Shadow of the giant

it."
    She said it with such verve that Bean might have missed the
bitter complaint behind her words. "So he still treats you like a
ceremonial mother?" asked Bean.
    "Does the butterfly consult with the cocoon?"
    "So ... how do your other children treat you?"
asked Bean.
    Her face darkened. "This is your business?"
    He wasn't sure if the question was pointed irony—as in,
that's none of your business—or a simple question—this is what you came for? He
took it the first way.
    "Ender's my friend," said Bean. "More than
anybody else except Petra. I miss him. I know there's an ansible on his ship. I
just wondered."
    "I'm forty-six years old," said Theresa.
"When Val and Andrew get to their destination, I'll be ... old. Why should
they write to me?"
    "So they haven't."
    "If they have, the I.F. hasn't seen fit to inform
me."
    "They're bad at mail delivery, as I recall. They seem
to think that the best family therapy method is 'out of sight, out of mind.'
"
    "Or Andrew and Valentine can't be bothered."
Theresa typed something. "There. Another letter I'll never send."
    "Who are you writing to?"
    "Whom. You foreigners are wrecking the English
language."
    "I'm not speaking English. I'm speaking Common. There's
no 'whom' in Common."
    "I'm writing to Virlomi and telling her to wise up to
the fact that Suriyawong is still in love with her and she has no business
trying to play god in India when she could do it for real by marrying and
having babies."
    "She doesn't love Suri," said Bean.
    "Someone else, then?"
    "India. It's way past patriotism with her."
    "Matriotism. Nobody thinks of India as the
fatherland."
    "And you're the matriarch. Dispensing maternal advice
to Battle School grads."
    "Just the ones from Ender's Jeesh who happen now to be
heads of state or insurrectionary leaders or, in this case, fledgling
deities."
    "Just one question for you," said Bean.
    "Ah. Back to the subject."
    "Is Ender getting a pension?"
    "Pension? Yes, I think so. Yes. Of course."
    "And what is his pension doing while he's puttering
along at lightspeed?"
    "Gathering interest, I imagine."
    "So you're not administering it?"
    "Me? I don't think so."
    "Your husband?"
    "I'm the one who handles the money," said Theresa.
"Such as it is. We don't get a pension. Come to think of it, we don't get a
salary, either. We're just hangers-on. Camp followers. We're both on leave of
absence at the University because it was too dangerous for potential hostages
to be out where enemies could kidnap us. Of course, the main kidnapper is dead,
but... here we stay."
    "So the I.F. is holding on to Ender's money."
    "What are you getting at?" asked Theresa.
    "I don't know," said Bean. "I was wiping my
little Ender's butt, and I thought, there's an awful lot of shit here."
    "They drink and drink. The breast doesn't seem to get
smaller. And they poop more than they could possibly get from the breast
without shriveling it into a raisin."
    "And then I thought, I know how much I'm getting in my
pension, and it's kind of a lot. I don't actually have to work at anything as
long as I live. Petra, too. Most of it we simply invest. Roll it back into
investments. It's adding up fast. Pretty soon our income from invested pension
is going to be greater than the original pension we invested. Of course, that's
partly because we have so much inside information. You know, about which wars
are about to start and which will fizzle, that sort of thing."
    "You're saying that somebody ought to be watching over
Andrew's money."
    "I'll tell you what," said Bean. "I'll find
out from Graff who's taking care of it."
    "You want to invest it?" asked Theresa.
"Going into brokering or financial management when Peter has finally
achieved world peace?"
    "I won't be here when Peter—"
    "Oh, Bean, for heaven's sake, don't take me seriously
and make me feel bad for acting as if you weren't going to die. I prefer not to
think of you dying."
    "I was only saying that I'm not a good person to manage
Ender's ... portfolio."
    "So ... who?"
    "Wouldn't that be whom?"
    She grimaced. "No it would not. Not even if you spoke
English."
    "I don't know. I've got no candidate."
    "And so you wanted to confer with Peter."
    Bean shrugged.
    "But that would make no sense at all. Peter doesn't
know anything about investing and ... no, no, no. I see what you're getting
at."
    "How, when I'm not sure myself?"
    "Oh, you're sure. You think Peter is financing some of
this from Andrew's pension. You think he's embezzling from his