Vernor Vinge: Tatja Grimm's World

“Hmm. Where did you find her?”

“Strangest thing, sir. We were on a wood detail for Master Tounse, a few miles south of here. Just about noon we came across her on the tableland. She had that there walking stick stuck in the ground. It looked like she was praying to it or something—she had her face down near the end of the stick’s shadow. We couldn’t see quite what all she was doing; we were busy cutting trees. But some boys from the town came by, started hassling her. We chased them off before they could do anything.”

“And she was eager to stay with you?”

“She was when she saw we were from the barge. One of our crew speaks a little Hurdic, sir. Near as he can tell, she walked here from the center of The Continent.”

Three thousand miles, through lands which—until very recently—had swallowed up every expedition. Rey cast a look of quiet incredulity at his assistant. Cor gave a little shrug, as if to say, Hey, it will make great copy.

The printsman missed this byplay. “We couldn’t figure out quite why she made the trip, though. Something about finding people to talk to.”

Rey chuckled. “Well, if Hurdic is her only language, she certainly came to the wrong place.” He looked at the girl. During the conversation, her eyes had wandered all about the office. The smile had not left her face. Everything fascinated her: the carved wall panels, the waist-high stacks of manuscripts, Guille’s telescope in the corner. Only when she looked at Rey or Cor or Jimi did her smile falter and the shyness return. Damn. Didn’t Cor realize what she had here? Aloud he said, “This is something I should think about. Jimi, why don’t you take this, ah, Tatja over to the public deck. Get her something to eat.”

“Yes, sir. Tatja?” He motioned her to follow him. The girl’s shoulders slumped for an instant, but she departed without protest.

Cor was silent till their footsteps had faded into the general deck clamor. Then she looked at Guille. “You’re not going to hire her.” It was more an accusation than a question.

“You’d find her more trouble than she’s worth, Cor. I’d wager she’s a local girl; who ever heard of an inlander with red hair? Watching her, I could see she understood some of what we were saying. Whatever Hurdic she speaks is probably in Jimi’s imagination. The poor girl is simply retarded; probably caused by the same glandular problem that’s sprouted her six feet tall before she’s even reached puberty. My guess is she’s barely trainable.” Cor sat on one stack of manuscripts, propped her feet on another. “Sure, she’s no inlander, Boss. But she’s not from Fair Haven. The Haveners don’t wear leather like that. She’s probably been expelled from some local tribe. And yes, she’s a dim brain, but who cares? No need for The Great Hrala to give big speeches in Spräk. I can teach her to strut, wave a sword, make fake Hurdic war talk. Boss, they’ll love her in the Llerenitos.”

“Cor! She doesn’t even look like Hrala. The red hair—”

“Wigs. We got lotsa nice black wigs.”

“—and her figure. She just doesn’t have, uh…” Guille made vague motions with his hands.

“No tits? Yes, that’s a problem.” The “true” Hrala danced through her adventures wearing next to nothing. “But we can fix. The vice magazine people have props. Take one of their rubber busts and wrap it in brassiere armor like Hrala wears. It’ll fool an audience.” She paused. “Boss. I can make this work. Tatja may be dim, but she wants to please. She doesn’t have any place else to go.”

Guille knew this last was not part of the sales pitch; Ascuasenya had a soft streak that undermined her pragmatism. He turned to look out at Fair Haven. A steady stream of supply lighters moved back and forth between the town’s main pier and the deeper water surrounding the barge. Tarulle was due to lift anchor tomorrow noon. It would be two years before they returned to this part of the world. Finally he said, “Your scheme could cause real problems the next time we visit this dump. Come the night wake period, go into town and look up the crown’s magistrate. Make sure we’re not stealing some citizen’s kid.”

“Sure.” Cor grinned broadly. Victory was at hand. Guille grumbled for a few more minutes: Hiring an actress would mean going up the chain of command to Overeditor Ramsey, and perhaps beyond him to Jespen Tarulle. That could take days, and much debate. Guille allowed himself to be persuaded to hire the girl as an apprentice proofreader. The move had a certain piquancy: how many writers had accused him of employing illiterate nitwits as proofreaders?

Finally, he reminded his assistant editor that she still had a full-time job preparing the issues that would sell in the Osterlais. Cor nodded, her face very serious; the Hrala project would be done on her own time. He almost thought he’d intimidated her … until she turned to leave and he heard a poorly suppressed laugh.

It took Cor less than two days to understand what a jam she had talked herself into. The barge was back at sea and there were no distractions from shorefolk, but now she found herself working thirty hours a day, setting up the Hrala rehearsals with publicity, looking after the Grimm girl, and—most of all—getting Fantasie into shape.

There were so many manuscripts to review. There were good stories in the slush pile, but more science-oriented ones than ever before. These were Rey Guille’s special favorites, and sometimes he went overboard with them. Fantasie had been published for seven hundred years. A certain percentage of its stories had always claimed to be possible. But only in the last fifty years, with the rise of science, could the reader feel that there was a future where the stories might really happen. Rey Guille had been editor of Fantasie for fifteen years. During that time, they had published more stories of Contrivance Fiction than had been published in all the previous years. He had Svektr Ramsey’s permission to include two in every issue. He found more and more readers whose only interest was in such stories; and he found more and more readers who were creating the science that future stories could be based on.

Cor knew that, in his heart, Rey saw these stories as agents of change in themselves. Take the spectrometry series: during the last five years, he had written a dozen editorials advertising the new science (“Spectrometry, Key to Nature’s Secrets”), and soliciting stories based on the contrivance. Now he got one or two new ones at every major stop. Some of them were salable, some were mind-boggling … and some were wretched.

Ascuasenya had been working on the barge for five quarters, and as Rey Guille’s assistant for nearly a year. She had read her first Fantasie story when she was five. It was hard not to be in awe of the magazine’s editor, even if he was a crotchety old codger. (Guille was forty-one.) Cor did her best to disguise her feelings; their editorial conferences were running battles. This morning was no different. They were up in his office, putting together the first issue for the Osterlais. The slush pile had been reduced to desk height and they had plenty of room to lay out the pieces Rey had selected for the new issue. Outside Guille’s office, the bright light of morning had slowly reddened. They were well into the eclipse season; once every twenty hours, Seraph blocked the sun or was itself eclipsed. Every wake period was punctuated by darkness as deep as night on the nether hemisphere. Guille had set algae glowpots on every available hook, yet he still found it hard to read fine print.

He squinted at the Ivam Alecque manuscript Cor was complaining about. “I don’t understand you, Cor. This yarn is world-shaking. If we didn’t put anything else in the next issue, ‘Pride of Iron’ could carry it all.”