The party tonight is huge. There's an ESA conference in town and there are prominent academics from dozens of schools all over the campus. And that means that Pi's party is overflowing into the street.The kitchens are filled with volunteers from several surrounding schools, and the veteran servers (and I guess that includes me now) are overworked just training the yokels. It's not the kind of night that I expect to first talk to our most illustrious host.
It was today on Earth. I was taking a break, just looking out over one of the more hidden balconies into the gently lighted streets of Potsdam. It was a Wednesday, so it was relatively quiet. I had been helping cater Pi's parties for about two months now and I was starting to feel quite at home. I had even dressed for the special occasion rather than just in the outfit that the servers preferred, which was part of the problem. My nice shoes were making my feet hurt which was why I was leaning against a back railing of Pi's extraordinary townhouse. Then a voice came from behind me.
"And who might you be?" she asked. I turned and here is where my poor footwear might have been an advantage. Naia pi-Kakoska is a tall woman, and although I'm not as tall as she I found that the 5 cm heels in my favorite titanium sandals put us at nearly eye level. I told her my name. She asked about my field of research and oddly unfazed I went into depth about it.
That was strange. I can only assume that it was a combination of being caught out of context for a server as well as being in a kind of reverie. At that moment I had been mentally comparing the lighted city below me to Crab cities and what differences could be discerned from that middle distance. But it was also Pi herself -- she made it easy to go on and on about things that she probably knew better than I did.
Pi fancies herself the last of the Greek muses, an equal sibling to those who inspired democracy, philosophy, drama and science itself. She drapes her tall, stately form in diaphanous robes hanging from her expansive shoulders and outlining her generous curves. Her back, ever exposed regardless of the garment, is covered in a great feathered serpent. Its enormous head nibbles Her ears, its great frilled necks spans Her shoulder blades and its scaly body writhes down Her back and disappears behind the folds of Her dress. Only Her lovers know where the tail ends up, and they aren't telling.
As we chatted those who would demand Her attention began to surround us on the terrace. I could sense in my peripheral vision that orbits had changed. The galaxy of the party had found a new center of gravity and I suddenly felt embarrassed and a bit ashamed. Struck from my reverie I stammered a little and I knew the interview was over.
"You should talk to Paal," She said, starting to turn away. "He's looking into Crabs in the same way." And the She swept away. Poof. She was gone. The center of the party moved on, and my life was changed forever. For many years I felt that this was a turning point -- a recognition that was valid but undeserved. Like a stroke of luck that might happen to anyone with the right talents.
Took me years to understand how She would use me.
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