He looked up to see that his granduncle had discarded the grief, real or imagined. Grandy pressed a cigarette into the cylinder, inhaled deeply, and exhaled with equal vigor. He twirled the holder and shaped the smoke at a distance into a cube that hung motionless in mid-air.
“Isn’t that bad?” asked Jason. “I thought the smoking habit had died out long ago.”
“Bad habit?” Grandy challenged. “Sure. We’ve got lots of them. They’re good for you.” He twiddled the holder, and the smoke cube broke up and reformed into the familiar torus. He inhaled again and shaped the resulting smoke into a form that left no doubt as to what sex it represented. The smoke ring was still there, like a halo, except it was over the girl’s head. The girl and the halo floated to the ceiling as Grandy manipulated the holder.
“We’ve made improvements,” said Grandy. “It used to be that no one could waste more than ten minutes with a cigarette. Now I can kill a whole afternoon.” The smoke girl wriggled.
Jason turned away. “About the picnic—.”
Grandy snuffed out the cigarette and put the holder away. The girl floated to the ventilator and dissolved. “We’ve got it all planned. Naturally you’ll come to Kransi; you’ve never been there, and you’ll want to see how green it is. We’ll spend most of the time on the main continent because most of the family’s there. After that, we’ll go to the smaller continents and islands—”
“I’m afraid not,” interrupted Jason. “I’m on Restap for business reasons. If you want a picnic, you’ll have it here or not at all.” His business was unimportant; normally it would have been handled in a routine manner by his organization. But Restap was a convenient stopping place, and he was curious about Kransi, though not enough to go out of his way.
“Restap on business?” said Grandy. His face was completely hairless, but the line where eyebrows would normally have grown arched high on his scalp. “Why Restap? Is Earth in trouble?”
“Of course not,” said Jason. “What does that have to do with it?”
“You’ll see,” said Grandy mysteriously. His face was a study of contemplative introspection, or what passed for it on his features, but he was not concerned with Jason’s worries. He turned his attention to more important matters. “But if we have the picnic here only a few can come.”
“That’s enough,” said Jason firmly.
“Your family will be disappointed,” said Grandy sadly.
Jason carefully refrained from asking just what constituted the family unit on Kransi. “I’ll charter a ship,” he said. “That should be big enough to bring those who really want to come.”
“A Restapan ship?” queried Grandy.
“Don’t you like them either?”
“On Restap I love them,” said Grandy. “Back on Kransi I’m not so sure.” He shrugged indifferently. “Still, we have to trade with someone.”
Jason gave up trying to understand the cryptic old man. “Charter a Kransian ship then,” he said. “Bring them here and take them back. Send the bill to me.”
Grandy looked thoughtful. “Can you afford it?” he asked. “Won’t it interfere with your duties?”
“It won’t interfere,” said Jason. “And I think I can afford it.” Grandy’s concept of wealth was quite primitive; it was best not to enlighten him.
“Then it’s an honor to accept,” said Grandy. His manner was grave, and although there were centuries of custom behind his leave-taking, it was quite brief.
After Grandy was gone, Jason leaned back. An honor, the old man had said, and meant it. What was an honor, and why? And what were the duties Grandy had alluded to? The answer probably lay buried in the culture. Unfortunately, Jason knew little about Kransi. His mother was Kransian, but she had died when he was five. In his mind there was a memory that was only an increment above pure emotion—his mother talking about her homeland. The sound of her voice was there, but the words he had forgotten and the content he could not recall.
Jason shifted his attention to the present. He was passing through Restap, that was all. It was not surprising that Grandy should learn of his presence; Kransi traded with Restap, too, and no one could miss his space ship, sleek and glittering, in the spaceport outside the city.
He didn’t want to get involved. He owed them nothing except resentment, although now less than before, and he was willing to discard it altogether. He knew clearly what he should do: accept their friendliness with reserve, attend, briefly, the customary picnic, and then, cut off contact with them as soon as possible. Still, they were more interesting than he had anticipated. Bloodthirsty and thoughtlessly vengeful, they were also illogically charming. Nothing mystical, he was sure of that, but he was all the more curious because he couldn’t characterize their attractiveness.
Jason shook his head puzzledly. The conflict between Kransi and Merhaven was not formal. It didn’t involve armies and organized war fleets. But as individuals, neither side needed a declaration; they simply fought at every opportunity. It didn’t make sense—but a lot of things didn’t. He had asked Grandy about it, but the old man had been unable to enlighten him. It had started in the remote past and, it would continue into the equally distant future. Nothing could be done. But there must be one answer, and Jason could investigate it without committing himself.
Jason placed a call, and after a long interval, Secretary Moffle, of Restap Intrade, appeared on the screen.
Secretary Motile was a smiling man and his teeth were splendid. He showed them all. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need a technician. Can you give him clearance to work on my ship?”
Before Moffle could answer, Grandy returned. He peered into the room and shouted, “Carlos has no place to stay.”
Jason looked up in irritation. “Never heard of Carlos,” he said. His ears were ringing.
Grandy shuffled into the room. His clothing didn’t quite fit, and he clutched his pants determinedly around his middle. “Your cousin. Do you have a place for cousin Carlos to stay?”
Jason started to shake his head and then thought the better of it. “Send Carlos over,” he said resignedly. “I’ll find a place.” Grandy disappeared.
When Jason turned back to the screen, Secretary Moffle was waiting, smile, teeth, and all. “What kind of a technician?” asked Moffle.
“A computer-man,” said Jason cautiously. “A good one.”
The secretary was crisp and businesslike, but not unnecessarily so. “That can be arranged. You’ll have to sign for it of course.”
“Be right over,” said Jason, and though the secretary protested such haste wasn’t required, he prepared to leave. There were many ways of getting information.
* * * *
Jason examined the machine. It was a computer—a psychocomputer, called an Electronic Advisor—although not the kind a Restapan would be familiar with. Still, the technician seemed to have done a good job of reconditioning after its long period of disuse. The test would be whether it would function or fail to work.
Jason set the dial, fed in the data, and the machine warmed up. Finally, it answered. “The data have been filed in the circuits,” said the Electronic Advisor.
“Good,” said Jason. “What’s your conclusion?”
“None possible. Not enough information,” said the machine. The dial had been set at FRIEND and the voice that emitted from the machine was therefore friendly. “I suggest you submit additional facts.”
Jason frowned. It was his first experience with an Electronic Advisor, though his father apparently had used it often. It wasn’t promising. If he only wanted a pleasant voice, he could find many humans who would suit his purpose as well. “But that’s all there is,” he said. “I’ve checked every reference to Kransi and Merhaven.”
The machine accepted it. “Have you gone to Restap Intrade?” continued the machine, colloquially. “Both planets contact Restap periodically, though they’re careful not to appear at the same time. I’m sure Intrade can add to your knowledge.�
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“They can. But they consider their information a commercial secret. They are not anxious to share what they know about either planet.”
“Then I can’t answer the question in a way you’ll accept. Still, according to my understanding of humans, it’s very logical.”
“Let’s hear it,” Jason said. “I’ve grown up on Earth and consider myself an Earthman. It won’t affect me personally.”
“Xenophobia,” said the Electronic Advisor. “Hatred of foreigners.”
It was a classical answer. Because the stranger was different and his potentialities were unknown, they feared him. And fear didn’t exist by itself for long—it brought hatred with it. When both appeared, conflict was not far behind.
Perhaps there were situations in which that was sufficient cause. It didn’t seem to apply to Kransi and Merhaven. Neither of them were aggressive in the imperialistic sense, and since they were separated by millions of miles, there was no real occasion for them to meet. If xenophobia were the cause of their war, there were many alien life forms much closer at hand for them to fight. They were relatively at peace with the non-humans, who occupied their various planets.
“Look again,” said Jason. “Try the economic level. Somewhere they’re at cross purposes, though they may not realize it. Or perhaps it’s historical. There may have been an original incident, forgotten by now.”
“I can shuffle facts far faster than you can, and I’ve put them together in all possible ways. As far as trade is concerned, neither Kransi nor Merhaven do much trading. What the principal items of commerce are, I don’t know.
“Historically speaking, the incidents have been all of one kind: violent. No one can say who started it. Both sides seem to be responsible.
“Get me facts and I can evaluate the situation.”
With all the facts a computer would not be necessary. He had expected from the Electronic Advisor a flash of understanding, and it wasn’t forthcoming.
The information he had was all he could get without difficulty. He could hire experts and send them to Kransi and Merhaven, but he could only depend on Earthmen. Any Earthman, whether a culturologist, economist, statistician, psychologist, or politologist, would be met at the spaceport, politely it was true, returned to the ship, and promptly sent back. Thus they received most visitors, and that was why so little was known.
“There is another source,” said the Electronic Advisor. “You can make it available if you will.”
“If I will,” repeated Jason, jarred out of his thoughts. “What’s that source?”
“You,” said the machine.
“I won’t get much,” said Jason. “I’ve told you who my parents were. Beyond that I can’t go.”
“I understand about Kransi. Your mother died when you were young. But your father lived until you were twenty; that was seven years ago. Surely he told you something about Merhaven.”
“I seldom saw him, and only for a few minutes at a time. He was a semi-invalid, and he had business interests to look after, but he took care of them from this ship. I know less about Merhaven than about Kransi.”
The Electronic Advisor was silent. “Now I begin to understand. You never had family contact. Your father was a business man, a phenomenally successful one. In twenty years he piled up a fortune larger than anyone has ever made in a similar period of time.
“Not an outstanding concentration of wealth of course, and it doesn’t begin to compare with certain financial dynasties that have been established for centuries. Nevertheless, because he was busy making money, he never had time to spare for you. I can see—”
“What you see in that direction doesn’t interest me,” said Jason. “My motives are my own concern. I don’t need a psych job of any kind. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” said the machine.
“Further,” said Jason, “you’re overlooking an even better source of information. Think about it.”
“I’ve thought,” said the machine in a fraction of a second. “Do I have permission to examine the record circuits?”
“You do,” said Jason, looking at the dial settings.
MISTRESS, SELF, FRIEND, LAWYER, PSYCHIATRIST, SPOUSE. “All of them, regardless of category.”
“Does it help to know that the psychocomputer he installed in his ship, yours now, is a standard model?” asked the Electronic Advisor. “The dial markings are conventional, and he left them that way, though he used only two. One of them was FRIEND.”
“What was the other?” asked Jason in spite of himself.
“SELF,” said the Advisor. “But he didn’t use it that way. He had it recircuited to GENERAL CONVERSATION.”
The machine was probing further than Jason cared to go. “Why was that?” he asked uneasily.
“He was a lonely man,” said the machine. Then it was silent, searching through the circuits that comprised its memory.
Jason waited while seconds became minutes. At last the Electronic Advisor reported. “The records are not available.” Was there a trace of surprise in that voice?
“Lost? Completely destroyed?” He hadn’t expected much, but it was unpleasant to learn that the records were gone and with them the remainder of the man who had been his father.
“I didn’t say that. They’re still there, but the circuits have been locked. On Earth there are technicians who can open them. Nowhere else, I’m afraid.”
It would take far too long to get to Earth. “How did it happen?” asked Jason.
Again the machine searched its memory. “The technician from Restap Intrade,” it said, “tinkered where he shouldn’t have. It may have been accidental.”
And then it may not have been accidental.
Jason smiled with gloomy confidence. His father had been an exceptional entrepreneur, and his son was not inferior. He could take care of himself in that area. And it gave him an idea. If he were so important to them, he might find ways to pry information directly from Intrade. He could try.
He left the ship, went back to the hotel, and soon fell asleep.
* * * *
In the morning, sunlight streamed through the window awakening him. He opened one eye. It wasn’t real sunlight, merely a good, electronic imitation that blanched the window. Anyway, it was morning. He yawned and stretched out his arms. At the extremity of his reach he touched something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the bed. He waggled his fingers. Flesh.
He opened the other eye and rolled over. An incredible pixie face reposed on the far corner. Jason grumbled to himself; if this was a Restapan custom, he didn’t like it. He got out of bed and roughly jerked the covers off the sleeping man. Quite as promptly, he put them back, because he found it was not a man.
The girl awakened instantly, without a transition period of drowsiness. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
“Sleeping,” she said. “But you didn’t sleep well. I can tell.” She looked at him sympathetically.
“I slept all right.” He caught himself speaking gently and changed back to gruffness. “How did you get in here? What’s your name?”
“If you want names, I’ve got lots of them,” she said. “But if you want to know who I am, I’m Carlos.”
So that was it. Grandy should have told him. He looked at Carlos’ face. Not a hair on her head, not an eyebrow nor eyelash. In spite of that she was pretty, in a peeled sort of way. “But why did you sleep here?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you when I came in,” she said meekly. “And it’s such a big bed.”
“Not big enough for you and me,” he said firmly. “You should have found another place.”
“Not big enough!” she exclaimed, looking over the vast expanse. “Can’t you lie still?”
“That’s none of your business,” he said with dignity. “Get up and put on some clothes.”
“Who wears clothes?” she said wonderingly and stared at him. “You’re only half Kransian. You wear th
em, I suppose.”
He clutched at the bed and wrapped something around him. “Do something,” he insisted.
Obligingly she got out of bed. She was a small person, but nonetheless womanly, in spite of her size. Her skin was as smooth as an apple, buffed to a faint golden tan. “What colors are you wearing today?” she inquired.
“Then you will put on something?” he said, retreating across the room.
“Oh sure,” she said. “Not clothes though. No Kransian wears them, until he’s as old as Grandy, and has to.” She tossed her head and picked up a small container he hadn’t noticed before. Leisurely she wandered into the next room.
Hastily Jason dressed. By the time he finished Carlos came back. It didn’t pay to trust his eyes! For now she had hair, black hair that curled close to her head; her eyebrows and lashes were full and natural, not painted on. As for the rest, she was decently covered, so she could walk through any city on Earth, not without attracting attention, but still without falling foul of the legal limits of decency. He looked again. Or could she?
“All right,” he said. “How did you do it?”
“You didn’t tell me what color,” she said. “And since black goes with most anything I thought—”
“Not the color,” he said. “The hair on your head, and I guess you can call it a fur bathing suit.” It was more like fur than anything else, and it was one piece, one with the rest of her body.
“Well,” she answered. “We don’t like to wear dead things, plants, animals, or the synthetic stuff that comes out of vats. So we use goop.”
“Goop?”
She sighed. “It has another name and I can write it out for you. But it covers pages, and only a biochemist can begin to understand what it means, and he couldn’t make it.” She added politely. “We keep the formula a secret.”
They would of course; anything like that was valuable. It was a neohormone probably, a synthetic substance that never existed in nature and was better than any comparable natural substance. With it, they could grow hair to any length, color, or texture in a matter of minutes, simply by applying the proper mixture to the skin. Most likely the substance contained nutrients so to supply the body cells with the material for growth. They put it on in the morning and they were clothed. At night they applied a counteragent and it came off. As Carlos had indicated, eventually the body became too old to respond. When that occurred, the old person had to wear conventional clothing, belts, buckles, snaps and fasteners, uncomfortable to one unaccustomed to it. There was no such a thing as a natural blonde or brunette on Kransi. Everyone had his choice; green, if he liked the color today, tomorrow, blue.
The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 31