Analog Science Fiction and Fact - 2014-01

by Penny Publications

  The boy took the note and stroked it.

  Completely clueless about what he'd just seen, Roger, seeking understanding, continued wandering through the park. He stopped at a stone table and benches where two elderly Madhya Lokans were sitting playing a chess-like game on a board inlaid on the table. It looked like a cross between chess and bridge: cards and pieces played on a nine by nine board.

  Roger mingled in with the half-dozen or so people standing and watching the game. Roger pretended that he understood the rules.

  Both the players and most of the spectators had little powered fans which they used to blow flies away from their exposed arms and faces.

  On the table, Roger saw a few bank notes like those he'd seen the boy receive. Apparently there was wagering on the game. Up close now, Roger saw images of mice on the notes.

  "I am thinking please," said one player to the other, "that you will not be winning this game."

  "I am thinking," said the second player, "that you might be in error." He took a note from his pocket, flourished it and laid it atop the other notes on the table.

  "A five mouse note?" said the first player with a pleasant laugh. "Is that the length of your conviction?"

  "It is all I can afford," said the other, with a smile that seemed forced. "The economy is going to the cats."

  "I cannot be disagreeing," said the first player. He placed his own five mouse note onto the table.

  In spite of his total lack of understanding of the game, Roger found the betting on it engrossing.

  Absently, he swatted a fly that had landed on his face.

  At the sound of the slap, the players and onlookers turned to look at him. And their faces contorted to visages of horror, a look as if they were little children and had just seen him kick a puppy. All went silent.

  "I... uh... I'm sorry," Roger burbled, not knowing about what he was sorry. The sound of the slap, maybe. Breaking their concentration? No. Couldn't be. Everyone was talking.

  Still, everyone stared at him in silence.

  "Um... I think I'll go now." Roger gave an exaggerated smile. "Have a nice day." He turned and hurried away from the table.

  After he'd retreated to what he hoped was a safe distance, Roger looked nervously back—and saw a Lokan following him.

  Roger froze for an instant, considering if flight or fight was the better response.

  The Lokan looked friendly enough, though. And he gave a cheerful wave.

  Roger hesitated, then returned the wave and waited.

  "Please to excuse me, honorable sir," said the Lokan when he'd drawn close. "But it is clear you are a stranger here. I fear we have inadvertently done you emotional violence. And I suspect you might not have yet found illumination."

  Roger couldn't help smiling. "No. I'm afraid I'm still in the dark."

  "Ah. Then kindly please to allow me to be helping you with your enlightenment."

  "Are you a religious leader?" said Roger.

  "No. I am a veterinary economist."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Formerly known as an investment mouser," said the Lokan. "But investment mouser is a term held in some disrepute of late."

  Roger gave a soft laugh. "So I've been told."

  "Enlightenment, yes?" said the man. "My name is Gupta."

  "And I am Roger. Enlightenment, yes!"

  "Good. Excellent!" Gupta indicated another stone table and benches.

  "Ah, where to start," said Gupta as he sat at a bench. "You have heard of the principle of nonviolence? Our guiding precept."

  Roger nodded. Ahimsa.

  "It states we must not do violence to any living creature."

  Roger gazed at a bug slowly making its way across the table. "Even insects?"

  "Even insects."

  "I see." Roger looked up. "Tell me about the mice."

  Gupta laughed. "The mice are more about economics than religion." He shrugged. "But perhaps the two subjects are, in essence, the same thing. Very well, then—the mice." He nodded. "The mouse is the basis of our monetary system."

  "Excuse me?" Roger furrowed his brow. "Mice?"

  "Within the society on Earth from which we sprung, a person's wealth was measured by the number of cattle he owned—here it is the number of mice."

  "Theoretical mice," said Roger. "Virtual mice, I mean."

  "No. They're real enough. After all, we are on the mouse standard." Gupta's face clouded. "I'm afraid it creates all sorts of problems, though."

  "You could go off the, um, mouse standard."

  "Logical," said Gupta, "but politically difficult. Here in Girikanauraksanasthana, logical politics is, I'm afraid, something of an oxymoron."

  Roger nodded.

  "Some years ago," Gupta went on, "a mouse disease had stabilized the mouse population, meaning a no-growth economy. And just then, to make matters worse, we had a mysterious infestation of cats."

  Roger recalled the beautiful native strays. "That doesn't sound so bad."

  "Cats are killing our economy." Gupta became animated. "Cats decimated the mouse population and therefore also the economy. We are in a depression." He shook his head vigorously. "They say mice is the root of all evil. But they are wrong. It is cats!"

  Gupta looked to the heavens. "We tried quantitative easing—putting more mice into circulation, but our mice breed very slowly. It was a trifling amount—mere pocket mice."

  "Couldn't you, um, cull the cats?" said Roger, trying to mollify the man.

  "No! We can not be killing animals. Ahimsa means do no harm."

  "Madhya Lokans are vegetarians, then?" said Roger, probing for a contradiction.

  "Of course."

  "But... but isn't it doing harm... to the mice, letting cats eat them?"

  Again, Gupta shook his head. "But forbidding mouse-eating would do harm to the cats. Our doctrine says no animal should be interfered with. One should let the cat catch the mouse." He looked away in the distance. "We tried cat containment facilities, but they didn't work. We tried feeding cats vegetarian food to wean them off mice but they wouldn't eat it."

  "Too bad," said Roger.

  "So we could not be having cat dormitories because we would need to be providing food, mice, for the cats and that would mean directly doing harm to the mice."

  "So you have a mega cat problem," said Roger, thoughtfully, beginning to get an idea.

  "No. Not quite that bad. Only about eight hundred kilocats."

  "Couldn't you introduce a natural predator with a taste for cats?"

  "Probably not," said Gupta. "That would mean facilitating violence. A morally questionable concept about which there is considerable debate."

  Roger's idea began to firm.

  "It used to be so simple," said Gupta. "Money makes money. Mice make mice. And bank interest was just the natural breeding of mice."

  "And mice make money," said Roger, lightly.

  "Sometimes the reverse," said Gupta, apparently not detecting Roger's playful tone. "There was a case of a man's mice eating his bank notes, leaving him impoverished."

  Roger tried not to laugh. "Hadn't he heard of banks?"

  "Here, banks hold mice, not paper."

  "Of course," said Roger, becoming giddy with his new idea. He thanked Gupta for the enlightenment, for raising his non-violence consciousness, and then politely took his leave.

  Roger, hastening back to Raj's house, saw a truck rolling down the street blowing strong gusts over the pavement and sidewalks. And now, after his enlightenment, the sight of such insect clearing did not seem at all unnatural. He smiled, hoping that when he rejoined Duncan, he would not exhibit a 'more nonviolent than thou' expression.

  Roger realized now that as to Raj's mouse infestation, it wasn't a case of slovenliness. Raj was merely flaunting his wealth. And the food was most probably completely mouse free. And not having eaten the food, Roger felt starved. Eager he was now to return to Raj's for lunch.

  Upon his return, Roger discovered that Bouchard and Raj seeme
d to have become very chummy. And both of them continued to be excruciatingly polite.

  "Ah," said Raj, "just in time for a light lunch. I do hope you are feeling better."

  "Yes, my friend," said Bouchard. "I do hope you are in the mood for some good Girikanauraksanasthanan food."

  "Yes," said Roger with a smile. "I would love to try the food."

  "Excellent," said Raj. "Jacques and I were just about to bring it in. Please make yourself comfortable."

  Jacques? This does not augur well for us Angloterrans. "Thank you." Roger sat within whispering distance of Duncan.

  Raj and Bouchard left for the kitchen, giving Roger and Duncan a few moments where they could talk.

  "I can't even come up with an exchange rate," Duncan whispered. "I mean, like the local cost of a GalaxyBurger."

  "The Lokans are vegetarians."

  "All right, a GalaxyVeggieBurger then." Duncan seemed beaten, grasping at straws. "We'd probably be better with a direct barter arrangement," he spoke almost at a babble. "A kilo of gold, or gold-framed prophets for, I don't know, something. We must make something they want."

  "I have an idea," Roger whispered.

  Duncan seemed possessed. "That damned Bouchard," he went on. "He's so oily, you could stick a wick in his head, light it, and have light and warmth for a week."

  "I have an idea," Roger repeated.

  A look of rationality returned to Duncan's eyes. "We don't need an idea, we need a miracle."

  "Well, listen." Roger had just started to reveal his idea, when he heard Raj and Bouchard's returning footsteps. "Whatever you do," Roger managed, "Don't swat flies."

  "What?"

  "Trust me!"

  Duncan threw a glance at the ceiling. "Trust me, he says."

  Just then, Raj came in carrying a tray of cheese. Behind him came Bouchard with a tray of wine bottles and glasses.

  "Very French, is it not?" said Bouchard with a confident smile as he placed his tray on the table.

  Raj poured the wine while apologizing for the Girikanauraksanasthanan wine being not very good.

  Bouchard took a sip. "It is good, actually. But, admittedly, not superb."

  Raj nodded.

  Roger wondered at Bouchard's undiplomatic language.

  "But as I have proposed," said Bouchard, clearly for Roger's benefit, "in exchange for those lovely little metal framed pictures, we can offer wine, the best in the world, if not the known galaxy. And we will also set up here, the best of vineyards so that your planet can become an exporter of the finest, formerly exclusively French, wines."

  From Duncan's expression, Roger understood that the man couldn't compete against the French offer. But still he tried.

  "We Angloterrans produce excellent wine as well," said Duncan in a voice lacking conviction, "from an area called California."

  "That is interesting," said Raj in a voice suggesting that actually it wasn't.

  Bouchard, not even looking at Duncan, gave a soft laugh and talked on. "And further," he said, flourishing his wine glass, "we will supply bats to save the grape vines from insects—and incidentally, will help control your flying insect problem."

  Intently, Roger studied Raj's expression. Raj seemed to show some qualms at the mention of the insect-eating bats, but otherwise seemed receptive.

  Roger gathered his courage. "I have a possible offer," he said, well knowing he was treading on Duncan's authority. "But it is a bit complex."

  "Please to keep it simple," said Raj, showing a touch of impatience. "A trade deal is merely imports and exports."

  "Well then," said Roger, imagining Duncan's gaze boring into the back of his head. "I suggest we Angloterrans will import your gold. And we will export a negative quantity of cats. The cats will be relocated to no-kill adoption shelters on Earth."

  Raj chuckled. "You are saying that in return for our export of gold, we will import a negative quantity of cats."

  "Exactly," said Roger. "Eight hundred thousand cats."

  "Is that your idea?" whispered Duncan, scornfully.

  "You have done your homework." Raj seemed impressed but nonetheless said he was still leaning toward Bouchard's offer.

  "I see." Roger bit his lip and then jumped up. He pointed out through the screen door. "What's that?" he exclaimed, theatrically.

  "What's what?" said Duncan.

  Roger ran to the door and threw open wide the screen. "Stop that at once," he shouted.

  "What's going on?" Duncan called out.

  "Please to close the door," said Raj. "You are inviting in the flies."

  Without complying, Roger spun around, affecting an expression of extreme disgust and pain.

  "Are you all right?" said Raj, seemingly very concerned.

  Roger nodded.

  Raj's expression hardened. "But now you have let in the f lies," he said, some of the patina of courtesy scraped from his voice.

  "I am sorry," said Roger, moving slowly, very slowly to close the screen. "I saw a boy abusing a cat," Roger lied. "But he ran away."

  Raj looked horrified and Roger tried hard to emulate that look.

  Duncan, on the other hand, just looked shocked. He then apologized for the clumsiness of his associate.

  Raj ignored him. "Yes, cats are bad," said Raj, looking sympathetically at Roger. "But they must not be abused."

  Roger and Raj exchanged a glance—a look of shared understanding. Then Roger returned his seat next to Duncan.

  Duncan stared daggers at him but Roger just returned an innocent smile.

  Flies had indeed invaded the room, and one landed on Duncan's face. He made a move to swat at it, but Roger subtly held down his arm. "Don't!" he whispered.

  Bouchard though, did swat a bug. At the sound of the slap, Raj recoiled, as if it were he who had been swatted.

  Roger recoiled as well—a calculated recoil.

  Bouchard, looking confused and as if he felt control of the situation slipping from him said, "Perhaps Raj, my friend, this would be a good time to conclude a contract."

  Raj bit his lip. "I'm afraid, my friend," he said, "that I've reconsidered. I will accept the Angloterran offer."

  "What?" Bouchard seemed stunned.

  So did Duncan. "What... what just happened?" he managed, under his breath.

  "Later," said Roger.

  Raj turned to Roger. "Could you take a consignment of cats back with you when you leave? As a sign of good faith."

  "Of course," said Roger, not consulting with Duncan as protocol required. But Duncan seemed too befuddled to notice. "A couple of hundred, anyway," said Roger. "Let's say three hundred. We'll send ships regularly for the rest."

  "Quite acceptable."

  Bouchard now seemed to be merely a piece of furniture—as did Duncan.

  Roger and Raj arranged some details and then Raj said, "Can you come back for dinner? There we can work out the exact cat-gold exchange rate, and by then, I will have arranged for your initial three hundred cats. May your trip with them be pleasant."

  "Thank you." Roger smiled with the realization that Duncan would not be looking forward to the trip at all.

  "Kindly turn off your translator," said Raj.

  Roger, his nose wrinkled in puzzlement, switched it off.

  "Until this evening," said Raj in flawless Angloterran. "Goodbye. Shubhāste panthā-nah santu as we say in Sanskrit. May your roads be auspicious."

  "You speak Angloterran?" said Roger.

  Raj looked Duncan in the eye. "Of course."

  Roger chuckled, realizing that Raj had overheard Duncan's attempt to conceal the true value of gold. "May your roads be auspicious as well."

  Outside the door, Roger turned to Duncan. "Score one for cultural liaison, yes?"

  Dumbly, Duncan nodded and Roger took that as a small victory.

  "It's going to be a long trip home with all that biological mass," said Duncan, morosely. "A long trip back with cats."

  "And our agency ship," said Roger, unable to resist rubbing it in
, "will probably be the biggest litter box in the galaxy."

  Duncan winced.

  Roger suppressed a smile. I almost feel sorry for him... almost. Meow.

  Genius is more often found in a cracked pot than in a whole one.

  —E. B. White

  * * *

  Wine, Women, and Stars

  Thoraiya Dyer | 5482 words

  Felicia made her opening incision the way that Maureen fired a rifle.

  Exhale slowly. Press gently. Do not blink.

  The skin parted with the same suddenness as recoil, though there was no gunshot to make her jump. Subcutaneous fat filled the wound for an instant before being itself bisected. There, now clearly visible under bright lights, was the glistening muscle layer, striped white by the linea alba that connected the two halves of Bridget's abdomen.

  Bridget. Maureen's daughter. Anaesthetized on the table.

  Please, Dr.de Martino, the rostered surgeon had begged Felicia. Dr. Pelle was on exchange from Naples, transferred overseas in a pinch to fill a gap at White Oak left by a raft of retirees who refused to use the new bots.

  Pelle seemed to know Felicia by reputation. Not everybody did. The megalohospice boasted three hundred operating theatres, three thousand doctors, and thirty thousand patients. His eyebrows had shot upward when he'd spotted her by the water cooler, and he'd stared with wild speculation at her name tag for a full minute before speaking. He didn't know about her and Bridget.

  Please, Dr. de Martino. My wife's waters just broke. Director says I'm to stay and do the surgery, but if I don't go get on a plane right now, I'll miss the birth.

  I don't think I can, Dr. Pelle, she'd said, sipping her water. It's not just disobeying the Director. We could both be disciplined for an unrecorded substitution if they found out that I used your login. The thing is, I'm not up to date on the operation of next-gen macrobots. I don't even have my own login for theatre.

  Over six grueling years of training for space, she'd lost her instinctive feel for operating surgical robots. The Agency had decided that over the twelve year Mars Settlement Mission's duration, it would be cheaper and lighter to use a pair of human hands than the heavy, bulky, immobile machines which required an operator, anyway.