3xT

by Harry Turtledove

  "Might be, I said." Watson jabbed a rueful thumb at his spice cones. "One thing certain—none of these is. Some will help make prime Athet brandy, some good brandy, and the rest rotgut. They'll all turn a profit, but no big deal."

  "I suppose not." Jennifer daydreamed about what she could do with a really big profit. Heading the list, as always, was setting up—and then occupying—an endowed chair. She smiled, imagining the Jennifer Logan Endowed Chair for the Study of Middle English Science Fiction—maybe even of Middle English Literature, for her interests had broadened since she left the university. "But I'd need to find the omphoths' graveyard for that," she murmured.

  Watson scratched his head. "The which? For what?"

  "Never mind, Sam." Jennifer felt herself flushing. After so many years of ancient literature, she often found herself speaking a foreign language even when she used perfectly good Spanglish.

  "All right." Watson shrugged. He was a pragmatic type who did not waste his time worrying about what was of no immediate use to him. That made him narrow, but within his limits acute. "Now that we know your ivory exists, we'll have to see if we can get more. Don't forget to tell Master Rodriguez about it."

  "I won't. When do you suppose she'll be back?"

  Watson shrugged again. "She's got some sort of complicated deal brewing with the treelords, so she may be gone days yet. Who can say?" He gave a wry chuckle. "Whatever she's up to, it's a lot bigger than the trinket exchange level we humble journeymen operate at."

  "I suppose so." Jennifer still had mixed feelings about her rank. If she hadn't made journeyman at the end of her first run, she wouldn't have had anything to fall back on when her try at a real job went up in smoke. Maybe she would have tried again instead of signing up for another trip.

  Watson, she knew, would have told her it was much too late to worry about such things now. He would have been right, too. That didn't stop her.

  Now he glanced longingly back toward his spice cones. "I'd better finish these, so I can see exactly what I've got. Congratulations on the ivory. I'm most sincerely jealous."

  She smiled. "Thanks." She headed on to her own cubicle and shut the door behind her. The figurine went into her strongbox. She walked down the hall to take a fast shower. Then she did what she did during most of her free time: she got out her reader and went from modern times back to the days before English changed to Spanglish. She might not be teaching the ancient literature, but she still loved it.

  This new tale wasn't science fiction but, she discovered as she read, it did show respect for rational thought. She laughed a little, quietly, at a pleasant coincidence between past and present. Even across a gap of a thousand years, such things turned up now and again. They only made her enjoy her reading more.

  * * *

  Master Merchant Celia Rodriguez called a crew's meeting two afternoons later. Jennifer made sure she was in the common room at the appointed time; Master Rodriguez's tongue could degauss computer chips when she got annoyed. The other five merchants who made up the rest of Pacific Overtures' crew were equally punctual, no doubt for the same reason.

  Jennifer loathed meetings, feeling they wasted time in which she could be doing something useful instead. Sitting through a great many of them had only made that feeling stronger. She got ready to look interested while she thought about her ancient scientific detective.

  Celia Rodriguez's first words, though, made her sit up and take notice. "The civilization in this whole tract of forest is in deep trouble." Master Rodriguez's take-it-or-leave-it delivery was a good match for her looks: she was about fifty, heavyset, with blunt features and iron-gray hair she wore short. She badly intimidated Jennifer. Most loud, self-assured people intimidated Jennifer.

  "What do you mean?" demanded Tranh Nguyen. He was also a master merchant, though junior to Rodriguez. "Judging from the records of earlier trade missions here, technology is improving, the standard of living is up, and population per tree keeps increasing." A couple of others, Sam Watson among them, nodded agreement.

  "You're right," Rodriguez answered at once. "None of that matters at all, though, because the forest itself is dying back. Dim lights!" she told the ship's computer, and the common room went dark.

  "First image," she commanded. The computer projected a map onto the wall next to her. "The green shows the extent of this tract of forest at the time of the first landing on Athet, 250 years ago. Second image." The borders of the green patch changed shape. "This is about a hundred years ago. Note the losses here, here, and here. Note also that the open space in which we are sitting appears during that interval."

  Jennifer thought of the stump she'd tripped over. That had seemed just one of the small things that made up a day. Now it looked more like a symptom of a much bigger problem.

  So it proved. "Third image," Rodriguez said. The map changed again. "This is where we are today. See how much bigger this clearing has grown, and the appearance of these two further west. See also where grassland has replaced forest here, and in this sector. The next map is an extrapolation of where these trends will lead if they keep on for another two hundred years. Fourth image."

  The new map that appeared beside the master merchant brought gasps of surprise and dismay from her colleagues. The broad expanse of forest that had dominated this part of the continent was gone, only a few small outcrops surviving like islands in a sea of grass.

  "This, of course, spells catastrophe for the Atheter civilization here," Master Rodriguez said. "The locals are so tied to their arboreal life-style that they have a great deal of trouble adapting to life on the ground. Their most likely response to the failure of the trees would be to try migrating to the next big forest tract, a couple of hundred kilometers away. That tract is already settled; I doubt its inhabitants would welcome newcomers with open arms."

  "Have you shown the treelords these maps?" Tranh Nguyen asked.

  Rodriguez shook her head. "I prepared them last night, after our meeting. The treelords realize they have a problem, but not its extent. As you said before, they can support more people per tree than they once could, which has helped mask there being fewer trees in which to support them. But now they have begun to notice."

  "What do they want us to do, then?" Nguyen went on, having the seniority to ask the questions the whole crew was thinking.

  "We've spent 250 years building up our image here as the wise, powerful traders from the stars. Now they want us to live up to it." Master Rodriguez's smile was ironic. "They want us to make the forest grow bigger again. Not much, eh?"

  This time, several people spoke at once. "How do they propose to pay for it?" It was the first question that flashed through Jennifer's mind, though she did not speak aloud. Her own smile was rueful. Yes, she thought like a merchant now, sure enough.

  "I don't know," Rodriguez said. "I don't know if we can, for that matter, but even trying will be expensive. And Athet has never been what you'd call a high-profit world. For something of this scale . . ." She let the words hang.

  "I don't like the idea of standing by and watching a civilization fall," Suren Krikorian said. He was a journeyman hardly senior to Jennifer, but came from a wealthy family—he did not need to worry about the consequences of speaking his mind.

  "Neither do I," Celia Rodriguez replied. "I don't like the idea of bankrupting myself either, though. Even a preliminary study on the local problem will keep us here a lot longer than we'd planned, and that will be expensive. If we don't have something to show for it when we get back to our civilization, we'll all be badly hurt."

  Krikorian scowled but did not answer. The master merchant was right, and everyone knew it. Jennifer suddenly got up and hurried away from the table. She remembered to say "Excuse me" just as she left the common room, but so softly she was afraid nobody heard her.

  "I trust this will be interesting," Rodriguez said when she got back. By her tone, she did not trust any such thing.

  Jennifer felt herself flush. "I—I hope so, Master Mer
chant," she said, wishing she could push arrogance into her voice whenever she needed it. She held up the omphoth-ivory figurine. "I—I was just thinking that if the Atheters have more pieces of this quality, they would help pay us for our time here."

  Celia Rodriguez's voice changed. "May I see it, please?" Jennifer brought it to her. She examined it closely, then asked, "May I show it to the rest of our group?" Jennifer nodded. "Opinions?" the master merchant asked as she handed Tranh Nguyen the piece.

  The merchants passed it from one to another. Finally, Sam Watson returned it to Jennifer. "Enough like this, and staying here may well be worth our while," Nguyen said. No one argued with him.

  "I only hope there are enough pieces," Jennifer said. "The trader from whom I got this one told me that the animals from which the ivory came have been extinct for a thousand years."

  "Have they?" Now calculation was in Rodriguez's voice, and something else as well—the purr of a predator that had just spotted dinner. "Then with a little luck, we may be able to clean out the whole supply. We'll sell a few pieces when we get back to civilization, leave the rest with our brokers while half a dozen other ships scurry out here to try to get in on the good thing. And when they come back empty—why, then we'll sell more, at four times the price."

  Everyone in the common room grinned at Jennifer. She smiled back, a little uncertainly—attracting attention, even favorable attention, made her nervous. It did, however, beat the stuffing out of the other kind, she thought.

  * * *

  Gazar's crest rose. His tail thrashed. "Your people will be buying many omphoth-ivory pieces, you say?"

  Jennifer nodded. "As many as they can. If you want more, if you want more to sell to us, now would be a good time to get them, before you have to compete with the lure of offworld goods."

  "And if I do get them, you will trade those offworld goods to me?" The Atheter's golden eyes were big and yellow as twin full moons.

  "Certainly," Jennifer said. "Provided, that is, that you remember the favor I have done you and keep your demands within the bounds of reason."

  Gazar winced. "Now I understand why your teeth are so small, merchant from the stars—your sharp tongue long ago sliced off their points." He displayed his own formidable set of ivory.

  "From you, I will take that as a compliment," Jennifer chuckled.

  "I meant it as one," Gazar said. "You must understand me, even with advance notice I doubt I will be able to get a great many pieces. Omphoth ivory has become rare enough over the years that most of it, now, is in the treasury of one treelord or another. Still, some may be persuaded to fall from the branch."

  "I hope so." Jennifer paused. "Speaking of falling from the branch, I almost had my head smashed in by a falling fruit the other day."

  "I'm glad you escaped. Still, that shows the folly of going down to the ground, does it not?"

  "Not what I meant." Jennifer reminded herself not to be annoyed. Just as she was a product of her environment, so Gazar was of his. "I would have thought that you treefolk would take care to harvest those fruits for yourselves, and not let the ground creatures have the benefit of them."

  The Atheter made a horrible face. "Not even the crawlers in the leaves would want them. Our trees are wonderful. They are our lives, they are our livelihoods, they are our homes. But we do not eat their fruits. They taste dreadful."

  "Oh. All right." Jennifer thought for a moment. "But you have many different kinds of large trees in this forest. Surely some must be of use to you."

  "A few," Gazar said grudgingly, as if making an enormous concession. "Most, though, are truly foul—better for weapons, as you saw, than for food."

  "You know best, I'm sure." Jennifer stood up, as well as she could inside Gazar's shop. "I'll come back again in a few days. I hope you'll have found some omphoth ivory by then."

  "So do I," Gazar said. "My mate is pregnant with a new set of twins, and I expect we will need a larger house after they are born. The more offworld goods I get from you, the sooner I can buy it. Maybe I will buy a slave or two as well."

  Jennifer was glad Atheters had trouble reading human expressions; she was afraid her revulsion showed on her face. You are not here to reform these people, she told herself. Until they industrialized, they probably would have slaves, and there was nothing she could do about it. No, not quite nothing—trading with them was bound to spur their own technology, which might hasten the day when slavery grew uneconomic here.

  As she walked back to Pacific Overtures this time, she kept a wary eye on the treetops. When a big fruit crashed down into the bushes, maybe fifty meters off to her left, she almost jumped out of her skin. No missiles came any closer than that, though, for which she was duly grateful.

  Back at the ship, she gave herself the luxury of a few seconds of gloating. A small private hoard of omphoth ivory couldn't help but improve her credit rating when she got back to civilization. A large private hoard would be nicer yet, but she knew she lacked the resources to get her hands on one.

  Maybe next trip out, she'd score that really big coup . . . She stopped in dismay. That was thinking too much like a trader to suit her. If she got a decent stake out of this run, she'd be able to afford to look for an academic job.

  "And if I land one," she said aloud, "I'll never again go to a world that doesn't have an automated information retrieval system."

  Pleased at that promise to herself, she dug out her reader and returned to twentieth—or was it nineteenth?—century London. The more stories she read about this detective, the more she wanted to read. That surprised her; the fellow who wrote them had also turned out a lot of bad science fiction. But the detective and his amanuensis lived and breathed. These tales were what the writer should have been doing all along, instead of wasting his time on things he wasn't good at.

  She put down the reader and fought back angry tears. What was she doing aboard Pacific Overtures except wasting her time on things she wasn't good at?

  * * *

  Tranh Nguyen made as if to bang his head against the corridor wall. "I don't know why the forest is shrinking," he growled. "As far as I can tell, the soil in the grasslands is the same as the soil where the trees still grow. It has the same mineral content, the same little wormy things crawling through it, the same everything."

  "Not the same everything." Celia Rodriguez shook her head. "It doesn't have trees on it any more. We still have to find out why."

  "Excuse me," Jennifer said—softly, as usual—as she tried to get past them.

  Neither master merchant paid any attention to her. Tranh Nguyen said, "I know we have to, but I'm not sure we can. I do what the computer tells me to do, I compare the results of one sample to those from another, but if nothing obvious shows up, I'm stuck. I can't make the intuitive leap—I'm a trader, after all, not an agronomist who might see more than is in the computer program."

  "Excuse me," Jennifer said again.

  "An agronomist!" Rodriguez clapped a hand to her forehead. "As if we could afford to haul an agronomist all the way out here! As if we could find an agronomist crazy enough to want to come! We have to be able to do this kind of work for ourselves, because if we don't, no one will."

  "I know that as well as you do," Tranh Nguyen said. "Why carry the big computer library, except to make sure we can do a little of everything? A little of everything, though, Celia, not everything. We may really need a specialist here. Right now, I'm stymied."

  "Excuse me," Jennifer said one more time.

  Celia Rodriguez finally noticed she was there. She stepped out of the way. "Why didn't you say something?" she demanded.

  Jennifer shrugged and walked by. She was often effectively invisible aboard Pacific Overtures. She much preferred that to the way things had been on her last trading run, when two male journeymen, neither of whom she wanted in the least, had relentlessly hounded her through the whole mission.

  Sometimes she wished she were chunky and hard-featured like Celia Rodriguez instead of
slim and curved and possessed of an innocent look she could not get rid of no matter how hard she tried. She would have enjoyed being valued for herself instead of just for her blue eyes. She'd never found a tactful way to say that to the master merchant, though, and so sensibly kept her mouth shut.

  She let herself into her cubicle and closed the door after her. That cut off most of the noise from the corridor, where Rodriguez and Tranh Nguyen were still arguing. She carefully took off her backpack and set it on the floor. Then, grinning, she leaped onto her mattress and bounced up and down like a little kid.

  When she was done bouncing, she got up again and opened the backpack. Inside, wrapped in a square of thick, native, printed cloth that was a minor work of art in itself, lay two fine omphoth-ivory figurines. One was a carving of an Atheter; but for its age, Jennifer would have guessed it a portrait of Gazar. It certainly captured the local merchant's top-of-his-lungs style—she could practically see the fur rising on the figurine's back.

  That piece was excellent, but it paled beside the other. "This," Gazar had said, swelling up with self-importance, "is a veritable omphoth, carved from its own ivory to show later generations the sort of monsters we had to battle in those ancient days."

  To a tree-dweller, Jennifer had to admit, it must have looked like a nightmare come to life. She thought of an elephant's head mounted on a brachiosaur's body, though the ears were small and trumpetlike, the tusks curved down, and the trunk—miraculously unbroken on the figurine—seemed to be an elongated lower lip rather than a nose run rampant. Such details aside, the carved omphoth certainly looked ready to lay waste to whole forests.

  Imagining a full-sized one, Jennifer had trouble seeing how the Atheters ever could have killed it. When she had said as much to Gazar, he'd burst into epic verse in a dialect so antique that her translator kept hiccuping over it. Apparently a band of heroes had gone out into the Empty Lands, brought back an immense boulder, somehow manhandled it up into the treetops, and then dropped it on an omphoth's head.