by John Brunner
If only he were not so obsessed by the mystery of Saxena’s death, as she herself was… if only he had been able to jar her out of it with a convincing explanation…
She must stop this, and at once! There was business to transact, and the four other members of the committee had fallen silent, as though expecting to be called to order.
They were in her office in the highest tower over-looking the Bridge City. From the windows it could be seen spread out to the skyline and beyond: the place where forty worlds met face-to-face as this committee was doing. It was the ambition of everyone on Earth, just about, to take a vacation here. It was the grand and public testimonial of the mother planet’s achievement in establishing the web of interstellar linkages. That kilometre-square block was a replica of Platt’s World; in basement bars you could eat crisp sticks of peppertree and wash away the tingling after-taste with minty cordials, while skirling pipe-music like a gale in treetops made your head ring. Over there was a compound imitating Shi-alongtwi, where to the accompaniment of solemn gongs the people paraded with enormous coloured flags whose symbolism recounted the history of their ancestors’ struggles to tame and civilise an alien world. Down by the seashore were the wide-spaced houses typical of Glory, where tonight as usual they would dance on the grass and toss prickaburrs at one another’s clothing, and those who did not want to be caught and partnered would remember that the burrs would not stick on skin. Glory was sometimes fun. Maybe she ought to invite Thorkild to go there with her one night. It could breach the wall that seemed to have built itself between them. And it was bad for this to happen when people were obliged to work so closely together.
Why had he not returned her call?
Effortfully she tore away her gaze from the window. There was no need for her to look at reality to see the city; a computer-generated three-dimensional model of it was projected within the transparent depths of the table around which the committee was seated. It also incorporated their agenda, by projecting little coloured stars varying from red to pale blue according to estimated order of importance on the areas relating to matters they intended to consider. Today was unusual; there were two stars floating in mid-air, indicative of the aspirant worlds not yet represented in the Bridge City.
So… first things first. She said to Metchel, of the Ways and Means Department, “Are we going to have to make any major re-allotment of ground-space?”
“Not for quite a while,” Metchel answered, showing over-large front teeth in a rabbity smile. “We can trim the Kayowa section as soon as the cur-rent emigration programme is fulfilled; that’s in three or four months. That should suffice for Ipewell, which I gather is extremely backward, unless there’s a sudden renewed fad for the primitive, and the computer analyses show no sign of one.”
Once again: evidence that human beings were coming to fit the measure of their machines. Alida sighed and made a note by subvocalising to her personal computer.
“What about Azrael, though?”
“Well, we shan’t know until we get Chen’s report, shall we?”
Bella Soong of the Adaptive Ecology Department leaned forward.
“Chen? Jacob Chen? Is he on Azrael? They must have run into trouble if they sent for him!”
It was on the tip of Alida’s tongue to ask why she hadn’t heard the news already. Then she recalled that it had been so long since any new colonised worlds were discovered that Bella had been on preretirement sabbatical. Only the unprecedented encounter with two aspirant worlds at once had led to her being recalled because her deputy was still incompletely qualified.
She said, “The captain of the scoutship asked for him. Her regular pantologist had handled the Bridge programme okay, but when it came to the cultural analysis he couldn’t cope.”
“In that case I think we should proceed with at least the preliminary arrangements for an Azrael section in Bridge City,” Bella said. “Knowing Jacob as I do, I assume we’ll have his results before we’re ready to digest them if we don’t make some sort of preparations.”
Alida gazed down into the table, thinking of the clash of cultures, the different dialects, the weird mores—the religions, even, archaic though that notion was—which the existence of the Bridge System had wished on fat, lazy, complacent Earth. Now and then within Bridge City there were even fights, invariably due to misunderstanding, invariably apologised for… but sometimes there were injuries, and there had even been a death or two since she took office, and of those she was peculiarly ashamed.
She slapped the table-top, open-palmed.
“No, we dare not raise people’s expectations ahead of time. I grant that Jacob Chen’s a genius, but if they had to send for him that implies they found something exceptionally difficult. Ipewell looks like a good plain case, so we can carry on with that one. Later on I’ll have a word with Moses van Heemskirk and report back. Now what else… ?” She scanned the model; the reddest star remaining was over the Riger’s World zone, and it was coded for Laverne, the psychologist in charge of mores adjustment, a too-clever man with an insincere smile which he wore even in bed.
Why was she becoming so cynical? Alida shivered. The machines disagreed with her, and certainly since being appointed he had run his department as efficiently as could be wished. She repressed her momentary distaste.
“Laverne! You have a headache, apparently?”
The metaphor provoked his smile, as usual. “Yes, a preacher from Riger’s, name of Rungley. You know about him?”
“The snake-handler? Of course.”
“They let him loose this morning on Thorkild’s instructions. Koriot Angoss assured him this would be okay. But whereas on Riger’s he’s merely a member of a fanatical minority sect, he’s a novelty here, and a nuisance.”
“How?”
“Angoss’s idea was that he should be given some deadly snakes, wind up in hospital, and go home in embarrassment. Only the results of his quarantine examination showed that he has the enzyme S-herpetinase. A black mamba could spit in his eye and he’d just wipe away the tears.”
Alida tensed. “You mean he’s immune?”
“As a log of wood. The enzyme has been selected for among his ancestors, on a chance basis for who-knows-how-many generations, and since emigration to Riger’s, deliberately. He has it from both sides of his family.”
“What do you foresee?”
“I’ll pipe you the full computation. But in essence what I’m afraid of is that bored young daredevils will attempt to imitate his feats, and people who don’t have the enzyme will require a lot of intensive chemotherapy. We might even lose a life or two, and I don’t have to spell out what will happen in that case, do I?”
Indeed not! But while Alida was still trying to find something more constructive to put into words than her annoyance with Thorkild, who should have delayed his decision until the quarantine report was through, the solido projector on the far side of the office uttered its shrill priority signal. They all turned, to see Responsible van Heemskirk’s image appear. He wore an illtempered expression, and patches of sweat were darkening his robe.
An extraordinary sense of unreasoning excitement gripped Alida. Never before had she seen this suave politician in such a state of agitation. And his voice corresponded.
“Have you been discussing Azrael?” he barked.
“Yes, of course!” she answered. “Not in detail, but-”
“You wasted your time. There weren’t any details to speak of until now. You know we sent Jacob Chen there to sort out the social analysis? Well, he got caught up in some local ritual.
“And they killed him.”
All their eyes fastened in horror on van Heem-skirk’s round face, gleaming with perspiration.
“And what’s more!” he pursued. “We’ve had to put Jorgen Thorkild under sedation. He’s had a break-down and insulted the representative from Ipewell, and the System feels as though it’s grinding to a halt.”
There was a dead pause. At length Alida rose.
<
br /> “I guess I’d better abort this meeting and come see you,” she said.
“Yes, it’s nothing one should discuss remotely. And bring Laverne with you. Any planet with mores that result in the murder of a top pantologist is going to require exceptional adjustment!”
A tall woman wearing scarlet uniform was physically present in van Heemskirk’s office, her face as still and noble as an ebony carving; she was introduced as Captain Lucy Inkoos, newly returned by Bridge from Azrael. Also present, but only in image-actually he was half around the world, in the Gobi Gardens—was Minister Shrigg. It was his task to liaise between the governors and the governed, to act as a spokesman before the public when there was any risk of the latter doubting the competence of the administrative èlite. As Alida and Laverne arrived, he was saying loudly, “There will have to be an inquiry, of course!”
His tone was that of someone to whom official inquiries were the main business of life. And that was so. Earth, a single planet, had for half a millennium been too populous to be ruled in any traditional sense. It had to be run, like a machine of immense complexity, by dedicated experts. As for trying to govern forty planets—! No, the most that could be hoped for was that they would regard it as in their own best interests to co-operate in the scheme devised a century ago on Earth.
Passive but suspicious, the mass of humanity had to be constantly placated. Sometimes that meant resorting to the ancient practice of naming a scapegoat; sometimes it was enough to apologise for an error and accept that a lesson would be learned from it. But the death of a pantologist whose fame for decades had been interstellar…
Alida would not have cared to be in Shrigg’s position. (Position? But they were present, and he was not… The constant paradox recurred! How could you deal with a real problem if you yourself were absent? Even given their chance to visit facsimiles of the colony worlds at Bridge City, even granted that simply by applying for a number on the permanent open list they could visit whichever other planet they chose, did not in fact the citizens of Earth think of the rest of the galaxy as inferior to the solido images in their own homes?)
Well, maybe the shocking death of Jacob Chen…
She caught herself. Saxena’s suicide should have taught her better than to try and make death into a positive event.
But Captain Inkoos was replying to Shrigg.
“The inquiry will tell you nothing that I can’t Chen decided to take part in a deadly ritual. Local custom permits them. Afterwards the victims are avenged. We were invited to attend the execution.”
Shrigg promptly put the kind of questions that the public might be expected to frame.
“Was he intending to be killed?”
“I imagine he was gambling on getting away with It”
“Hmm! A risky act, wouldn’t you say? What about your staff pantologist? Every scoutship has one, right?”
“He failed to complete a social match-programme, which would have enabled us to create a compatible interface Earth-to-Azrael. On the grounds that he wished to improve his cross-cultural competence he applied for and was granted sabbatical leave, to be spent travelling on all the inhabited planets. When I filed a request for a replacement, I did not specify Chen by name, and I was amazed when he arrived.”
“Was it you who approved this arrangement, Moses?” Shrigg demanded.
“Chen was in need of a challenge,” van Heemskirk replied. “It was his decision, not mine. I merely drew the problem to his attention. You know what pantologists are like. I was naturally glad when he consented.”
Shrigg gnawed his lower lip thoughtfully for a while. So far everything appeared to have been done in strict accordance with protocol. He said at length, “But we have representatives from Azrael right here on Earth, don’t we? Negotiating the regular Bridge System contract?”
“Of course!” van Heemskirk said promptly.
“And we dare not enter into such a contract without a total comprehension of their way of life. I put it to you that the first priority is to create our interface. But which if any of our surviving pantologists would accept the assignment? Laverne?”
The psychologist appeared to have anticipated the inquiry. With all the confidence he could draw from his computers by subvocal communication, he said, “Ask Hans Demetrios. He’s very young, but he’s shown exceptional promise. Currently he’s at Ipewell, and I’m informed that he grew so bored after the preliminary contact stages that he wrote a programme for the Ipewell Bridge just to keep himself amused. It checked out flawlessly. What do you think?”
“Well, I guess it makes good sense not to risk another of our advanced pantologists,” Shrigg said, and in his ironical acceptance could be heard all the cynicism of the billions whom he represented, who had to take their experience of interstellar travel at second hand not because their government had decreed it but because there wasn’t time to let everybody visit every human world, or even spend a vacation at Bridge City.
Relieved that the argument had not been more protracted, Alida was able to pick up the point which interested her most.
“Did you say Jorgen had a breakdown? When? And why?”
“It appeared as though,” said van Heemskirk deliberately, “it was triggered off by the delegate from Azrael, Lancaster Long.”
VI
“Where are you going, Hans?”
As soon as he had time, Hans Demetrios looked up. The sliding panel which closed the doorway of his cabin had crept ajar, and there was only one member of the ship’s crew to whom he had accorded authority to intrude on his privacy: Fay Logan. Her face appeared in the opening, lips parted and shiny-moist, eyes narrowed but very bright.
“Come in!” he invited, and added: “Back to Earth. They sent for me.”
“Earth!” She was taken aback. Her eyes darted over the disarray as she entered the room; the cabinets were emptying themselves according to programme, clothing this way, tools that, microbooks into tidy cartons. Even the ship’s library, designed to cope with the needs of over a hundred crewfolk, could not satisfy the information-hunger of a pantologist, so Hans travelled with his own. It was cheaper than Ireactivating a Bridge whenever he grew bored.
But she knew all about his capacity for boredom.
She closed the panel and leaned against it.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving I pewell!”
“It only just happened. I’m sorry.”
Staring at him as he folded his favourite microbook reader and tucked it into the appropriate package, Fay-thought: yes, he is sorry. He means it. But that doesn’t mean he’s sorry for not telling me-rather, he’s sorry it didn’t occur to him to tell me. He never gives enough weight to the possibility that other people’s lives might be as important as his own.
“How long ago?” she challenged.
“Oh—not more than an hour, I guess.”
“And you’re set to leave already. It must be very urgent!” She could not prevent her tone from sounding sarcastic.
“Well, kind of urgent, I guess. But after all I am finished on Ipewell. The culture-interface is ready; the Bridge programme is ready; what else is there? It was all rather easy because the population is small and homogeneous.”
Small? There are scores of millions of people here! Even if the people aren’t counted by the billions, as Earth’s are, surely—
But a pantologist’s universe could not be the same as hers—or she would be one!
For the first time it crossed her mind how terrible it might be to inhabit a cosmos where people were as anonymous, interchangeable, and ultimately dull as the computers must find them when wrapping and packaging them for interstellar transit. Hans had been tender to her, affectionate, physically attentive; there had remained a barrier on the mental level which in this moment she knew she was destined never to breach.
She said dully, “I see. So what are you going to do next?”
“They killed Jacob Chen on Azrael when he was trying to get to grips with the dynamic of th
e local culture. They’re sending me to finish his work. It’s a great honour.” He finished storing the microbooks and began double-checking what the machinery had done with his recording crystals.
Fay closed her eyes for a moment. On the interior of her eyelids she seemed to see herself reflected as others would see her: indisputably lovely, with flawlessly tanned skin, an excellently proportioned figure, violet eyes that contrasted admirably with her curly fair hair… Hans had said what other men had said, in his own detached weighing-the-evidence fashion which somehow made the statement that much more sincere and precious. He had said, “You are beautiful, you know.” And so, she had thought, was he!
But now when she looked at him again she realised he was according her no attention beyond the minimum that anyone deserved.
She tried one last time to engage his full attention. Touching his arm, she said, “Hans—look at me!”
Before he smiled his answer, though, he had to prepare himself as she had often seen him do before when arguing with the computers: it is necessary for me to be distracted, and therefore I will do it, but out of duty, not from choice…
It had been in her mind to kiss him, cheeks and eyelids first, then fiercely on the mouth with the intention of reawakening what they had shared. She abandoned the idea, and contented herself with a mere peck.
He… tasted wrong.
“That,” she improvised, “was sort of to say good-bye.”
“Maybe it won’t be goodbye.” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Don’t assume they’re going to kill me, too!”
The implied reproach recalled her to the real world. Like everyone else she knew, she was aware of Chen’s status as a pantologist He had been a pupil of the very first, a link with the original conception of the idea which had been elevated into an article of faith, the belief that there would always be humans who could out-argue their machines.