The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  Rydberg shrugged. "I don't know when we can do that, if ever."

  Beynac bristled. "Hein?" he barked.

  Rydberg picked up his neglected beer, took a draught, collected his words. "The existing situation," he then said. "Guthrie would have underwritten an immediate expedition, but he was a dying man, and now he is dead. Everything is confusion while his download takes over, if his download can. Factions in Fireball maneuver for advantage. Politicians fish in our troubled waters. Oh, even in far space we got plenty of news on the beams, and on my way home I was thinking what it meant. Besides, the Alpha Centauri project engages most of Fireball's discretionary resources, and will until it is well under way."

  As was right, Dagny thought. Was not a launch to Sol's neighbor star Uncans's memorial to Juliana, whose vision it had been? A flyby miniprobe, followed by a versatile little craft packed with molecular-level instructions for building the robots that would do the science on those planets—

  "Meanwhile your asteroid recedes, each daycycle harder and more expensive to reach, until it may well be lost forever." Beynac's rumble ascended to a roar. He sprang to his feet. "No! Bloody hell, no!" He shook a fist aloft, bounded to the wall and back, stood glaring around.

  "You can apply for a research grant," Rydberg began.

  "We can agitate for it," Dagny said.

  She was surprised when Jinann spoke. She had known the girl shared the bitterness of her brothers. "If we but had a ship of our own to go! Yet nay, never have they licensed us more than a few orbiters. Fear they we might smash down on Hiroshima?"

  Well, how much did their parents know of anything in the breasts of Lunarian children?

  "Getting approval would very likely take too long," Rydberg went on. "If nothing else, suitable robots are booked far in advance. That includes those not yet made and programmed. A human or two would have to go along in any event, to make the quick decisions when transmission lag is so great. I think you should first try if you can charter a vessel for a manned expedition. Fireball has three or four to spare, if you can pay."

  A tingle went along Dagny's nerves. "Brandir has plenty of money these daycycles. We could ask him." For the honor, or the aggrandizement, of his house and of Luna, he might be willing to lay some out. And maybe for love of his father?

  Rydberg, her Lars, said soberly, because he disliked dramatics, "Besides the scientists, a qualified crew would be necessary. I could arrange it, and be the captain myself. That is if this is possible at all, which I do not promise."

  "And I will be the chief geologist," Beynac said.

  They stared at him. "What?" Rydberg exclaimed and, "You have won enough, Dada," Jinann protested in a voice she had not used for well-nigh two decades.

  Dagny sat mute, remembering certain verses.

  What is a woman that you forsake her,

  And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,

  To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

  Standing above them, her 'Mond looked into her eyes and said, "Yes, I."

  * * * *

  19

  W

  ake up, man. Up! Time's a-wasting."

  Dreams clung. Kenmuir struggled with them. They broke apart as he felt another quake. He opened his eyes. Aleka hunkered by the pallet, shaking his shoulder.

  "C'mon, sleepyhead," she urged. "You've had a few hours. We've got heavy seas to weather."

  He blinked. The shelter arched faintly mother-of-pearl, enclosing him in its small dome. The ground beneath was hard and cracked, the air hot and mummy-dry. Seas?

  Memory returned. It felt almost like another dream, the long drive from Iscah's place through night, he and she silent, fitfully dozing, till they reached—here— and after a few mumbled words with somebody he stumbled into this refuge. She'd joined him, nearby lay her own mattress and bedding, but now she was on her feet and outrageously refreshed.

  He peered at his informant. The hour was 1310. He tried to whistle, but was too thirsty. Bit by bit, he climbed erect. He barely managed to fold a blanket around his waist. Aleka laughed. "Good boy," she said. "You knew you could do it if you tried."

  "What's the program?" he croaked.

  "Lunch with the padre. Be intelligent, or at least polite. I've fairly well got him talked over, but he wants to meet you before he agrees to anything. Understandable." Aleka cocked her head and smiled. "All right, I'll have mercy and let you clean up." She turned, parted the doorflap, and disappeared from him.

  Padre? he thought vaguely. Oh, yes. Between them, Aleka and the two metamorphs had decided to send him and her to a Drylander camp—communications available—and, yes, this particular tribe, or whatever the word was, were Biocatholics. He'd once seen a documentary on that sect. Its members were few, sparsely scattered, intensely religious—what other force could drive their way of life?—but by no means retrograde. He'd better make a good impression.

  A curtain hung in front of a portable washstand and sanitor. He noted the outlets by which they could be attached to a water reclamation unit. Losses to anything but evaporation and accidental spills must be rare. No, perspiration surely dissipated a lot. As quickly as possible, he availed himself, ending with a washcloth over his face and body. A comb hung on a chain. His last dose of beard inhibitor wouldn't wear off for a while yet. The clothes into which he scrambled had gotten a little grubby, but there was no help for that.

  Feeling more alive, he trod forth. The sun stood furious in a sky like blue metal. He could barely make out the waning, westering Moon. No wonder Aleka was in a hurry. They needed to make contact while it was still above this horizon. Relaying through stations on the ground could alert the system to them.

  She took his arm. The touch was more cheering than it ought to be. "This way," she said. He accompanied her through the camp.

  Hemispheres of varying size, according to how many occupied each, had been raised in an orderly array around a space left clear. Behind them, a transportable desalinator worked in a muddy remnant of the Salton Sea. Gray-white desolation stretched onward in that direction. Elsewhere, though, the land bore life, shrubs, cactus, gaunt trees, all growing widely apart in alkaline dust. Some, he knew, was native, but most was metamorphic, designed to thrive under these conditions and produce food, fiber, fuel, pharmaceuticals. He spied individuals out there, afoot or on minicycles, inspecting, tending, applying the equipment that harvested the products. Vehicles not in use stood parked offside, half a dozen trucks, two volants, four rugged cars besides the one that had brought him and Aleka.

  Heat-shimmer blurred the distances. The air lay full of harsh aromas.

  "Hola," greeted a passerby courteously.

  "Uh, buenos dias," Kenmuir responded. Or was that correct? He wasn't a North American.

  The man was a typical Drylander, thin, black-haired, yellowish-brown complexion, broad face, slit eyes, aquiline nose. A hooded white robe draped proudly over the huge buttocks. Such women as Kenmuir saw were similarly clad and even more steatopygous. In children the water-hoarding cells were less developed. People moved quietly, with an innate dignity, saying little. Not many were around.

  The temperature didn't bother them, but those that weren't out in the field were generally busy in the shelters. A group recital in sweet treble voices, from a large dome, told that a part of the activity was schooling.

  The open space, common ground for meetings and for sociability after sunset, had four lamps on its perimeter. At the center, a crucifix lifted three meters tall. The cross was carved to represent a leafing tree, and the Christ was—not exactly metamorphic, but he had a suggestion of the alien about him—Startled, Kenmuir realized that he looked almost Lunarian.

  That might not have been intended, the spaceman thought, but the underlying idea certainly was. A faith that sought to expiate man's sins against Mother Earth. . . . Inevitable, he supposed. When the first Drylanders were engineered to tolerate conditions like these, the deserts were still on the march. The rollback that later began deprived their r
ace of any ultimate purpose in existence. So some among them created it for themselves. He wondered if any appreciated the irony that their credit was what enabled them to buy those necessities they couldn't produce or trade their meager output for.

  Or was it irony? After all, they pooled their individual payments; material possessions were of small concern; distinction came from personal accomplishments, strength, skill, holiness. Maybe the difference between these neonomads—Legionarios was what the members of this tribe dubbed themselves, he recollected—and his Fireball Trothdom was they lived their ideals, while his kind played at their dreams. Who was happier? Who had better adapted to the cybercosm?

  "We're here," Aleka said.

  A shelter facing the square bore a fish symbol painted above the entrance. She went to stand before it and call softly, "Hola. Visitantes, por favor."

  "Entrad en el nombre de Dios," replied a man's voice.

  They obeyed. The inside was nearly as plain as where they had slept, two pallets, a stump-legged table, a portable cuisinier and utensil rack, the curtained wash space. At the back was a primitive desk with shelves holding various items, including a reader and a miniature crucifix. A boy stood watching coffee brew; the fragrance reminded Kenmuir of how long ago it was he last ate. Near the middle a man sat cross-legged on his great fundament. Though the hair was white and countenance deeply lined, he kept his back straight. From a chain around his neck hung an ankh carved out of coral.

  "Padre Fernando, el capitán Ian Kenmuir," Aleka said.

  The priest raised his hand. "Bendecidos, hijos mios," he greeted.

  "I, uh, pardon me—no hablo," Kenmuir faltered. Not for present purposes.

  Fernando smiled. "We do deal with the outside world, Captain." His Anglo was only slightly accented. He gestured. "Pray be seated."

  They lowered themselves to a pad, across the table from him. Kenmuir wondered if Aleka's garb counted as immodest here. But these folk didn't live in isolation, they watched their public multi and received occasional outsiders. "I hope you are well rested," Fernando said to him.

  He shrugged, "Enough, I hope." That drew a chuckle. "Thank you."

  A carafe and tumblers stood on the table. "We have a custom of welcome," Fernando said. He poured water and offered it. Remembering the documentary, Kenmuir sipped in respectful silence with the others.

  "And now," Fernando laughed when they were done, "I imagine what you truly want is coffee." He beckoned. The boy carried over a tray with pot and cups, knelt to put them down, and retired.

  Kenmuir barely restrained his eagerness.

  "Padre," Aleka began after a minute, "I explained—"

  Fernando nodded. "Your time is short, if you are to call the Moon directly this day."

  "You have the equipment."

  Kenmuir's heart knocked.

  "We do," Fernando said. "Not that transmission takes much wattage. It is our quantum-coding capability that you ask for."

  What did these simple wanderers want with eavesdropper-proof communications? wondered Kenmuir. He thought back to Iscah and Soraya. Evidently the Legionaries weren't that simple either. Intertribal messages—maybe ritual and knowledge reserved for church initiates, maybe coordination of plans to cope with the commerce and politics of a globe largely indifferent to a few eccentrics, or maybe just precaution left over from the times of active hostility— and the high-bandwidth channels available for this sort of thing were limited, so their license must go far back. . . .

  Fernando continued, gravely: "The question is whether we should grant it. Forgive me. I neither accuse nor insinuate. But poor ones like us dare not get embroiled in quarrels."

  "Nobody has to know," said Aleka brashly.

  Fernando frowned. "They could learn." Indeed they could, Kenmuir reflected, if he or she was captured. Or would the hunters actually resort to brainphasing? He didn't want to believe that.

  Nor did he want to sit passive. "Aleka," he inquired, "what have you told our . . . our host?"

  "Not everything by a long haul," she admitted. "Nor should you. As you say, Padre, your people ought not to be put at risk. All we want is to make a confidential call in a, uh, a cause worthy of your help." Mostly to Kenmuir "I've explained that we're working on behalf of a certain Lunarian association." Well, Lilisaire had her henchmen. She might also have a coequal ally or two on the Moon. "We're trying to find out about a matter involving the Habitat project, which everybody knows they oppose. The information appears to have been concealed without any justification being publicly given, as the Covenant requires. We need to call for further instructions, while not being noticed by whoever is responsible."

  "If anyone is," Kenmuir said. "It could be a misunderstanding."

  "Or it could be too bloody right," Aleka snarled. "Maybe the sophotects are all morally perfect, but humans average as corrupt and greedy and power-hungry as always."

  Fernando stroked his chin. "There is considerably more than that to your story," he said shrewdly. "Don't fear, I will not interrogate you. Let us relax and talk of pleasant things."

  The boy served a vegetarian meal. After a brief blessing, Kenmuir discovered most of the food was new to him, and exotically seasoned. A decent white wine accompanied it.

  Meanwhile, with intelligent questions and remarks, Fernando encouraged him to tell about his life. He in his turn learned more about the Drylanders than he had known there was. No doubt Aleka had, earlier, similarly described her own background. Kenmuir much wanted to hear that himself.

  At the end, Fernando said quite matter-of-factly, "Yes, you may make your call. Let me conduct you." Kenmuir realized with a slight shock that in this past hour the priest had been sizing his visitors up till he decided they were genuine.

  They walked together through the camp. People crossed arms on breasts at sight of Fernando, and he signed benediction. Otherwise he commented along the way. "—desert rats are becoming an ecological problem, but a new disease of the protein tubers poses the immediate threat. Life simply will not stop mutating and evolving for our convenience, will it? Bioservice has developed a counteragent but naturally wants to study possible side effects before releasing it to us. . . . Our solstice festival. . . . Younger people moving out, more and more. I wonder how many we would keep in this hard life if everybody had an alternative—"

  The laser was in a truck, which Fernando unlocked. "Do you need help?" he asked. "I can send for our communications officer."

  Kenmuir looked inside. "No, thanks. I'm familiar with this model." It was rather an antique, but so was most of the remaining Lunarian space fleet. To modernize would have meant going entirely cybernetic, no more humans crossing space except as infrequent passengers. He could understand why the Legionarios held by their Legion, those who still did.

  "And I know the encryption,"' Aleka added. One key, out of however many were in Lilisaire's possession.

  "Muy bien, I will leave you," Fernando said. "Por favor, lock again when you are done and come back to me." He went from them, lonely under the huge sky.

  Kenmuir and Aleka climbed into the body of the truck and shut the door. A breathless furnace twilight dropped over them. They went to the set and stood for a moment unspeaking.

  He cleared his throat. "Well!" he said against the hammering in his chest. "Let's get this done before we stifle."

  '"The beam can't go straight to her castle," Aleka told him. "It might be traced back, if they're watching as closely as she thinks, and suddenly a squad would pounce on us. It'll skip randomly among several—"

  "Yes, I know, and in any event I'm not a defective." Kenmuir stopped. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm drawn too tight."

  She smiled through the dimness. He grew aware of sweat beading her upper lip, the swell and cleavage at her partly open tunic, an odor of healthy flesh. "You're a kanaka 'oi, Kenmuir," she murmured. Running a hand through her damp dark hair, she sighed. "As you say, we should get on with it."

  Their fingers had little to do on
the keyboard. The computer behind was only robotic, but it comprehended the task and went directly to work. The signal sought its first address, a relay satellite in Lunar orbit. This was not an official station, but Selenarchic, a tiny solar-powered automaton. It passed the coded message on according to instructions received, and so forth shiftingly, until the last transmitter took aim at Zamok Vysoki. To trace that changeable zigzagging back to Earth was quite impractical, and interception would be not just difficult but pointless. The laws of quantum mechanics protected the secrecy from anyone who did not know the key.

  "I daresay somebody's wishing hard that the Covenant didn't guarantee privacy rights," Aleka remarked.

  "It was drawn up in another era," Kenmuir replied absently. His attention was welded to the screen. "I’ve seen arguments for amending it to fit new conditions."

  "To control us closer?"