The Ringworld Engineers

by Larry Niven

  He kept his full attention on the landscape.

  And presently he saw that it was beautiful. Straight trunks five feet tall sprouted enormous blossoms at their tips. Louis watched a tremendous bird settle into a blossom, a bird similar to a great eagle except for the long, slender spear of a beak. Elbow root, a larger breed than he’d seen on his first visit, some ninety million miles from here, flourished in a tangle of randomly placed fences. Here grew the sausage plant they’d eaten last night. There, a sudden cloud of butterflies, at this distance looking much like Earth’s butterflies.

  It all looked so real. Pak protectors wouldn’t build anything flimsy, would they? But the Pak had had vast faith in their works, and in their ability to repair anything, or even to create new widgets from scratch.

  And all of his speculation was based on the word of a man seven hundred years dead: Jack Brennan the Belter, who had known the Pak only through one individual. The tree-of-life had turned Brennan himself into a protector-stage human—armored skin, second heart, expanded braincase, and all. That might have left him insane. Or Phssthpok might have been atypical. And Louis Wu, armed with Jack Brennan’s opinions on Phssthpok the Pak, was trying to think like something admittedly more intelligent than himself.

  But there had to be a way to save all this.

  Chaparral gave way to sausage-plant plantations to spinward, rolling hills to antispinward. Presently Louis saw his first refueling station ahead. It was a major operation, a chemical factory with the beginnings of a town growing around it.

  Vala called him down from his perch. She said, “Close the smoke hole. Stay in the van and do not be seen.”

  “Am I illegal?”

  “You are uncustomary. There are exceptions, but I would need to explain why you are my passenger. I have no good explanation.”

  They pulled up along the windowless wall of the factory. Through the window Louis watched Vala dickering with long-legged, big-chested people. The women were impressive, with large mammaries on large chests, but Louis wouldn’t have called them beautiful. Each woman had long, dark hair covering her forehead and cheeks, enclosing a tiny T-shaped face.

  Louis crouched behind the front seat while Vala stowed packages through the passenger’s door. Soon they were moving again.

  An hour later, far from any habitation, Vala puffed off the road. Louis climbed down from his gunner’s perch. He was ravenous. Vala had bought food: a large smoked bird and nectar from the giant blossoms. Louis tore into the bird. Presently he asked, “You’re not eating?”

  Vala smiled. “Not till night. But I will drink with you.” She took the colored glass bottle around to the back of the vehicle and ran clear fluid into the nectar. She drank, then passed the bottle. Louis drank.

  Alcohol, of course. You couldn’t have oil wells on the Ringworld, could you? But you could build alcohol distilleries anywhere there were plants for fermenting. “Vala, don’t some of the, ah, subject races get to like this stuff too much?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you do about it?”

  The question surprised her. “They learn. Some become useless from drinking. They supervise each other if they must.”

  It was the wirehead problem in miniature, with the same solution: time and natural selection. It didn’t seem to bother Vala ... and Louis couldn’t afford to let it bother him. He asked, “How far is it to the city?”

  “Three or four hours to the air road, but we would be stopped there. Louis, I have given thought to your problem. Why can’t you just fly up?”

  “You tell me. I’m for it if nobody shoots at me. What do you think—would somebody shoot at a flying man, or would they let him talk?”

  She sipped from the bottle of fuel and nectar. “The rules are strict. None but the City Builder species may come unless invited. But none have flown to the city either!”

  She passed him the bottle. The nectar was sweet: like watered grenadine syrup, with a terrific kick from what must be 200 proof alcohol. He set it down and turned his goggles on the city.

  It was vertical towers in a lily-pad-shaped clump, in a jarring variety of styles: blocks, needles tapered at top and bottom, translucent slabs, polyhedral cylinders, a slender cone moored tip down. Some buildings were all window; some were all balconies. Gracefully looping bridges or broad, straight ramps linked them at unpredictable levels. Granted that the builders weren’t quite human, Louis still couldn’t believe that anyone would build such a thing on purpose. It was grotesque.

  “They must have come from thousands of miles around,” he said. “When the power stopped, there were buildings with independent power supplies. They all got together. Prill’s people mushed them all up into one city. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  “Nobody knows. But, Louis, you speak as if you watched it happen!”

  “You’ve lived with it all your life. You don’t see it the way I do.” He kept looking.

  There was a bridge. From a low, windowless building at the top of a nearby hill, it rose in a graceful curve to touch the bottom of a huge fluted pillar. A poured stone road switchbacked uphill to the hilltop building.

  “I take it the invited guests have to go through that place at the top, then up the floating bridge.”

  “Of course.”

  “What happens in there?”

  “They are searched for forbidden objects. They are questioned. If the City Builders are choosy about whom they let up, why, so are we! Dissidents have sometimes tried to smuggle bombs up. Mercenaries hired by the City Builders once tried to send them parts to repair their magic water collectors.”

  “What?”

  Vala smiled. “Some still work. They collect water from the air. Not enough water. We pump water to the city from the river. If we argue over policy, they go thirsty, and we do without the information they gather, until a compromise is reached.”

  “Information? What have they got, telescopes?”

  “My father told me about it once. They have a room that shows what happens in the world, better than your goggles. After all, Louis, they have height and a view.”

  “I should be asking your father all this. How—“

  “That may not be a good idea. He is very ... he does not see ...”

  “I’m the wrong shape and color?”

  “Yes, he would not believe you can make things like the things you own. He would take them.”

  Tanj dammit. “What happens after they let the tourists through?”

  “My father comes home with his left arm inscribed in a language only the City Builders know. The script gleams like silver wire. It does not wash off, but it fades in a falan or two.”

  That sounded less like a tattoo than like printed circuitry. The City Builders might have more control over their guests than their guests knew. “Okay. What do the guests do up there?”

  “They discuss policy. They make gifts: large quantities of food and some tools. The City Builders show them wonders and do rishathra with them.” Vala stood suddenly. “We should be moving.”

  They had left the threat of bandits behind. Louis rode in front, beside Vala. Noise was as much a problem as the bumping; they had to raise their voices. Louis shouted, “Rishathra?”

  “Not now, I’m driving.” Vala showed a wide expanse of teeth. “The City Builders are very good at rishathra. They can deal with almost any race. It helped them hold their ancient empire. We use rishathra for trading and for not having children until we want to mate and settle down, but the City Builders never give it up.”

  “Do you know anyone who could get me invited up as a guest? Say, because of my machines.”

  “Only my father. He wouldn’t.”

  “Then I’ll have to fly up. Okay,
what’s under the city? Can I just stroll underneath and float up?”

  “Underneath is the shadow farm. You might pass for a farmer if you leave your tools behind. The farmers are of all races. It is a dirty job. The city sewer outlet is above, and sewage must be spread for the plants. The plants are all cave life, plants that grow in darkness.”

  “But ... Oh, sure, I see it now. The sun never moves, so it’s always dark under the city. Cave life, huh? Mushrooms?”

  She was staring at him. “Louis, how can you expect the sun to move?”

  “I forgot where I was.” He grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “How can the sun move?”

  “Well, of course it’s the planet that moves. Our worlds are spinning balls, right? If you live on one point, the sun seems to go up one side of the sky and down the other; then there’s night till it rises again. Why did you think the Ringworld engineers put up the shadow squares?”

  The car began to weave. Vala was shaking, her face pale. Gently Louis asked, “Too much strangeness for you?”

  “Not that.” She made an odd barking sound. Agonized laughter? “The shadow squares. Obvious to the stupidest of people. The shadow squares mock the day and night cycle for spherical worlds. Louis, I really hoped you were mad. Louis, what can we do?”

  He had to give her some kind of answer. He said, “I thought of punching a hole under one of the Great Oceans, just before it reaches the point closest to the sun. Let several Earth-masses of water spew into space. The reaction would push the Ringworld back where it belongs. Hindmost, are you listening?”

  The too-perfect contralto said, “It does not seem feasible.”

  “Of course it’s not feasible. For one thing, how would we plug the hole afterward? For another, the Ringworld would wobble. A wobble that big would probably kill everything on the Ringworld, and lose the atmosphere too. But I’m trying. Vala, I’m trying.”

  She made that odd barking sound and shook her head hard. “At least you do not think too small!”

  “What would the Ringworld engineers have done?

  “What if some enemy shot away most of the attitude jets? They wouldn’t have built the Ringworld without planning for something like this. I need to know more about them. Get me into the floating city, Vala!”

  Chapter 18 -

  The Shadow Farm

  They began to pass other vehicles: large or small windowed boxes, each with a smaller box at the rear. The road widened and became smoother. Now the fueling stations were more frequent and were of sturdy, square Machine People architecture. There were more and more boxy vehicles, and Vala had to slow. Louis felt conspicuous.

  The road topped a rise, and the city was beyond. Vala played tour director as they drove downhill through growing traffic.

  River’s Return had first seen life as a string of docks along the spinward shore of the broad brown Serpent River. That core region now had the look of a slum. The city had jumped the river via several bridges, and expanded into a circle with a piece bitten out of it. That missing piece was the shadow of the City Builders’ floating city.

  Moving boxes surrounded them now. The air was scented with alcohol. Vala slowed to a crawl. Louis hunched low. Other drivers had ample opportunity to peer in at the strangely built man from the stars.

  But they didn’t. They saw neither Louis nor each other; they seemed to see only other vehicles. And Vala drove on, into the center of town.

  Here the houses crowded each other. Three and four stories tall, the houses were narrow, with no space between them. They pushed out above the street, cutting into the daylight. In marked contrast, public buildings were all low and sprawling and massive, situated on ample grounds. They competed for ground, not for height: never for height, with the floating city hovering over all.

  Vala pointed out the merchants’ school, a wide complex of prosperous stone buildings. A block later she pointed down a cross-street. “My home is that way, in pink poured stone. See?”

  “Any point in going there?”

  She shook her head. “I thought hard on this. No. My father would never believe you. He thinks that even the City Builders’ claims are mostly boastful lies. I thought so too, once, but from what you tell me of this ... Halrloprillalar ...”

  Louis laughed. “She was a liar. But her people did rule the Ringworld.”

  They left River’s Return and continued to port. Vala drove several miles farther before crossing the last of the bridges. On the far, portward side of the great shadow, she left an almost invisible side road and parked.

  They stepped out into too-bright sunlight. They worked almost in silence. Louis used the flying belt to lift a fair-sized boulder. Valavirgillin dug a pit where it had been. Into the pit went most of Louis’s share of the fine black cloth. The dirt went back into the pit, and Louis lowered the boulder on it.

  He put the flying belt into Vala’s backpack and shouldered it. The pack already held his impact suit, vest, binoculars, flashlight-laser, and the flask of nectar. It was lumpy and heavy. Louis set the pack down, adjusted the flying belt to give him some lift. He set the translator box just under the cover and shouldered the pack again.

  He was wearing a pair of Vala’s shorts, with a length of rope to hold them up. They were too big for him. His depilated face would be taken as natural to his race. Nothing about him now suggested the star traveler, except the earplug for his translator. He’d risk that.

  He could see almost nothing of where they were going. The day was too bright; the shadow, too extensive and too dark.

  They walked from day into night.

  Vala seemed to have no trouble picking her path. Louis followed her. His eyes adjusted, and he saw that there were narrow paths among the growths.

  The fungi ranged from button-size to asymmetrical shapes as tall as Louis’s head, with stalks as thick as his waist. Some were mushroom-shaped, some had no shape at all. A hint of corruption was in the air. Gaps in the sprawl of buildings overhead let through vertical pillars of sunlight, so bright that they looked solid.

  Frilly yellow fungus fringed in scarlet half smothered an outcropping of gray slate. Medieval lances stood upright, white tipped with blood. Orange and yellow and black fur covered a dead log.

  The people were almost as various as the fungi. Here were Runners using a two-handed saw to cut down a great elliptical mushroom fringed in orange. There, small, broad-faced people with big hands were filling baskets with white buttons. Grass giants carried the big baskets away. Vala kept up a whispered commentary. “Most species prefer to hire themselves in groups, to protect against culture shock. We keep separate housing.”

  There, a score of people were spreading manure and well-decayed garbage; Louis could smell it from a fair distance away. Were those of Vala’s species? Yes, they were Machine People, but two stood aside and watched, and they held guns. “Who are those? Prisoners?”

  “Prisoners convicted of minor crimes. For twenty or fifty falans they serve society in this—“ She stopped. One of the guards was coming to meet them.

  He greeted Vala. “Lady, you should not be here. These shit-handlers may find you too good a hostage.”

  Vala sounded exhausted. “My car died. I have to go to the school and tell them what happened. Please, may I cross the shadow farm? We were all killed. All killed by vampires. They have to know. Please.”

  The guard hesitated. “Cross, then, but let me give you an escort.” He whistled a short snatch of music, then turned to Louis. “What of you?”

  Vala answered for Louis. “I borrowed him to carry my pack.”

  The guard spoke slowly and distinctly. “You. Go with the lady as far as she likes, but stay in the shadow farm. Then go back to what you were doing. What were you doing?”

 
Louis was mute without the translator. He thought of the flashlight-laser buried in his pack. Somewhat at random he laid his hand on a lavender-fringed shelf fungus, then pointed to a sledge stacked with similar fungi.

  “All right.” The guard looked past Louis’s shoulder. “Ah.”

  The smell told Louis before he turned. He waited, docile, while the guard instructed a pair of ghouls: “Take the lady and her porter to the far edge of the shadow farm. Guard them from harm.”

  They walked single file along the paths, tending toward the center of the shadow farm. The male ghoul led, the female trailed. The smell of corruption grew riper. Sledges of fertilizer passed them on other paths.

  Blood and tanj! How was he going to get rid of the ghouls?

  Louis looked back. The ghoul woman grinned at him. She certainly didn’t mind the smell. Her teeth were big triangles, well designed for ripping, and her goblin ears were erect, alert. Like her mate, she wore a big purse on a shoulder strap, and nothing else; thick hair covered most of their bodies.

  They reached a broad arc of cleared dirt. Beyond was a pit. Mist stood above the pit, hiding the far side. A pipe poured sewage into the pit. Louis’s eyes followed the pipe up, up into the black, textured sky.

  The ghoul woman spoke in his ear, and Louis jumped. She was using the Machine People speech. “What would the king giant think if he knew that Louis and Wu were one?”

  Louis stared.

  “Are you mute without your little box? Never mind. We are at your service.”

  The ghoul man was talking to Valavirgillin. She nodded. They moved off the path. Louis and the woman followed them around an extensive white shelf fungus, to huddle under its far lip.

  Vala was edgy. The smell might be getting to her; it was certainly getting to Louis. “Kyeref says this is fresh sewage. In a falan it’ll be ripe and they’ll move the pipe and start hauling it away for fertilizer. Meanwhile nobody comes here.”