The Third Republic did not hinder them. As fragmented as the nation was by that time, it couldn’t, aside from requiring observance of environmental regulations. The Bramlanders didn’t mind that. They were seeking a life they could feel was natural. They founded villages, wide-spread over the territory, few of them with a population above 500 adults, a size at which all could participate in public business. In the course of generations, like-minded outsiders joined them while the dissatisfied departed; and thus the culture evolved. There was no dearth of parallel developments.
Evolution, though, takes its own blind courses, and selection working on random mutations and genetic drift can go in curious directions. Today, what vestiges of democracy survived in Bramland were purely ceremonial. It was rituals, taboos, and rankings that satisfied the ordinary member’s desire for a well-defined station and puipose in life, a sense of community and of worth. Some men practiced crafts and trades, but incidentally to their real callings—as warriors, sacerdotes, occasional hunters. Women found fulfillment in their mystical sororities and as housewives, sexual artists, occasional mothers. The mayor of a town might or might not listen to its elders, but he was its absolute ruler. He had won to that status by challenging and defeating the former incumbent in a set of athletic contests that frequently ended in death. Quarrels with his counterparts led to equally violent “games” between villages.
Any complaints never got past their authority in any form that would force the North American government to intervene. After all, few of those deaths in duel or war were permanent. Chillcoffins were kept handy, and the fallen were rushed to the nearest medical station for revival and repair. Maybe sometimes, Kenmuir thought, it was lesser injuries that took more time and effort—surgery, regeneration, physical therapy.
Besides, whoever didn’t like what went on was free to leave. When a society posed no threat to outsiders, meddling in one would set a precedent dangerous to the rest. They shared an interest, and their political influence, in deterring it. The cybercosm never advised otherwise. The bad old days were long past when law restricted voluntary association. The Bramlanders were content, weren’t they?
Yes, Kenmuir thought, obviously most of the Bramlanders were. They were not very intelligent. Self-selection had seen to that.
So much for background. He summoned recent news of the different settlements. It rarely got on the regular broadcasts—who cared?—but of course the sophotects that served there passed their observations to the general database.
They reported nothing of special concern. Well, Joetown and Three Corners were at game. A pitched battle had not ended it, and now bands of men hunted each other across the fields and along the riverbanks. No weapons, oh, no, nothing but sport … with well-shaped clubs and staffs, karate chops, winked-at stones … Casualties were mounting. Avoid.
He decided on Overburg. Its mayor was at odds with Elville’s, but as yet no fights had occurred and an agreement might possibly be reached. Besides, Overburg, larger than average, boasted an inn. Travel and trade did occur between villages, as well as visits from outside. Kenmuir instructed the volant and felt it change course.
Cultivation appeared. Inhabitants raised, processed, made various things for themselves and to sell. They called it “independence,” and perhaps it was—spiritual, another set of rituals. The actual necessities were ferried in, paid for by credit.
“Message,” announced the volant. Kenmuir tautened. Into the screen before him sprang a man’s face. He was thin, pale, and stiff-lipped. A headband curled upward in a silvery filigree, a necklace with a pendant hung over his blouse. Badges of office, Kenmuir supposed. “Po’t Commissioner f’ his Pot’ncy Mayor Bruno o’ Great Overburg,” he identified himself in Anglo of sorts. “Y’r ve’icle signals intent to land. You got clearance?”
“I beg your pardon?” Kenmuir said.
“Clearance. Pe’mission. You don’t? Who you, señor? What you’ business?”
“Since when has a public field demanded a permit? Are you having a problem?”
“You will, if you try. Name y’self an’ state y’r business.”
Kenmuir checked his temper. Bureaucracy, too, was a way to make people feel important. “No offense, sir. My name is Hannibal, I’m on my way from the west coast, and I’d like to stop here for a day or two. I can’t be the first person to come without asking leave beforehand.”
“You don’t soun’ No’merican.”
“I’m, uh, European, and—What the Q? May I land or may I not?”
“Awright. You’ll have to go befo’ the Mayor. Temporary pe’mission granted.”
The town was in view. The houses along shaded streets didn’t look very different from those Kenmuir had spied earlier, archaic design in modern materials, steep-roofed and slab-sided. At the center was a paved square, surrounded by larger buildings. Kenmuir assumed those were for markets, assemblies, storage, and the like. The biggest, ornately pillared, must be city hall or the mayoral palace or something of that kind. A small airfield, with garages and terminal, lay just beyond the habitations. He set down, took in hand the suitcase Aleka had bought him, and debarked into humid warmth.
The port commissioner awaited him, with four burly men in attendance. In this weather, their garments were loose and gaudy. Long, braided hair trailed below fillets beaded in patterns that presumably signified rank or descent. Each bore a sheath knife and a staff topped with a bronze ball that could fracture a skull. “This way fo’ customs ’spection,” said the commissioner, and strutted off to the terminal.
It was a standard automated structure, deserted save for his party. He made Kenmuir open his bag and pawed through the contents. They were what Aleka had supplied, a toilet kit and some changes of clothing. Almost reluctantly, he returned it and said, “I phoned. His Pot’ncy’s gracious pleased t’ receive you right away. Esco’t him, Jeb.” A slim, graying man, alone and unarmed, didn’t need much guarding.
It was a ten or fifteen minute walk to the centrum. Kenmuir’s attempt at conversation fell flat. Jeb was too full of the dignity of his assignment. A few cars passed by, but traffic was mainly pedestrian. Women wore flowing gowns and often carried baskets. Groups of them went chattering together, sometimes with one or two of the few, cherished children. Men likewise stayed with their own sex, or sat on porches drinking and playing games. A number of them were elaborately tattooed, and none seemed to have had scars eliminated. Emblems of pride, then.
Here and there Kenmuir passed a workshop and glimpsed a man making something—an implement, a piece of furniture, a decoration—with no tool more complex than a power drill. The style and execution struck him as crude. Yet on the whole, folk appeared happy enough; he saw smiles, heard laughter and animated talk. What words reached him concerned gossip, weather, crops, fishing, the iniquity of Elville, “yump … sho’ right … haw …” He thought that if he had to stay here any length of time, he’d hope for a miniwar to enlist in before he went berserk from boredom.
The palace columns represented ferocious monsters. Two sentries flanked the entrance. “Now you be real respec’ful,” Jeb warned. “Bend yo’ knee.”
A chamber stretched broad and long. Kenmuir made out painted shields on the walls and banners hung from the crossbeams. A strip of crimson carpet led to a dais at the far end. There, on a canopied throne, sat Bruno, mayor of Overburg. Four young women, thinly and luxuriously clad, displayed themselves on cushions at either side. Six warriors stood guard. Pages waited for orders. Half a dozen older men were also present; Kenmuir wasn’t sure whether they were councillors, courtiers, petitioners, or social callers. He advanced with his escort through silence and stares.
Jeb halted a meter from the dais. Kenmuir did too. Jeb snapped a salute, palm to brow, and announced, “The stranger, señorissimo.” Kenmuir remembered to genuflect, awkwardly.
“Ah, yuh,” rumbled the mayor. “Yo’ name an’ pu’pose.”
He was a huge man, massively muscular. A blond mane dropped pas
t prognathous features, where a beard bristled, apparently unique in this place. A sign of office, like the horned headband and gold chain? A greasy shirt gaped open around the shaggy breast. The knife sheathed against his trews was outsize. His feet were bare and unwashed. In his right hand he clutched a wooden goblet.
“Hannibal, sir,” Kenmuir replied. He and Aleka had agreed on the alias. It gave no clue to his identity, while being distinctive enough for her to be certain of the message he would put in the public bulletin base, informing her of his whereabouts, as soon as he could after learning what they would be.
“Hannibal, huh? Not Cannibal?” Bruno guffawed. Men and boys dutifully laughed. The women giggled. Kenmuir thought that two of them forced it, and that the looks they gave the mayor were frightened. The others were perhaps content with their status.
Bruno hunched forward. “Why you here? Spy? Gummint agent? Hah?” He sat back again, expectant, and glugged from his goblet.
He couldn’t do worse than expel the newcomer. Could he? Maybe. Anyhow, that would be an infernal nuisance. “I assure you, sir,” Kenmuir sighed, “I’m a harmless private person. A friend and I are going to spend a while in Lake Superior Preserve. At the last minute, she was delayed. I’ve heard interesting things about your community, and would like to take a day or two here till she can meet me.” Curious outsiders must come occasionally, if not often. “You see, I deal in uniques, handmade work, and I gather you have skilled craftsmen.” When was flattery ever unwelcome, or money?
Bruno raised his brows. “‘She,’ d’you say?”
“Well, yes, a young lady,” Kenmuir replied, hanging onto his patience. Somebody sniggered. “Could I arrange permission for her to land and look around too?” Somewhere along the orbit, he and Aleka must have a serious talk. This might be their last chance before jumping off into the irrevocable.
“Young. Hum. Yuh.” Bruno pondered. Kenmuir thought of slow wheels turning. “Yuh. Awright. You see the health off’cer, it clears you, awright, you can stay. At the inn.” Spend money.
The interview hadn’t been too bad. No big surprise. Kenmuir was clearly not from hated Elville.
Bruno leered. “Landing tax. Near forgot. Landing tax. Ten, uh, fifteen ucus. Apiece. You can pay it f’r you both. To me.”
Extortion, but Kenmuir decided not to invoke the law. “Do you object to cash, sir?” If he debited his account, that was a giveaway to any search program.
“Cash? Huh? Naw, naw, cash’s fine.” Bruno’s manner suggested it was better than fine. Perhaps he had transactions of his own that he didn’t want traced. He accepted the bills and counted them twice, moving his lips. “Awright, guardsman, take’m to the health off’cer, and when he’s cleared, show’m to the inn.” Half cordially: “Maybe we’ll talk later, Hannibal. Maybe I’ll ’vite you f’r a drink. Yuh, maybe even—” He nodded and winked, right and left, at his women. Two of them smiled.
Jeb saluted and led Kenmuir back out. “This way,” he directed.“’Cross the square. The clinic there, see?”
Understanding smote. “The health officer” hadn’t registered a meaning, unless as a vague idea of still another tribal functionary. But Bruno had said “it.” Yonder waited a sophotect.
Kenmuir stumbled. He had almost dug in his heels. Jeb gave him a questioning glance. No. He must go through with this. Suddenly to return to his volant and take off, that would cause wondering. “Excuse me,” he muttered and strode on.
Why did Bruno want the machine to approve him? Officiousness? The mayor, like the port commissioner, didn’t get many chances to throw his weight around in the presence of strangers. Or was Bruno anxious to stay on the good side of the government, leaning backward to look cooperative? He might fear that sometime, policy or no, there would be a crackdown on local practices.
No matter now. What Kenmuir must do was pass himself off as what he claimed to be. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and told the muscles in his back to slack off.
Outwardly the clinic resembled its neighbors. The reception room was reassuringly if rather hideously decorated with Bramlander art. Behind it, Kenmuir knew, was up-to-date equipment for treating most hurts and ills. Likewise was what the sophotect used to monitor sanitation, automated services such as energy, and the biological well-being of the land around. The town of his childhood, also isolated, had had just such an attendant. People there had called it the caretaker, when they didn’t say “Auld Angus.”
The form here was hauntingly similar, boxy, fourlegged, six-armed, with turret for sensors and electrophotonic brain, housing for powerpack, and retractable communications dish. The voice was male, deep and resonant: “Hi, how c’n I help you?”
“Got this guzzah wants ’a stay a couple days,” Jeb explained. “Mayor wants you awright him.”
“Ah.” The accent became educated. “Bienvenido, señor. Por favor, be seated. A formality, I’m sure. Everybody’s tense, what with this unfortunate friction with Elville. My opposite number there and I are trying to get it composed, but—” The flexible pair of arms rippled through a shrug. “Jeb, you can go.”
“Not need me?”
“Certainly not. You may go, I said.” The tone had sharpened the least bit. Jeb bent his head, perhaps unconsciously, and left.
“Do take a seat,” the sophotect urged. “I suspect you’ve had a slightly unpleasant time. Would you care for coffee, tea, or a short whisky?”
Kenmuir took a chair. His body resisted its formfitting embrace, but he kept his face steady. “No, thank you. I’m on trajectory, really I am.”
The machine seized on the expression. “Ah, are you concerned with space? How interesting. You’d be our first visitor who wasn’t of this Earth earthy.” A chuckle ran forth.
Kenmuir swore at himself. “No, I, I have a friend in the Service, and I’ve gone once to the Moon. That’s all.” He retailed his story and waited belly-painful. That he chose to go by a name like Hannibal was nothing unusual, it could be whim, but what if the officer asked him for his registry number?
That still might not be fatal, he thought beneath the thunders. For the time being, this was a distinct, separated personality that stood before him. It could not have received any reason to be suspicious. (Unless the cybercosm had contacted every last unit on the planet … but that kind of effort, at the present stage of things, was unlikely. The channels and the dataprocessing capabilities that would be tied up—) It might not call in to query whether the man thus identified was wanted for anything. After all, if it did, that would entail a global data search to determine whether the number he gave was false.
“I see,” the sophotect said quietly. “Bueno, let me repeat, bienvenido. Or, in your idiom, welcome. I hope you and your friend to come will enjoy your stay.”
The voice was warm. Could the wish be sincere? Why not? Kenmuir harked back. Auld Angus, comforting him when he was small and had broken a rib, telling him a fable and singing him a song … Auld Angus, counselor, arbiter of quarrels, patiently listening to a boy who was one-sidedly in love … Auld Angus, courteous as he told the town council that it must enforce limits on mussel gathering if it didn’t want the government to station a patrol at the bay … Auld Angus, advising a youth that he indeed seemed to have the potential of becoming a space pilot, and he should go for it. …
Did they give their sophotect in Overburg a name and their affection?
Kenmuir stirred. “I’ll be on my way, then,” he said.
The officer raised a humanlike hand. “A moment, por favor. I would like to caution you. This is a difficult society. The conflict between chiefs has not improved matters. Have a care, always. Especially after your friend arrives. You’ve indicated she’s female. I get the impression she’s attractive. Best she stay inconspicuous, and no longer than she must. Do you follow me?”
“I … think so,” Kenmuir answered.
Mostly he was thinking how well the machine had read him. But why shouldn’t it? If the glands weren’t there, an equivalent w
as, conation, intuition, together with an intellect probably superior to his.
Certainly superior, if you understood that this was an avatar of the cybercosm, merging itself again and again with the whole, sometimes reshaped thereby, always bearing back memories of that gigantic oneness, even an intimation of the Teramind. Of course it interpreted his overtones, body language, things left unsaid: and not without what you might as well call empathy, or actual sympathy. It, Auld Angus, every electrophotonic intelligence—and, yes, the humble unconscious robots—were all waves on the same ocean.
The optics gleamed. How much did they note of his face and body? How much about him would the mind enter in the database, when next it reported what it observed?
For him to wear a life mask would have been an exercise in futility, as untrained as he was in it. Worse, it would have singled him out. After that, a quick check of somatic data that were surely on file would give cause to arrest him.
His hope lay in remaining utterly undistinguished. In the sheer immensity of the databases was refuge—for a while. No matter how carefully designed a search tree was, scanning, retrieval, and evaluation took finite time. Until the hunters got a clear idea of what to seek for, their machines could spend days, weeks, among the permutations of two billion humans. Not that that would happen. Too much of the system was needed to keep civilization running.
Give this kindly being no reason to want more information about him.
“Yes. Thank you. But, uh, you mean—”
“A mayor in Bramland may command any woman to join him for as long as he chooses. It’s the custom; they seldom object. In fact, it’s considered an honor.” Those who did object could, theoretically, catch the next airbus out of town. Theoretically. Therefore the authorities ignored the whole business. “Ordinarily, a visitor would not be bothered. Our current mayor, though—Perhaps you’d like to meet your friend somewhere else.”
The Stars Are Also Fire Page 29
