Blind Lake Read Online Free PDF Page A

supposed a young woman was emerging from this childhood cocoon, but her features were still indistinct, difficult to predict.
    “Sleep well,” Marguerite whispered.
    Tess curled into her comforter and arched her head against the pillow.
    Marguerite closed the door. She crossed the hall to her office—a converted third bedroom—determined to get a little more work done before midnight. Each of her department heads had flagged video segments for her to review from the last twenty-four hours with the Subject. Marguerite dimmed the lights and queued the reports to her wall screen.
    Physiology and Signalling was still obsessed with the Subject’s lung louvers. “Possible Louver Gesturing in Social Interaction,” the subhead proclaimed. There was a clip of the Subject in a food well conclave. Subject stood in the dim green light of the food well in apparent interaction with another individual. The Subject’s ventral louvers, pale whitish slits on each side of his thoracic chamber, quavered with each inhalation. That was standard, and Marguerite wasn’t sure what the Physiology people wanted her to notice until new text scrolled up.
The louver frills palpate in a distinct vertical pattern of some complexity during social behavior
. Ah. Yes, there it was in an enlarged subscreen. The louver frills were tiny pink hairs, barely visible, but yes, they were moving like a wheat field in the wind. For comparison there was an inset of Subject breathing in a non-social environment. The louver frills flexed inward with each breath but the vertical quaver was absent.
    Potentially very interesting, Marguerite thought. She flagged the report with a priority notice, which meant Physiology and Signalling could send it up to the compilers for further analysis. She added some notes and queries of her own (
Consistency? Other contexts
?) and bumped it back to Hubble Plaza.
    From the Culture and Technology group, screen shots of Subject’s latest addition to his chamber walls. Here was the Subject, stretched to full height, his squat lifting legs erect as he used a manipulating arm and something that looked like a crayon to add a fresh symbol (if it
was
a symbol) to the symbol-string that adorned the walls of the room. This one was part of a string of sixteen progressively larger snail-shell whorls; the new one terminated with a flourish. To Marguerite it looked like something a restless child might doodle in the margin of a notebook. The obvious inference was that the Subject was writing something, but it had been established early on that the strokes, lines, circles, crosses, dots, etc., never repeated. If they were pictographs, the Subject had never written the same word twice; if they were letters, he had yet to exhaust his alphabet. Did that mean they were art? Perhaps. Decoration? Possibly. But Culture and Technology thought this latest string suggested at least some linguistic content. Marguerite doubted it, and she flagged the report with a priority that would stack it up on the peer-review desk with a dozen similar documents.
    The rest of the backlog consisted of progress reports from the active committees and a couple of brief segments the landmarks survey team thought she might like to see: balcony views, the city stretching away beyond the Subject in a pastel afternoon, sandstone-red, layer on layer, like an empire of rusty wedding cakes. She stored these images to look at later.
    She was finished by midnight.
    She switched off her office wall and walked through the house turning off other lights until the soft dark was complete. Tomorrow was Saturday. No school for Tess. Marguerite hoped the satellite interface would be back up by morning. She didn’t want Tess to be bored, her first day back home.
    It was a clear night. Autumn was coming fast this year. Marguerite went to bed with the curtains parted. When she moved in last summer she had pushed her big, futile double bed close to the window. She liked to look at the stars