Some of the Hyadeans nodded in recognition, though without displays of overt familiarity—as a rule they were more stiff and formal by day. A number of Terrans worked there too in such roles as advisors and translators—the pay the Hyadeans could offer was impossible to turn down. Whether because they had never become comfortable with the practice, or because the Hyadean translation programs couldn’t capture the subtleties of natural language sufficiently for fluency, they prefered using conventional touchpad and wireless mouse rather than voice when operating equipment.
The brave attempts at color and decoration that Cade noticed here and there were doubtless due to the Terrans too. A noticeable exception was anything of floral design, which the Hyadeans wouldn’t permit, even to the extent of prohibiting it from acceptable office dress. Seemingly, their managerial caste had some hangup about displays of sexual organs, whatever the species.
Vrel was waiting at the far end, his mouth stretched into the faint smile that was the most a Hyadean would allow while on duty. However, he had followed Wyvex’s example in relieving the drabness of the standard tunic with a colorful patch on the breast pocket—a fractal pattern this time. Vrel’s hair seemed almost to glow in a strange mix of electric blue and violet hues that coordinated well with the paler blue of his skin. He had been among the original group to set up the mission six years previously, and had first met Cade then, already expanding his business circles to make Hyadean acquaintances.
“Hello, Roland . . . Luke,” he greeted. “Exactly on time. I’m surprised. The traffic is supposed to be bad this morning.”
“Luke has his own routes,” Cade answered. Vrel was picking up Terran ways. In some places, conversation opened with the weather or inquiries about one’s health. In Los Angeles it was the traffic. Cade gestured at the patch on Vrel’s pocket. “What’s this riot of abandonment? You’ll be showing up in beach shirts next.”
“I kind of like it. It amazes me that Hyadeans never thought to put pictures on things. Besides, I couldn’t let Wyvex get all the attention.”
The complex Hyadean system of social ordering, which Cade had given up trying to understand, exploited competitiveness and was what made them so conscientious about having to conform. By their standards Vrel’s gesture would constitute a blaze of individuality bordering on irresponsible. The interesting thing was that Vrel seemed to be enjoying it. “Is Wyvex here?” Cade asked.
“No. Damien Philps took him up to San Francisco to tour some galleries. His friend Tevlak in Bolivia is talking about opening up outlets on Chryse. I was talking to Tevlak about it earlier.”
Erya appeared in an entrance behind Vrel and came forward to greet Cade and Luke. “Mr. Cade and Mr. Luke. Mimi said you wanted to see me.”
“We couldn’t let you go back without saying goodbye,” Cade said.
“How thoughtful.” Only then did Erya’s gaze drift down to the case that Cade was holding. She looked at it uncomprehendingly as Cade, grinning, lifted it onto a nearby worktop and opened the lid. Erya’s jaw dropped incredulously.
“From the movie, like I said,” Cade told her. “I couldn’t get the first violin, as I’d hoped. But this is the next best.”
Erya was speechless for several seconds. “You remembered! . . . But I don’t understand. I’m just about to go back. There’s no possible return. Why would you choose . . .” She consulted her veebee for an appropriate phrase. “Negative payoff.”
Even Vrel, who should have known better by now, seemed taken aback. Cade shook his head, doing his best not to let his bemusement show. It was this strange Hyadean calculus of short-term returns again. They couldn’t comprehend giving for its own sake. “Don’t let worrying about it spoil your trip,” he said. “It’ll do more good on Chryse than it would have done if it stayed where I found it. You’re still on Earth now. Just accept it as a Terran way of saying we’re friends. Maybe one day it’ll become your way too.”
* * *?
While Erya was making a round of the offices to show Cade’s gift before she left for the airport, Michael Blair yawned and stretched in one of the rooms upstairs as he rested his eyes after two hours of concentration at a display screen showing Hyadean text and mathematical representations. Learning the language was part of the program he had set himself for understanding the Hyadean sciences. It no longer awed him to think that some of the sources that he accessed, and individuals that he was growing accustomed to interacting with, were located on strange worlds that existed light-years away.