and printed extra copies to drop off at later island chains. Delivery was quite unreliable compared to a subscription service—such as some island magazines used. Thus it was very difficult to get a continuous sequence of issues. And Fantasie was seven hundred years old. Even though most issues had been recopied and their stories anthologized—any major library contained thousands of stories from the magazine—there were still “lost” issues unavailable on the Chainpearls.

The person or government that possessed the complete set must be very wealthy and dedicated to culture. “Who has the collection?” asked Svir.

“The regent of Crownesse, Tar Benesh,” Tatja answered.

Svir frowned. Tar Benesh had never impressed him as a man with deep cultural roots. He almost missed what Tatja Grimm said next. She wasn’t looking directly at him, and her lips barely moved. She seemed to be preoccupied with something far away.

“It’s too bad Benesh is going to destroy them.”

“What! Why? Can’t he be stopped?” His shocked questions tumbled over each other. Why would anyone want to destroy seven hundred years of Fantasie? The epic cycles, the ingenious short stories—all those glimpses into worlds-that-are-not—would be lost. Half the faculty of Arts and Letters at Krirsarque University would suicide.

Tatja’s hand tightened around his. Her face came near to his. “Perhaps there is a way to stop him. With you and your dorfox perhaps—”

“Please, Miss Grimm, not here!” Ked Maccioso leaned forward tensely, at the same time glancing around the tavern. Svir’s circle of attention expanded. He realized that now the Arbor was half full, the dance floor overflowing, and the jongleurs in fine form on their resonation platform. Tatja’s presence had made him completely unaware of the changes.