by Sam Smith
“Ah... yes.” His expression said that he did not know her.
“It was Tulla who convinced me that Munred was definitely dead.”
“How would she know?”
“She’s been doing some research. She’s an astrophysicist. Did you know there’s a moon gone missing?”
“From Happiness? No, I didn’t. I do know that is where the Director was returning from when he disappeared.”
“Yes,” Petre said; and her mind returned to her bereavement.
“I still don’t understand,” Anton Singh gently brought her back to the present, “how Tulla Yorke would know about the Director?”
“As I said, she’s been doing some research. Out on Ben actually. Apparently they have a better science library than here.” Petre was at a loss how to explain herself further. She smiled at him, “As I’m going to be working for you I don’t suppose it matters... Tulla reckons the planet is being taken over by Nautili.”
“Nautili?”
The solicitous smile had vanished from Anton Singh’s smooth face. Now Petre beheld fierce frowning concentration.
“What makes her think that? This far in?” the questions were asked in rapid succession.
“She didn’t give any details,” Petre shrugged. “I was more concerned about Munred. But she seemed convinced. Convinced me.”
“Nautili... Yes. Something odd is happening down there. Where is she now?”
“She’s gone to the platforms near the planet. Said she first had to find out exactly what happened to the moon before anyone will believe her about the Nautili.”
“So she hasn’t told anyone yet? Apart from you?”
“No. Not until she can prove what’s happened to the moon.”
He sat back in the chair. His fingers drummed on his legs,
“She left this morning?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got to go,” he grabbed his case and was out of the chair.
Petre had still not yet adjusted to the sudden change in his demeanour — from sympathetic stranger to impersonal inquisitor. She was consequently slower to her feet. One thought, however, did occur to her: she had been used.
“So much for my going to the city.” Her voice stopped him at the door.
“No no,” he hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll send for you.”
“Got what you want,” Petre said, her voice accusing, “and this is the last I’ll see of you.” Her anger was as much at herself for having believed him as it was at him for duping her.
“No I...” The points of his arched brows drew together again in that intense concentration, “Look, you have already proved your worth to me. By knowing that woman you knew of this. You...” his free hand toyed with invisible options, “Can you come with me now? This minute?”
“To the city?”
“Yes. Now. Grab whatever you need. Your IDs. Clothes we can get there. Just bring the necessary.”
“But how do I leave the station?” she moved slowly towards the bedroom, unable to believe that anyone in the universe would have the power to bypass all those endless applications. “I don’t have any passes,” she spelt it out to him.
“My dear Petre...” he, laughing, shooed her into the bedroom, “in some ways you are remarkably naive. Part of your charm I suppose. In three days we will be in the city. I guarantee it. Now, hurry!”
Chapter Sixteen
It was late morning when Constable Drin Ligure and Sergeant Alger Deaver docked on XE2. Nero Porsnin, acting Director, read through their report, and checked through the other information their ship had brought back from Happiness. He noted the Spokesman’s request for more ships, referred it to the standing order of Inspector Eldon Boone, at that moment on Torc, who had redirected all ships away from Happiness. Nero also noted the other requests contained in Munred Danporr’s interview with the planet’s Spokesman, and he tagged all such requests for the relevant city bureaux. He then spent the remainder of the day worrying that he may have done too much, or not enough.
To be fair, in this instance, to Nero Porsnin, his was not an enviable position. He was expecting at any moment the arrival of the relief Director. He therefore did not want to set in train a course of action which might unnecessarily complicate a situation which had already gone far beyond his own understanding and experience. And whatever was to be done next would not be his decision but the relief Director’s. Any orders that Nero issued could therefore well be immediately countermanded by the new Director, might make the new Director’s task that much more difficult. So all that Nero could do was to wait and worry.
One worry he was spared was what he should do about Petre Fanne. He saw from the transport log that she had left for the city with Anton Singh shortly after the return of the police ship. Nero did not know Anton Singh. It is to Nero’s credit, however, that he told the Director of Transport that her departure was to be treated as confidential.
Possibly he was ashamed of not having confronted Petre with the news of Munred’s disappearance. Whatever his motives, he was aware how gossip might construe Petre’s departure, and rumour on a small station is always dangerous. Rumour feeding rumour it all too quickly leads to hysteria. So Nero did the right thing there. For the rest he had to wait.
Nero hung on in the office far beyond his normal working hours, finally left instructions that he was to be paged the second the relief Director arrived. And no sooner did Nero sit down to dinner than he was told of the relief Director’s arrival from Torc.
Nero hurried to the docks, only to be told that the relief Director had left for the office. Nero, sweating, bustled into the office to find the relief Director already at his desk. He stood on Nero’s entry: a tall thin old man with a shaven head.
“Nero Porsnin?” He held out a cold bony hand, “My name is Jorge Arbatov.”
* * * * *
Nero knew him by reputation. Indeed, concerning Jorge Arbatov’s remarkable career, Service legends abound. At that very moment he was in the process of creating another legend; because, although far beyond his ninetieth year, Jorge Arbatov stubbornly refused to retire. Which annoyed many of the younger Service personnel because he stood, theoretically, in the way of their advancement. Yet none could fault him on the standard of his work.
Jorge Arbatov, as one might have already assumed, was not typical of Service personnel. Even his recruitment into Service had been untypical. His parents, in their day, had been intellectuals of intergalactic repute. Jorge had inherited their intelligence, had proceeded through school and college negligently collecting honours. He had seemed bound for the highest ranks in academia, had seemed destined to occupy the mantle of his parents.
But the order of the day, young Jorge had seen, is always moribund: a spirited thinker must, therefore, always be opposed to it, must always thwart easy expectations. He had consequently opted for Service.
His reasoning can be thus described. He felt that the narrow intellectual circles in which his parents moved were out of touch with reality. The information they received was all from books, from films, was all second-hand, were all ideas without substance. They pronounced, lengthily, on the human condition and yet they were aloof from humanity. Young Jorge decided that, before he expressed an opinion, he had to know. So, wanting direct firsthand experience of other ways of life, although excessively overqualified, he applied for Service, was ecstatically accepted.
His first posting, far out from the city, not this city, showed him within a matter of weeks that neither by temperament nor intelligence was he suited to Service life. Born with an inbuilt bullshit detector, which didn’t endear him to his protocol-conscious colleagues, he was also — by far — too inquisitive, by far too industrious, and was by nature ill-disposed to follow patently absurd procedures either tacit or overt.
That first posting was as Sub-director of Hygiene on a substation. Unlike other recruits young Jorge did not regard his substation Sub-Directorship as an easy tenure, instead he thoroughly investigated
his responsibility and, after nine months, came up with detailed recommendations to improve the recycling of waste, to increase the water supply (by speeding its use — since acted upon and now in use upon most stations) and for the export of residual waste to platforms to boost their productivity (That is also now being belatedly put into practice). Those recommendations Jorge passed to the Director of Hygiene on the substation, who passed them on to the Departmental Director of Hygiene, who passed them on to the Departmental Director, who passed them on to the relevant city office; and nothing, so far as young Jorge was concerned, was done.
Despite his unServicelike industry Jorge, having been earmarked for the higher echelons of Service, was rapidly promoted upward and inward. And whichever post he held he critically analysed its responsibilities, recommended improvements where he believed them necessary — in Transport, in Communication, even in Welfare and Leisure — and moved on to his next posting without having seen a single one of his recommendations implemented.
When he was reassigned, as Director, to posts which he had previously held as Sub-director, and he found them to be in the same inefficient state as when he had last held those Departmental posts, his frustration deepened. However, he accepted his every new promotion in the belief that when he became Departmental Director he would have the necessary authority to institute the changes he desired.
But no sooner did he become a Departmental Director than he realised how little authority, in actual practise, he did have. Each discipline under his overall responsibility jealously defended its independence and resented the least interference. Appeals went rapidly above his head to their own Department heads in the city.
Undaunted, Jorge Arbatov began a single-handed attempt to reform the Service itself. But a bureaucratic structure of such a size as the Service contains a massive inertia. Indeed it self-consciously cultivates that inertia. A body of such obdurate mass is thus not to be readily moved by the puny efforts, by the unpopular campaigning, of one lone man.
Service personnel quickly disassociate themselves from anything remotely disputatious. In avoiding the slightest controversy all personnel soon become prone to an almost paranoiac desire for everything to be kept secret, to a belief in secrecy for its own sake. When Jorge tried going outside the Service, when he tried to push his proposals into the public domain, where he hoped those ideas would be discussed on their own merits and subsequently adopted, Jorge received a reprimand for the breaking of confidentiality. Thereafter, if Jorge’s proposals were discussed at all, they were debated only in secret. So Jorge set about internally combating Service’s love of secrecy, which in Service eyes made him extremely suspect, almost treacherous, certainly a dangerous man to know.
Intemperate in speech and behaviour Jorge soon became an oddity, a ‘character’, in Service circles.
“Weight of experience!” he expostulated once; and is still quoted by youthful Service personnel, “Weight of their backsides more likely.”
Jorge began one of his many critiques thus, ‘The corruption of an institution is caused by its members’ self-interest rather than their selfless serving of that institution. This institution is corrupt.’
Nor was Jorge critical solely of the Service, but also of the civilisation which it served.
“Everything’s got to be new,” he complained of the public’s appetite for sensation, for novelty. “Even when it isn’t. Especially the news.”
The owner of such outspoken views made of himself a liability to his colleagues. They consequently distanced themselves from him lest they come under suspicion of having been infected by his opinions. Their timidity further irritated Jorge. Thus Jorge’s growing unpopularity soon became apparent to even those of his superiors who had hoped that he would join them in the city. Nor were they unaware that his campaign for reform was a threat to their own prestigious positions.
Distrusted by his superiors, unpopular with his subordinates, Jorge’s relentless prying upset the status quo even on those stations where he hadn’t served — his ideas were disruptive enough in themselves, did not require his acerbic presence. Thus Jorge’s promotions soon began to be sideways. But promote him they had to; because Jorge was a man of undeniable talents. However, he must have been one of the very few people to be promoted in the Service because of his unpopularity. And promotion followed promotion, no matter how laterally, because it was easier to find an acceptable reason to promote and remove him than it was to find justifiable grounds on which to demote and remove him. So, whenever and wherever a suitable vacancy occurred, Jorge was swiftly removed to it.
But, no matter to where he was removed, Jorge still kept pushing away at the structure, submitting analyses and recommendations for his superiors’ approval. A few of the more undeniable faults that he discovered in the system were eventually acted upon. Although Jorge received no direct credit for the improvements thus made. Because Jorge’s superiors, and in Service one always has superiors, selected the most obvious parts of his critique, pirated them and presented them as their own ideas. Having been watered down, however, to be made thus presentable, Jorge’s critiques often lost their thrust, their power to improve; because Jorge’s original analysis and his recommendations had often been a package and to apply them piecemeal had been to do as much harm as good. Such, however, is the way Service is organised.
To emphasise Jorge Arbatov’s uniqueness one only needs to compare him with someone like Munred Danporr. While the difference between the two may not be as clear-cut as presented here, it is nevertheless true to say that Munred Danporr was a self-server in the institution while Jorge Arbatov sought to serve that institution. Through his self-serving Munred was promoted, while Jorge, in seeking to serve the institution, alienated himself from it.
Desperately Jorge began to preface his recommendations with the warning that the institution was in danger. But the history of all such institutions is that not only do they ignore the prophets of their own demise, they also, in their ossification, persecute those prophets. Until the institution is overcome by the foretold disaster. So, Jorge said, with any self-satisfied self-perpetuating institution, change must always be violent. Nor would cosmetic modifications, Jorge cautioned them, save them; nor would changing too slowly too late. If forces for change have no effect they will build to a critical mass, reach a flash point, and explode. Thus begin revolutions, thus do empires disintegrate.
He was ignored.
Jorge suspected that his being ignored might have been because of the way his particular city’s Service was organised, that other Services elsewhere might be structured differently, that another city’s Service might be more amenable to change. So he applied for a vacancy in the Service of another city. Glad to be rid of him, for Jorge had the knack of rocking whichever craft he was on, with superlative recommendations he was moved into another city’s Service. And found it almost exactly the same.
Some things, though, were different; some better, some worse. Taking note of those aspects of Service which were better organised, he proceeded to the Service of the next city. Where, again, he found slight variations. One city’s Service actually welcomed any suggestions for improvement. On Jorge’s arrival they suffered a deluge of such suggestions. Few were acted upon: the idea behind it being that whatever suggestions an individual might make would be indicative of his, or her, character and used only to assess his or her career prospects. So, ignored once more, Jorge moved to the next city’s Service, demoted himself to make the move.
As far back as his first full Directorship Jorge had seen that the size of the Department was almost irrelevant to the execution of one’s duties, that promotion was a false premise for self-respect. Having also become reclusive of habit, prestige became for Jorge a deterrent rather than an inducement to a position.
From city to city, from galaxy to galaxy, from Sub-Directorships on substations to city Directorships, Jorge went, in his travels discovering that the exotic is commonplace and that the famous are ordinary.
And always he was passed on with the most glowing of references. Until, in his nineties, his campaigning zeal intact, he arrived on Torc as Director of Communications.
Ambition leaves some sooner than others: Jorge Arbatov still had ambitions. He should have retired three decades before; but the task he had set himself wasn’t even begun, let alone complete. And, despite his cantankerous demeanour, despite his apoplectic outbursts, Jorge was still a man of imagination. Unlike most old people he still saw himself as a failure and as a consequence he still wanted to serve to the best of his ability; to succeed. Even though not a year of his adult life had gone by without his submitting detailed proposals to revise procedures — to make them more effective or more humane — still so much was wrong, still so much needed improving, still Service complacency remained infuriatingly unmoved.
Latterly Jorge had come of the belief that his proposals were being rejected because of who he was, because of the age he was, rather than on the merits of the proposals themselves. So he had taken to submitting his recommendations through willing subordinates; and, where that wasn’t possible, he had taken to rejuvenating his appearance in the hope that the younger he looked the more vital his suggestions might be regarded. Thus, in an effectual attempt to lower his age, he had, twenty years before shaved his wrinkled scalp to disguise his paucity of hair. His last liaison had ended at the same time. Prior to that he had had many liaisons, but no woman could keep pace with his campaigning zeal, nor tolerate for long his disregard for formality, for tradition, for established custom. Never far from his now drooping lips was the ever disconcerting question,
“Why?”
“But why?”
Since Jorge had resolutely affirmed that he had no intention of ever retiring he had been shunted around the galaxy clearing up the messes left by incumbents in flight from their responsibilities, or in pursuit of peculiar ideals. There are many such arbitrary desertions. Jorge’s arrival on Torc had thus been greeted with relief. While the following six months had served only to estrange him from his colleagues. Indeed, only one month after his arrival on Torc, he had submitted to the Director, were it to have been printed, an 800 page report. Many of the criticisms contained in that report had reflected unflatteringly on his fellow directors. So, no sooner had the request been received on Torc for a relief Director on XE2, than Jorge Arbatov, having had Departmental Directorship experience, was dispatched post haste. A living legend.