Schild’s Ladder

Tarek gripped the lectern tightly, but continued in the same calm voice. "You’re so gloriously, indisputably right: if there is sentient life behind the border, we should wipe these creatures out of existence, on the mere chance that they might do the same to us. Then we can learn to predicate everything else we do on the same assumptions: there is no other purpose to life than an eternity of grim persistence, and the systematic extinguishment of everything — outside ourselves, or within us — that stands in the way of that goal."

He stood in place for several seconds. The room had fallen silent again. Tchicaya was both heartened and ashamed; he had never imagined Tarek taking a stand like this, though in retrospect he could see that it was an act of constancy, not betrayal. Perhaps Tarek had left his own family and friends behind solely in order to fight for the security of their future home, but in the very act of coming here, he’d been transformed from a member of that culture into an advocate for something universal. Maybe he was a zealot, but if so, he was an idealist, not a hypocrite. If there were sentient creatures behind the border, however foreign to him, the same principles applied to them as to anyone else.

Tarek stepped back from the podium. Santos, another of the newcomers, stood and delivered an impassioned defense of Murasaki’s position, in similarly chilling language. When he’d finished, half a dozen people rose to their feet simultaneously and tried to shout each other down.

Tarek managed to restore order. "Do we have more questions for Rasmah and Tchicaya, or is this the time to proceed with our own debate?"

There were no more questions. Tarek turned to them. "I’ll have to ask you to leave now."

Tchicaya said, "Good luck."

Tarek gave him a reluctant smile, as if to concede that the two of them finally could mean the same thing by those words. He said, "I don’t know how much longer this will take, but we’ll keep going until we have a decision."

Out in the corridor, Rasmah turned to Tchicaya. "Where are those people from? Murasaki and Santos?"

"I don’t know. It’s not in their signatures." He checked with the ship. "They both came via Pfaff, but they haven’t made their origins public."

"Wherever it is, remind me not to visit." She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. "Do we have to wait here for the verdict? It could be a while. And they will make it public."

"What did you have in mind? I don’t think I could face the Blue Room."

"How about my cabin?"

Tchicaya laughed. "You have no idea how tempting that sounds, right now."

"That’s how it was meant to sound." Rasmah took his hand; she hadn’t been joking. "These bodies are very fast learners, especially when they have memories of a prior attraction."

Tchicaya said, "I thought we’d put an end to all that."

"This is what’s known as persistence." She faced him squarely. "Whoever it is you’re still hung up about, I promise you I’ll make an impression that will erase all memories of the competition." She smiled at her own hyperbole. "Or I can try, if you’re willing to make the same effort."

Tchicaya was tongue-tied. He liked everything about her, but some deeply ingrained part of him still felt as if it was a matter of principle to back away.

He said, "I’m seven times your age. I’ve had thirty-one children. I have sixth-generation descendants older than you."

"Yeah, yeah. You’re a battered old creature, on the verge of slipping out of sentience into senility. But I think I can drag you back from the brink." She leaned closer; the scent of her body was beginning to regain significance for him. "If you have scars, I’ll kiss them away."

"I want to keep my scars."

"That’s all right. I can’t actually erase them."

"You really are sweet, but you hardly know me."

Rasmah groaned. "Stop dividing everything by four thousand years. Your age is not the natural unit of time, by which all else must be measured." She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth; Tchicaya did not pull away.

She said, "How was that?"

Tchicaya gave her his best Quinean wine-judge frown. "You’re better than Yann. I think you’ve done this before."

"I should hope so. I suppose you waited a millennium to lose your virginity?"

"No, it just felt that way."

Rasmah stepped back, then reached out and took both his hands. "Come and wait with me for the vote. We can’t do anything you don’t want to do; it’s biologically impossible."

"That’s what they tell you as a child. But it’s more complicated than that."

"Only if you make it complicated." She tugged on his arms. "I do have some pride. I’m not going to beg you. I’m not even going to threaten you, and say this is your last chance. But I don’t believe we’re wrong for each other, and I don’t believe you’re sure that we are."

"I’m not," he conceded.

"And didn’t you just deliver a speech about the folly of making decisions without sufficient information?"

"Yes."