by Ian Stewart
He had hiked about a mile up a winding mountain track when a streak of blinding light slit the sky like a welders arc through tinfoil. Then the airburst went off and for a moment he thought he had lost his hearing. Slowly sound returned. As the rumbling died away, he staggered to his feet. Farther up the mountain, trees lay on the ground, their trunks combed flat by the shock wave. Down at his level, the hillside was littered with heaps of tangled brushwood.
He began cursing his feng-shui adviser. Delicate Blossom should have known—he stopped. He was, after all, still alive. Her advice had been sound. If the powers that arranged the universe had intended to kill him, they had failed. He gave a shout of pure animal joy. Good luck. The salve had done its job—
What was that noise? A strange pattering in the fallen bushes . . . A young orangutan rushed past him, terrified by the blast. Then another. He stepped back to get out of their way, but one of them—a mature male, looking like a hairy ball of jumbled rubber, but in reality two hundred pounds of solid muscle—turned and pursued him. It seemed affronted. It inflated its dramatic cheek flaps to make its face larger and more frightening—superfluous, since Xi was already terrified out of his wits. Why was it chasing him? He shuddered as a muscular hand closed on his shoulder. Roaring its outrage, the orangutan picked the merchant up, threw him to the ground, and jumped on him until his chest was crushed. Ripping off his arms for good measure, it tossed the remains aside. Then it raced off down the hillside toward the distant river. Before Xi could die from loss of blood, he drowned in it. Within a few moments, the forest was once more quiet.
Deng Po-zhou loved both his daughters, but only Silent Snowflake had remained in his household. The other daughter had taken an assumed identity, concealing all connection either with him or with the White Dragon Gang, and had attained prominence as a feng-shui adviser. Now the play was finished and her role was no longer necessary—for Xi Ming-Kuo was dead. The mutilated body had been found in the hills of Borneo by a patrol of game wardens investigating an unauthorized night.
He did have one question, though.
"Daughter: you say you advised him to flee to one of two places. If he had chosen one, he would have been killed by a tsunami. But he chose the other."
"Yes, Father," said Delicate Blossom.
"Where he survived an airburst from a comet fragment."
"Yes, Father."
"And was then torn apart by terrified orangutans."
"Yes, Father." It gave her pleasure to acknowledge him openly.
"So whichever he had chosen, he would have died?"
"Yes, Father."
Deng stared at her. Orangutans? "Delicate Blossom, how did you know?"
She pursed her lips. "Father: are you telling me that you do not believe in the ancient and highly respected art of feng-shui?"
He laughed. "That is exactly what I am telling you, daughter. I am not a credulous fool like Xi Ming-Kuo."
No — hut even you have not thought of a salve impregnated with orangutan aggression pheromone . . . "Then you will have to assume that I just got lucky, Father."
"O glorious Theta-Being, we thank you for our deliverance . . ." Angle's blood boiled, and she hopped channels looking for some sense. Already the pseudoscientists and the religious nuts were taking credit for Earths salvation, their crackpot theories confirmed or their prayers answered—so they claimed—in the most dramatic fashion possible. In some ways it's a pity the bloody thing didn't hit us. But even that would he a waste — they'd never have lived long enough to realize they were wrong.
And of course they could be right. . . She swore again. Still no harm in having an insurance policy. Just in case there's some supernatural old geezer who watches over us, maybe it's a good thing someone is trying to catch his attention . . . She made a face and shook her head slowly Angela, my dear, you are going senile in your old age . . . Wouldn't it have been much simpler for our omnipotent protector just to stop the comet from heading our way to begin with? A bit of chaotic control in the Oort cloud a millennium ago — virtually zero effort, big effect. But no, we get an omniscient old geezer with a penchant for the dramatic!
Or maybe the intention had been to administer some kind of collective lesson to the human race. How can you assess the motives of hypothetical supernatural entities?
Wearily she rose to her feet.
Outside, it was a new dawn.
Everything—and nothing—had changed.
22
New Tibet Habitat, 2223
For the first time since he had manipulated Nagarjuna into volunteering for the suicide mission to Jupiter, the Cuckoo felt his old serenity beginning to return. The passage of the comet had shaken him more than he cared to acknowledge, and his excitement at the planet's survival had quickly given way to anticlimax. As the extent of the damage became apparent, he fell into a level of spiritual depression that shocked everyone around him. He meditated for weeks, but still remained as troubled as before.
It was the White Grouse who restored his spirits, suggesting the age-old remedy for world-weariness—a holiday. White Grouse had the wisdom to phrase his suggestion as a call of duty rather than a self-indulgence: he arranged for a request for spiritual guidance to be sent by one of the monasteries in New Tibet, on a sensitive matter that required the attentions of an experienced lama. Might the Cuckoo himself reserve some time from his meditations and undertake the task? Indeed he might, as White Grouse had anticipated—being aware of a further consideration: the Cuckoo had been born in New Tibet and had occasionally expressed a longing for its open spaces, mountainous terrain, and pristine air.
As it happened, the New Tibet Habitat was at a reasonably convenient point in its orbit, and the transfer from the Way of the Wholesome's asteroid took less than a month. On the way, the Cuckoo meditated for most of his waking hours, and as the days passed he began to piece together a new synthesis of many things that had been troubling him. As piece after piece fitted into place, the logic became ever more compelling; his depression began to lift as the picture in his mind grew ever more elaborate, yet ever simpler at its spiritual core. By the time his cruiser docked with the habitat, the Cuckoo was feeling more his old self, and he had found a new cause to occupy him as he slipped imperceptibly into old age. If he was right, it was a cause that would occupy entire races for many lifetimes ... a cause, perhaps, with no end save that of the universe. Ends would have to take care of themselves, but he was beautifully placed to make a beginning; and he knew exactly where, and with whom, to start.
Like many a cause, it began with a single communication between two people. Through intermediaries and subordinates, the Cuckoo confirmed that Prudence Odingo was still at Europa Base. She had made a good recovery from her ordeal, and she was looking forward to going home. Charles's arm had healed, and he and Moses would be traveling with her. Tiglath-Pileser was too badly damaged to make the journey back to Earth unassisted, but it was safely in orbit around Europa and its life-support systems had been repaired by technicians seconded from Skylark. The systems weren't as good as new, but they were at least as good as old. Prudence was determined to take her ship back to Earth and have it restored to its former condition, and to make the journey aboard it; and in the aftermath of the comet nobody was going to stop her from getting whatever she wanted—an entire fleet of cruisers, the contents of the Cairo museum, the freehold on Mars. So a scheme had been devised in which Tiglath-Pileser was strapped to Wildcat, the most powerful cruiser in Skylark's fleet, and Prudence, Charles, and Moses would ride home on piggyback.
Prudence was quite looking forward to the trip. Charles's actions had convinced her that he really had become a better person, and her own instinctive reaction to his imminent death had surprised her. She couldn't forget the past, but it no longer seemed terribly important. Sometimes love is very close to hate— the direction of emotions can be easier to change than their strength. Certainly, spending a couple of years unable to escape each other's company would be an ef
fective test of their budding relationship.
She was fault-testing the carbon dioxide scrubbers when the communication came: she was annoyed at the interruption until she discovered who it was. For several minutes she listened, saying scarcely a word in reply. Then she called Charles on the local network.
"Charlie: how would you respond to a request to modify our flight plan?"
His response was pithy, obscene, and ended in: "... bureaucrats!"
Prudence chuckled. "Wrong, for once. The terrestrial authorities want to welcome us back into the bosom of the human race as quickly as possible. No, the request comes from a source that I respect, and it offers some advantages that I think we ought to consider."
"Damn the advantages, Pru: how much delay will it cause?"
"A few months, that's all."
Inwardly, Charles groaned. Prudence seemed to thrive on the boredom of spaceflight; he hated it. Even the prospect of her extended company couldn't compensate for having to wait several months longer for the smell of new-mown hay, the splash of raindrops on your face, sunshine on your skin . . . "What source?"
"The Cuckoo. He's invited us to drop by on our way through the Belt, say hello, have dinner, sink a few cocktails, whatever. Not in those words, of course."
"Prudence, you know as well as I do that we'll have to shed an awful lot of momentum, and it will take months to build it up again. Especially now that the Jovians have agreed to give us an initial boost from one of the Diversion Engines."
Prudence had two answers to that one, and decided to save the best for a final assault. "The Cuckoo says he's sorry, but in return for the visit he is offering a complete refit for Tiglath-Pileser. And a free dose of momentum from one of his mass-drivers when we leave. A gentle dose, no broken bones or squashed internal organs. Charlie, we'll be able to go home under our own command!"
Charles knew the battle was lost: Prudence would do anything to get her spaceship back into running order. Nevertheless, he couldn't give in without a fight. "I'm not keen to spend several extra months stuck on an asteroid, Pru— especially a monastery."
"That's the beauty of it—you won't have to. The Cuckoo is on the New Tibet Habitat, and so is the shipyard that will carry out the refit. The habitat's a pretty good Earth substitute—artificial gravity, open spaces miles across, and you can walk around without a spacesuit, it's got terrestrial atmosphere. High-altitude pressure, that's the Tibetan influence, but the air is clean and pure. Lots of animals and plants, too: they farm it. Even clouds, they tell me, though no real sky. Oh, and snow." Lots of snow, hut no need to tell him that. "It'll be like getting home sooner. Break the journey, stretch our legs and anything else that needs stretching—get some rest and relaxation. Meditate—it's a great place to meditate, with plenty of experienced instructors—unwind, enjoy the views, hit the tourist traps. Get drunk on chang. Go on a yeti hunt."
"You're joking."
"Only about the yeti."
"What's chang?"
"Barley beer—thick, white, aromatic, and a mild intoxicant."
"Okay, I'm sold. But you may have to drag me back on board Tiglath-Pileser when it's time for the final leg home."
"No, I'll push you. It'll be in free fall by then."
At first. New Tibet was unimpressive: a cylindrical canister with rounded ends, about the same shape as a suit's air tank. Then, as you got closer, you began to make out the detail, and the scale of the thing hit you. Those tiny specks clustered near the middle of one rounded end were cruisers. Those lines scratched along its length were rail-guns. And those dark disks that featured so prominently on its curved wall were—dark disks, but whatever they were, they were huge. And all of it was rotating.
"About seven miles across, forty long," Prudence told them. "Hollow. Started as a medium-sized nickel-iron asteroid. You set it spinning, then use solar reflectors to melt it, and blow it up like a big balloon with a metal skin, selectively, to form it into the desired shape. Then you put in atmosphere, subsoil, top-soil, an ecology . . . and people. Easy, if you can afford to wait a few decades and you've got the wealth of an advanced nation—which the Buddhists had."
Their cruiser drifted closer, nudged by puffs of propellant. The domed end of the habitat filled the screen.
"What's that. . . picture? Kind of matte-on-gloss, you only see it when the light's in the right place. I didn't see it at first, but it covers most of the end, must be miles across."
"It's a rather stylized monkey, Moses. There's a female demon on the other end, where the nuclear power plant is attached. It's a Tibetan legend—supposedly their people were created from the union of the two."
"That's quite a parentage. Bestiality and demonism rolled into one."
"Curiosity and the power of life and death, Charles. The perfect symbolism for science."
The entire cylinder was spinning—slowly, one revolution every two and a half minutes—but matching velocities was easy. There were several concentric sets of docking rings, centered on the cylinder's axis, and they were counterrotated to keep them, in effect, stationary. Wildcat's pilot gended the lashed-up craft into the open jaws of a free one. With a crackling sound like foil being crushed into a ball, transmitted to Tiglath-Pileser through the hull metal, the cruiser was locked into place.
"Should we pack?"
"No need: the Cuckoo insists that everything we need will be provided. Even clothing. As soon as we leave, they'll separate Tiglath-Pileser from Wildcat. Tiggy gets a refit, and the others will head for home without us."
They suited up, sealed their helmets, made final inspections and checks for suit integrity, and pushed off along the flexible transfer tube that had been extruded from one of the habitat's airlocks. It held no air: it was just there to stop inexperienced skywalkers from selecting the wrong thrust vector and drifting away into the far reaches of the Solar System.
The airlock cycled. Three young monks were waiting on the far side of the inner door. They were carrying white scarves, which they presented as traditional greeting gifts. Three more monks held robes, cloaks of yak wool, boots of felt and yak leather, and other garments. In the privacy of some nearby cubicles, the three travelers removed their spacesuits and puzzled their way into the everyday clothing of New Tibet. Their task wasn't helped by the absence of any appreciable gravity, real or artificial, but with a bit of inspired guesswork—such as foot wrappings in place of socks—they managed.
The air was thin—for a few days they would feel short of breath, especially if they exerted themselves. The habitat's "ground level" was at the same atmospheric pressure as Earth's Tibetan plateau. At the habitat's axis it was cold, maintained at a constant five degrees below zero Celsius by a giant air-conditioning system, and they would need heavy cloaks, boots, and thick foot wrappings. At the periphery it was pleasantly warm during "daytime" and most people wore just robes and sandals, but when the huge batteries of lights that covered both inner ends were switched off for artificial night, much of the heat would be recycled through pipes in the habitat's skin and the temperature would plummet. Warm days, bitterly cold nights: the New Tibetans liked it that way. They had gone to great lengths to ensure that it was just like their ancestral home.
The monks led them through a short corridor and stopped beside a flat, circular wall. The wall split into four pieces and slid outward, revealing a large window "Welcome to New Tibet," said one of the monks. "Most visitors find the view worth seeing."
Prudence had heard a lot about the New Tibet Habitat—all spacers had. The reality exceeded expectations. "It's . . . amazing. Spectacular. I can't believe anyone could build something like this—it's awe-inspiring!"
"It's got mountains," said Charles.
"I told you that."
"Yes, but it has. Mountain-sized mountains. I thought they'd be little pimples, but they're not. There's even snow on them."
"I told you that, too."
Moses craned his neck and tried to look down—that is, radially, away from the axis
and toward the cylindrical periphery. The domed end curved down and out, roughened metal painted sky-blue, dotted with lighting units, until it merged into green fields and gray rock. It was like looking down from an aircraft at the ground five miles below There were rivers, for heaven's sake, and in the distance he saw something that could only be a waterfall. Here and there were clumps of forest. Most impressive of all, though, were the mountains, and those were disorienting, since most of them were upside down. There seemed to be six in all, one group of three a few miles away, another group of three looming through the haze near the habitats far end. Each group was arranged symmetrically, equally spaced around the cylinder's girth, and their peaks nearly met at the axis. The far group occupied the gaps between those in the near group.
"Dynamic balance," said Prudence. "A bit stylized, but easier to make than a more complicated arrangement, and less stressful on the . . . hull, I suppose you'd call it."
"A lot of metal," said Charles in wonder.
"They started with a lot of metal. A whole asteroid."
A monk—a woman—bowed respectfully. "The mountains are hollow, Mr. Dunsmoore. The metal is thick at the base and thinner towards the peaks, but they are big mountains and their interior is mostly vacuum."
"Charles, please. Yes, of course, they would be. Which explains those dark disks we saw when we made our approach. They were the bases of the mountains."
The monk nodded. "Later you will learn more about our home and our origins, and how we live. This view is no more than a foretaste. Now, if you are ready, we should descend. You are expected on the plateau."
Three of the monks led them to an elevator. There was an entire circle of elevators, grouped in sets of three for smoother traffic flow They ran through the habitat's end-walls, radiating from the axis to various points on the rim. Some stopped partway and spawned sub-branches. Once down to the plateau, the normal method of transport was to walk. Higher technology existed, but was reserved for emergencies.