What the hell? What was I to make of my cheerful bubble-headed daughter? “Did your lines include stuff about being tied up?” I asked.
Melody stopped in mid-babble. “How did you know?"
"So you never were really tied up?” I asked this question softly.
"Did Dad talk to you already?” Melody asked. “Is this a joke?"
"Hold everything until I get home,” I told her. I clicked off and closed my eyes in thought. Getting my daughter starry-eyed about Hollywood was only a little less cruel than tying her up, but in the end I grudged Heider a point to his credit. A point for non-violence. God, what a schemer!
We had little daylight left. Sam and I drove into darkness and border crossings and eventually reached Trieste. Sam preferred silence to elaborate apologies. “I was tricked,” she said at last. “I was lied to. I'm sorry."
"Our world might be better without its Heider Hummels,” I answered. Thinking back, I'd been manipulated like a chessboard pawn, and Sam had been used to goad me each step of the way.
We reached my hotel. I spoke again. “Ordinarily I'd put myself in your place and find some sympathy, but right now I'm exhausted. What's terrible is that I doubt I can get to sleep."
Sam laughed. “Try a bottle of the local brandy. As for me, I'm probably out of a job. Heider had connections with my company. Palsy-walsy with the Swiss directors."
"Maybe they'll promote you to keep you quiet,” I said.
"You don't want any company tonight to share that brandy?” she asked.
"I think not.” I felt a little bitter, but this was my choice and I was what I was.
* * * *
When I got back to Illinois I stalled on telling my daughter Melody that her screen actor's contract was just a piece of paper. I was exhausted and faced piles of work at the office. Cowardice won out. It was just as well. Next day Heider Hummel's connections got Melody a role in a local TV commercial. I didn't have to think hard to figure that if I kept my mouth shut, other good things might happen.
I could have contacted the Feds, of course, on the theory that no one wanted Moabite weapons of mass destruction to show up in the Balkans. But if I clued them in, factions in our government would have grabbed all they could get from Planet Moab, and they'd do a faster job than Heider and his few men. Quick. Ruthless. Fanatical. Need I mention I'm of the opposite political party?
I decided to play safe. Small-time Heider had his hands full. His men had the Dur Ossur to defeat. They belonged to three language groups and some were criminals, capable of mutiny. Were Earth women zooming in to keep them happy?
I thought of Drago Sabotnik and all his money. Drago was a lonely ascetic who had talked too much to me, and maybe he'd talked to other friends about his work on Moab, setting Heider in motion. He should have known better. He should know better than to tell me news if I gave him a phone call, impelled by mere curiosity.
I called anyway, leaving my number at the monastery. Nothing happened for a couple of days. I had no right to expect an answer. Then Drago called and left a voicemail message: “Try me at the Hotel Izola in Izola. Don't call from your own phone but do use a land-line. Or else—but I don't suppose you fly to this part of the world very often even if Trieste is one of the world's insurance centers."
Don't use my own phone? Where in northern Illinois could I walk in and make a long-distance call to Izola without attracting attention? I took half an hour to solve this problem and then I was on the line. Drago picked up the phone. “It's midnight."
"Sorry. Janet Olson here, returning your call."
"Oh. Well yes. Hello. How are things with you?"
"Could be worse. I have an over-excited daughter. How about you?” I asked.
"We're all very happy,” Drago said, sarcasm in his voice. “We're all on the same side now. That's probably a surprise to you, but it was either that or an unthinkable alternative. And the big H put on a charm offensive. Besides, it turns out he was right. The flabby, stinky Dur Ossur folded without a fight."
"So women have been going across?” I asked.
"What women do for love, eh? Even for this unlovely crew! But Heider has sent the worst to explore the ruins, the ones who have no women, and some of us hope they never find their way back. Sorry, that was un-Christian of me,” Drago apologized.
"Heider's been lucky,” I said.
"Lucky or smart. He wants me to persuade you that there'll be advantages if you keep quiet about all this. He wants you to help found a new company."
"Are you working for him now?” I asked.
"I should resent that,” Drago said. “But we have to get along. And things may start to happen that got stalled for centuries under the Franciscans. I've always had an itch to explore. Moab is a hub, not only for the planet itself, but—well, you saw all those other coffin-boxes."
"Yeah. Remember Homeland Security. The days of phone privacy are gone. Let's ratchet back the conversation."
"Yes, we should,” Drago said. “When do you next come to Europe? And where?"
I mentioned a couple of dates. “It's either Frankfurt or later in Scotland."
"A daytrip from Frankfurt brings you close,” Drago said. “We can talk about your new company."
* * * *
In America, companies have HR departments, provide benefits and issue W-2 forms. They're total snitches to the IRS. Public companies have to snitch to their stockholders. In Europe the burden is equally great, except in countries that specialize in the opposite. Drago and I met in Liechtenstein and that's where Chemosch Entdeckung began to grow real, in a manor house that was rented for the occasion.
The house was flanked by an ornamental pond crusted with an early-winter skein of ice. A guard with binoculars paced the parapet. Anti-bugging devices created a space where spy radios could not work.
Drago made the introductions and I shook a half-dozen hands. A woman in a wheelchair gave a short speech. Eventually Chemosch would have an engineering department. Reverse-engineering would decipher the principles behind Moabite devices, and not just weapons but other stuff too. There'd be a law department to file patent applications. God knows our accountants would have to be fancy in their skills, fancy too in their moral scruples. Above all, our explorers had to be paid. That was an absolute rule, even if those explorers didn't work anywhere on any official map.
Heider's older sister offered as my first job the task of finding and hiring these explorers. Here was a challenge for a woman as safe as me. Where do you go for people like that?
Soldier of Fortune magazine? Show up in tough places in New Guinea, Alaska, and the Central African Republic, waving contracts in the air? Maybe I should hit the Historical Cartographer mailing list.
The truth is, people wouldn't sign for the kind of vague prospects I dared hint at, unless they'd made a mess of their lives. Did I want people like that?
I drew my first paycheck and flew back to the United States without having any brainstorms worth Heider Hummel's faith in me. I was a fraud. I certainly hadn't given notice at my old job. What was the point? Zero ideas meant zero time spent pursuing prospects.
Melody and Annette were in the back seat as Ken drove us home from the airport. They zoomed out the door as soon as we parked, eager to get to the TV and watch for one of Melody's commercials. The feature that took place between ads was one of those spin-off reality shows.
For every person in televised never-neverland glumly eating witchetty grubs, there were a hundred applicants, eager to do something unconventional for fame and money. Where did I go to find the list of reality show rejects?
My daughter Melody was an expert at this. There are agencies that deal with screenings. This being America, those agencies had no qualms about selling names, as many as we wanted.
I could deposit my paycheck without feeling guilty. I was on the job. I was working for Heider Hummel. He was the guilty one. It was amazing how well I could rationalize my behavior, and now I was ready to do unto others as had b
een done to me. I was going to lie over the telephone, and change people's lives.
Well, I couldn't tell the truth, could I? Chemosch company policy was to keep the truth secret as long as possible. So I had brochures made up and began working down the list, telling people about a new reality show concept—a scavenger hunt for artifacts in a thousand-year-old ruined city. All they had to do was supply health certificates and sign a confidentiality agreement and a quitclaim and they'd be on salary. We'd pay their air fare and hotel expenses.
Within the week I'd collected my first dozen. I called Drago and warned him to stick video cameras in their gear. “They're under the impression all this is for TV,” I said.
"What happened to your moral scruples?” Drago answered. “I guess you went to hell, just like me. Any mechanics in your gang? We've taken a Volkswagen Thing apart piece by piece, and sent it through. We're putting it together on the other side."
"We have a mechanic, a nanny, a chocolatier, a shoe saleslady, a computer geek, a medic, a jobless TV reporter, a wine expert, a high school teacher, a dental hygienist, a cowgirl from Montana, and an ex-priest. That's just the first crew. There'll be a second crew in another week."
"These are thousand-mile desert treks,” Drago complained. “We can't fit camels through. Little donkey colts, yes, but it'll be months before they're grown. What I'm saying is, don't push people on us too fast."
I shrugged. “I could go back to my old job."
"You still have your old job?” Drago asked. “Don't we pay you enough?"
"I have teenage daughters,” I answered. Drago accepted my comment, but in fact Melody was earning good money. I didn't need my insurance job, which was boring when it wasn't stressful.
Life was stressful enough. Melody got a call and was offered a part in a movie being filmed in the swamps of Belize. Being filmed right now! She said yes, leaving it to her parents to provide chaperonage and home schooling for the next two months. In the end the whole burden fell on Ken. My husband collected books, lesson plans, and luggage and flew south with both daughters, the culmination of a four-day whirlwind.
The house was suddenly empty. What was I to do with myself these next months, especially if I quit the insurance business? I fingered my brochures and thought about exploring an alien world. I'd sent Team One to Trieste. Team Two was waiting to go. Given a one-coffin supply bottleneck, that was all Chemosch could handle just now.
I gave notice. My twenty-year career was over. Team Two would contain a kosher butcher, an architect, a retired Coast Guard officer, a secretary, a day-care cook, a Navajo composer of new-age music, a power-plant engineer who repaired antique cars, a nurse, a mountain-climbing heiress, a bankrupt pickle-maker, a website designer, and now—a former insurance company executive.
* * * *
Drago was our greeter. We met at the same hotel in Trieste, and I was the only one who didn't look for nonexistent camera crews. The pickle man and the Navajo recognized my voice but I was reassuring. Afterward Drago took me aside. “This might be interesting,” he said. “The ancient Moabites brought other species to their planet, not just the Dur Ossur. Some survive in the dry regions. There may even be humans."
"Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
"Because our first explorers got spooked and worse,” Drago said. “Worse meaning shot at."
"Shot at?" I wasn't ready for this.
"Arrows,” Drago said. “We'll send you someplace different. That first bunch couldn't have high technology if they're using arrows."
"We of course will have guns galore,” I said.
"Certainly, whatever your vehicles can carry. Have I told you I met the new Dur Ossur king? His German was very good. He was a hospital medic before he decided to challenge old King Mut. His exploits of bravery are enlightening. For example, he crossed a bridge."
"Yes?"
"That's tough for a Dur Ossur. Climbing a wall, even tougher. One gets the impression the Dur Ossur are a bit soft. If they survive on Moab, the other species can't be that terrifying."
"If I get killed, I'm going to be very vexed at you,” I said.
"Oh heavens no. It's all H and his family. Blame them. But you'll have guns. The gunnery of Balkan freedom-fighters being what it is, those original arrow-shooters are thoroughly extinct."
My meeting with Drago got interrupted. Our team of explorers needed help with aspects of life in a posh Italian hotel. Over the next hours my esteem for my husband and daughters as travelers went way up. By contrast, my eleven comrades had problems with lost shoes, elevator phobia, and a case of diarrhea. These were the tough people who were going to explore a new world!
Tough, maybe not. Give me Ken, Melody, and Annette any day. But buff, yes. And eagerly eying each other, trying out relationships. Next day we herded them into a bus and drove south. Drago led them through choruses of Dalmatian folksongs. We lunched on wine and prosciutto, and then we reached the monastery.
Schoolboys gave us a jaded eye—yet more tourists. We packed in, nursed the phobic website-designer down the basement elevator into the cave, and finally lined up by the coffin. First our bags went through, and then ourselves. A couple of people might have chickened out except for the video cameras, recording their heroism for posterity.
On the far side the rules were different. No one was coddled anymore. Heider Hummel came from his command post by the depot door, called me “old friend” and waved us to a hand-drawn map, hung over a blackboard.
"We've set out stations with fuel and supplies along the ancient autobahn,” he said, pointing with a stick. “This first part is barren gravel. The next part used to be a lake. Now it's a salt flat, very dusty if there's a wind, and there's always a wind. Keep by the skirting road or you'll lose your landmarks."
My team raised a few hands. Heider ignored them. “After the salt flats things get better, scrubby, with bushes. Then comes a volcano. The ancients must have been interested because the autobahn makes a bend at the volcano. There might be mines, or quarries. Then the road turns east and comes to a hilly area. The city that's your final destination lies at the edge of the hills. You may see greenery and even open water, because our weather models indicate sporadic rain during the monsoon season."
"How are we going to get there?” the Coast Guard guy asked. “Isn't this a long distance away? This is going to take a lot of time.” What he meant was, time doing something that wasn't interesting to watch on TV.
"We have a fully operational Kummelwagon with a supply trailer. You'll be carrying supplies forward, setting up new advanced stations,” Heider said. “The volcano is your first goal, but of course if you see anything interesting along the way, pick it up. Don't worry about the time. You'll be paid in proportion to the time and risk."
"Risk?” asked the day-care cook.
"There might be people up there, or—others. This is virgin territory. For six hundred years the monks made few forays. Mostly they copied ancient maps and that's what we're working from."
My team of eleven were shaken enough to guess that they weren't play-actors in a TV script, but they weren't sure. Maybe this was a terrific setup, beyond anything they'd seen before. They didn't want to seem like idiots so they decided to go with the show.
We divided up responsibilities. We introduced ourselves to the people around the depot, and got shown around in a mix of English, Croatian, Italian, and German. As evening descended, we encountered a real live Dur Ossur ambassador, waking from her day-nap. At this point the truth sank home. I made myself scarce, in case there were hard feelings.
A delegation found me in my sleeping bag. “This is real, isn't it?” the Navajo asked. I nodded and his face lit up. The heiress, the nurse, and the engineer felt the same joy. The website designer said she'd see me in jail for breach of contract. I wished I'd had the foresight to use a false name.
Next day the nurse went around with a notebook, writing down our blood-types and extending her notes to include our entire medical histories
. “I wouldn't have taken this record for a TV show, but this is serious.” The others went through similar transformations. Our cook took inventory of our supplies, for example. We'd be rationed from the very beginning.
Heider was impressed. “The other gang didn't do their jobs this thoroughly."
"Where did you send them?"
"North through the gravel desert, but bending west where there's a fork in the autobahn. It seems the ancients were warlike enough to build a long north-south wall at some point in their development. The Latin globe calls it Terminus Mundi. A few days ago they went to check it out."
"What did the ancients look like? Any idea?"
"They left mummies. The monks have pictures."
The mummies had buck teeth and shovel-shaped claws and shocks of orange hair. If you melded a naked mole rat with a plastic troll from a Scandinavian curio shop, you'd get the idea. You'd have to plump out the image, of course. Desert mummification tends to shrink. But like the Dur Ossur, this was not a species committed to bipedalism. “If you see anything like this alive, treat it like God,” Heider said. “They had a space empire once. We'll show them the utmost respect, no matter how goofy they seem. But I take no encouragement from recent events. Bows and arrows? The descriptions sound like humans to me."
"Speaking of bows and arrows, what about a few hours of weapons training?” I said.
Planet Moab had long days and we had time for this. Later, one of the monks who were now Heider's buddies taught us some Moabite symbols we might see on road signs. By evening we were ready for a bon voyage feast. Drago volunteered to substitute for the website designer, who made it clear she wasn't cooperating. She hadn't gotten a boob job and a tummy tuck in order to risk real death.
I was surprised that the rest of Team Two was gung-ho, but Tony the Navajo spoke for them when he said, “There's a book in this. Or better, a documentary.” And so next morning we rolled off. We found a path through the nearby hills and into the gravel desert, a region un-eroded by rain and too warm for winter frost. The ancient autobahn was still a fast track here. Our needle climbed to forty kilometers per hour.
Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005 Page 20