The Stars Are Also Fire
Page 20
“I—I felt, well, cramped, restricted.”
“Really? I remember Anson Guthrie remarking once that when he was young, Sweden was what he called a nanny state, but it got rid of that and nowadays people there are more free than in most countries, including North America. Which is obviously one reason why he placed you where he did.”
“True. Still, everywhere on Earth—everywhere fit to live in—you have a feeling that everything is settled, everything important has been done, anything truly new can only make us uncomfortable. And that, what is the word, that smarmy Neoromantic movement, claiming to bring back traditions that for hundreds of years have existed only in books, if they ever existed at all—it made me gag. In space they are not afraid of newness and greatness. They have their customs, their genuine traditions, and those are growing, they serve a purpose, they live.”
Beynac nodded. “I realize it wasn’t anywhere near as simple as that, and probably your motives never were clear to you and never will be, but I see your drift.” With a smile: “I also see you are not a bore. I’ll bet in your teens your age mates found you an intolerable, stiff-necked nonconformist.”
After a silence she went on, carefully, “I do need to ask what made you search me out. It was not idle curiosity.”
“No,” he said. “It was that same feeling of rootless-ness, of belonging to nothing and nobody. Yes, I am fond of my foster parents, but in every other way I have grown apart from them.”
“I know how they feel,” she said half under her breath.
He decided not to pursue that. “Fireball is my real family now, as for so many of us. And yet, maybe it is that I have not quite matured out of a lonely adolescence, yet there was this emptiness in me. It made no sense, but I could not fill it. At last I thought that if I could learn who my true parents were, where and what I came from, it might make healing. But I did not want to disturb them. Simply knowing who you are, meeting you this once, that is a miracle.”
“You don’t have to go away, Lars,” Beynac told him. “You won’t, if I can help it.”
After another moment she went on: “You don’t seem to have identified your biological father. His name was William Thurshaw. It was a summer’s love affair, wild and beautiful and of course impossible. I resisted having an abortion, and the Guthries saved me and you as you know. That was because—no. Maybe someday I can tell you.
“Bill was a gifted boy. That was maybe the main thing that drew me to him. He was also gallant and caring, and he went on to become the same sort of man. We never heard from each other again, but Guthrie told me this much. Now that I can tell what to look for, yes, I see a lot of Bill in you And I think in your spirit, too.”
Her tone hardened. “He could have gotten into Fireball like me and later you, no doubt, but chose differently. Two years ago, Guthrie told me he was dead. You must know how the Renewal is getting more frantic, more ruthless, as the country goes to pieces beneath it. Bill spoke too freely in defense of freedom. He was killed ‘resisting arrest,’ the police reported.”
“I am sorry,” was all Rydberg could find to say.
Beynac’s voice gentled. “For me, he wasn’t much more than a dream I’d had. I cried a little. My husband held me close and made the world good again. I am very happily married, Lars. But you can be proud of your father.”
She took Rydberg’s hand. They sat thus for a space.
“I am glad you are happy,” he said at last. “I must not threaten it. I will go. Today has been more than enough.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Bloody hell, no! You stay!”
“But your husband, your children—”
She regained control. “Please. I can’t just let you orbit back into the swarm and think no more about it. Not that I’ll lay any claims on you, either. Can’t we get to know each other, though?”
“At your home? I would feel like an invader.”
“Don’t.” Her laugh wavered a bit. “Oh, Edmond will be taken aback at first, but not badly, and he’ll recover fast. He’s so absolutely a man, you see. The children will just be interested, not deeply nor for long, I’m sure; about like a cat when a visitor arrives. That’s all.
“Lars, I love those children with my whole heart, but you are the only one of mine who’s completely human.”
15
Westward the lake sheened blue, reaching like a sea off beyond the horizon. A few last shreds of dawn-mist smoked across its quietness. A waning Moon floated pale above several islands. Eastward the shore stood boldly and the sun filled intensely green highlands with shadows. Musoma town lifted white at the mouth of its bay. Three pelicans and a heron passed overhead. The air lay cool and hushed, with an odor of fish that would become strong later in the day.
A boat drifted some distance out. Two men sat at ease in it, facing one another. Lines trailed from the rods in their hands.
“A lovely morning,” Charles Jomo said conversationally.
“Yes,” Venator agreed. His body could savor it as well as any other human’s could. Nevertheless the hunter stirred within him. “But will we ever get a bite?”
They were speaking Anglo. Jomo wanted to practice his. Venator had not admitted to his knowledge of any languages current hereabouts. Capabilities were best kept in reserve till needed, and surprise was a potent weapon.
“Oh, yes,” Jomo said. “The fish here behave differently from the fish in the shallows. Designed for sport. You shall have your excitement, I promise you. Meanwhile, patience. We have the whole day.” He was a gray-haired, deep-brown man with a comfortable paunch. Like his companion, he wore only a tunic. Sunburn was no hazard to either of them.
Venator repeated earlier politeness: “It’s very kind of you to take this much for an outsider.” If the fellow knew what kind of outsider! he thought sardonically.
Jomo chuckled. “The professional guide you would otherwise have engaged may have a different opinion.”
Venator reckoned he should pretend a bit of concern. “I’m sorry. That didn’t occur to me.”
“Not to worry. He’s not desperate for ucus. Who is?”
“I have known some.”
“Ambitious types.” Jomo’s tone grew interested. “And wouldn’t you say—isn’t it the same in your home territory?—the hard workers are not after extra purchasing power so much as fame or personal satisfaction or something else emotional? How important are material goods and services when everyone receives basic credit?”
Good, Venator thought. He had hoped to draw his acquaintance out. Educated, philosophically inclined persons, who were active in the affairs of their societies, were apt to reveal the most. Occasional perceptions they gave him had been startling.
Not to them. Nor did he show his reaction. That would have defeated his purpose. It wasn’t just that a synnoiont was too awesome a figure for casual talk to be possible, it was that a synnoiont grew too remote from common humanity. A police officer needed to understand people, in their endless variousness as individuals and as cultures. Whenever he could escape the demands upon him and the desires within him, Venator forced himself to return incognito to his species.
Jomo hadn’t said anything extraordinary thus far. However, if nothing else, he probably typified the attitude of local residents toward many aspects of their existence. It wasn’t likely to be identical with the attitudes of Australians or Brazilians or even southern Africans.
Keep this going. “Some work hard because the kind of thing they do requires it,” Venator pointed out. “Professional athletes. Certain artists. Spacefarers,” such few as were left, mostly in Lunarian employ. “Et cetera.”
Jomo nodded. “That’s what they choose to do. What I said. Personal satisfaction, prestige, the approval of one’s peers.”
“M-m, you don’t impress me as either a lazy man or one greatly concerned with status.”
“Few of us hereabouts are lazy. It’s frowned on. But neither are we fanatic strivers. We take our leisure. For example, my mediation pra
ctice. The cases aren’t many or deadly serious. I can generally set them aside when I’ve a better way to spend a day, like this expedition.”
“Do you mean most of you have jobs? Are there enough to go around?”
“Many occupations are unpaid, private pursuits or public service.”
“Yours, if I may ask?”
“I’m on the municipal recreation committee, with emphasis on children’s activities.” Of course, Venator thought. Children were always special, as few as they were, here too, here too. “I garden. I’m studying Kikuyu, to experience the ancient compositions in the original.”
Archaism seemed popular throughout Africa, Venator reflected. Was that precisely because most of the continent was so well adjusted to the modern world? Or did it go deeper, was it a quest for something lost, forgotten, yet inwardly felt? When tribalism, the whole primitive heritage, perished in the Dieback, it had enabled the old Protectorate to lay a firm foundation for a new and rational life—but did a rootlessness linger and hurt after all these centuries, like ghost-pain from an amputated limb in eras before medical regeneration?
No, that was absurd, totally unscientific.
But the human mind had its own dark mathematics, which was not that of logic or causality. It was chaotic.
His task was to hold chaos at bay.
Jomo’s voice drew him from his momentary reverie. “What about you, Mr. Mthembu?”
The name with which Venator was born frequently served him as an alias. He made a smile. “Currently I am on holiday, you know,” he replied. But forever observing. “And I’ve told you I do liaison work with the cybercosm.”
“That covers an extremely wide field. Your position—”
Venator sensed the buzz in his breast pocket more through his skin than his ears. Emergency? Alertness went electric along his nerves. He raised a hand. “Excuse me. I seem to have a call.”
Jomo looked with curiosity at the little disc he took out. It wasn’t the usual miniphone. Nor was it limited to the usual functions. Venator laid it against his head behind the right ear.
“Report on subject Kenmuir,” he heard by bone conduction.
Outwardly he sat relaxed, flicking his fishing rod. The float danced; quicksilver droplets arced off the water. Inside, he had become entirely hunter. Beneath the machine lucidity of consciousness, blood throbbed.
“Proceed,” he subvocalized. For added caution, he used the generated language that was a high secret of his corps.
“We have lost contact with the subject. Apparently he has been taken into a well-screened section by an opposition agent, who doubtless plans to remove him from the vicinity.”
We was a misrendition, but so would I have been. The pronoun referred to those aspects of an awareness that, mutably as occasion required, devoted themselves to this business; and the awareness itself was a changeable part of a vastly larger whole. Ripples upon waves upon an ocean.
“H’ng!” escaped Venator. Jomo gave him a quizzical glance. “Summarize for me.” He had last been in touch three days ago. It was pointless—counterproductive, in fact—to monitor an operation hour by hour when nothing untoward was happening. That was what high-level robots were for. He had plenty else to engage him. This stop at Victoria Nyanza was only half a respite. Word still came in, sporadically, from half a dozen different, ongoing investigations.
“Kenmuir left Guthrie House today, American Pacific time, and flew to Los Angeles. It seems clear, now, that while in the house he made a call on a secure line and got further instructions.”
“Yes, yes. I rather expected that.” It was unnecessary to say, the sophotect knew it quite well, but Venator didn’t waste energy suppressing every ape impulse in himself.
There hadn’t been time to penetrate that line. The Fireball Trothdom had had centuries in which to develop its private channels and vaults. A wariness of government that went back to Fireball Enterprises had led it to keep those defenses up to date. Venator hadn’t worried. The odds were enormous that Matthias would give Kenmuir nothing. What most plausibly mattered was what Kenmuir did next. Still, it could be worthwhile to study the Rydberg …
Kenmuir had disappeared. That mattered. “Go on,” Venator directed.
“In Los Angeles he went to an obscure cantina. A woman using the name Irene Norton met him. Their conversation was brief before she hastily conducted him off.”
“Replay it.”
When he had heard: “Tell me about this meeting place.”
And afterward: “Obviously she suspects he’s been implanted—anticipated the possibility, and chose that rendezvous because she knew of just such a bolthole as she’s taken him into. That may give clues to her identity. She’s quick-witted and has had some experience, but didn’t sound to me like a professional at this.”
“A datascan shows that she cannot be any of the persons registered under the name Irene Norton. It is an alias. Orders?”
“Sweep-surveillance of the area. It may find them fairly soon. Kenmuir has to surface sometime. He may even turn himself in. He’s dubious about the whole affair. Meanwhile start inquiries at that Asilo den. Discreet, tactful. It doesn’t impress me as having a staff or a clientele overly friendly to us. Still, detectives may learn who this woman really is.”
“Yes, pragmatic. Further orders?”
“Inform me immediately of any new developments. I will be on my way to Central to take full charge.”
Venator pocketed the disc. Sky, water, sunlight, breeze crowded in on him.
“I hope that wasn’t bad news,” Jomo said slowly.
“Emergency,” Venator answered. “Work-related. I’m not free to say more, and I’m afraid I must leave at once.”
“Pity.” Jomo reeled in his line while his visitor did the same. “Come back again.”
“I hope to.” It was peace and sanity like this that Venator fought to preserve.
Incidentally to the main purpose, to the cosmic meaning of his life.
Jomo started the motor. The boat skimmed shoreward.
This wasn’t really a dire situation, Venator deemed. Not yet. Probably not ever. What could two fugitives do?
It was plain that Fireball knew nothing about Proserpina. Otherwise the truth would have come out long ago—irresistible, to spirits that still yearned after the stars. The arcanum on which the Rydbergs brooded so dragonlike must be some trivial piece of long-irrelevant history, if it was that much: on a par with the unpublished diary of an ancestor.
Lilisaire, intensely researching, had found indications of a mystery in deep space. She thought the object of it might, barely possibly, give her power to block the Habitat, or actually break Luna free of the Federation.
It could do nothing of the kind, of course. It threatened far worse.
But those data that survived were well safeguarded. Venator himself had not been granted an access code—and it biological—until the cybercosm had concluded that Lilisaire’s activities were disturbing enough that he had a need to know. How could two amateurs tell where to begin looking, let alone how to break in?
No, they were not important in themselves. They were leads to Lilisaire and her underground—clever, dangerous Lilisaire.
(Assassination? Difficult, maybe infeasible, disastrous if an attempt failed. Besides, she might well leave word behind her, and others carry on. Arrest? On what charges, with what repercussions? Wait a while. Play the game. It was good to have a really challenging opponent.)
Nonetheless, because they were walking clues, Kenmuir and Norton must be captured. And there were loose ends elsewhere, securities to make secure. For that, communication facilities here were ridiculously inadequate. He would return to Central.
To oneness. The knowledge pierced him like love.
The reasoning brain went on in its work. It was vital to take back control over events, now, before they got out of hand, before crisis led to crisis as in the distant past.
16
The Mother of the Moon
The governor general for the Lunar Authority had given the chamber a personal touch as well. A big viewscreen played a recorded scene, houses on precipitous green mountainsides, the Chiangjing flowing majestic between. Opposite hung a scroll. Its black-and-white picture was of an old man in a robe, seated, probably a sage. Did its calligraphy embalm a poem?
The attendant who brought the tea bowed and left. He was young, in hard condition, his civilian clothing suggestive of a uniform. Dagny suspected he was secret service. The door slid shut behind him. For a moment she heard silence.
“Please be seated,” Zhao Haifeng said. His English came fluent, in a choppy accent and high voice. He was tall, gaunt, white-haired, austerely clad. “Does tobacco annoy you?”
“No, go ahead,” Dagny replied. She refrained from expressing a hope that his cancer shots were current. If Luna must have a proconsul, he could be worse than this former professor of sociodynamics. Or so she supposed. Today might change her opinion.
They took their seats. Zhao brought forth a cigarette, touched his lighter ring to it, inhaled, streamed smoke from his nostrils. Dagny wondered if he was as tense as she was. A hint of acridity reached her. Ventilation sensors took note and it blew away on a piny breeze.
“You were most kind to come in person,” Zhao said. “I know how busy you are.”
“Your Excellency’s … request … was somewhat pressing,” Dagny answered.
“Quite apart from the security of communication lines,” the governor explained, “I am archaic enough to find a holographic image an inadequate substitute for flesh-and-blood presence, when matters of grave import are to be discussed.”