by Vernor Vinge
The meal over, Bretaign Flaggon rose to deliver “a few words of welcome to our star-crossed [sic] visitor.” Chente couldn’t decide whether the phrase was a pun or a malaprop. The speech droned on and eventually the Earthman succeeded in ignoring it.
The hall’s wide floor was covered from wall to wall with what could only be gold. The soft yellow metal behaved like some slow sea beneath the weight of the banquet tables and constant passage of human feet: tiny ripples barely a centimeter high stood frozen in its surface. New Canada had everything the Spanish Conquistadores had ever dreamed of. But this virtue was symtomatic of a serious vice. Heavy metals were plentiful near the planet’s surface simply because New Canada’s interior was much more poorly differentiated than Earth’s. The starship’s computer had reported this fact to its makers on first landing here, but had failed to notice that the process of core formation was ongoing. The cataclysm that hit the colony one hundred fifty years earlier was evidence of this continuing process. The abundance of metallic salts on the surface meant that less than one percent of New Canada’s land area could be used for farming. And those same salts made the sea life uniformly poisonous. In contrast to the opulent banquet hall, the food served had been scarcely more than a spicy gruel.
“…Mr. Quintero.” Applause sounded as Flaggon finished talking. The mayor motioned for Chente to rise and speak. The Earthman stood and bowed briefly. The applause was equally enthusiastic from the three groups seated at the horseshoe banquet table. On his right sat the Ontarian delegation, consisting of Bossman Pier, three associates, and a crowd of scantily dressed odalisques—all ensconced on piles of wide, deep pillows. Chente had been placed at the middle of the horseshoe with the Freetowners, while Martha Blount and her people sat along the left leg of the horseshoe. All through the meal, while the Ontarians caroused and the Freetowners chattered, the New Providencians had kept silent.
Finally the applause died, and people waited. From above them the tiny lights burned fiercely, but the stark shadows they cast held abysmal gloom. Chente saw a certain measure of fear in their attentive silence. No doubt many of them had sat right here less than two years before, and watched a man identical to the one they saw now. Intellectually they might accept the idea of duplicative transport, but historians had assured Chente that without a lifetime of experience no one could really accept such a thing. To his audience Chente was a man come back from the dead. Perhaps he could take advantage of this fear.
“I will be brief, as most of you will have heard this speech before.” There was an uneasy movement and various exchanges of glances. Bossman Pier seemed the only one left with a smile on his face. “Your planet is undergoing a core collapse. A century ago a core tremor sank half a continent and virtually destroyed your civilization. Recently Earth has been able to reestablish communications with the starship on the hill behind Freetown. The link we have established is a tenuous one and you can’t expect material aid. But Earth does have knowledge it can place at your disposal. Ultimately the core collapse will proceed to completion, and about ten million ‘Cataclysms’ worth of energy will be released. If this happens all at once, no life above the microbe level will be left on the planet. But, if it happens uniformly over a million year period, you would never even be aware of the change. From the frequency of earthquakes, you know that the latter possibility has already been ruled out. My mission is to discover where between these two extremes the truth lies. For it is entirely possible that a future Cataclysm will be powerful enough to wreck your civilization as it is now, yet mild enough so that with adequate forewarning and preparation you can survive.”
Flaggon bobbed his head. “We understand, sir. And, as we did with your predecessor, we will cooperate to the limit of our resources.”
CHENTE DECIDED TO POUNCE on the double meaning in Flaggon’s inept phrasing. “Yes, I’ve heard about the splendid help you gave my predecessor. He is dead, I’ve been told.” He waved down Flaggon’s stammered clarification. “Ladies and gentlemen, someone among you killed me. That was an act that threatened all of New Canada. If I am killed again, there may be no more replacements, and you will face the core collapse in ignorance.” Chente wondered briefly if he hadn’t just invited his assassination with that last threat, but it was too late to retract it.
The distressed Flaggon again pledged his help. Both Balquirth and Martha Blount chorused similar promises.
“Very well, I’ll need transportation for an initial survey. From my discussion with the ship’s computer before this banquet, I’ve decided that the best place to start is the islands that were formerly the peaks of the Heavenraker Mountains.”
Martha Blount came to her feet. “Citizen Quintero, one of our Navy’s finest dirigibles is tied down here at Freetown. We could be ready to go in twenty-two hours, and it won’t take more than another day to reach the Heavenraker Islands.” On the other side of the horseshoe, Balquirth cleared his throat noisily and stood up. Martha Blount rushed on. “Don’t…don’t make the same mistake the first Quintero did. He accepted Ontarian hospitality rather than ours, only to die on an Ontarian ship.”
Chente looked at the Bossman.
“Her story is true, but misleading,” Balquirth said easily. He had the air of someone telling a lie that he expected no one to believe—or else a self-evident truth that needed no earnest protestations to support itself. “The first Quintero had the good judgment to use Ontarian transportation. But his death occurred when the ship we assigned him was attacked by the forces of some other state.” He looked across the table at Martha Blount.
The Earthman didn’t respond directly. “Mayor Flaggon, what’s the weather like along the Heavenraker chain this time of year?”
The mayor looked to an aide, who said, “In late spring? Well, there are no hurricanes likely. Matter of fact, the Heavenrakers rarely get any bad storms. But the underground ‘weather’ is something else again. Freetown alone loses three or four ships a year out there—smashed by tsunamis as they sail close to shore.”
“In that case I’d prefer to go by aircraft.”
Balquirth shrugged amiably. “Then I must leave you to the clutches of Mistress Blount. I don’t have a single flier in port, and Mayor Flaggon doesn’t have a single flier in his state.”
“Your concern is appreciated in any case, Bossman. Citizen Blount, I’d like to discuss my plans in more detail with your people.”
“Tomorrow?” She seemed close to a triumphant smile.
“Fine.” Vicente began to sit down, then straightened. “One more thing. According to the starship’s computer, all nine communications bombs are missing from their storage racks up on the hill.”
In order to generate ultrawave distortions matter must needs be annihilated. Chente referred to the specially constructed nuclear bombs whose detonation could be modulated to carry information at superlight speeds. Such devices lacked the “band width” to transmit the pattern of a human being—Earth’s government used the tiny star that orbited where Callisto had once been for that job. Nevertheless, each of the communication bombs could be set to generate the equivalent of ten megatons of TNT, so they could do considerable damage if they were not hoisted into space prior to use.
The silence lengthened. Finally Chente said coldly, “I see. Your nation-states are playing strategic deterrence. That’s a dangerous game, you recall. It cost Earth more than three hundred million lives a few centuries back. Your colony is in enough trouble without it.”
His listeners nodded their agreement, but Chente saw—with a sick feeling—that his words were no more than platitudes to them.
THE NEW PROVIDENCIAN AIRSHIP Diligence flew south for a day and a half before it reached the first of the Heavenrakers. Chente saw a small village and a few farms in a sheltered bay near the coast, but the rest of the island was naked black rock. This was the first stop on a tour that would take them over 2,700 kilometers to the East Fragge, the Greenland-sized island that had once been the eastern end of the larges
t New Canadian continent. Chente had chosen this course since he wanted a baseline of observations along the planet’s equator, and the Heavenrakers were the most convenient landmasses stretching along such a path. The survey went quickly, thanks to the help of the islanders, though they seemed happy only when the Diligence and its guns were preparing to depart.
Three days later the dirigible hung in the clear blue sky over the west coast of the Fragge. All around them thunder sounded. For hundreds of kilometers along the coast they could see tiny rivulets of cheery-colored molten rock dribbling off into the surf, converting the water into a low-lying fog beneath them. Looking inland at the extent of the frozen lava, Chente could see that the land-forming process had added thousands of square kilometers to the area.
Quintero turned to his companion at the railing. Martha Blount hadn’t really changed in these last four days, but she had been revealed in a new aspect. For one thing, she had traded her full-length dress for a gray jumpsuit that covered her but hinted at a lot more than the dress had. From their discussions on the journey out he had found her to have a quick and lively mind that belied her outward reserve and convinced him that she had earned her high position. At times he found her interest in his equipment and plans somewhat too intense, and her political views too rigid, but he knew better than to expect anything else under the circumstances. And the more he knew of her, the more certain he was that her presence here was not motivated strictly by political interest: there had been something between Martha and the first Chente.
He gestured at the red and black landscape shimmering in the superheated air below them. “Are you sure you still want to come down with my landing party?”
She nodded. “I certainly do. It’s not as dangerous as it looks. We’ll be going many kilometers inland before we set down. I’m—doing a little reconnaissance here myself. I’ve never been in this part of the world.”
FURTHER CONVERSATION BECAME impossible as the nuclear jets lit up to angle the Diligence down toward the black ridges that thrust up between the rivulets of fire. The jets were just one of many anachronisms in the New Providencian military machine. Apparently they had been salvaged from one of the colony’s original helicopters. With them, the dirigible could make nearly fifty kilometers per hour in level flight.
The Diligence flew inland until the ground below was solid and cold. The airship descended rapidly, then leveled off just before its nose skid rasped across the jagged volcanic slag. Heavy grapnels were thrown out and the ship was drawn to Earth.
Vicente called to Ship’s Captain Oswald, “Who’ll be in charge of my ground party?”
“Flight corporal Nord,” the officer said, pointing to a tall, muscular man, who together with three others was dragging explosives and equipment out of the Diligence’s cramped hold. “We’ll stay on the ground just long enough to drop you off, Citizen Quintero. We’re at the mercy of every breeze down here. We’ll come back for you in twenty-two hours, unless you signal us earlier.” He glanced at Martha. “Citizen Blount, I suggest you forego this landing. The country is pretty rough.”
Martha looked back at him, and seemed faintly annoyed. “No, I insist.”
Oswald frowned, but did not press the matter. “Very well. See you in a day or so.”
Nord and two of the riflemen were the first to hit ground. Martha followed them. Then came Vicente, loaded down with his own special equipment. Two more riflemen with the explosives brought up the rear.
The landing site was a flat area at the top of a narrow ridge. The seven of them clambered down the hillside as the huge aircraft’s engines throttled up. By the time they reached the bottom of the ravine that followed the ridge, the Diligence was already floating five hundred meters over their heads.
“Let’s follow this gorge inland a bit,” said Quintero. “From what I could see before we landed, it should widen out to where we can do some blasting without risking an avalanche.”
“Anything you say,” Nord replied indifferently. Chente watched the man silently as the other moved on ahead. One way or another, this would not be a routine exploration.
THE NEW PROVIDENCIANS spent most of the afternoon setting off explosives in the slag. Their firecrackers were bulky and heavy, and the work went slowly. The bombs didn’t amount to more than half a ton of TNT, a microscopically small charge to obtain any information about conditions within the planet. Fortunately Chente’s instruments didn’t measure mechanical vibrations as such, but considerably more subtle effects. Even so he had to rely on coincidence counters and considerable statistical analysis to derive a picture of what went on hundreds of kilometers below.
Toward evening the sky became overcast and it began to drizzle, Chente called off their work. In fact, his survey was now complete, and his grim conclusions were beyond doubt. A stiff breeze kept anyone from suggesting that they call down the Diligence. Even with perfect visibility, Oswald probably couldn’t have brought the airship in against that wind.
By the time they set up camp in a deep hollow—almost a cave—beneath the cliff face, they were all thoroughly soaked. Nord put two of his men on watch at the entrance to the hollow, and the rest of the party took to their sleeping bags.
As the hours passed, the rain fell more heavily, and from the west the steady hissing of the lava masked nearly all other sounds. Abruptly, the cylinder that rested in Chente’s hand vibrated against his palm: someone was tampering with his equipment. Chente raised his head and looked about the cavelet. The darkness was complete. He couldn’t even see the sleeping bag he lay in. But now the years of training paid off: Chente relaxed, suppressed all background noise and listened for nearby sounds. There! At least one person was standing in his immediate vicinity. The fellow’s breathing was shallow, excited. Farther away, toward the equipment cache, he could now hear even fainter sounds.
Quintero slipped quietly out of the sleeping bag which he had prudently left unbuttoned and moved toward the cavelet entrance, lifting and lowering his feet precisely to avoid the irregularities he remembered in the rocky ground. He probably would have got clear anyway, as the distant hissing and the sound of rain covered whatever sounds he made. He didn’t dare pick up any equipment, however; he was forced to settle on what he’d kept with him.
Twenty meters out into the rain, he turned and lay down behind a small, sharp hummock of lava. He drew his tiny pistol. Several minutes passed. These were the most cautious assassins he had ever seen. As if to rebut the thought, two of the guards’ hand torches lit. Their yellow beams shone down upon his and Martha’s sleeping bags. The two other guards held their rifles trained on the bags, ready to fusillade.
Before the riflemen could utter more than gasps of astonishment, Chente shouted, “Out here!” All but one of the men turned toward his voice. Chente raised his pistol and shot the one who still had his rifle pointed at the sleeping bags. There was no report or flash, but his target virtually exploded.
The hand torches were doused as everyone scrambled for cover. “Martha!” he shouted. “Get out. Run off to the side!”
He couldn’t tell whether she had, but he kept up a steady covering fire, sending stone chips flying in all directions off the cavelet’s entrance.
Then someone stuck one of the torches on a pole and hoisted it up. The others moved briefly into the open to fire all at once down upon his exposed position. But the Earthman got off one last shot—into the explosives.
The concussion smashed the ground up into his face, and he never heard the cliffside fall across the cavelet, entombing his enemies.
SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HIM, and he felt a nose and a forehead nestled against the back of his neck. “Chente, please don’t die again, please,” came Martha’s voice.
Chente stirred and looked into the wet darkness. His ears were buzzing, and the left side of his head was one vast ache.
“You all right?” he asked Martha.
“Yes,” she said. Her hands tightened momentarily against him, but her voice was much cal
mer. Now that he was conscious she retreated again into a shell of relative formality. “The others must be dead though. The whole overhang came down on them. I followed the edge of the landfall trying to find you. You were not more than a couple of meters beyond it.”
“You knew about this plan beforehand?” Chente’s soft question was almost a statement.
“Yes—I mean, no. There were rumors that our Special Weapons Group killed the first Chente in an unsuccessful attempt to take his communications bomb. I believed those rumors. We used one of our bombs in the Nuclear Exchange of Year 317. The Special Weapons people have devised new uses, new delivery systems for our two remaining bombs, but what they really need are more nukes. In the last few months, I’ve had reports that the Weapons people are more eager than ever to get another bomb, that they have some special need for it. When you arrived, I was sure that between the Ontarians and our Weapons Group someone would try to kill you.”
Chente shook his head, trying to end the buzzing pain. The motion only made him want to be sick. Finally he said, “Their assassination attempt seems incredibly clumsy. Why didn’t they just do away with me once we were airborne?”
Now the Providencian ambassador seemed completely in control of herself. She said quietly, “That was partly my doing. I knew the Weapons people were waiting for another agent to be sent from Earth. When you came through, I made sure you were assigned to an airship crewed by regular Navy men. I was sure it was safe. For years Oswald has been part of the Navy faction opposed to the Special Weapons Group. But somehow they must have got through to him, and at least a few of his crewmen. Their murder attempt was clumsy, but it was a lot more than I had expected, under the circumstances.”
Chente sat up and propped his head against his hands. This morass of New Providencian intrigue was not completely unexpected, but it was ludicrous. Even if the conspirators could dig his bomb out of the avalanche, it could not be fused without a voice-code spoken by Chente himself. He saw now his mistake in not revealing that fact upon landing. He had thought that all his dire warnings about the colonists’ common peril would be enough to get cooperation. The situation was all the more ludicrous since he had seen how real the danger of core collapse was.