by Larry Niven
Unnerving.
“I regret we did not get to know one another on We Made It,” Nessus said. “It might make this conversation easier.”
Ausfaller shifted his drink bulb from hand to hand. “The Puppeteer I dealt with, the regional president, wanted to keep things between us. I can’t begin to reproduce his name, but he had the most elaborate mane in the place. I thought of him as Adonis.”
Adonis? Nessus struggled to control his lips. This was no time for laughter. And if anyone on Earth studied Citizen mannerisms, it would be ARMs. “My apologies, Mr. Ausfaller. Most of us at General Products take human-pronounceable names.” So did many Citizens who would not dream of setting hoof off Hearth. Human pseudonyms were quite the popular affectation back home, within the Experimentalist party, at least.
Nessus’ onetime boss had such a pseudonym: Achilles. All scouts were crazy, of course, but it took a particular insanity to assume the name of a legendary human warrior. At least Achilles had had the wisdom not to offer that name to an ARM. But Adonis? His mane was garish, a fashion nightmare. Then again, what did Citizen scouts, much less humans, know of proper mane styling?
Not that fashion gaffes mattered. Nessus was increasingly of the opinion that all mane ornamentation was a pointless, time-wasting pretension. There was nothing like the coming end of everything to put things into perspective.
Ausfaller squirmed in his chair. “Adonis’ real fake name doesn’t concern me, Nessus, unless he’s on Earth.”
“I’ll get to the point,” Nessus said. “And no, he’s not. You are doubtless aware of the recent discovery regarding the galactic core. As many have surmised, General Products personnel have returned home because of that news.”
Ausfaller leaned forward. “Why was the recall done in secrecy? Why so hastily? The radiation won’t arrive for twenty thousand years.”
Flee from danger. Gather for protection. How could it be otherwise? Long before intelligence emerged, those without these instincts died in the mouths of predators. “What one thing does everyone on Earth know about Puppeteers?”
“That you’re cowards.” Ausfaller took a long swallow from his drink bulb. “No offense.”
Nessus said, “I’m not offended. We consider ourselves prudent. Among us, cowardice is a virtue.” He paused to synth a beverage, busying his heads when they yearned to pluck the tousled mess that was his mane. Human food lacked nutritional value for him, but warm carrot juice soothed him nonetheless. “We run from danger. We don’t wait.”
Sigmund considered. “So everyone else went home immediately. How is home, wherever that is, any safer?”
A head defied Nessus’ will, plunging to twist and pull at an errant tress. He brought the head back up. “You misunderstand. We must flee the galaxy.”
“And hang the consequences to the rest of us.”
Hang? Maybe Puck would have understood the metaphor. The rest of us was clear enough. “We verge on the purpose of this meeting. Unavoidably, General Products’ departure impacts human worlds. It impacts Kzinti worlds, too, although that may concern you less.”
“Impact?” Ausfaller snapped. “That’s quite the understatement. You were connected enough to ascertain my role and track me down. You must also have seen on the Net what havoc GP’s disappearance continues to cause. When I last checked, millions had lost their jobs. A hundred billion stars or more have already evaporated from Sol system’s stock markets.”
The human was right, but so what? It changed nothing. “We can avoid danger, so we do. You have my regrets, if it matters.”
“It matters not at all.” Ausfaller’s cheek pulsed. “Nor do I believe you arranged a meeting to extend futile apologies.”
“I didn’t,” Nessus said. “My people avoid perils, however remote. ARMs worry about perils, no matter how improbable. Are we so different?”
Ausfaller smiled. “But paranoia isn’t normal. Usually, it’s treated.”
The smile lacked humor, and hostile undertones lurked beneath treated. Nessus acknowledged a more personal similarity: Neither of us belongs.
He ignored the pang of empathy. “You wonder if General Products intentionally caused this panic. Maybe you think we hope to exploit the situation. That isn’t the case, Mr. Ausfaller. Having left the region, we have no use for human assets.”
“I’ll try again. Why did you ask to see me?” Ausfaller’s tic throbbed.
“Our reputation concerns us, Mr. Ausfaller. We want the United Nations to know we intend to honor our commitments. Various transactions remain to complete. Our many business relationships will require disentanglement.”
“And alone among all Puppeteers, you’ve been picked to stay behind and handle this. Nessus, why sneak away? Why meet even now in secrecy?”
“Because other humans must feel as you do.” Nessus pawed at the floor, the motion blocked from Ausfaller’s view by a desk. “In the interest of stability, would the UN have interfered with GP’s departure if it could? You’re thinking that we could have met at your office. Tell me, Sigmund. Would I have been allowed thereafter to leave?”
“So you’ve been left behind to clean up GP’s messes, all to protect the good name of Puppeteers,” Ausfaller said. “That’s your story.”
He hadn’t responded to Nessus’ questions. That was answer enough.
Hearth’s hidden location was its first and main defense. Nessus could not divulge, or be made to divulge, its coordinates. No Citizen left Hearth without deep-rooted, autonomic conditioning that would stop his hearts first. Now, in crisis, all Citizens must move—and in flight, surely their risk of discovery swelled.
How Nessus yearned to hide beneath his own belly!
“Protecting our good name is my job, Mr. Ausfaller. Someday, in the distant future, your descendants and mine might meet in a safer neighborhood.”
The ARM stood, frowning for reasons that eluded Nessus. “Who are you really, Nessus?”
“I’m with the Warranty Department.” It sounded better than a human term Puck had suggested: rear guard.
And much, much better than expendable.
12
Carlos Wu was dark and slender, with straight black hair. Curiosity danced around his eyes, and a trace of whimsy.
He seems normal enough, Sigmund thought. Carlos didn’t look like someone the Fertility Board had awarded an unlimited parenting license. At age 18, tanj it! There ain’t no futzy justice! “Thank you for coming, Dr. Wu.”
“Just Carlos.”
“Then I’m Sigmund.” He laced his fingers. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you in.”
“I’m not often asked to ARM HQ,” Carlos answered.
“This doesn’t happen often, either.” Sigmund called up a holo of the core explosion. “Assuming it has happened.”
“So that’s why I’m here.” Carlos tipped his chair back against the wall. “Oh, it’s happened, Sigmund. I’ve studied the data extensively.”
Sigmund couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or annoyed. ARM interest nonplussed most people. Even astrophysicists. Until the infamous broadcast from Jinx, Sigmund had gone his entire life without meeting any. “So the report holds up.”
“Oh yes.” A very toothy smile. “Quite fascinating, really. In twenty thousand years, we’ll want to be elsewhere.”
Sigmund found it difficult to care—and more difficult not to dislike Wu. How many billion descendants would this genius have by then? “Nearer-term events concern me, Carlos. We’re in a deep recession. The economists tell me the Puppeteer Exodus caused it.”
The staff exo-psychologists accepted everything Nessus had told him. They said Puppeteers would flee from the supernovae, repercussions to any other species be damned. Market crashes. Recessions. So what?
With a thud, Carlos righted his chair. “Ah. It would be reassuring to know why GP vanished. General Products must be very wealthy. If their purpose were nefarious, they’d have liquidated their assets before disappearing, maybe sold the market s
hort.”
Short selling was rather remote from astrophysics. Finance and accounting were Sigmund’s fields, but Wu had no way to know that.
Carlos mistook silence for confusion. “Shorting a stock is a bet on its decline. You borrow and sell shares, planning to return shares bought later at a lower price. If Puppeteers meant to cause a market panic, they should have shorted a lot of stock.”
Rather remote from astrophysics. Also, very perceptive. Sigmund began to like Wu. “We’ve looked. GP left its assets here, and there’s no evidence of short selling.”
“Then back to physics, Sigmund. The reported measurements and the instrument calibrations all check out. I assume my peers have told you the same.”
Peers. Did Wu have peers? “No one I spoke to was supposed to reveal their consultation.”
Carlos chuckled. “No one did. I assumed there were others.”
Smart-ass.
If the core explosion was real, then the Exodus was, too. There’d be no reason for Puppeteers to try bottom-fishing Earthly stock markets. Sigmund said, “I’d prefer to independently confirm the observations.”
“Me, too,” Carlos said. “Not me, personally, but someone. Without the advanced hyperdrive, it’s impossible.”
“And if we don’t have it?” Sigmund asked.
Carlos smiled. “Until then, I’m afraid, you’ll have to trust me.”
DINERS CHATTED AT antique iron tables arrayed across an uneven redbrick patio. Horse-drawn carriages, cloppedy-clop, made their way down the cobblestone street that fronted the marina bistro. Waves lapped against the shore and rocked the yachts at anchor. Seagulls wheeled overhead.
Night was falling, but Sigmund had teleported in from California. Despite the aromas of peppers, curries, and ginger wafting from the kitchen, he wasn’t ready for dinner. He sipped his piña colada, waiting, remembering a time before transfer booths. Since teleportation, nothing but prices stood between tourist hordes and beautiful little Caribbean islands like this. The 20-star drink in his hand didn’t faze him. He could afford it. What did irk Sigmund was that his companion, now merrily devouring a fresh-caught lobster on Sigmund’s tab, couldn’t possibly know that.
Ander Smittarasheed was an off-the-books source. He wanted confidentiality and was entitled to it; they never met in an ARM office. Ander had picked both St. Croix and one of the most exclusive eateries on it. Ander’s petty greed often correlated with the quality of his findings. Sigmund hoped today was such an occasion.
Finally, Ander set down his fork and belched. He was massive, a weight lifter. Muscle rippled beneath his pink-and-purple bodysuit. The fabric put the sunset to shame, but it fit right in among the diners. “Excellent, Sigmund. You should have joined me. Perhaps you’ll reconsider for dessert.”
“Perhaps. How was your trip?” Sigmund prompted.
“Interesting.” Iron scraping on brick, Ander pulled his chair closer. “Fascinating fellow, young Shaeffer. Quite the sightseer.”
“From the beginning, please,” Sigmund said.
“Right. I took transport to Jinx. I found Beowulf there, basking in the adulation of the public. The masses usually came to him, though. He likes the gravity control of the finer hotels.”
Jinxian gravity was three times that of We Made It. Sigmund tried to picture it. Jinxians short and stout like fireplugs. Shaeffer tall and gaunt. “The adoring women could have snapped him like a twig.”
Ander laughed. “His sex life was the one thing I didn’t ask about. Here’s the short version. Beowulf has a weakness for the finer things. However generously the Puppeteers paid him off four years ago, he seemed determined to burn through it.”
A speedboat roaring up to the pier made conversation impossible. Birds screeched their protests. Buoys clanged, softer and softer as the wake dissipated. After a while, Ander said, “So, Sigmund. Four years ago on We Made It, you heard what Bey heard. What did the Puppeteers pay for your silence?”
“Nothing.” Sigmund knew Ander wouldn’t believe that. It wasn’t just that Sigmund hardly needed the money. If he had extorted a bribe, Adonis would have had leverage over him by threat of exposure.
And somehow Sigmund always knew: If anyone anywhere were ever to be caught for corruption, it would be him.
None of which Sigmund had any intention of sharing. “I told him, ‘General Products will have to owe me one.’ ”
“All right then.” Ander laughed cynically. “Back to the free-spending Mr. Shaeffer. He was delighted to run into me. The Puppeteers probably no longer care whether Bey ever scripts a docudrama of his voyage to the galactic core. Jinx Broadcasting Company is another story. Heh. Shaeffer thumbed an exclusive contract with JBC before he ever set out for the core. JBC still wants its show, and their execs were holding his feet to the fire.
“Having told no one I’d ghostwritten the story of his pass past a neutron star, he was running out of ways to stall.” Ander drained his mai tai, and began flapping the miniature cocktail umbrella. “It pays to have a distinctive writing style.”
Sigmund motioned for a fresh round. Slowly he coaxed out details. Shaeffer with wanderlust and money burning a hole in his pocket. Winding up on Jinx. The inquiry from General Products, to fly an experimental craft. “Ander, did the Puppeteers suspect something like the core explosion?”
“Bey doesn’t believe so. The Puppeteer honcho described it as a publicity stunt, something to bring in investors. GP wanted help defraying the cost of miniaturizing the new drive.”
In the JBC vid, the ship had looked crammed. “What’s the ship like?”
Ander shrugged. “It was long gone when I reached Jinx. Maybe a Puppeteer pilot stayed behind after the Exodus. Someone took off with it as soon as Bey vacated.”
Nessus had stayed behind on Earth, unseen. Why not another Puppeteer, on Jinx?
The sky grew dark. Sigmund motioned for another round to keep Ander talking.
Ander had been away for weeks; he had much to report. No one but human custodians in the GP building. A long talk with an astrophysicist in the Institute of Knowledge, a Dr. Julian Forward. Forward repeated what Earth’s scientists said: The data Shaeffer brought back with him were self-consistent and without anomaly. The observations didn’t in every respect match existing theory, but, according to Forward, “reality is sometimes stubbornly like that.”
“My man Bey doesn’t much like the execs at General Products,” Ander continued. “Funny as hell listening to Beowulf talking about them. The regional president on Jinx was—”
“Why Jinx?” Sigmund interrupted. He could no longer hold back the question. “Why did this expedition launch from Jinx?”
“The short answer: I don’t know. Shaeffer doesn’t know.” Ander scratched his long nose, considering. “Beowulf was told the GP shipyard on Jinx had idle capacity when it was needed. The Puppeteers weren’t eager to fly an experimental vessel, so the new drive was assembled in Human Space, counting on getting a human test pilot. Bey assumes GP approached him because he happened to be there and was in corporate files from the BVS-1 incident.”
“Purely hearsay and speculation.”
“For sure,” Ander said cheerfully. “You know, all this talking makes a man hungry. I’m told the crème brûlée here is excellent.”
Churning mind. Roiling stomach. “Not for me, but go ahead.” Sigmund waited for the waiter to take and return with Ander’s order. “So perhaps the choice of Jinx has meaning. How can we know?”
Ander tore into his dessert, leaving Sigmund alone again with his thoughts. Truthfully, he saw no reason for Puppeteers to conspire with Jinxians. Or Beowulf to conspire with either.
Shaeffer fit in—somehow. Of that, Sigmund was certain. But he had picked Shaeffer back on We Made It. What was he missing now? “Might the mission to the core have flown from Jinx simply because that’s where Shaeffer happened to be?”
“Maybe. A ship that can go to the core goes across Known Space in no time flat.” Ander blotted his lips with
his napkin. “With absolutely no data to back me up, I bet you’re right. I know about Beowulf’s blackmail scam because you told me, but there’s no hint he ever told anyone. He certainly said nothing to me when I ghostwrote the BVS-1 saga. Since Puppeteers consider blackmail a normal business practice, GP probably considers him reliable.”
They finally left the café, Ander a noticeably wealthier man than when he entered. Sigmund walked Ander to a transfer booth, then settled onto one of the benches at the end of an old wooden dock.
He stared out to sea. The waves shattered the moon’s reflection into a million pieces. An enormous jigsaw puzzle, it taunted him.
Like Puppeteers, Jinxians, and Beowulf Shaeffer. . . .
MOST UNUSUAL
Earth date: 2645
13
A sharp tap-tap made Sigmund look up. Andrea Girard, grinning, stood just outside his office.
He wondered why she was so pleased with herself. “Come in. What have you got?”
“Surprise!” Andrea said. She shut the door behind herself and sat. “Beowulf Shaeffer is here on Earth.”
Sigmund felt gut-punched. “How? When?”
Andrea, oblivious, cracked her knuckles. “He arrived on a commercial liner from Jinx a week ago last Thursday. The passenger manifest listed Shaffner, comma, B. Wolf. The name-correlation software at Customs didn’t recognize that as a person of interest. My AIde just flagged it.”
She held up her pocket comp, projecting a surveillance shot. A shock of snow-white hair leapt from the image, on a head that jutted high above the crowd. Red eyes glared from a tanned face. “Outback Spaceport. Feature matching says that’s your buddy, at better than ninety-nine percent confidence. He’s apparently using tannin pills, not necessarily as a disguise. He would need those just to go outside.”
That was Shaeffer, all right. “Barely enough of a name change not to trigger our entry protocols,” Sigmund said. Also, plausibly deniable as an honest mistake. It sounded too subtle for Shaeffer. “Jinxian connivance?”