Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  incredible amounts of detail. Fenyig selected several sheets from the set and

  passed them to Kleippur, who leaned forward to pore over them while his aides

  peered down from beside him with equally mystified expressions on their faces.

  The pictures seemed to be of patterns of shapes distributed in rows and groups

  about an irregular network of lines. After watching in silence for a while,

  Dornvald stretched out an arm and traced a finger lightly along one of the lines

  on the sheet that Kleippur was holding. "Do you not recognize the Avenue of

  Emperors in our own city of Menassim?" he inquired casually. "And here ... is

  that not your own residence, in which we are at this very moment gathered?"

  Lyokanor gasped aloud suddenly. "It is Menassim! See, here is the course of the

  river, and the bridges. And there the palace . . . with the Courts of Justice

  behind. Every street and house is here!"

  "What manner of artist drew this?" Pellimiades asked in an awed voice. He looked

  across at Thirg. "Is this an example of the mapmaker's trade that I have not

  come across before?"

  "Not of any art or trade of mine," Thirg said. "Indeed I have never set eyes on

  Menassim before this bright."

  Kleippur looked up slowly. "Where did these come from?"

  Dornvald's expression became serious. "Has there been other news of late,

  Kleippur?" he asked. "Reports of strange happenings in the sky, perhaps?"

  Kleippur returned a strange, puzzled look. "Yes . . ."

  "Reports of flying creatures descending, as was supposed to have happened twelve

  twelve-brights ago?"

  "Yes," Kleippur said again, and frowned. "How do you know about them? Have you

  seen one too? What do they have to do with . . ." His voice trailed away as the

  connection suddenly became clear. He looked down at the picture of Menassim

  again, then disbelievingly back up at Dornvald.

  Dornvald nodded gravely. He drew another picture from the stack but kept it

  facedown on the table. "The creatures exist, Kleippur. We encountered them in

  the Wilderness of the Meracasine. They are from another world that lies beyond

  the sky. They carry Skybeings whom they serve, that are stranger still—of the

  form of robeings, but not robeings . . . nor even machines. The Skybeings have

  mastered arts unknown to us by which they are able to preserve images and

  likenesses." Dornvald gestured at the picture in Kleippur's hand. "That is not

  an artist's or a mapmaker's creation. It is a preservation of a likeness of the

  city as was actually seen through the eyes of a creature that crossed the sky

  high above Carthogia. And the likenesses can be viewed in an instant from afar,

  even though the eyes that see them might be flying over distant lands, or even

  beyond the oceans."

  Kleippur was staring at Dornvald dazedly. He shook his head as if to clear it

  and raised a hand to massage the shading vanes above his eyes. "Other worlds? .

  . . Creatures that serve beings who are not machines? . . . What talk is this?

  If it were not you telling me this, Dornvald, one of my most trusted officers .

  . ."

  "It is as Dornvald says," Thirg confirmed. "I too was present. We flew in one of

  the creatures—all of us—to the hills that lie east of Carthogia's border."

  "It's true," Fenyig said. Geynor nodded but remained silent. Still staring

  disbelievingly, Kleippur brought his gaze back to Dornvald.

  Dornvald flipped over the picture that he had been keeping as final proof.

  Kleippur and his two aides stared down at it speechlessly. It showed Dornvald,

  Thirg, Geynor, and several other robeings standing with a group of ungainly,

  tubby-looking, domeheaded figures in front of what looked like a huge,

  smooth-skinned beast of some kind with stiff, tapered limbs. Fenyig passed more

  pictures. One showed Thirg and a Domehead with their arms draped jovially around

  each other's shoulders and the Domehead making a curious gesture in the air with

  an extended thumb; another showed a Domehead perched precariously on Thirg's

  steed, and Rex watching suspiciously in the background.

  "We were being pursued by Kroaxian Royal Guards," Dornvald said. "The Skybeings

  destroyed them. They talked to us through signs and brought us here. They are

  friends, and wish to come here to Menassim to meet its ruler. That is the

  message that they asked us to convey. They will be watching from the sky for

  signs laid out on the ground as your answer."

  As Thirg looked again at the pictures of the Skybeings and the strange animals

  and other life forms that served them, he thought back to the Carthogian

  projectile-hurling weapon and the devices constructed by the Carthogian

  builders. All were examples of the simple beginnings of new arts that mimicked

  the processes of Life itself. Was it possible that the weapons of the Skybeings

  and the vehicles that the Skybeings were carried in could be products of the

  same arts taken to a far more advanced stage of perfection?

  Products?

  Could the Skybeings have created the weapons and the dragons? But the weapons

  and the dragons were machines. The first machine must have been constructed by

  something that was not a machine. So could the Skybeings be the Lifemaker? No,

  surely not. Surely the thought was preposterous.

  And then Thirg remembered that the idea of turning wheels with vaporized methane

  had once seemed preposterous too.

  19

  "OH, NO QUESTION OF IT, I'M SURE," PENELOPE RAMELSON said over the breakfast

  table. "Burton would be happy to talk to him." She turned her head to look

  across at her husband. "When do you think would be a convenient time, dear?"

  Penelope's cousin, Valerie, who was from Massachusetts and staying for a long

  weekend, smiled expectantly.

  Burton Ramelson realized that he had been allowing his mind to wander back to

  the storm of protest that the announcement the major Western powers had made of

  their intention to claim Titan unilaterally had provoked inside the UN. "Er . .

  . what?" he said, blinking as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "I do beg your

  pardon—I don't think I can be quite awake yet."

  Penelope sighed. "Valerie was talking about Jeremy," she said, referring to the

  elder of Valerie's two sons. "Now that he and Gillian will be starting a family,

  he feels he needs a job to ... well, you know—it's psychological more than

  anything, I suppose—to feel he's doing something to provide for them . . .

  something through his own efforts, as it were."

  "I was hoping that perhaps GSEC might have something suitable that it could

  offer him," Valerie said, coming more directly to the point.

  Ramelson frowned as he sipped the coffee that he was taking with the ladies

  before joining Buhl and some others for a business breakfast later. "Hmm, I see

  ... So what would you consider 'suitable'? What can he do? I mean, it is true

  that he and Gillian have been spending all their time gallivanting around the

  Far East and the Riviera practically since they got married . . . and he didn't

  do much more than sail his sloop before that, did he?"

  "Oh, don't be such a crusty old gripe, Burton, even if it is first thing in the

  morning," Penelope chided. "They'
re young, and they're making the best of it.

  What's wrong with that? You're always telling us how short you are of capable

  managers these days. Well, Jeremy has always struck me as very talented and

  highly capable. I'd have thought there'd be plenty of room to fit him in

  somewhere like that . . . After all, it wouldn't have to be a terribly

  responsible position to begin with, or anything like that."

  "I could use a couple of good engineering project managers and program

  directors," Ramelson said, not quite able to keep a sharp edge out of his voice.

  "Could Jeremy handle a structural dynamicist ten years older than him and with

  twenty years' experience? What does he know about Doppler radar or orbital

  mechanics? Those are the people I need."

  "Now you're being pompous. All I—"

  "Oh, I didn't want to suggest anything like that," Valerie interrupted hastily.

  "But maybe something less demanding—possibly more in the administrative area,

  but not too humdrum ..." She treated Ramelson to a smile of sweet, wide-eyed

  reasonableness. "Something with some life and glamor to it would suit his

  temperament—marketing, maybe, or advertising . . . Isn't there a place like that

  where he could do some good? There must be, surely, Burton."

  Ramelson finished his coffee and made a face to himself behind the cup. He and

  Penelope would be able to talk about it much more freely on their own later,

  without his being rushed into committing to anything prematurely. And besides

  that, with the meeting probably waiting for him already, he didn't want to go

  into all the whys and wherefores. "I'll talk to Greg Buhl about it today," he

  promised. He put down his cup and sat back with an air of finality that said the

  matter was finished for the time being. Penelope glanced at Valerie and nodded

  almost imperceptibly. "So what do you two have planned for today?" Ramelson

  asked. "Anything wild and exciting?"

  "We thought we'd take the shuttle up to New York and go shopping," Penelope

  said. "I called Jenny and Paul, and they invited us to dinner with them."

  "Uh-huh. Sounds like a late night back," Ramelson said.

  "Probably."

  "Why not stay over and get a flight back tomorrow?"

  "We could, I suppose . . . Yes, why not? I'll give you a call and let you know

  if that's what we decide to do."

  Ramelson looked at Valeric. "You seem to be enjoying your stay. Glad to see it."

  He glanced at his watch, folded his napkin and placed it in front of him, and

  stood up. "Well, the others will be waiting for me, so I'm afraid I must ask you

  to excuse me, ladies. Have a pleasant trip to New York, and do give my regards

  to Jenny and Paul."

  "Of course," Penelope said as Ramelson turned to leave. "Oh, and you will

  remember to talk to Greg about Jeremy, won't you?"

  "I'll remember," Ramelson sighed.

  He had forgotten less than thirty seconds later as he crossed the hall outside

  the breakfast room, and his mind returned to the Titan situation. The rest of

  the world, especially the Soviets, had been outraged when the true purpose of

  the Orion mission was finally admitted after the months of speculations,

  accusations, and denials that had followed Zambendorf's revelation at the

  mission's departure. But that event was no longer viewed so widely as the major

  catastrophe that it had seemed at the time, since at least it had half prepared

  the world for the true story when it finally emerged—as it had to eventually—and

  had thus partly defused what would otherwise have been a bombshell of immense

  proportions. The reactions had been expected, of course, but apart from making a

  lot of noise and threats, what could the Soviets do. True, they could have

  started a war, the Western leaders had conceded among themselves; but the

  Pentagon's strategic analysts had concluded that they wouldn't—for the same

  reason that nobody had dared risk anything serious since 1945 ... or at least,

  very probably they wouldn't; better than 92.4 percent probably, the computers

  had calculated.

  On the other hand, depending on exactly what Titan turned up, exclusive access

  to advanced alien technology might provide the means for solving all of the

  West's problems once and for all—with the Soviets militarily, and with the rest

  of the world commercially. So the West had taken the gamble, and so far it

  seemed to have paid off. About the only casualty that Ramelson had seen so far

  was Caspar Lang, who in his last videogram from Titan had still seemed to be

  smarting from the thought of a major security breach's having taken place right

  under his nose. But better to have a realistic measure of Zambendorf now, rather

  than later when things start getting serious, Ramelson thought to himself as he

  trotted briskly down the four shallow steps outside the entrance to the library.

  And Caspar would get over things in time.

  Inside, Gregory Buhl and two other GSEC executives, along with Julius Gorsche of

  the State Department and Kevin Whaley, a presidential aide, were waiting to

  begin the meeting. The first item was a summary presented by Gorsche of Daniel

  Leaherney's latest report from the Orion. The dialogue with the Taloids had

  continued to progress since the Terran landing at the city of "Genoa," Gorsche

  said. First impressions of the Taloid culture had suggested it was a collection

  of autonomously interacting, sometimes warring, sometimes loosely allied,

  social-political entities vaguely reminiscent of the Italian principalities and

  city-states of the Middle Ages, which the names that the Terrans had given them

  reflected. No further violent incidents of the kind necessitated against the

  "Paduans" had occurred, and that affair did not appear to have jeopardized the

  further development of constructive relationships with the Genoese. A permanent

  base had been established outside Genoa, and Terrans moved about openly inside

  the city itself; although apprehension and a tendency toward avoidance were

  still observable among some of the inhabitants, the Terrans were succeeding

  generally in gaining acceptance.

  "At least our main concern has proved baseless," Ramelson said when Gorsche had

  finished. "We haven't found ourselves confronting an advanced alien race with an

  ability to threaten the mission or Earth itself." He looked over at Buhl. "So

  where does that leave us, Greg? There's a whole world of unconventional but

  highly sophisticated technology out there. Is it a potential resource that we

  could use? Does it look as if we might be able to get enough of it working for

  us somehow to justify the effort? If so, how much might we stand to benefit?"

  "One thing at a time, Burton," Buhl muttered, taking a moment to glance over his

  notes. "The scientists there are pretty well wiped out. They're working round

  the clock, but the sheer volume of what they're starting to uncover is

  staggering enough, never mind the complexity of it. The various specialists will

  be reporting separately in due course, but I'm trying to get a preliminary

  summary put together for sometime in the next few days. Okay?"

  "Fine," Ramelson said.

  Buhl went on, "The answer to the main question is yes—there are technologies and
<
br />   processes up and running on Titan that could be centuries ahead of anything

  comparable on Earth, and some of the things there are completely new

  conceptually. We've already identified bulk nuclear transformation of elements;

  total fusion-based materials processing; molecular electronics; self-improving

  learning systems; intelligent, optronic, holoprocessing brains . . . and there's

  no doubt all kinds of other things yet that we've never even dreamed of." He

  threw up a hand. "The best guess seems to be that it all began as some kind of

  alien, self-replicating industrial scheme that screwed up, possibly millions of

  years ago. But whether that turns out to be the correct explanation or not,

  there's little doubt that the entire system was conceived and originated as a

  high-intensity extraction, processing, and manufacturing facility dedicated to

  the mass-production of industrial materials and products, and despite what's

  happened to it since, it still operates to fulfill that primary underlying

  purpose."

  "In other words, if you could unscramble the glitches and get things working on

  a more organized basis, you could supply just about all of Earth's needs for

  centuries from a setup like that," Richard Snell, one of the GSEC executives,

  said.

  Whaley looked intrigued. "You mean it could give us a decent competitive edge

  again . . . and maybe a respectable strategic margin?"

  Snell smiled humorlessly. "That could qualify as the understatement of the year,

  Kev." He shrugged. "Anyone who gets to control the Titan operation doesn't have

  any competitors, or any strategic opposition. Those problems all go

  away—permanently."

  A short silence ensued while the full meaning sank in. Then Whaley asked, "What

  about the Taloids? Is there likely to be a problem over . . . 'ownership

  rights,' or anything like that? I mean, is all this capacity something that they

  need too, or is it all pretty valueless as far as they're concerned?"

  "Hopefully we'll be able to work out a basis for joint development," Buhl

  replied. "Their experience and knowledge of the environment would constitute a

  valuable asset in any case, which makes a cooperative approach the most

  desirable goal to aim at."

  Frederick Methers, the other man from GSEC, commented, "Despite their physical

  form, the Taloids' own culture is actually pretty primitive. They don't have the