The Collected Short Fiction of C.J. Cherryh

And there was no doubt that information changed hands in Aneth . . . tiny questions from lovelorn and wealthy suitors, larger matters from greedy corporations, perhaps even reckless bits of gossip passed in sleeping quarters by consulting ministers to their companions. Doubtless the whole Enclave was a surveillance net, and information was the merchandise on which Aneth and its amphictyony flourished.

In that light, it was absolutely essential to know the weight and shape of that merchandise which had been made available to the Confederate representative. One went through the forms, however humiliating; one probed; one listened.

And signing the meaningless Amphictyonic Pact was the first such embarrassment. A direct attack on Aneth—that would loose havoc among the gullible; but there was no need at all to contemplate such a move, even if Aneth were passing valuable information. The gullible would continue to contribute to the process and the clever would find a way to use it. They sought information . . . eavesdropping with the sensors they had brought in their luggage—had yet found nothing. There had to be a limit to Aneth's patience. Taking recorders into the Oracle itself they would hardly bear . . . but information was apparently free for the gathering here in second rank enclave. It was to be wondered—where the limit lay The silence persisted, absolute. The major sat . . . walked, finally, out into the corridor of their suite, found the minister Cosean retired to his sleeping quarters. He strolled restlessly out the door and down the hall into the concourse, testing the Enclave's reactions. A Servant began to dog his steps. When he stopped, the Servant stopped, pretended to look elsewhere, and walked on when he walked. Segrane stopped, waited, and when the Servant looked back again, Segrane summoned him with an impatient gesture. The Servant came, soft-footed; bowed, smiled . . . human-looking. All the Servants were reputed to be of the human stock of neighboring Corielle.

"You speak Shantran?" Segrane challenged him.

"Yes, sir." The answering voice was perfectly modulated, soft and without irritance.

"And all five hundred thousand other dialects known to man?"

The Servant smiled slightly. "No, sir, this is the Shantran staff. There are five hundred thousand possible combinations of perso

"So there's already a Shantran staff. You must have researched us far in advance of our application."

"We're pleased by your notice, sir."

"We."

"The staff, sir."

"Did you research us?"

"Of course, sir."

"On whose advice?"

Again a slight smile. "On the Oracle's, sir."

The answer caught him by surprise. He scowled, suspecting humor at his expense. "And has the Oracle decided when it will see the minister?"

"The petitioner goes alone to First Rank at 2214 and returns by 0600."

"Impossible."

"Sir?"

"The minister is my personal responsibility. I can't permit him to go alone for such a length of time. What could possibly take so long about a question?"

"The conditions of audience are uniform and inflexible. There are other petitioners, sequestered in other areas of Second Rank; scheduling is therefore complex. The audience time is a very brief portion of that schedule. To ensure privacy, there must be time built into the program." Segrane began walking, the Servant keeping pace with him. He stared grimly at the floor, reckoning with increasing distress how little control they had of things.

"Who are these other petitioners?" he asked. "The Confederacy, perhaps?"

"I couldn't say, sir. The Enclave is partitioned in such a way that we ourselves are not in contact with visitors in other sections."

"Or politics? I'm sure you're well versed in that."

"We advise our visitors not to discuss external affairs with the staff. Aneth has no politics."

"None?"

"None, sir."

Segrane stopped, flicked a glance over the Servant, paused at the badge, continued back to the clear expressionless eyes. "You're very well trained . . . Jen. Is that your name, Jen?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"I shall compliment your service."

"All that you say to me is noted by my superiors. It's u

"Are you human, Jen?"

Jen flashed a broad smile. "Yes, sir. But without species politics."

"Where were you born?"

"All Servants are born within the enclaves."

"Your ancestors had outside origins." Segrane locked his hands behind him and began to move in the direction of his quarters, Jen walking beside him. "And the Oracle itself. . . maybe your ancestors built it too, the whole thing."

"No, sir. Hardly."

"You believe that tale about the Builders, eh?"

"It's true, sir. About the sixth mille

"What did they look like, these Builders? Where did they come from?"

"The Oracle is their sole known artifact. We have no clue to either, sir."

"How convenient. Has no one thought to ask the Oracle?"

"You are a skeptic, sir. I detect it."

"Does the Oracle reject skeptics?"

"No, sir."

Segrane laughed, and stopped and faced the man . . . bland-faced and young, this Servant, like all other Servants in his white uniform, close-cropped hair, earnest, unoffending face. "You aresincere, aren't you? What's the story? Some Bellan archaeologists stumbled into this place two hundred years ago, and a Corielli team moved in on the find . . . sequestered themselves—with whose backing? Who paid for all this?"

"Initially a grant, sir, from fourteen worlds earliest involved in the research. The Enclave was established when the vault was opened and the Oracle was first activated. The value of the installation was immediately clear and the area had to be protected against exploitation for private purposes. Thus, the Enclave. Visitors' fees are now sufficient for its support."

"Corielle didn't build the rest of this."

"Ah, the Enclave, yes, sir; but the Oracle . . . no."

"The Oracle: person or machine?"

"Both, sir. That is, Oraclerefers to both or either."

"The name of this person."

"First Rank is a sealed enclave, sir. We don't know."

"Female, the rumor is."

"All First Rank is female."

Segrane was surprised into reaction. That fact the researchers had not uncovered. And what do they do for amusement? he wondered. The politics of the arrangement occurred to him instantly: no matings, no marriage, no intrigues of consorts.

"How do they," he asked, "find replacements?"

Jen shrugged. "Their dead arrive here. We send in the nextborn female infant of Second Rank. It's utterly random that way. We have no influence on it. The integrity of the Oracle is absolute."

"How many Oracles have lived and died since the Enclave began?"

"The bodies which come out are not distinguished by signs of rank, sir. We don't know."

"But there must have been more than one Oracle in two hundred years."

"One supposes, sir, that such is the case."

"And she makes her predictions . . . how?"