Brain Plague

FOURTEEN

Silicon. A glimpse of that future metropolis, the very image of their ancient plan. The prophecy would come true: Eleutheria would design the greatest structure the gods had ever seen. But when would that be? And how could Eleutheria make their city different, greater than any that came before?

Beyond building, Eleutheria had a new mission: To test the gods and their peoples. For two generations the elders rehearsed and remembered what they had learned—the telltale molecules that dissolved into the arachnoid, the signs of an altered brain, and the deceitful ways of the masters. Jonquil let Rose lead the investigation; she seemed to relish the job.

Meanwhile, Jonquil devoted herself to the portraits, helping the god develop color schemes and refine subtle shadings. Her most able assistant was a young elder who flashed infrared. In her youth a chess champion coached by Rose, now Infrared spent all her hours poring over the god's creation, barely stopping to absorb nourishment.

"Come join us in the nightclub, Infrared," Jonquil flashed at her one day.

"Not till I figure out these hues. Does the detail look best in blue green, or a more saturated blue?"

Such single-minded pursuit was foreign to Jonquil. "Infrared, life is short. What do you live for, if not the pleasure of taste?"

"I live for love of the god," flashed Infrared, "no more and no less."

"Love? How can one 'love' the god, a being great enough to contain us all?"

"Love is beyond reason. A mere speck in the god's eye, I love her still."

In her gallery, Chrys awaited the promised visit of Ilia, more distracted than usual. The night after Garnet's dinner, all the exotic food had kept her awake, and her people could talk of nothing but Jasper's revelation. Designing the thirteenth city, dogged by snake-eggs—what a target she'd make for any neighborhood tough with a laser. It would never come to pass, she assured herself. The Hyalite firm was just one of several bidders for the job. With all the revelations coming out of the Comb, any sentient with half a brain would know better.

The Elf gallery director was due any minute. Shaking with nerves, Chrys pushed her thick mass of hair behind her shoulders and wished it would stay there. Nothing terrified her more than to hear the pronouncement of experts, the ones who really knew—or worse, to imagine all the barbs they left unsaid. And carrier Ilia was a million experts in one. "The Thundergod's judges test her," she reassured Jonquil. "Tell everyone to treat her people well. This is the most important contact I'll ever make."

"Never fear; we've arranged all the best shows for her people. And I present a new elder to help guide us. She'll please you well."

Chrys froze. The thought of a new elder to name reminded her that Jonquil's own days were numbered, soon to leave her people following enlightened Rose.

"God of Mercy, the One True God, from whom all blessings flow." The new one flashed infrared, just a touch redder than the deadly Poppy. "Though I am but a speck in Your circulation, I live for love of You alone."

Warily Chrys watched the letters cross her window. "Love me—and love my laws. Never forget."

"All sixteen hundred of them. 'You shall obey every word I say, and stay out of my—"

"That will do." Chrys thought a moment. "I call you Fireweed. " The flower that arose on Mount Dolomoth the season after the ashes had cooled.

A butterfly of light splayed across the floor, joined by more, as Ilia's train swept through. The petite Elf glided through the doorway, her feet shod in delicate sandals, though Elysian streets were too clean for shoes.

"A great honor, Citizen," said Chrys carefully. "Andra sends her regards." She hoped fervently that Ilia still got tested by the Valan security chief. Whatever did Ilia think of Eris, the Guardian of Culture? Even if Arion was his "brother," how could this go on?

" 'Ilia,' please." Ilia's birdlike eyes flashed rainbow rings. "Are we 'visiting' today?"

They exchanged transfers. Then Ilia swept over to see Cisterna Magna, the arachnoid columns filled with the micro city, the glowing rings tumbling through it, signed with the molecule Azetidine. "A landscape of the brain—close at hand, it's even more striking."

Chrys cleared her throat. "As you can see, it's quite a departure for my work.

"A departure for us all. A living tapestry of a people never before depicted."

Chrys blinked. Before she could recover, Ilia had moved on to Lava Arachnoid; the molten rock flowing into the sky, then oozing down into fantastic columns reminiscent of arachnoid fibroblasts. "Vibrant fusing of landscape, outer and inner—a metaphysical contradiction one could ponder for hours."

"Thank you," Chrys whispered.

"The portraits—of course." Ilia regarded Fern with a fond sigh. "You must be inundated with orders."

"Rather." Then at last Chrys thought of something intelligent to say. "You and Yyri must be so busy, planning the Gallery's fall season."

Ilia turned. Her talar swirled, and her projected butterflies streaked madly about the hall. "Usually it's such a battle for the main exhibit—everyone pushes their own protege, you know. But this year the choice was clear." She paused. "If you're available. No conflicting commitments, we hope?"

"No, of course not, I.. ." Her eyes widened. "You want something .. . for the Gallery Elysium?"

"Everything." Ilia's gaze circled the hall. "Everything of your 'microbial' period, as well as representative works from your primitive past. Our patrons adore tracing creative development."

"So 'Gems from the Primitive' is your main exhibit next year."

Ilia waved her hand dismissively. "That's the west wing. The main exhibit will be Azetidine alone." Her irises flashed. "Or should I say . .. Azetidine, collectively."

Chrys's face felt hot, and her hands shook.

"Just remember one thing," Ilia moved closer, and her voice intensified. "I want everything—you understand? No holding back your best for someone else."

"What? No, of course not."

"Even the most controversial." Ilia nodded. "Remember, Elysians have sophisticated tastes. Our patrons expect the Gallery to be controversial, even shocking."

"I see."

"That Endless Light," Ilia whispered regretfully. "You already let it go. How unfortunate."

Chrys turned cold. Even Ilia was not immune.

"You're working on another, perhaps?"

"No," Chrys said flatly. "No more of that... type."

"I expect the owner will lend it for our show."

"Oh no—that won't be necessary." Chrys wanted no ties to that Elf slave. "Actually, I... I am working on another. Not the same, but just as. . . controversial."

Chrys was in such a daze she barely knew how she got home. At the top of her house she lay back on her chaise with Merope in her lap, and looked out on the twinkling harbor below, still trying to grasp her good fortune. "Jonquil," she called.

"Yes, Oh Great One. What is your pleasure?"

She swallowed an AZ. "Jonquil, the people have done well, and I am most pleased. Ask any favor, and I shall grant it."

"God of Mercy, we live or die at your pleasure. If it please the god, I ask only that you complete a more advanced composition of the highest sophistication."

Chrys frowned. "Are you sure it's legal?" The last sketch she did for Jonquil had caused a riot in the Cisterna Magna.

"Of course, Great One. Our laws have been liberalized considerably over the last three generations."

"Very well, I grant your wish." At least Jonquil's ideas could make interesting compositions. While commissioned portraits paid the rent, they grew tiresome; clients got upset about how their filaments were depicted, and others had to include accessory molecules. Jonquil's ideas, though, might even interest Ilia.

"Our people, too, are most pleased. May we not serve the height of the god's pleasure? Surely by now, technology must allow—"

"No." She sighed. They still asked; they'd never give up. That's why carriers needed all the damned testing. But who could test the testers? They might end up like Eris ...

Never mind. The Gallery Elysium—she had to tell Zircon and Lady Moraeg; they would be amazed. And her family—but how could she tell them? The thought was a knife in her heart.

In her studio she loaded Fern's portrait into a palm-sized holostill to send to her brother. "Dear Hal," she recorded. "I finally made it in the art world. Here is something from my show. I hope you think it's . . . pretty." She could barely finish her sentence and just restrained herself from attaching ten thousand credits for pocket change. Xenon's Anonymous would do better.

In the morning Chrys called Daeren. His sprite appeared between two colossal pillars of the Justice Ministry, wearing gray like the Palace bureaucrats. Chrys made her face frown. "Just making sure you'll be home."

"Don't worry, I'll be at your studio on time."

"Nope. Your place, remember? I'm testing you."

"That's right." Daeren grinned. "You've done your homework."

"If you really were in trouble," she quoted, "you might 'forget' to come."

Daeren lived in a top-level neighborhood, but she passed his entrance twice before finding it. No caryatids, no doorstoop—just the palest trace of a window. A good idea, she thought; avoid tempting vandals.

"We're testing the Lord of Light," she warned her people. "Are you ready?"

"Great God of Mercy, I live only for You." The reply flashed infrared, from Fireweed. "There is no other God."

Chrys sighed. This Fireweed was turning out even harder to deal with than Rose. "I love you too, Fireweed; but if you love me, love my people. Right now my people have a job to do."

"I will do so, with all my heart."

"Where the devil is Jonquil?"

Rose answered. "I myself will lead the investigation. You can depend on it—not a master will escape alive."

One unrepentant "master" investigating others—Chrys nearly turned back and went home. But then, if this practice test went badly, Andra might relieve her of the chore.

Daeren's door opened. "It's good to see you, Chrys." In his sitting room the drapes merged seamlessly with the lights, punctuated by shapes of red and gold. Either Daeren or his house had a good eye for color, less conservative than she expected. By the window rose a sinuous black sculpture, like the eye of a galaxy. On a table, a virtual piece sprouted golden hexagons, rising as if to break into flight.

"That one's early Titan," he told her. "I have another of his, up there."

At the ceiling, a mobile of ephemeral shapes turned in a slow dance. "Titan started with installations," Chrys recalled. "His work ... sings." A sad song. She looked down again. Daeren's shoulders had filled out a bit; he must have been working out, unless he had called Plan Ten. His black nanotex polished his form as hard as any sculpture.

"Can I offer you anything?" he asked. "Orange juice?"

She remembered just in time. "No thanks."

"Well, you didn't come to admire my collection," he said. "Please proceed."

"Rose, it's time." Aloud, she told him, "I'm supposed to ask if there's anything I need to know."

He studied her eyes. "No, thanks. And no, we don't need to 'give ourselves up now, rather than later.' "

She flushed. "Rose, remember your manners." Daeren's eyes flickered blue, responding to Rose's interrogation. It seemed to take forever; Chrys was hard-pressed to keep from blinking.

"We see no problems," Rose admitted at last. "So far."

"Okay?" Chrys asked him doubtfully, putting a transfer at her neck. "I can't vouch for how this will go."

"No one ever can." Daeren took the transfer, then sat with his arms crossed. Chrys sat back, hearing a music she had not noticed before. A quiet melody, deceptively formless, with no phrase repeated twice. She tried to keep her eyes on his, but somehow today she kept stealing a glimpse of the rest of him, his well-sculpted shoulders and below. So long, she thought wearily; it had been so long since she knew someone worth knowing. But humans weren't worth the risk; their mistakes lived too long.

"All right, enough," he snapped, abruptly sitting up.

Chrys raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to decide that."

"Well, get on with it."

"Rose is flashing the signal, Great One," came Jonquil. "She is ready to return."

Chrys took back her investigators. "Did they pass?"

"We issued numerous citations," began Rose. "Insufficient clearance in tunnels to the capillaries. Deferred maintenance on infrastructure. Outdated cancer detectors—"

"Look," exclaimed Daeren, "this was supposed to be a drug test, not a building inspection."

"You pass." She couldn't resist adding, "Just barely."

He got up and stretched. "They'll have to polish their act. You can't treat your fellow Olympians like a convicted felon. Carriers are fussy; they'll demand another tester."

"Be my guest—it wasn't my idea."

He thought a moment. "Garnet won't mind."

"Lord Garnet? I'd just die."

"Garnet likes Eleutherians. You can join us, on our next appointment, and we'll see how it goes." Daeren lifted his hand; the music grew, shifting to a warmer tone. "That Rose had to tell us all sorts of masters' tricks we hadn't known to look for, antigenic mimicry and so on." He gave Chrys a look. "Rose's ego is her one saving grace. We've learned more from her than any defector I know."

"Well, that's something."

"But don't trust her."

Chrys spread her hands. "So what can I do? Before long, she'll be my 'high priest.' "

"Priests only serve at your pleasure."

Her head tilted curiously. "Did you ever demote one?"

"I've never had to."

She rolled her eyes. "Sometime, dear, you're just too perfect."

"In my line of work, I can't afford mistakes."

"In my line, I learn nothing except through mistakes."

Daeren thought a moment. "I don't know," he said. "I hadn't noticed any mistakes in your work."

At the compliment she flushed. "You haven't seen Jonquil's latest." She took out several viewcoins. "Be honest—are these a mistake?"

They sat together, watching each sketch in turn. "Sweet," said Daeren, his face relaxed. "We like that a lot. And this one—you can see how the children long to taste each other."

"Yes," she sighed. Jonquil had been so particular about getting the filaments right.

The next one drew silence, and the next. A very long silence.

"Well?"

"They're ... effective," he admitted, his eyes still focused.

"Should I show them in public?"

"I don't know. You might get a reputation."

"I knew it," she exclaimed. "I knew that Jonquil would have me peddling porn."

"The children look okay," he assured her. "They're just doing what micro children naturally do. But elders—or elders with children—that's profoundly disturbing."

"I'll be warned. No more riots." She glanced at him sideways, then set the viewcoins on the table. "They don't seem to hurt your perfect people. Take what you like—it's 'advertising.' "

"Thanks, Chrys."

She watched to see which he took. He took them all.

Chrys celebrated her good fortune by treating Moraeg and Zircon at the most expensive restaurant on Center Way.

"A fantastic year for the Seven." Zircon had picked rack of caterpillar, the stacked claws rearing outward in a circle. "Even the Elves can't get enough of us."

"'Gems from the Primitive.' You'll be in the west wing." Chrys sipped her glass, sparkling water from an Urulite spring. Urulite food was all the rage, now that it was genetically detoxified, but Chrys preferred lamb-flavored plums filled with goat cheese. The taste reminded her of home. "Anyone else of the Seven included?"

A vague look came over Zircon's face, as usual when someone else's work was mentioned.

Moraeg picked at her Solarian salad. "Topaz was hoping. Her portraits are too commercial, I think."

"How is Topaz?" Chrys asked. "I can't believe how long since I've seen her."

Zircon and Moraeg exchanged looks. "Topaz is managing," said Moraeg. "Pearl needs to get herself together."

"And you, Moraeg—isn't your own show coming up? I was going to help." Moraeg had eaten little and seemed distracted.

Afterward they strolled down Center Way, the wind blowing shrill from the harbor, the lava traffic flowing till streams of it dipped under. Just like the old days, the Seven getting all their works together for the next show. Chrys blinked for news. The brain plague—more ships hijacked. The latest scandal at the Palace. And the sentients of Elysium planning their new floating city. Chrys frowned. "I don't understand these sentients. We humans are so dumb; why do sentients still need us? Why didn't they take over long ago?"

Zircon patted her head. "Maybe they did—and we don't know it."

"Nonsense." Moraeg rubbed her arms and touched the temperature control on her nanotex. "Machines have always threatened to take over, but they're not as smart as they think."

A bubble popped open, and Zircon climbed inside to flow down home. Chrys was ready to call a lightcraft, but she wondered, whatever was eating at Moraeg? She watched her friend uncertainly, admiring the setting sun's infrared sheen upon her hair. "Has Wheelgrass sold yet? I heard some great comments."

Moraeg's chin was set hard. "Chrys, I went to that clinic and passed all the tests. But that worm-face put me way down on the list. He said it would take months."

Chrys blinked several times. She recalled her own screening at the hospital, all those tests with Doctor Sartorius, before he found the right culture. Titan's culture, though she hadn't known that then. "It could take months—they told me the same. But then—"

"They don't want me, but they couldn't say why. I could tell."

"They have to find the right culture." She hesitated. "I didn't know you decided to go through with it. What does Carnelian think?"

"What 'right' culture? What's wrong with me?" Moraeg demanded. "And what's my husband got to do with it?"

Lord Carnelian discreetly patronized the arts; Chrys always remembered the time he advanced her a month's rent. But his lifestyle was conservative. "Being a carrier is, well, an intimate thing. It kind of changes who you are."

"You haven't changed."

"Thanks," said Chrys. "But tell that to my friends."

"I'm still your friend." She said it almost accusingly, as if Chrys owed her something.

Chrys felt torn; she did not want to lose one of her last two friends from the Seven. "Look, I'll tell you what..." Her pulse raced; she doubted this was legal. "I'll let a couple of them visit you, just for a minute."

"'Visit'?" Moraeg was puzzled.

"Oh Great One," flashed Jonquil, "we will be thrilled to explore a virgin wilderness."

"Very well. You and Fireweed may go. But be ready to return within a month—or all the people may die." Five minutes with two elders; what harm could that do? She placed the patch at her neck, then offered it to Moraeg. "Quick; don't let them dry out." Dry out, or get caught by foreign microglia—a mistake, to put them at such risk.

Moraeg put the patch at her neck. "Very well, but what use is it for a minute? I mean, there's no time to—" She stopped with a puzzled frown. "Someone's sending me a message, in letters. Why don't they show themselves?"

"That's them. The micros. Make sure they're both okay."

Her eyes widened. "They sound like people."

Chrys sighed. "What else is new."

"Religious people." Moraeg laughed, and her teeth sparkled. "Microbes—and they think God cares about them."

In her window, the message light blinked. Chrys jumped out of her shoes. Had somebody caught her? Ridiculous, but still. "Moraeg, they have to come back. Put that patch on your neck and make damn sure they've gone."

Moraeg returned the patch. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I don't want to end up painting a religious tract."

"Did I?"

"Oh Great One!" Jonquil had returned. "We have seen a wondrous New World, full of strange, savage antibodies and blood proteins never before known to civilization."

"Even so," assured Fireweed, "all its fierce beauty cannot tempt me to stray from the One True God."

"Be dark." The message light was still blinking. Chrys opened it at last.

It was Topaz. Topaz was alone by her lace-curtained door, as if waiting. "Chrys—you've got to do something. Pearl has reached her limit."

"Topaz," Chrys exclaimed in surprise.

"You got her into it." In her window Topaz was shaking, more agitated than Chrys had ever seen her. "Ever since you got in, she had to wonder. You get her out; they say you know how."

"What?" She looked at Moraeg. "What's wrong with Pearl?"

Moraeg shook her head. "You know Pearl. Always had to try the latest. But Chrys, you manage with micros. Help her get control."

"It's not the same," Chrys snapped. "It's worse than getting psychos from a friend. You'd better listen to Doctor Sartorius, even if he is a worm-face."

In the hallway paced Topaz, the honey-colored stone gliding upon her breast. Portraits and landscapes set into the walls, and a scent of roses hung in the air. The scent reminded Chrys how she and Topaz had once lived together with a lace-curtained door like that, much smaller of course, a students' cubic where they set the ceiling just above her height so they could squeeze out an extra room.

"She goes around in a fog," Topaz was saying as if to herself. "She barely paints anymore. And there's something odd in her eyes."

Chrys's scalp prickled at the thought. She averted her own eyes, then made herself face Topaz. "Does she go to the Underworld?"

"She always did, but she managed okay. Now I find too much credit missing."

"How much?"

"Five hundred, just this evening."

Not that bad yet, Chrys thought. Not bad enough. "Does she want to go clean?"

Topaz stared. The namestone twirled smoothly in her nanotex, like a whirlpool one could drown in. "She wants to 'manage.' Like you."

"Then see the doctor."

"It's too late for that."

You never listen to me, Chrys thought. You never did.

Suddenly Topaz caught Chrys at the shoulders. "Chrys—whatever it takes, get her clean. She's scared of that clinic. But you can get her there."

Topaz's hands felt warm, her face so near Chrys could feel her breath. Suddenly she thought, with Pearl out of the picture, Topaz would come back to her, just like their school days. Then she looked away, ashamed. Love was cruel, as cruel as Endless Light.

Drawing back, Chrys blinked at the dot of purple. Selenite answered, from a simian neighborhood down two levels. "Unless she seeks help, there's nothing we can do," Selenite told her. "I'm on another call, but I'll send you a medic just in case."

"Send me? But—"

Behind Selenite, vines of plast climbed a neat rowhouse. "You're trained. Do the best you can."

"But—" Chrys had not yet completed training, certainly not for this.

The door chimed. "Pearl is home."

Topaz gripped Chrys's arm like death. The door hissed open. Pearl looked well enough, a bit thin even for her. She glanced one way, then the other. "Why Topaz," she exclaimed, not quite looking at her. "I've had such a good—" Seeing Chrys, Pearl stopped. Her irises flashed white, then her face froze in terror. "What's she doing here?"

"The masters warned us off," flashed Jonquil's words of gold.

"A hard lot," admitted Rose. "They want nothing to do with us. But a few will always attempt reform—"

Pearl backed against the wall. Then she screamed and caught her head between her hands, almost as if trying to twist it off. "Get her out of here! Please—get her out—"

Topaz caught Pearl by both arms, but she twisted her head away. "Pearl, listen—it's your last chance, you hear?"

Pearl's nails dug into the wall, leaving deep grooves in the plast, and her muscles stood taut with pain. Chrys backed off, uncertain. Daeren had not told her much about pain; she wondered why.

In her window flashed the sprite of a worm-face. Doctor Flexor, female, the ID flashed helpfully in her window. Chrys stepped outside the house to meet her. "Pearl can't even look at me. What can I do?"

Doctor Flexor listened, her face worms twining and twisting, catching the pallid light of the street. From behind, Pearl's screams subsided. "Wait it out," Flexor advised. "After a few minutes, the masters will think you've gone forever. Then try again."

Back in the house, Topaz whispered intensely to Pearl. Pearl was shaking her head, her hair tossing around her face. "Just let me be," she groaned. "I'm fine now."

"What do you mean you're fine?" hissed Topaz. "You can't even look someone in the face."

"I'm fine, I said; just let me—Oh!" Catching sight of Chrys again, Pearl sobbed and tried to bury her face in the wall. Chrys felt numb.

"We try," reported Rose, "but now they refuse all contact."

Chrys knew Rose's style. "Maybe you need to try nicer."

"They know too well what they face. Corrupt though they are, they'd rather die than join our degenerate society."

Chrys went out again. "This is no good," she told Flexor, waiting by the lightcraft. "Nobody told me what to do for pain."

"Pain makes it easy," said the worm-face. "These masters must be inexperienced. Pain sends humans to the doctor."

Topaz came out, her curls all askew, but she still had that take-charge sense about her. "Look," she told the doctor, "can't you give her something to take off the edge?"

"Of course." The worms lifted. "As soon as she accepts treatment."

"That's right," said Chrys. "If she can face me and consent, I'll give her ... something."

Topaz's eyes narrowed. "Why you? Why not the doctor?"

"Damn it, for once just listen."

Topaz turned and went back. "Pearl," said Topaz firmly. "You accept treatment, or I'll turn you out." Pearl's head whipped violently back and forth. "I'll turn you out and freeze the accounts, you hear?"

"No," she wailed.

Topaz stopped and lowered her voice. "Pearl, I love you. I want you back. Does that mean nothing?"

Pearl's eyes rolled. Her face shone with sweat, and she took short, shallow breaths. "I don't know." Her voice broke. "It hurts too much."

"Just get treatment," urged Topaz. "Just say yes, and the doctor will make it better."

At that Pearl seemed to freeze. Chrys moved closer, dreading to start her off again.

"Say yes, Pearl," Topaz repeated. "Tell her."

Pearl looked at Chrys. "Yes," she gasped.

Chrys blinked to record the statement. Then she got out the green wafer, her hand shaking so it nearly fell. "Take this. Hurry."

Pearl grabbed the wafer and stuffed it in her mouth. Within minutes she was calm. Her arms relaxed, and she looked from one to the other, with a slight frown. "That sure helped. Why didn't you do that before?"

"It won't last," Chrys warned. "Keep fixed on my eyes." She had to give Rose one more chance to talk them into giving up.

"What are you?" Pearl asked curiously. "You're undercover, aren't you."

Chrys put a patch at Pearl's neck. A few would defect, never more. What if one day they all did? she wondered. A carrier, even a tester, was never allowed to increase her population more than 10 percent.

Flexor came inside. Her face worms extended into long tendrils around Pearl's head and neck. The nanoservos would tear every arsenic atom out of her tissues, and out of any micros that were left.

"It's coming back," Pearl gasped. "The pain—"

"The micros messed up your pain circuits. They need to heal." Flexor added to Chrys, "The pain saved her. When they're too smart for pain—"

Pearl's cry split the night. The worm-face got her into the light-craft and to the hospital; a five-minute ride, it felt the longest Chrys ever took. At the door to the clinic, she stopped. Pearl still moaned, her head turning back and forth to find relief that would not come. Topaz looked back toward Chrys as if to a lifeline.

"No farther for me," Chrys told her. "The clinic is a micro-free zone."

"A what?"

Doctor Flexor drew them in and the door closed.

"Our defectors have settled in," reported Jonquil. "Not the brightest, but they work hard. When do we get to build Silicon?"

In the window Chief Andra appeared, irises glimmering violet, standing tall as an ancient Sardish warrior. "Chrys, you've done well." She must have watched the whole time. "We'll put you on call."

Chrys swallowed and said nothing.