I am not one of those fools who believe Relativists guard their guild secrets to protect their monopoly.  None of the ones I knew had an avaricious bone in their bodies.  Avarice would appear incompatible with the mindset that produces a Relativist, or that a Relativist produces — a rare case of fortune bringing immense wealth to people fundamentally indifferent to it.  But I have no idea why it is that they do discourage specific questions about their daily activities.  I simply know it is their right if they choose, and they do.  It is purely my own intuition that they do so to protect the rest of us from the knowledge, for some reason.  It may equally well be that they simply literally can't explain what they do — that you and I have no referents for the information, nothing in our experience that any words we know could evoke.  Maybe I'm like a cat trying to understand exactly how the fish get into those little cans, or a man trying to understand women: unequipped.  For all I know, something happened in that room, every day, all day, that was simply beyond ordinary human understanding.  That's the way I lean, anyway.  The one thing I'm absolutely certain of is that my last chance to ask any of the Relativists I know about such matters is gone for good.  I waited too long. 
 Anybody who was aboard can tell you where they were and what they were doing when it happened.
 Any society has such events, benchmarks in its shared history.  Usually they involve great tragedy.  It may be the untimely death of some universally beloved public figure, or a natural disaster of uncommon magnitude;  in the old days it was most often a war, and sometimes a plague.
 But in those times, war and plague were expected dangers, and survivable ones.  I doubt there have been many humans in history who've known anything like the instant ice-cold horror that comes to every passenger aboard a relativistic starship when they suddenly find themselves in free fall.
 Where I was that day was on Bravo Ag Deck, goofing off behind the goatshed, chewing the fat with Sol Short, while the two colonists I'd drawn as my unskilled labor that shift, John Barnstead and Adewale Akbage, listened and tried not to look awed.  We were passing around a flask of wine Zog had made from the Brasilian flower Muira Puama (PtychopetalurnOlacoides), which was making a very happy adjustment to Brasil Novo conditions.  I can even remember what we were talking about.  At the gentle urging of Dr. Amy, and with Sol as intermediary, I had long since buried the hatchet with transportees Richie and Jules, going so far as to comp them for a night at the Horn so they could hear me play.  It made a difference;  Richie came backstage after to stare at the floor and say he “apollenized,” and Jules

 put one arm around me and hugged me, and from then on whenever we encountered each
 other in the corridors, they were both loudly friendly.  So I had begun a small but precious collection of Richie-isms, and loved to compare specimens with Sol, who appreciated them as much as I did.  That day, I recall, I had shared with him, “Don't kill the goose that laid the deviled egg,” and, “You can't sell a fuckin' book by looking undercover.”  John threw one in, then: he'd heard someone ask the pair why they were constantly together, and Richie had said, “Two heads are better than none.”  And Sol had just gifted us all with the gem “Atojiso,” as in, “I knew that would happen. 

I am not one of those fools who believe Relativists guard their guild secrets to protect their monopoly.

  None of the ones I knew had an avaricious bone in their bodies.

  Avarice would appear incompatible with the mindset that produces a Relativist, or that a Relativist produces — a rare case of fortune bringing immense wealth to people fundamentally indifferent to it.

  But I have no idea why it is that they do discourage specific questions about their daily activities.

  I simply know it is their right if they choose, and they do.

  It is purely my own intuition that they do so to protect the rest of us from the knowledge, for some reason.

  It may equally well be that they simply literally can't explain what they do — that you and I have no referents for the information, nothing in our experience that any words we know could evoke.

  Maybe I'm like a cat trying to understand exactly how the fish get into those little cans, or a man trying to understand women: unequipped.

  For all I know, something happened in that room, every day, all day, that was simply beyond ordinary human understanding.

  The one thing I'm absolutely certain of is that my last chance to ask any of the Relativists I know about such matters is gone for good.

 Anybody who was aboard can tell you where they were and what they were doing when it happened.

 Any society has such events, benchmarks in its shared history.

  It may be the untimely death of some universally beloved public figure, or a natural disaster of uncommon magnitude;

  in the old days it was most often a war, and sometimes a plague.

 But in those times, war and plague were expected dangers, and survivable ones.

  I doubt there have been many humans in history who've known anything like the instant ice-cold horror that comes to every passenger aboard a relativistic starship when they suddenly find themselves in free fall.

 Where I was that day was on Bravo Ag Deck, goofing off behind the goatshed, chewing the fat with Sol Short, while the two colonists I'd drawn as my unskilled labor that shift, John Barnstead and Adewale Akbage, listened and tried not to look awed.

  We were passing around a flask of wine Zog had made from the Brasilian flower Muira Puama (PtychopetalurnOlacoides), which was making a very happy adjustment to Brasil Novo conditions.

  I can even remember what we were talking about.

 Amy, and with Sol as intermediary, I had long since buried the hatchet with transportees Richie and Jules, going so far as to comp them for a night at the Horn so they could hear me play.

  Richie came backstage after to stare at the floor and say he “apollenized,” and Jules

 put one arm around me and hugged me, and from then on whenever we encountered each

 other in the corridors, they were both loudly friendly.

  So I had begun a small but precious collection of Richie-isms, and loved to compare specimens with Sol, who appreciated them as much as I did.

  That day, I recall, I had shared with him, “Don't kill the goose that laid the deviled egg,” and, “You can't sell a fuckin' book by looking undercover.

”  John threw one in, then: he'd heard someone ask the pair why they were constantly together, and Richie had said, “Two heads are better than none.

”  And Sol had just gifted us all with the gem “Atojiso,” as in, “I knew that would happen. 