Visitors (Pathfinder 3)

“Oh, not their sounds. I love the sounds of life. And nature. And civilization. Wind in the trees, frogs croaking, crickets chirping. But also crowds of people, the bustle of the city. I love that! I wish I had lived in Odinfold when billions of people lived so close together in their great cities. But now they didn’t even exist. They never happened. That makes me sad.”

Noxon was almost turned aside to try to console her sadness. But not this time. He was intrigued by her talk of noises. “So there’s no noise in a big city?”

She laughed. “Of course there is. That’s why I never talk about this thing I call noise. It’s not really noise because I’m the only one aware of it. At Flacommo’s, though, I loved to spend my days in remote parts of the house where nobody had been in years. It was so much quieter there. Never silent, but . . . you know.”

Noxon thought he did, though he tried to conceal his excitement, for fear of dashing her hopes if he turned out to be wrong. “So you needed to be away from people.”

“Oh, people are fine, people drown out the noise! All the talking and clattering, it was such a relief. But in those rooms where people gathered all the time, the noise was almost unbearable when those rooms were empty. It’s as if the rooms stored up all the noises that had ever been in them, and when there was nothing to distract me, I had all these . . . tunes or rhythms or whatever they were.”

“So slicing time was how you got away.”

She shook her head against his shoulder and gave one laugh. “No,” she said. “That was the worst of all. Not a breath of real sound. Just those memories of all the stored-up sounds. I couldn’t even sing to myself, except silently in my own head and that didn’t actually help much.”

“When you’re slicing time, there can’t possibly be any sound,” said Noxon.

“I know that,” said Param. “I think my schooling was at least as good as yours, privick boy.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. I had Ramex teaching me.”

“So did I, under another name. Though

not as much as he was with you, of course.”

“Did you ever tell him about these noises?”

“I only told you by accident. Like I said, they aren’t real noises. I think they’re a sign that I’m crazy.”

“The way I see paths everywhere,” said Noxon. “Paths that nobody else sees. I’m definitely out of my mind.”

“Yes, just like that,” said Param. “Except that it turns out your paths are real. People really did move through the world right where you see the paths.”

“But I can’t shut out the paths by closing my eyes or turning my back,” said Noxon. “They’re still there. But I don’t really see them, it’s another sense entirely. So they never get in the way of my seeing things that are really there.”

“I know,” she said. “Just like my noises. They’re always there, more in some places than in others, but they don’t stop me from hearing real noises and sounds and talking and music. And plugging my ears doesn’t change them in any way. Only going to rooms with less noise stored up makes the sheer clangor of it ease up and give me some peace.”

Noxon stopped walking. “I’m so glad you were tired enough to tell me this,” he said.

“Yes, just one more thing that’s wrong with poor Param.” She said it wryly, but Noxon knew she also meant it.

“I don’t think it’s anything wrong,” said Noxon. “I’ve always told you that I don’t see the paths with my eyes. I just compare it to seeing. I use the words of seeing to describe the way I sense them, because there are no words for pathsight.”

Param was not slow. “But how could I hear a path?”

“How can I see a tune?” asked Noxon. “For all I know, we’re using different words, different comparisons, to talk about the exact same thing. As if somebody were trying to describe an orange to someone who had never eaten one. You might try to explain the look of it. Or you might try to talk about the taste or the smell or the feel of it in your hand. But it’s still an orange that you’re talking about.”

“But—”

“No, no, Param, don’t give me a list of reasons why I can’t be right about this. Let’s just do the science. Let’s compare how these things work. Is the noise just—well, just a porridge? Or can you hear individual—voices? Tunes?”

“Lots of individual ones. Bouncing off all the walls.”

“Really? An echo?” asked Noxon.

“No, but coming from different directions and going in ­different—”

“Like paths through the room.”

“No, I don’t see—”