The Caryatids

She was surrounded by handsome, self-assured, polished, gorgeous foreigners.

By the sound of their American English, Inke realized that these people had to be the Montgomery-Montalban clan. This was the famous Family-Firm, with its blood relations, its staffers, servants, investors, and trustees. How strange to think that Europe was so full of conscientious social justice, while America had its ruthless aristocracy.

There was a sudden jostling as a whole shoving crowd of Acquis cadres plowed through the crowd. These Acquis were unruly and ill rehearsed, for they had invited themselves to the proceedings. They had some right to investigate the proceedings, it seemed. Unwelcome yet inevitable, the Acquis were here like the police at a mafia wedding.

George was talking rapidly to one of the Acquis spies; for some reason, George was abandoning the decent suit she'd bought him and borrowing the man's white jacket.

There was another trampling surge past the grave-how had the crowd grown so large and unruly, so suddenly? A host of bodyguards and paparazzi.

Little Mary Montalban had appeared upon the scene.

The child actress, whose skyrocketing fame had the world in such a tizzy-she seemed just another child to Inke, rather neatly and soberly dressed in gorgeous mourning clothes. The child walked serenely through the crowd, breaking a wake through them, as if she parted adult crowds every day.

The little girl drew nearer.

Suddenly, she turned her face up to Inke. The girl's beauty was astounding. It burned and dazzled, like being hit in the face with a searchlight.

The child recited two lines, loudly, in a well-rehearsed German. "How do you do, Tante Inke? I'm so glad to see you here with us."

Inke found herself bending to kiss the child's delicate cheek. It was an irrevocable act, something like swearing allegiance.

Her children were thunderstruck to meet their famous cousin. It was as if someone had given them a toy angel.

Inke realized that the male stranger at her side was John Montgomery Montalban. She had met him once. John Montalban looked older now. And shorter, too-somehow, world-famous people were always much shorter in real life.

"George has asked me to say a few words after the interment," Montalban said. "My little Synchronist eulogy…I hope you won't mind that, Inke."

It was as if he were pouring warm oil over her head.

"Are you nervous?" she asked him, the first remark that fluttered onto her tongue.

"Yes, I'm worried," Montalban lied briskly, "I always hate these formal presentations…Inke, you married George. So you're our expert on the subject at hand here. What on Earth can I properly say about Yelisaveta? At the end of the day, it seems that I knew Yelisaveta best. Yet she was-of course-a monster. What can I say about her that isn't completely shocking to propriety? The world is listening."

Inke considered the world-the poor, imperiled world. "Did the old woman ever tell you that she would come back to the world, down from orbit?"

"She did. Sometimes. She was stringing us on, from her lack of anything else to do with herself. It was like a long hostage negotiation. Please give me some good advice here, Inke, help me out. Tell me what I should say about this situation. The world needs closure on the issue. She was our relative, you know."

Why was he talking to her in this confiding way? In the past, he'd always talked to her with the hearty exaggeration of an English lordship treating one of the little people as his equal.

"I think," she said haltingly, "I think Yelisaveta was just…a dark story made by her own dark times."

"That makes some sense."

"She tried to build something and it broke into pieces. The pieces could not hold. So she lied, cheated, and killed for nothing…but the truth is…she believed in every last horrible thing that she did. She fully believed in all of it. She was sincere, that was her secret. It was all her sacrifice and her grand passion."

Montalban was truly interested. "That is fabulous. How well put! And George is one of the remaining pieces, too! Yet George is the piece that is least like the rest of the broken pieces. He's not much like them, they really hate him for that…Why is that, can you tell me that?"

"George is a man. Men take longer to mature."

"I see. That may indeed be the case…in which case, may I tell you something important now about your George? George has always led a dodgy, improvised life…between the Dispensation and our good friends the Acquis…he was cutting corners, making co

Montalban was so solemn and passionate in this assessment that all Inke could do was blink.

"Inke, I aspire to see a normal world. A normalized world. I have never yet lived in any normal world, but I hope to see one built and standing up, before I die."

"A 'normal' world, John?"

"Yes. 'Normal. Like you, Inke. To be normal is a very conservative business. Your husband is going to become a conservative businessman. That is necessary, and I'm going to help him."

"You're not a conservative businessman?"

"No, Inke, alas, I'm a hip California swinger from Hollywood who has multiple wives. But I do need a conservative businessman, rather badly. And since your George is part-and-parcel of a Relinquished experiment, he is perfect for that role. I foresee a leadership role for George. He will become a modern captain of industry and a pillar of a new world consensus."

"My husband admires you very much," she told him, "and he would like to trust you, but really, John…Biserka. Why Biserka?"

"Yes," he said wistfully, "I know. 'Biserka. "

"Why?"

Montalban looked at the gathered children-they were plunging through the crowd, bobbing like corks. "My little daughter Mary…she lacks for playmates. Mary doesn't have much of a peer group. Why don't you and the kids come and visit us this Christmas? We'll all go to LilyPad. Up in orbit. It's very quiet up there. It's private. We'll have a good long chat about certain matters. You and I, especially. We'll iron some things out."

"Why do you want to fly into outer space? That is dangerous."

"The Earth is dangerous. And the sun is also disquieting. If the sun grows seriously turbulent-then Mars wouldn't be far enough away for us. I commissioned some speculations on that topic. We've made some interesting findings. Should the Earth's sun become unstable, it turns out that, with the Earth's present level of industrial capacity, we could escape to the Oort Cloud with a biosphere ark of maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty people. Carrying our ubiquitous support machines, of course."

Montalban seemed to expect an answer to this extraordinary declaration. "Of course," Inke told him.

"The Earth would become a cinder. Mars would be irradiated. Hot gas would be blasting off the surfaces of Jupiter and Saturn. The only spark of living vitality left in the solar system would be a shiny bubble containing us. Us, a whole lot of our maintenance machinery, and mostly, microbes."

"'Us, John."

"Yes, I mean us , Inke." He waved his hand at the funereal crowd. "You, me, the kids. People. There wouldn't be much of us left, but we would be what there was."

"You really think that way."

"Yes, I have to think that way. It's necessary."

"You're not a conservative businessman, Mr. Montalban."

"No, I'm what people call a 'Synchronic realist. We choose to look directly at the stark facts of science and history." Montalban sighed. "Of course, whenever one does that in an honest spirit, everything becomes visionary, abnormal, and extreme."