***
Idem felt the backlash from the Other's eruption of uncontrolled power as a man might feel a backhanded blow across the face.
The Other possessed enormous power. Not that that came as a surprise; having confined Idem to the core of the world for more than twelve centuries was proof enough. But now it was plain that the Other, from whom Idem had hidden for so long, could no longer control its own powers. The psi waves shuddered through the whole upper layer of Idem's flesh, shaking apart barriers that had stood staunch for fifty circuits of the sun. The mighty underground rivers that had once fed Its skin were sundered, divided and redivided, finding channels wholly distinct from those they'd followed for the half-century past. The crust yielded new channels of ingress to the magma that pressed against it from below. Passages opened to the upward flow of the elements upon which Its ability to penetrate to the outer layers of Its body depended.
It reeled from the psionic lashing, yet it drew new strength from the expansion of the precious streams of hot nutrients through Its flesh.
It held fast to Its sanity and waited.
Presently the psiquake faded and was over. Idem relaxed Its defenses slowly, probing outward with Its gentlest touch, and found that, as had happened inexplicably but regularly twenty-three times before, the quake had leavened Its flesh with the necessities for Its return.
It paused to consider.
The cycle of Its confinements had been highly regular. If the pattern continued, It would rise against the weakened barriers, suffuse Its outermost flesh with Its finest nerves once again, and be lashed back to the core after a brief, frenzied effort to restore Its integument to its normal state. It would return to the inner darkness having accomplished nothing.
What were the odds of a departure from the pattern? Might the extra Others, the ones whose power appeared not to be directed against Idem, present an opportunity? Or were they only cosmetically distinct from Its jailer? Might a bid for freedom at this time provoke a final immuring, never again to be lifted through all of eternity?
It could not know. It could only balance hope against fear.
Hope remained the stronger.
It surged toward the surface of Its flesh, Its memory of the sun's caress too thrilling to be borne.
***
Magnusson had never known Ianushkevich's careworn face to be more solemn.
The parapsychologist sat with his palms flat against his thighs and his gaze aimed at the floor. He'd listened to Magnusson's narration of the telekinetic spasm without saying a word. Across the monitor room, Charles Petrus reclined with his hands folded across his chest and his eyes closed.
Magnusson hunched forward in his seat and waited for a reaction. The uncomfortable silence persisted.
"Gentlemen," he said at last, "we're in the final throes. If Tellus lasts even one more month, it'll be more than we have any right to expect."
Still silence. Neither the agronomist nor the parapsychologist moved.
Magnusson's eyes darted back and forth between them. "Does either of you have any ideas at all?"
Petrus remained silent. Ianushkevich looked up slowly. A wistful smile formed on his dark face.
"I haven't had an idea of any sort since he lost his sanity, Einar. Goodness, I doubt I've had one since his apotheosis. Perhaps the centuries have used me up."
Magnusson stared at him. "Are you giving up?"
Ianushkevich shook his head. "I can't give up. None of us can. But that's not the same as knowing what to do."
The parapsychologist rose and peered down into the monitors. Tellus was still unconscious. His biometrics were dropping ever more quickly. His final days were drawing near, and with them, the failure of Man on Hope.
"Charlie," he said, "if we were to go public, admit to what we've been doing and how we've failed, propose a program to salvage the largest farms, do you think...?"
Petrus's eyes snapped open and he sat forward. "We haven't the resources. Chelating treatment for that many million acres would cost so many billions of dekas that it would stop all the rest of the economy. Half the planet would still starve, and the rest would be on a bare subsistence basis for the rest of history."
"No, only until one of the candidates was ready to assume his duties."
Petrus peered at Ianushkevich as if he'd started to gibber. "Dmitri, once we admit to what we've been doing these last twelve centuries, the game is over. Do you seriously believe we'd be forgiven for allowing a hundred million people to be born into mortal jeopardy they knew nothing about? They're anarchists!"
Ianushkevich's mouth dropped open. His eyes lost focus, all the color fled from his face, and his breathing became rapid and ragged. Magnusson rose and went to him, put his big hands on the parapsychologist's thin shoulders, and shook him gently back from the edge of his waking nightmare.
"Dmitri, be strong. We need you." He strained to resist the onset of panic. "The whole world needs you, Dmitri!"
As Magnusson's voice hardened, the parapsychologist's expression changed. His breathing slowed and deepened. Focus returned to his eyes. He nodded. Magnusson released him, and he slumped backward into his chair.
"What would the States do, I wonder?" Ianushkevich said. "Herd everyone into compulsory communes, plan out every element of all their lives, ration every necessity down to the milligram? Or simply shoot the greater part of them and pay the rest food to bury them?" He looked squarely at Petrus, then at Magnusson. "Is there anything they might have done that we would have the stomach to do? Anything that might work?"
"Stomach isn't enough," Petrus grated. "We don't have the power. The entire Cabal consists of twenty-three persons, a small collection of specialized equipment, some even more specialized knowledge, and a modest account at Goldman Trust. One average-sized clan could wipe us out in an hour."
"Besides," Magnusson said, "what do you mean by work? How many lives would we have to preserve, and to what standard, to be able to say 'it worked?'"
Ianushkevich grinned wanly at him. "It's no time to be confounding the pragmatists, Einar. As matters stand, Tellus will be dead within a month. Crop failures will begin a week or so before that. Three months hence the entire population of the world will be dead of starvation, except for the ones lucky enough to die in the food wars before that. Avert any part of that, and I'll declare victory and shoot myself in the head."
The room became silent once again.
Presently, Petrus said, "Where's our newest colleague? Your protege, Einar?"
Magnusson snorted. "Mine and Dmitri's both. You're right, he should be here. The rest of us can hardly claim to have this under control." He went to the intercom that linked the
four Inner Circle members' offices and pressed the key marked EM2. "Ethan, are you there?"
"What? Yes, Dr, uh, Einar. What can I do for you?"
"Would you join us, please? We're in the monitor room."
"I'll be right there."
Magnusson released the key and returned to his seat. The silence lasted until Ethan Mandeville ciphered himself into the monitor room. He took in their faces and frowned.
"Is there a new problem? I'd thought --"
"Think later," Petrus said. He stood and crossed his arms over his chest. "For now, just listen." Magnusson's anger rose, but he held his tongue as the agronomist synopsized the situation in a two minute recitation. When Petrus concluded, the graduate student was impressively pale.
"So, Ethan," Ianushkevich said, "we need a miracle, you see. Something we haven't yet thought of, that will either accelerate the preparation of our new candidates, so that one of them will be ready for apotheosis in a month at most, or an entirely new agrochemical that will flush the heavy metals out of the soil but cost almost nothing to make and distribute, or a treatment for our ailing God that will allow him to hang on for the usual six months of conditioning a new God requires. Yours is the youngest and least battered brain among us. Perhaps it's more flexible than ours. We hope so, at any rate.
So please, give us what you can."
Mandeville stood dumbstruck for a long moment as the others stared. When he'd accepted the reality of the crisis, he drew a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked from face to face as if collecting permissions to speak.
"I've been playing with an idea, but I'm not sure I want to talk about it yet. It has...ethical problems I haven't thought all the way through."
"We're out of time for long thoughts and fine sentiments, boy," Petrus said. "Talk."
That was all Magnusson could take. He surged from his chair, one hand raised to punish the agronomist, and pulled up short at the needlegun that appeared in Petrus's hand.
"Sit down, Einar. There's no time for your fine sentiments, either."
Magnusson closed his eyes briefly, mastered his anger, and returned to his seat. Petrus returned his weapon to his pocket. There was a new weariness in his face, as if he could hardly bear to hear any more news, even if it were good.
"Give us whatever you've got, lad. And please forgive me my little ways, if you can. I've been through eleven hundred twenty-seven years of this, and it's getting just a bit old. Now, if you please, let's have that idea."
Chapter 16
"So," Professor Stromberg said, "you've now read about the organizational structures that characterized the peak period in economic and technological advance on Earth, and you've read about the dozens of things the denizens of Earth -- at least, of the richest districts -- enjoyed and diverted themselves with." The sociologist steepled his fingers beneath his chin and smiled. "As it happens, I have no further remarks prepared on the subject. Do any of you have any questions?"
Teresza felt Armand's hand tighten on hers. She tried to watch his face without being too obvious. He'd said the course was the most interesting one he was taking that semester. It hadn't struck her nearly so powerfully, two years before. She'd wondered if it was the syllabus, the lecturer, or Armand himself. It appeared to be a combination of the three.
The brief silence in the lecture hall was broken when a young woman raised her hand.
"Sir?"
Stromberg's head swiveled toward her. "Yes, Miss Albermayer?"
"Why did they need all that stuff?"
The lecturer smiled. "'Need' might not be the right word, Miss. They enjoyed their diversions, just as we enjoy our more modest assortment. Yes, they had far more of the material variety. But is it relevant whether they needed them?"
Claire Albermayer was briefly silent. "I suppose not, Professor, but wouldn't you have to disqualify yourself as an interested party? After all, wasn't it you who dismissed the idea of need in this very class?"
Stromberg's grin was tinged with embarrassment. "Touche, Miss. There's a lot of justice in that. Need is so subjective a concept that you probably couldn't find two people on Hope who would agree on it. But the denizens of Earth in the years before the Hegira agreed on it rather impressively. How do we explain that?"
Silence reigned.
"Armand," Teresza murmured, "were they really that rich?"
He looked over at her and nodded quickly.
"Excuse me, Miss," Stromberg's voice boomed out. Teresza jerked her head around to find the sociologist and most of the class staring straight at her. "Yes, you who're holding Mr. Morelon's hand in a grip of steel." A titter ran through the hall. Teresza flushed. "Do you have an opinion on the subject?"
"Uh, no, Professor." Teresza rose and gathered her thoughts as best she could. "I was just surprised to hear that they had all that junk."
Stromberg smiled broadly. "Everyone is, Miss...?"
"Chistyakowski."
The sociologist frowned. "Teresza Chistyakowski? Aren't you a junior?"
How on Hope did he know? "Yes, sir."
"Then you must have taken this course two years ago."
Teresza nodded. "Yes, sir, with Professor Friedland."
Stromberg started to say something else, but apparently changed tracks before it could come out. "Well, you may take my word for it, Miss. In 2061, thirty-four percent of the economy of the richest sector, which was called the United States, was devoted to entertainment and diversions. As a category, that outstripped the second largest sector, medical services, by more than two to one. If our histories are accurate, its products were consumed with an unbelievable avidity, and its customers were perpetually hungry for more." He leaned forward over his lectern and peered hard at her. "Would you care to venture an opinion as to why they wanted so many frivolities and distractions?"
Two hundred pairs of eyes pressed against her as she groped for a response. She squeezed Armand's hand and tried to think.
The household she and her father kept was simple and modest. They had all they needed and a handful of minor luxuries, but no one would have thought their lifestyle lavish. Yet she couldn't think of anyone she knew whose surroundings were substantially more opulent. Not even the Morelons, whose wealth would have sufficed to buy the Gallatin campus ten or twenty times over.
But why would anyone want to be surrounded by all that junk in the first place?
"Professor," she said slowly, "I can't help asking the question the other way around. We could have all that stuff if we wanted it, couldn't we?"
Stromberg grinned suggestively. "Indeed we could, Miss."
"So why don't we?"
The sociologist let her question hang in the air for several seconds before he responded.
"Miss Chistyakowski, I can no more answer you than you could answer me. It's one of several major differences between Hope and the Earth cultures from which we sprang. No one can explain it in a way that forecloses all the alternatives. But there are some visible patterns that tempt me to offer a pair of theses to you." He stepped out from behind the lectern and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back.
"A colleague of mine at Bakunin, whose concentration is socio-economics, has studied the correlation between fertility rates and per capita wealth for nearly two centuries. He says there's no escaping the conclusion that as a people grows wealthy, it ceases to breed. Earth data does indeed suggest that. The richest of Earth's nations had fertilities below replacement level -- below the rate at which the population could sustain its numbers, much less increase them.
"As it happens, those very rich societies had become obsessed with what they called 'youth culture,' and the concomitant assumption that the young deserved whatever they might happen to want. What the young mostly wanted, then as now, was playthings. Families with young children routinely buried themselves in children's toys, some of which were crafted to appeal to an adult's frivolous side as well.
"Now, we know from historical data that predators of all sorts will concentrate where the prey is fattest. The State, which is merely an organized band of predators with a veneer of legitimacy derived either from tradition or from a manufactured appearance of the consent of its subjects, took a huge fraction of its subjects' annual production from them in taxes. A typical State would increase its exactions on its subjects faster than those subjects could increase their own fortunes. That compelled wage earners to strive ever harder just to run in place, with obvious consequences for production and marketing. Of course, after some point has been reached, the economic frontier will be purely discretionary items: entertainments, diversions, toys, and the like. Thus, the ever-accelerating production of junk was reinforced by two powerful impetuses.
"I think there's some justice to my colleague's view, but I prefer to reverse his vision of causes and effects. Hope, despite having less than forty percent of the land area of Earth, is still an open, thinly populated world. Sixty generations have come and gone here, but we're far from filling the planet to the degree that our Earthly progenitors had achieved in the mid-twenty-first century. We value large families, whereas the culture in the United States had become moderately hostile to them."
Teresza frowned. "Hostile, sir?"
Stromberg nodded. "Indeed. Here, a couple that fails to produce three or f
our children is regarded as most unfortunate, isn't it so? But in the United States in 2061, a couple that birthed a third child was regarded with something between resentment and pity."
Teresza fought not to let the bolt of agony that went through her show on her face. Thankfully, Stromberg misinterpreted what he saw there by a planetary diameter.
"Hard to believe, isn't it? But I'll tell you something more appalling yet, something few histories see fit to mention, if you think you can bear it." Stromberg panned the lecture hall, gathering the eyes of the throng to him. "In the year 2061, for every thousand live births in the United States, there were nearly six hundred abortions."
The class erupted. Shouts of outrage and cries of dismay rang from one end of the hall to the other. Shocked faces stared at one another as if what they'd just heard could not possibly be true.
Teresza stood with her mouth agape, straining to disbelieve the sociologist's words. She glanced down at Armand. His face was as pale as her own. He shook his head minutely. She slumped back into her seat and leaned hard against him.
Stromberg stood with his hands clasped behind him, waiting for the din to subside.
"Before you ask," he said into the restored quiet, "they weren't medically necessary. They were a form of contraception." A murmur rose and fell quickly. "The structure of that society was far distant from ours. Extended families and clans such as we admire were very few. Even intact nuclear families had become exceptional. Many children never knew their fathers. Many couples consciously averted the possibility of conception their whole lives long. A great many women regarded childbearing and child rearing, not as a fulfillment and an honor to be cherished, but as costs, nuisances, and impediments to commercial achievement, or artistic expression, or social access.
"My Bakunin colleague would say that the typical family was limiting its total economic exposure by having very few children or none, since the expense of child-rearing in a heavily regulated State exceeds any other expense by a considerable margin. Parents wanted their children to 'have it all,' as the saying went, but with such a large State burden, which not only reduced the family's effective earnings but dramatically increased the price of every good for sale, most couples couldn't square that desire with a family of Hope's typical size.
Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) Page 11