Larry Niven - The Ringworld Engineers

“What? No.”

“We had best wait for day. Mar Korssil, go and send us breakfast. Send Whil, with tools. Then go to sleep.” As Mar Korssil trotted obediently downstairs, the old woman sat cross-legged on ancient carpet. “I expect we must work outside,” she said. “I don’t understand the risk you took. For what? Knowledge? What knowledge?”

It was difficult to lie to her, but the Hindmost might well be listening. “Do you know anything of a machine to change one kind of matter into another? Air into dirt, lead into gold?”

She was interested. “Ancient magicians were said to be able to turn glass into diamonds. But these were children’s tales.”

So much for that. “What of a Repair Center for the world? Are there legends about that? Telling its location?”

She stared. “As if the world were no more than a made thing, a larger version of the city?”

Louis laughed. “Much larger. Much much much larger. No?”

“No.”

“What about an immortality drug? I know that’s real. Halrloprillalar used it.”

“Of course it was real. There is none left in the city, nor anywhere else that I know of. The tale is a favorite with” — the translator used an Interworld phrase — “con men.”

“Does the tale tell where it might have come from?”

A young City Builder woman came puffing up the stairs carrying a shallow bowl. Louis’s fears of poison disappeared at once. The stuff was lukewarm, something like oatmeal, and they ate with their hands from the one bowl.

“The youth drug comes from spinward,” the old woman said, “but I know not how far to spinward. Is this the treasure of knowledge you came for?”

“Any of several treasures. That would be a good one.” There would certainly have been tree-of-life in the Repair Center, Louis thought. I wonder how they’d handle it? Surely no human being would want to be a protector? But there might be hominids who would… Well, those puzzles could wait.

Whil was a burly hominid with a simian face, dressed in a sheet whose original color was lost to time. It was a mad god’s rainbow now. Whil didn’t talk much. His arms were short and thick and looked very strong. He led them up the last flight of steps, carrying his toolbox, and out into the dawn.

They were on the lip of a funnel, at the truncated tip of the double cone. The rim was only a foot across. Louis’s breath caught in his throat. With his flying belt dead, he had reason to fear heights. Wind rushed past him, whipping Whil’s sheet into a fluttering multicolored flag.

Laliskareerlyar asked, “Well? Can you fix it?”

“Not from here. There must be machinery below.”

There was, but it wasn’t easy to reach. The crawl space was inches wider than Louis Wu. Whil crawled ahead of him, opening panels, as instructed.

The crawl space was doughnut-shaped, circling the machinery that must circle the funnel. And the water was supposed to precipitate on the funnel, no doubt. By refrigeration? Or had they something more sophisticated?

The widgetry concealed by the panels was tightly packed, and a total mystery to Louis Wu. It was sparkling clean, except for… yah. He peered closer, not breathing. A wire-thin worm trail of dust had fallen through the widgetry. Louis tried to guess where it had fallen from. He’d have to assume the rest of the machinery was still functional.

He backed out. From Whil he borrowed thick gloves and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. He cut a strip from the edge of the black cloth in his vest and twisted it. He strung it between two contacts and fastened them.

Nothing obvious happened. He continued around the circle, following Whil. In all he found six worm trails of dust. He fastened six twisted strips of superconductor where he thought they belonged.

He wriggled out of the crawl space. “Of course your power source could be long dead,” he said.

“We must see,” said the old woman. She went up the stairs to the roof. Louis and Whil followed.

The smooth face of the funnel seemed misted over. Louis knelt and reached to touch it. Wet. The water was warm. Already it was beading and flowing downslope to the pipes. Louis nodded thoughtfully. Another good deed that wouldn’t matter in fifteen falans.

Just below the thick waist of Lyar Building was what seemed to be a combination audience chamber and bedroom. A huge circular bed with a curtained canopy, couches and chairs around small and large tables, a picture-window wall facing the nearer edge of the shadow farm, a bar built to offer a wide variety of potables. That variety was gone. Laliskareerlyar poured from a crystal decanter into a two-handled goblet, sipped, and passed it across to Louis.

He asked, “Do you hold audiences in here?”

She smiled. “Of a sort. Family gatherings.”

Orgies? Very likely, if rishathra was what held the Lyar family together. A family fallen on hard times. Louis sipped from the goblet, tasted nectar-and-fuel. The sharing of cups and food dishes — was fear of poison behind that? But she did it so naturally. And there were no diseases on the Ringworld.

“What you have done for us will increase our status and our funds,” said Laliskareerlyar. “Ask.”

“I need to reach the Library, enter it, and persuade the people who rule there to let me make free use of all their knowledge.”

“That would be very expensive.”

“Not impossible? Good.”

She smiled. “Too expensive. The relationship among the buildings is complicated. The Ten rule the tourist trade—”

“Ten what?”

“Ten large buildings, Luweewu, the most powerful among us. Nine still have lights and water condensers. Together they built the bridge to Sky Hill. Well, they rule the tourist trade, and they pay fees to the lesser buildings to cover hospitality for their alien guests, the use of all public places, and special fees for events in private buildings. They make all agreements with other species, as with the water the Machine People pump up to us. We pay fees to the Ten for water and for special concessions. Yours would be a very special concession although we pay the Library a general fee for education.

“The Library is one of the Ten?”

“Yes. Luweewu, we do not have the money. Is there a chance that you can do the Library a service? Perhaps your research would help them.”

“It’s possible.”

“They would return some of the fee for a service rendered. Even more than we gave, possibly. But we don’t have it. Would you sell them your light weapon or the machine that talks for you?”

“I think I’d better not.”

“Can you repair more water condensers?”

“Maybe. Did you say one of the Ten does not have a working water condenser? Then why are they one of the Ten?”

“Orlry Building has been among the Ten since the Fall of the Cities. Tradition.”

“What were they when the cities fell?”

“A military installation, a storehouse for weapons.” She ignored Louis’s chortling. “They have a fondness for weapons. Your light-projector—”

“I’d be afraid to let it go. But maybe they’d like their water condenser fixed.”

“I will learn what fee they ask to let you into Orlry Building.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. You must be guarded, to prevent your carrying away weapons. You pay an entertainment fee to see the ancient weapons, and more if they are to be demonstrated. If you see their maintenance facilities, you may learn weaknesses. I will ask.” She stood. “Shall we indulge in rishathra?”

Louis had been expecting that, a little, and it wasn’t Laliskareerlyar’s odd appearance that made him hesitate. It was the terror of taking off his armor and his tools. He remembered an old sketch of a king brooding on his throne. I’m paranoid. But am I paranoid enough?