"We have more pieces to wind," she reminded him. They went back to the cargo hatch where he sighed, lifting a squarish game token. "And to imagine, I called these little devils ingenious. I still don't see why they refuse to use the game board we brought from the citadel."
"It's tradition," Maia explained, gingerly turning one of the tiles, careful of the protruding antenna-feelers. Those mass-produced game boards are powerful … I never knew how powerful till getting to play with one. But I do know they're lower in status than handmade ones. They're meant for summer, when most men are cooped up in sanctuaries. Unable to travel."
"Because of the weather?"
"And restrictions by local clans. It's a rough time for men. Especially if you're unlucky, and get no invitation to town. When it's not raining, there's the aurorae and Wengel in the sky, setting off frustrating feelings. A lot of men must close the shutters and distract themselves with crafts and tournaments. My guess is that right now a computer game board reminds them too much of a time they'd rather not think about."
Renna nodded. "I guess that makes sense. Still, it occurs to me perhaps there's another reason sailors prefer mechanicals. I get a feeling you aren't considered a real man unless you can build all your own tools, with your own hands."
Maia reached for another game piece to wind. "It has to be that way, Renna. Sailors can't afford to specialize, like women in clans do." She motioned at the complex rigging, the radar mast, the humming wind-generator., "You're never sure you'll have the right mix of skills on a voyage, so every boy expects to learn most of them, in time."
"Uh-huh. Sacrificing perfection of the particular in favor of competence in the general." Renna pondered for a moment, then shook his head. "But I'm convinced it goes deeper. Take that miniature sextant on your wrist, so much more ornate and clever than needed for the task."
Maia put down the winding key and turned her arm to regard the sextant's brass cover, with its ornate, almost mythological rendition of a huge airship. Renna motioned for her to open it. Next to the folded sighting arms and finely knurled wheels, there were sockets for electronic hookups, now plugged and apparently unused for ages. Renna reached over to touch a tiny, dark display screen. "Don't let the vestiges of high tech fool you, Maia. There's nothing that couldn't be handmade in a private works, using techniques passed on from teacher to pupil for generation after generation. It's that passing on of skill that interests me."
Maia felt for a moment as if she were listening to Renna rehearse a report he planned to give at some future time and place, describing the customs of an obscure tribe, located at the fringes of civilization. Which is what we are, I guess. She inhaled, suddenly acutely conscious of the weight of air in her lungs. Was it really heavy, compared to other worlds? Despite Renna's remarks, the round, red sun didn't look feeble. It was so fierce, she could only look straight at it for a few seconds without her eyes watering.
Renna went on. "I find it interesting that such elaborate skills get passed on so attentively, far beyond what officers need to teach in order to get good crew."
Maia folded the sextant away. "I hadn't thought of it that way before. We're taught that men don't have . . ." she searched for the right word. "They don't have conmity. The middies adopted by sailing masters are rarely their own sons, so there's no long-range stake in the boys' access. Yet, you make it sound almost like the way it is in kins. Personal teaching. Close attention over time. Passing on more than a trade."
"Mm. You know, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it was designed this way. Sure a family of clones does it more efficiently, one generation training the next. But at base, it's just a variation on an old theme. The Master-apprentice system. For most of human history, such systems were the rule. Progress came through incremental improvements on tried-and-true designs."
Maia recalled how, as children, she and Leie used to peer into the workshop of the Yeo leatherworkers, or ximesin clockmakers, watching older sisters and mothers instruct younger clones, as they themselves had been taught. It was how young Lamais learned the export-import business. You wouldn't imagine such a process to be possible among men, no two of whom ever shared the same exact talents or interests. But Renna implied there was less difference than similarity. "It's a traditional system, perfect for maintaining stability," the star voyager said, putting a wound-up game piece aside and lifting another. "There is a price. Knowledge accumulates additavely, almost never geometrically."
"And sometimes not at all?" Maia asked, feeling suddenly uneasy.
"Indeed. That's a danger in craft societies. Sometimes the trend is negative."
She looked down, suddenly feeling something like shame. "We've forgotten so much."
