by Vernor Vinge
Wili had been dictating to Jill for nearly an hour when the old man came down for breakfast. He took one look over Wili’s shoulder and then grabbed his reader, saying not a word to Wili or anyone else. Naismith paused many times, his eyes half-closed in concentration. He was about a third of the way through when Wili finished. He looked up when Wili stopped talking. “You got it?”
Wili nodded, grinning. “Sure, and in nlog(n) time, too.” He glanced at Naismith’s reader. “You’re still looking at the filter setting up. The real trick isn’t for a hundred more lines.” He scanned forward. Naismith looked at it for a long time, finally nodded. “I, I think I see. I’ll have to study it, but I think . . . My little Ramanujan. How do you feel?”
“Great,” he said, filled with elation, “but tired. The pain has been less these last days, I think. Who is Ramanujan?”
“Twentieth-century mathematician. An Indian. There are a lot of similarities: You both started out without much formal education. You are both very, very good.”
Wili smiled, the warmth of the sun barely matching what he felt. These were the first words of real praise he had heard from Naismith. He resolved to look up everything on file about this Ramanujan. . . . His mind drifted, freed from the fixation of the last weeks. Through the pines, he could see the sun on Vandenberg. There were so many mysteries left to master. . . .
8
Naismith made some phone calls the next day. The first was to Miguel Rosas at the SYP Company. Rosas was undersheriff to Sy Wentz, but the Tinkers around Vandenberg hired him for almost all their police operations.
The cop’s dark face seemed a touch pale after he watched Naismith’s video replay. “Okay,” he finally said, “who was Ramanujan?”
Naismith felt the tears coming back to his eyes. “That was a bad slip; now the boy is sure to look him up. Ramanujan was everything I told Wili: a really brilliant fellow, without much college education.” This wouldn’t impress Mike, Naismith knew. There were no colleges now, just apprenticeships. “He was invited to England to work with some of the best number theorists of the time. He got TB, died young.”
“. . . Oh. I get the connection, Paul. But I hope you don’t think that bringing Wili into the mountains did anything to hurt him.”
“His problem is worse during winters, and our winters are fierce compared to LA’s. This has pushed him over the edge.”
“Bull! It may have aggravated his problem, but he got better food here and more of it. Face it, Paul. This sort of wasting just gets worse and worse. You’ve seen it before.”
“More than you!” That and the more acute diseases of the plague years had come close to destroying mankind. Then Naismith brought himself up short, remembering Miguel’s two little sisters. Three orphans from Arizona they had been, but only one survived. Every winter, the girls had sickened again. When they died, their bodies were near-skeletons. The young cop had seen more of it than most in his generation.
“Listen, Mike, we’ve got to do something. Two or three years is the most he has. But hell, even before the War a good pharmaceutical lab could have cured this sort of thing. We were on the verge of cracking DNA coding and—”
“Even then, Paul? Where do you think the plagues came from? That’s not just Peace Authority jive. We know the Peace is almost as scared of bioresearch as they are that someone might find the secret of their bobbles. They bobbled Yakima a few years ago just because one of their agents found a recombination analyzer in the city hospital. That’s ten thousand people asphyxiated because of a silly antique. Face it: The bastards who started the plagues are forty years dead—and good riddance.”
Naismith sighed. His conscience was going to hurt him on this—a little matter of protecting your customers. “You’re wrong, Mike. I have business with lots of people. I have a good idea what most of them do.”
Rosas’ head snapped up. “Bioscience labs, even in our time?”
“Yes. At least three, perhaps ten. I can’t be sure, since of course they don’t admit to it. And there’s only one whose location is certain.”
“Jesus, Paul, how can you deal with such vermin?”
Naismith shrugged. “The Peace Authority is the real enemy. In spite of what you say, it’s only their word that the bioscience people caused the plagues, trying to win back for their governments what all the armies could not. I know the Peace.” He stopped for a moment, remembering treachery that had been a personal, secret thing for fifty years.
“I’ve tried to convince you tech people: The Authority can’t tolerate you. You follow their laws: You don’t make high-density power sources, don’t make vehicles or experiment with nucleonics or biology. But if the Authority knew what was going on within the rules . . . You must have heard about the NCC: I showed conclusively that the Peace is beginning to catch on to us. They are beginnning to understand how far we have gone without big power sources and universities and old-style capital industry. They are beginning to realize how far our electronics is ahead of their best. When they see us clearly, they’ll step on us the way they have on all opposition, and we’re going to have to fight.”
“You’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember, Paul, but—”
“But secretly you Tinkers aren’t that unhappy with the status quo. You’ve read about the wars before the War, and you’re afraid of what could happen if suddenly the Authority lost power. Even though you deceive the Peace, you’re secretly glad they’re there. Well, let me tell you something, Mike.” The words came in an uncontrollable rush. “I knew the mob you call the Peace Authority when they were just a bunch of R and D administrators and petty crooks. They were at the right place and the right time to pull the biggest con and rip-off of all history. They have zero interest in humanity or progress. That’s the reason they’ve never invented anything of their own.”
He stopped, shocked by his outburst. But he saw from Rosas’ face that his revelation had not been understood. The old man sat back, tried to relax. “Sorry, I wandered off. What’s important right now is this: A lot of people—from Beijing to Norcross—owe me. If we had a patent system and royalties it would be a lot more gAu than has ever trickled in. I want to call those IOUs due. I want my friends to get Wili to the bioscience underground.
“And if the past isn’t enough, think about this: I’m seventy-eight. If it’s not Wili, it’s no one. I’ve never been modest: I know I’m the best mathman the Tinkers have. Wili’s not merely a replacement for me. He is actually better, or will be with a few years’ experience. You know the problem he just cracked? It’s the thing the Middle California Tinkers have been bugging me about for three years: eavesdropping on the Authority’s recon satellites.”
Rosas’ eyes widened slightly.
“Yes. That problem. You know what’s involved. Wili’s come up with a scheme I think will satisfy your friends, one that runs a very small chance of detection. Wili did it in six weeks, with just the technical background he picked up from me last fall. His technique is radical, and I think it will provide leverage on several other problems. You’re going to need someone like him over the next ten years.”
“Urn.” Rosas fiddled with his gold-and-blue sheriff’s brassard. “Where is this lab?”
“Just north of San Diego.”
“That close? Wow.” He looked away. “So the problem is getting him down there. The Aztlán nobility is damned unpleasant about blacks coming in from the north, at least under normal circumstances.”
“ ‘Normal circumstances’?”
“Yes. The North American Chess Federation championships are in La Jolla this April. That means that some of the best high tech people around are going to be down there—legitimately. The Authority has even offered transportation to entrants from the East Coast, and they hardly ever sully their aircraft with us ordinary humans. If I were as paranoid as you, I would be suspicious. But the Peace seems to be playing it just for the propaganda value. Chess is even more popular in Europe than here; I think the Authority
is building up to sponsorship of the world championships in Berne next year.
“In any case, it provides a cover and perfect protection from the Aztlán: black or Anglo, they’ve never touched anyone under Peace Authority protection.”
Naismith found himself grinning. Some good luck after all the bad. There were tears in his eyes once more, but now for a different reason. “Thanks, Mike. I needed this more than anything I’ve ever asked for.”
Rosas smiled briefly in return.
Flashforward
Allison didn’t know much about plant identification (from less than one hundred kilometers anyway), but there was something very odd about this forest. In places it was overgrown right down to the ground; in other places, it was nearly clear. Everywhere a dense canopy of leaves and vines prevented anything more than fragmented views of the sky. It reminded her of the scraggly second growth forests of Northern California, except there was such a jumble of types: conifers, eucalyptus, even something that looked like a sickly manzanita. The air was very warm, and muggy. She rolled back the sleeves of her flight fatigues.
The fire was barely audible now. This forest was so wet that it could not spread. Except for the pain in her leg, Allison could almost believe she were in a park on some picnic. In fact, they might be rescued by real picnickers before the Air Force arrived.
She heard Quiller’s progress back toward her long before she could see him. When he finally came into view, the pilot’s expression was glum. He asked again about her injury.
“I—I think I’m fine. I pinched it shut and resprayed.” She paused and returned his somber look. “Only . . .”
“Only what?”
“Only . . . to be honest, Angus, the crash did something to my memory. I don’t remember a thing from right after entry till we were on the ground. What went wrong anyway? Where did we end up?”
Angus Quiller’s face seemed frozen. Finally he said, “Allison, I think your memory is fine—as good as mine, anyway. You see, I don’t have any memory from someplace over Northern California till the hull started busting up on the ground. In fact, I don’t think there was anything to remember.”
“What?”
“I think we were something like forty klicks up and then we were down on a planetary surface—just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I think we’ve fallen into some damn fantasy.” Allison just stared at him, realizing that he was probably the more distressed of the two of them. Quiller must have interpreted the look correctly. “Really, Allison, unless you believe that we could have exactly the same amount of amnesia, then the only explanation is . . . I mean one minute we’re on a perfectly ordinary reconnaissance operation, and the next we’re . . . we’re here, just like in a lot of movies I saw when I was a kid.”
“Parallel amnesia is still more believable than that, Angus.” If only I could figure out where we are.
The pilot nodded. “Yes, but you didn’t climb a tree and take a look around, Allison. Plant life aside, this area looks vaguely like the California coast. We’re boxed in by hills, but in one direction I could see that the forests go down almost to the sea. And . . .”
“And?”
“There’s something out there on the coast, Allison. It’s a mountain, a silver mountain sticking kilometers into the sky. There’s never been anything on Earth like that.”
Now Allison began to feel the bedrock fear that was gnawing at Angus Quiller. For many people, the completely inexplicable is worse than death. Allison was such a person. The crash—even Fred’s death—she could cope with. The amnesia explanation had been so convenient. But now, almost half an hour had passed. There was no sign of aircraft, much less of rescue. Allison found herself whispering, reciting all the crazy alternatives. “You think we’re in some kind of parallel world, or on the planet of another star—or in the future?” A future where alien invaders set their silvery castle-mountains down on the California shore?
Quiller shrugged, started to speak, seemed to think better of it—then finally burst out with, “Allison, you know that . . . cross near the edge of the crater?”
She nodded.
“It was old, the stuff carved on it was badly weathered, but I could see . . . It had your name on it and . . . and today’s date.”
Just the one cross, and just the one name. For a long while they were both silent.
9
It was April. The three travelers moved through the forest under a clear, clean sky. The wind made the eucs and vines sway above them, sending down misty sprays of water. But at the level of the mud road, the air was warm and still.
Wili slogged along, reveling in the strength he felt returning to his limbs. He been fine these last few weeks. In the past, he always felt good for a couple months after being really sick, but this last winter had been so bad he’d wondered if he would get better. They had left Santa Ynez three hours earlier, right after the morning rain stopped. Yet he was barely tired and cheerfully refused the others’ suggestions that he get back into the cart.
Every so often the road climbed above the surrounding trees and they could see a ways. There was still snow in the mountains to the east. In the west there was no snow, only the rolling rain forests, Lake Lompoc spread sky-blue at the base of the Dome—and the whole landscape appearing again in that vast, towering mirror.
It was strange to leave the home in the mountains. If Paul were not with them, it would have been more unpleasant than Wili could admit.
Wili had known for a week that Naismith intended to take him to the coast, and then travel south to La Jolla—and a possible cure. It was knowledge that made him more anxious than ever to get back in shape. But it wasn’t until Jeremy Kaladze met them at Santa Ynez that Wili realized how unusual this first part of the journey might be. Wili eyed the other boy surreptitiously. As usual, Jeremy was talking about everything in sight, now running ahead of them to point out a peculiar rockfall or side path, now falling behind Naismith’s cart to study something he had almost missed. After nearly a day’s acquaintance, Wili still couldn’t decide how old the boy was. Only very small children in the Ndelante Ali displayed his brand of open enthusiasm. On the other hand, Jeremy was nearly two meters tall and played a good game of chess.
“Yes sir, Dr. Naismith,” said Jeremy—he was the only person Wili had ever heard call Paul a doctor—“Colonel Kaladze came down along this road. It was a night drop, and they lost a third of the Red Arrow Battalion, but I guess the Russian government thought it must be important. If we went a kilometer down those ravines, we’d see the biggest pile of armored vehicles you can imagine. Their parachutes didn’t open right.” Wili looked in the direction indicated, saw nothing but green undergrowth and the suggestion of a trail. In LA the oldsters were always taking about the glorious past, but somehow it was strange that in the middle of this utter peace a war was buried, and that this boy talked about ancient history as if it were a living yesterday. His grandfather, Lt. Col. Nikolai Sergeivich Kaladze, had commanded one of the Russian air drops, made before it became clear that the Peace Authority (then a nameless organization of bureaucrats and scientists) had made warfare obsolete.
Red Arrow’s mission was to discover the secret of the mysterious force-field weapon the Americans had apparently invented. Of course, they discovered the Americans were just as mystified as everyone else by the strange silvery bubbles, baubles—bobbles?—that were springing up so mysteriously, sometimes preventing bombs from exploding, more often removing critical installations.
In that chaos, when everyone was losing a war that no one had started, the Russian airborne forces and what was left of the American army fought their own war with weapon systems that now had no depot maintenance. The conflict continued for several months, declining in violence until both sides were slugging it out with small arms. Then the Authority had miraculously appeared, announcing itself as the guardian of peace and the maker of the bobbles.
The remnant of the Russian forces retreated into the mountains, hiding
as the nation they invaded began to recover. Then the war viruses came, released (the Peace Authority claimed) by the Americans in a last attempt to retain national autonomy. The Russian guerrillas sat on the fringes of the world and watched for some chance to move. None came. Billions died and fertility dropped to near zero in the years following the War. The species called Homo sapiens came very close to extinction. The Russians in the hills became old men, leading ragged tribes.
But Colonel Kaladze had been captured early (through no fault of his own), before the viruses, when the hospitals still functioned. There had been a nurse, and eventually a marriage. Fifty years later, the Kaladze farm covered hundreds of hectares along the south edge of the Vandenberg Dome. That land was one of the few places north of Central America where bananas and cacao could be farmed. Like so much of what had happened to Colonel Kaladze in the last half century, it would have been impossible without the bobbles, in particular the Vandenberg one: The doubled sunlight was as intense as could be found at any latitude, and the high obstacle the Dome created in the atmosphere caused more than 250 centimeters of rain a year in a land that was otherwise quite dry. Nikolai Sergeivich Kaladze had ended up a regular Kentucky colonel—even if he was originally from Georgia.
Most of this Wili learned in the first ninety minutes of Jeremy’s unceasing chatter.
In late afternoon they stopped to eat. Belying his gentle exterior, Jeremy was a hunting enthusiast, though apparently not a very expert one. The boy needed several shots to bring down just one bird. Wili would have preferred the food they had brought along, but it seemed only polite to try what Jeremy shot. Six months before, politeness would have been the last consideration to enter his mind.