Free Donald Moffitt - Genesis 02 by Second Genesis Page B

dancing—three very talented couples from hydroponics—and some people who sing, and some very clever body puppets.” Marg turned to scold Mim. “And I’m very disappointed in you, Mim. I thought you were going to play the cello for us tonight.”
    “Oh, nobody wants to hear concert music tonight,” Mim said. “This is an evening to have fun in. Besides, some of these people have been waiting a whole year for a chance to be on stage.”
    The acrobats had given the little fellow a boost that allowed him to do a backflip past the onion bulge of the Bob, and now he hung by one knee from the suspending cord and swung the Bob in greater and greater arcs while the audience clapped and cheered.
    Across the table from Bram, Ang dug her fingers into Jao’s beefy arm. “He’s going to swing right over us!” she squealed.
    “Somebody pass the poor fellow a drink, then.” Jao belched. He took a mighty gulp from his glass and set it down. He squinted critically at the surface of his drink. “Still an ellipse,” he said. “You know, it’s an awesome thought. At the very moment the Bob becomes plumb, five thousand ellipses in five thousand glasses are going to become five thousand circles.”
    “And we’ll stop being all tipsy,” Ang said.
    “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” Jao said with a sly wink at the company. “The geometry of alcohol is not the same as the geometry of space. The object of All-Level Eve is for the people to become progressively more tipsy while the environment becomes progressively less so.”
    “In that case, you’re doing very well,” Mim said with a laugh.
    Out on the floor of the Forum, the rainbow-clad acrobat had dropped lightly to the shoulders of his fellows, to the applause of the surrounding ring of revelers. Noisemakers razzed and rattled. The human pyramid disassembled itself, acknowledged the applause with outflung arms and a curtsy, and tripped offstage. A singing duo took their place—a man and woman in clown costume: she with enormous quilted breasts, he with a braided rag phallus that trailed on the floor—and began singing bawdy songs to the rowdy encouragement of the onlookers.
    “Who’s the Momus?” Trist asked.
    “Don’t you recognize him?” Marg replied. “It’s Willum-frth-willum.”
    “He’s lost considerable dignity.”
    “He doesn’t need it anymore. He’s got his youth to look forward to.”
    “I didn’t know he had such a good singing voice,” Mim said.
    “He’s kept it hidden all these years.”
    A lot of table hopping was going on as the time grew near for the swing of the Bob. People made their way across the tilting floor to drop off little Bobbing Day gifts, drink a toast with friends, embrace and kiss.
    “It seems as if there’s always been a Bobbing Day,” Mim said, leaning against Bram’s shoulder. “I can hardly remember how it got started. What are we going to do when we leave the galaxy and stop accelerating and there’s no more annual tree turning?”
    “We’ll think of something,” Bram said. “Human beings will always celebrate some sort of a year-festival.”
    “It’s going to be a long, featureless ride between the galaxies,” Jao said. “Nothing to mark the years.”
    “Sounds dull,” Orris said. “But like Bram says, we’ll think of something. We ought to appoint a revels committee to look into it.” He looked fondly at Marg. “We’re putting you in charge of it.”
    “Almost time,” Bram said, feeling his waist watch with his fingertips. Some of the younger generation had taken to wearing timepieces on their wrists—clever little holo displays that showed the ten hours of the day visually, in human numerals—but for Bram, old habits died hard.
    At this moment, in the heart of the tree, Jao’s granddaughter would be checking and rechecking her meters, adjusting the voltages and gas pressures that would tickle Yggdrasil into one-twelfth of a revolution—or, rather, the portion of those thirty