by Ian Stewart
A typical city was home to about twenty million blimps. At any given time, though, only five percent would be active, while the others estivated. Blimp institutions had evolved to maintain a kind of continuity in a society where key individuals could suddenly disappear without warning and most encounters were with total strangers.
For 330 million years, the city slabs had circulated beneath the veiling clouds of Secondhome's striped envelope. Some of the senior blimps still remembered the Exodus—the enforced years of migration and colonization. A select few remembered what had gone before, and devoted their interminable lives to ensuring its continuation in their new home. Some of the junior blimps, however, had a different view of the Exodus, and a very different agenda.
Snowstrike. The very word triggered an atavistic jear in the blimps.
Snowstrike had devastated Firsthome, until symhiaut evolution had led the blimps to the secret physics that made it possible to manipulate gravity. Then snowstrike had indirectly caused the abandonment of Firsthome, because of their failure to appreciate the hidden dangers of the technology that their discovery had unleashed.
On Fightmoon, the most distant of Secondhome's Jour Inner Moons, a sentinel symbiaut making routine observations noticed a significant deviation in the Outer Halo, jar beyond the most remote of the Farther outworlds.
Soon the diagnosis became unavoidable.
Snowstone.
Time meant nothing to the symbiauts. They observed the snow-stone's tedious, erratic detachment jrom its myriad companions. They extrapolated its long jail toward the sun, computed collision probabilities, and weired possible actions against their consequences.
Probabilities crystallized into certainties. Contingencies collapsed into compulsions. The decision, once taken, was acted upon immediately. In colossal caverns hewn beneath the crusts of the Inner Moons, squads of symbiauts swarmed over dormant Diversion Engines, awakening them from their long slumber. Power flowed once more into the massive metal rotors whose high-speed gyrations, coupled with esoteric physics, shaped the contours of quantum-antigravity repulsion fields. Projectors were energized and aligned with the appropriate anti-geodesies, generating potent repulsion-beams. The beams reconfigured the moons' orbits to receive the incoming snow-stone, inexorably pulling it into a precise embrace before hurling it violently away from the great gas giant. Acting under an ancient compulsion, they chose a trajectory that neither terminated in the system's central star nor risked a subsequent repeat encounter
The snowstone's crust melted in the heat of the sun and began to boil. A vast plume jetted outward on the solar wind.
The chloride oceans of Poisonblue beckoned, a tempting target.
Deep beneath Secondhome's belted atmosphere, those of the Elders that were not estivating received news of the snowstone's discovery, anticipated impact, successful deflection, and explosive end. Congratulating themselves on their foresight, they resumed their interminable cycles of politics, reproduction, and estivation.
Poisonblue briefly became an ominous gray. Splashes of chloride jetted into space, where they froze. For thousands of years Poisonblue sported a ring of ice. After this short time, the ice began to disperse — falling onto the planet's smaller companion, plunging into the local star, drifting out to Secondhome and beyond.
On Secondhome, only the symbiauts noticed. They judged that the inbound fragments of chloride ice, poisonous though they might be, posed no threat. They were well below the threshold for action.
The blimps of Secondhome were deep into Conclave.
"Agendum 3961," the secretary-symbiaut informed them, using sound-wave communication to keep free the quantum-chromodynamic squark band that the group mind modulated to perform its collective telepathy. "Plans for a modified citizens' reversion-pool on Volatile Contours of the Pluvious Inundation. The secretary will commence by reviewing the relevant protocols and summarizng the results of a search for the indicative precedents ..." Eventually the plan was referred to one of the Conclave's standing focus groups for further clarification, with a recommendation that the proposers be required to reconsider the disposition of secondary winding-nests . . .
"Agendum 3963: report of the Data Retention Agency on antisocial elements ..." The symbiaut droned on interminably, giving comparative statistics for various classes of petty crime and minor infringements of the voluntary codes of behavior. The Conclave became collectively aware that over the previous hundred thousand years there had been a slow upward trend in the use of threatening gestures in the negotiation of temporary guarantees of passage, that the problem of untended dysfunctional symbiauts had virtually disappeared on those cities that had adopted the controversial Resolution of Total Offcast Discipline, and that an outbreak of hormone graffiti on Simmering Wells of the Amusing Infrequency had been traced to a deranged Charming Construction Entity.
"There has been a marked increase in incidents of unauthorized intercity free-floating," the symbiaut reported, in the same monotonous tone as everything else that it had said, but the Conclave immediately acquired an aura of heightened excitement and concern. The activity referred to, known colloquially as "skydiving," was not merely antisocial, it was a serious political threat. The sky divers were a symbol of rejected authority, a subversive and utterly deplorable association of misfits. Their political agenda was sweeping, iconoclastic, and dangerous.
Nothing rouses a slow-moving, slow-thinking entity as effectively as the perception of a potential threat to their person.
And to their power.
Brief thought-ensembles squarked from mind to mind.
«All of those here present know full well the socially undesirable side effects of the disgusting habit of intercity free-floa—» began Venerable Mumblings of the Interminable Prevarication, but he was immediately interrupted by Quick Decisions of the Unconsidered Implication, whose patience was less robust than that of most of his fellows.
«Mumblings has an excellent point, which is well taken by us all, and we can move at once to a remedy. I propose—»
«I believe that the matter will turn out to be more subtle than Decisions expects,» Mumblings broadcast. «A proposal would be premature.»
«:As I was about to point out, that is not the prob—»
«I am sure that we all remember the destruction of Twin Cities of the Enticing Gloom,» squarked Intuitive Mediator of the Bland Outlook. «The dangers that skydiving poses for innocent byfloaters could hardly be more evident!»
«That may be so,» put in an especially short and broad blimp rejoicing in the appellation of Bulbous Purveyor of the Implausible Objection. «However, it was arguably a freak accident. No one could have predicted that a public skydiving festival would attract a pod of migrating snarewings at precisely the moment they were entering into an oxygen frenzy . . . The conflagration was regrettable, but in no way predictable.»
«Prediction,» said Eye-Threads, «is unnecessary when the precedents are plain. In any case, even a fool could predict that such an event might happen. The only difficulty was to predict when and where . . . Which is why we must use the precedents to guide our judgment.»
«Xxxx!» Purveyor assented, with uncharacteristic humor. «But since even so it remains unclear that prohibiting skydiving would prevent a recurrence, it is important to select the appropriate precedents.»
Eye-Threads snorted in affront. «Precedent is never inappropriate. Purveyor! The most underspecialized juvenile wallowing in the Thin Winds knows that!»
«Agreed,» said Mediator. «But precedent may sometimes not be apposite, Eye-Threads. Purveyor, do I detect support for unauthorized intercity free-floating? Have you not taken into consideration the skydivers' revolutionary agenda? Do you not recall that their terrorist activities have more than once spread to the Diversion Engines on the Inner Moons, laying Second-home wide open to snowstrike? Have you forgotten their off-casting of rogue symbiauts, programmed for sabotage?»
Purveyor, whose pedantry often got the better of comm
on sense, backed off rapidly. Who could forget the multiple impacts of snowstone a mere few centuries ago? Who could forget the panic as thousands of threatened cities were forced to change course, flailing their way awkwardly to safer latitudes? And there had been other such occasions, horrendous breaches of security. «Not at all!» Purveyor clarified. «My point was one of logic, not politics! Of course there is no question that politically the cult of the skydivers poses a substantial threat! I have always held this to be obvious!»
«We should increase the level of punishment,» said Irascible Thug of the Violent Demeanor.
«Ritual deflation, my dear Thug, is already such an atrocious penalty that any deterrent effect must already be operating,» Mediator replied. Thug was so simple-minded . . . always the enforcer. The situation demanded subtlety. «What is required is prevention, not punishment. Even the most horrific tortures meted out on the perpetrators would not have brought Twin Cities of the Enticing Gloom back to life. Or its inhabitants.»
«Yes, but—» began Thug, but before she could launch into one of her preprepared squeeches on the Need for Firm Tentacling to Instill Proper Respect for the Social Order in the Wayward Young, she was interrupted by the agitated arrival of a secretary-symbiaut, vanes aquiver, its decorative wheels spinning uselessly as it hovered a foot above the marbled shell of the chamber's dished floor. The symbiaut was so flustered that they broke protocol and allowed it to join the group mentality without completing the necessary authorization procedures. To the Conclave it felt like being in a swimming pool and having a large rock splash among you. Ripples of mental agitation bounced around the collective mind, settling down mainly because of the damping effect of Venerable Mumblings of the Interminable Prevarication.
«There has been a procedural error!» the symbiaut blurted out at a squark frequency close to hysteria.
«The Conclave of the Elders is deliberating a matter of considerable import!» Eye-Threads warned the overexcited symbiautic machine.
«Respected MultipHcity,» the symbiaut emitted at a calmer frequency, «an agendum item has been omitted!»
The shock registered on the faces of the Elders. How could they all have failed to notice such an obvious slip? Why had the secretariaut not been sufficiently alert to the breach of procedures?
Mediator was the first to understand what now had to be done. They must go through a complex process in which the item under discussion was suspended sine die, but the record of deliberations to date was permitted to stand. Next, a motion to revert to the omitted item 3962 would have to be passed— it would be wise to make it clear to Mumblings that a procedural filibuster would not be tolerated, or they might still be in Conclave when Secondstar became a red giant. Then item 3962 must be discussed, and the results minuted. Finally, another motion must be passed to ratify the existing discussion of item 3963, amended to permit the debate to continue.
This would take a while.
The blimps of Secondhome never looked beyond the gas giant's swirling, striped atmosphere. That was a menial task kit only for symbiauts. But even the symbiauts did not know that the diverted snowstone that had been disposed of in the inimical atmosphere of Poisonblue had not only made an impact on the planet, it had made an impact on the evolution of its indigenous life-forms.
Indeed, the symhiauts were not at that time aware that there were any indigenous life-forms. Oxygen was intensely corrosive to most known metals. Organic molecules would burst into spontaneous flame in an oxygenated chamber.
Life on an oxygen world? Inconceivable.
Yet as Poisonblue's world-girdling clouds finally began to thin, and the warm sunlight once more built radiant shafts from sky to ground, tiny shrewlike animals with long, bony fingers for picking grubs out of rotten trees emerged, blinking, into a new kind of world. A world where the great predatory lizards had vanished forever, leaving only petrified bones.
Their ears were sharp, for they had hunted by night for a hundred million years. Their eyes were large, adapted to the darkness; in daylight, they worked even better Lacking competitors, the shrews and their descendants would take over most of the planet. Lacking predators, they would evolve their own.
One day their distant descendants would have nightmares of bogeymen, an atavistic throwback to the thrall of the giant lizards.
One day their descendants would interpret their nightmares and invent gods to explain their world.
One day they would name wandering specks in the night sky after their gods.
And one day, they would travel to one of those specks, land on one of its satellites, and dig up symbiauts that had been buried as punishment for terrible crimes.
«... a small discrepancy,» the secretary-symbiaut admitted. It had been hoping that the Conclave would not notice the missing items on the inventory, but of course Mumblings had insisted on recomputing all of the figures.
«Has the discrepancy been accounted for?» asked Eye-Threads.
«Yes. A burial ground was . . . disturbed. A number of criminal symbiauts, encysted in the ice of Eightmoon for seriously antisocial activities, have been . . . they have ...»
«Out with it!» yelled Decisions. «They have what?»
«They have emerged, Respected Elder.»
«Emerged? The criminals were immersed in molten ice, which was then allowed to solidify around them! They should have been utterly immobile! Wheels will roll for this!»
The frightened secretary hastened to ingratiate itself. «More precisely, Respected Multiplicity, they have been . . . disinterred.»
Thug bobbed up and down in agitation. «Where there has been disinterment, there must perforce be a disinterer . . . who shall be punished to the utmost degree permitted by the law!» Other eyes focused narrowly on the now-terrified symbiaut. «Which among us perpetrated this foul deed?»
«Respected Elder, it was not a blimp. Nor,» the machine quickly added, «was it a symbiaut.»
Puzzlement flew about the Chamber like a flurry of ammonia. Not a blimp, not a symbiaut. . . then what? The secretary picked up the collective sense of bafflement and ventured an apologetic explanation.
«It was the entities from Poisonblue,» the symbiaut explained.
Then it explained it again.
At the fifth attempt. Purveyor began to understand that there had been a serious flaw in their instructions to the Watchers, and that an error in their entire philosophy had gone unrecognized for more than three hundred million years.
Fortunately, the mistake had made no serious difference until a few brief centuries ago.
The symbiaut Watchers were wheelers of various kinds, based on Secondhome's four Inner Moons—which orbited outside the four Innermost Moons, and inside the four Outer Moons and the four Outermost Moons—and they were in charge of the machinery that diverted any incoming comets and asteroids that exceeded generous safety margins. The Watchers' instructions had been simple and concise. If an incoming body represents a serious impact threat that might damage Secondhome's ecology, divert it elsewhere. Otherwise, ignore it. To avoid a repetition of the incident, arrange for it to collide with one of the numerous uninhabitable bodies of the planetary system. That meant all moons, save those of Secondhome; the inner planets, as far as Reddust; the outer planets from Manyrings onward. In short, everything except the Pulverization Zone, which was too unstable, and the Secondhome system itself.
Never redirect them into the star. This was the prime imperative. That mistake had cost them Firsthome.
But now, it seemed, their assumption that only the system's gas giants were capable of supporting life—and that only Secondhome actually did —had been proved wrong. It seemed that there existed some exotic life-form that could tolerate—or more probably was in some manner immune to— oxygen] That could live on a world of such terrible heat that its surface bore large deposits of liquid ice! That had been the flaw in their philosophy
Why had nothing been reported? That was the second mistake. Unless the body poses a serious impact
danger and an ecological threat, ignore it.
Some two hundred years earlier, the Watchers had observed tiny bodies being spat out from Poisonblue. At first these errant bodies were assumed to be asteroids, but they maneuvered in far too complex and organized a way. Then they were thought to be some diminutive alien relative of the majestic magnetotori that had been parked for safekeeping in Secondstar's photosphere, until it became clear that they propelled themselves using nonelectromagnetic reaction mass.
Over a century, these strange interlopers colonized Poison-blue's companion Ruggedrock, made a temporary assault on Red-dust, and spread themselves over assorted rocklets in the Pulverization Zone. The wheelers observed them, recorded their every move, and when the interlopers descended onto one of the Inner Moons the wheelers even got a close look at their weird bifurcated form. Neither balloons—unworkable in the nonexistent atmosphere of the Inner Moons—nor wheels, but clumsy, stiff, hinged trunks, with cumbersome pads on their ends for balance.
All this the wheelers noted with interest. But the small bodies in which the interlopers traveled posed no danger to Secondhome, for even if they were to impact upon it they would burn up in a trice, making not the tiniest ripple. And so, following their clear and simple instructions, the Watchers had kept this particular item of intelligence to themselves.
Obey the regulations. Take no action.
All this changed, though, when one such body made a short visit and its passengers disinterred more than a hundred symbiautic criminals, who had been iced as punishment for taking part in a sky diver attack on the Diversion Engines—worse, one that had temporarily succeeded. Secondhome had been hit by a comet because of their treason. After that, it was only a matter of time before the rogues' de-icing and disappearance was transmitted to Secondhome as part of the routine triennial audit. How else to justify their absence? And while the bureaucratic wheels of blimp society grind exceeding slow, they also grind exceeding fine. Unusually rapidly, half a Secondhome year later, the disinterment had quite properly been brought to the Elders' attention. Its implication had been grasped almost immediately.