Johanna put a hand on the low ceiling and leaned forward. You're all thugs; you just happen to have the same enemies I do. "I know that, and I am cooperating. You'd still be playing the dataset's kindermode if it weren't for me. I've shown you the reading courses; if you guys have any brains, you'll have gunpowder by summer." The Oliphaunt was an heirloom toy, a huggable favorite thing she should have outgrown years ago. But there was history in it — stories of the queens and princesses of the Dark Ages, and how they had struggled to triumph over the jungles, to rebuild the cities and then the spaceships. Half-hidden on obscure reference paths there were also hard numbers, the history of technology. Gunpowder was one of the easiest things. When the weather cleared up, there would be some prospecting expeditions; Woodcarver had known about sulfur, but didn't have quantities in town. Making cannon would be harder. But then… "Then your enemies will be killed. Your people are getting what they want from me. So what's your complaint?"
"Complaint?" Pompous Clown's heads bobbed up and down in alternation. Such distributed gestures seemed to be the equivalent of facial expressions, though Johanna hadn't figured many of them out. This one might mean embarrassment. "I have no complaint. You are helping us, I know. But, but
…" Three of his members were pacing around now. "It's just that I see more than most people, perhaps a little like Woodcarver did in oldendays. I am a — I've seen your word for it — a 'dilettante'. You know, a person who studies all things and who is talented at everything. I am only thirty years old, but I have read almost every book in the world, and — " the heads bowed, perhaps in shyness? "— I'm even planning to write one, perhaps the true story of your adventure."
Johanna found herself smiling. Most often she saw the Tines as barbarian strangers, inhuman in spirit as well as form. But if she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that Scriber was a fellow Straumer. Mom had a few friends just as brainless and innocently self-convinced as this one, men and women with a hundred grandiose projects that would never ever amount to anything. Back on Straum, they had been boring perils that she avoided. Now… well, Scriber's foolishness was almost like being back home again.
"You're here to study me for your book?"
More alternating nods. "Well, yes. And also, I wanted to talk to you about my other plans. I've always been something of an inventor, you see. I know that doesn't mean much now. It seems that everything that can be invented is already in Dataset. I've seen many of my best ideas there." He sighed, or made the sound of a sigh. Now he was imitating one of the pop science voices in the dataset. Sound was the easiest thing for the Tines; it could be darn confusing.
"In any case, I was just wondering how to improve some of those ideas — " four of Scriber's members bellied down on the bench by the fire pit; it looked like he was settling in for a long conversation. His other two walked around the pit to give her a stack of paper threaded with brass hoops. While one on the other side of the fire continued to talk, the two carefully turned the pages and pointed at where she should look.
Well, he did have plenty of ideas: Tethered birds to hoist flying boats, giant lenses that would concentrate the sun's light on enemies and set them afire. From some of the pictures, it appeared he thought the atmosphere extended beyond the moon. Scriber explained each idea in numbing detail, pointing at the drawings and patting her hands enthusiastically. "So you see the possibilities? My unique slant combined with the proven inventions in Dataset. Who knows where it could lead?"
Johanna giggled, overcome by the vision of Scriber's giant birds hauling kilometer-wide lenses to the moon. He seemed to take the sound for approval.
"Yes! It's brilliant, okay? My latest idea, I never would have thought it except for Dataset. This 'radio', it projects sound very far and fast, okay? Why not combine it with the power of our Tinish thoughts? A pack could think as one even spread across hundreds of, um, kilometers."
Now that almost made sense! But if gunpowder took months to make -even given the exact formula — how many decades would it be before the packs had radio? Scriber was an immense fountain of half-baked ideas. She let his words wash over her for more than an hour. It was insanity, but less alien than most of what she had endured this last year.
Finally he seemed to run down; there were longer pauses and he asked her opinion more often. Finally he said, "Well, that was certainly fun, okay?"
"Unh, yes, fascinating."
"I knew you would like it. You're just like my people, I really think. You're not all angry, not all the time…"
"Just what do you mean by that?" Johanna pushed a soft muzzle away and stood. The dogthing rocked back on its haunches to look up at her.
