by Ben Bova
“Maybe. Maybe not. The thing is, it keeps growing. And this artifact of yours has shown me that we can understand it all, eventually.”
“Good,” said Stoner. “Then the artifact’s done its job.”
“You made the artifact?”
Nodding, Stoner said, “With the help of some technology I picked up among the stars.”
“Why? What were you trying to accomplish?”
“I wanted to tell the human race that there have been other intelligent species in the universe.”
“Have been?” Feingold asked.
Instead of answering the scientist’s question, Stoner asked one of his own. “Would you be willing to help me?”
“To do what?”
“Your Archbishop Overmire is arranging—”
“He’s not my Archbishop,” Feingold snapped. “I just work for the guy.”
Stoner chuckled. “Sorry. I misspoke.”
“Actually, I work for the President of the United States. He works for the Archbishop.”
Grinning at the scientist’s jaundiced candor, Stoner asked, “Overmire’s trying to arrange a conference of world leaders. Would you take on the job of bringing the world’s top scientists together at the same meeting?”
“I could. But why?”
“I have something to tell them,” Stoner replied.
“Something?”
“Something important.”
“Could you give me a hint?”
Stoner decided he liked Feingold. The man was tenacious, in his own gentle way.
“It’s about the survival of the human race,” Stoner said. “About the survival of intelligence in the universe.”
Feingold blinked. “The whole universe?”
Stoner nodded.
Puffing out a sigh, Feingold muttered, “I’ll tell the Archbishop about it, tell him I met you out here and this is what you want.”
“It’s what I need,” Stoner corrected. “What the whole human race needs.”
Feingold shook his head. “You think big, don’t you?”
“Somebody has to,” Stoner replied.
CHAPTER 8
Still smoldering at how Stoner had tricked him, Tavalera worked for Sister Angelique now full-time on helping to arrange the global conference. He sat in a cubbyhole of an office next to hers. He returned to living in the apartment she had given him, although now he had the necessary security clearances to come and go as he wished.
But still he was not allowed to communicate with Holly. No matter who he asked, no matter how he tried to maneuver around the automated circuitry, all his attempts to call the Goddard habitat were blocked. Permission denied, his desktop screen proclaimed.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need special permission from the Archbishop’s office to establish a comm link with the habitat,” said a blank-faced young communications administrator.
Tavalera replied, “I’m working for the Archbishop’s office, for cryin’ out loud!”
The technician’s expression didn’t change by a millimeter. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need special permission—”
Tavalera cut the phone link, snarling to himself, “Friggin’ robot.”
Stoner claimed he’s talked with Holly, told her what’s going on, why I haven’t been able to contact her. Yeah, sure, Tavalera grumbled to himself, seething within. Like I can trust him to tell me the truth. Holly’s probably forgotten all about me by now.
Big fucking deal, he said to himself. Stoner screws with my mind and the New Morality controls my body. No matter which way I turn I’m just a friggin’ pawn to them. A peon. A worker ant.
But as he dealt with diplomats and underlings from a dozen different governments and religions what struck him most was how petty, how small-minded, they could be. They’re all worker ants, he realized. And they don’t even know it!
The conference’s main sessions had to be at a round table. There could be no head, no place more important than any other. Greater Iran would not be in any way subordinate to China, nor would China sit in a position that was deemed beneath that of the United States. The Russians, the British, the Indonesians, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, wealthy nations, impoverished nations—none would allow any snub, real or perceived. They were quick to feel insulted, from Canadians to Mongols to South Africans to the Ona clans of Patagonia.
At first Tavalera couldn’t see how anyone could bring all these touchy politicians together. But slowly, with enormous patience, Sister Angelique sweet-talked and smiled and cajoled them into a semigrudging acceptance. Her strongest weapon was a barely veiled threat: “All the others will be there, in the full light of global publicity. You wouldn’t want to be the only one missing, would you? What would people think?”
Stoner was nowhere to be seen. He stayed completely out of the picture. His last words to Tavalera, just before he had transported him back to Earth, were, “This is something you have to do for yourselves. The conference is Angelique’s idea and it’s a good one. I’m not going to influence any of the participants in any way. Either they come of their own volition or the conference fails.”
It wasn’t failing, Tavalera saw. Yes, there were arguments and even tantrums from time to time. But slowly the conference came together. Some came willingly, eagerly. Some were reluctant. But all the world’s leaders were going to meet in one grand conference to discuss their differences and try to find ways to resolve them peacefully.
Tavalera thought of something an old British leader named Churchill had once said, when a rival complained that international meetings were nothing but meaningless talk, “jawboning.” Churchill replied, “Jaw, jaw is better than war, war.”
Despite his angry resentment, Tavalera grinned to himself over that one. Reading about history can give you a deeper perspective on today, he told himself. Sometimes it’s even fun, almost.
The scientists were almost as testy and touchy as the politicians, Tavalera learned. Almost. As he watched Dr. Feingold at work, Tavalera learned that the world’s leading scientists had stopped doing any meaningful research years earlier, of course. In their own way they had become politicians, directing the work of younger men and women. It must be like trying to herd cats, Tavalera thought. Or nailing pudding to a wall. Scientists didn’t take to organization very well. They were individualists, most of them, and so eager to get on with their own particular research programs that they resisted any efforts to shape or control their work.
Yet they needed funding for that work, and that’s where the older scientists helped them most. Their leaders served as the interface between the active researchers and the government and religious leaders who controlled the purse strings. Interface hell, Tavalera thought. As he looked deeper into the way scientific research was funded, he realized that the older dudes acted as a buffer between the eager young researchers and the doubting, often fearful politicians and churchmen. It’s a wonder any research gets done, Tavalera said to himself as he realized all the barriers that any new idea had to hurdle.
The trickiest part of setting up the conference, though, arose from the fact that there was a secret agenda that only a few of the most powerful governments would be party to. While the grand assembly of all nations would meet in the full glare of global publicity, the nuclear powers would send representatives to the secret meeting, to discuss their hidden agenda.
It was in Archbishop Overmire’s office that Tavalera began to realize that this secret agenda was the real reason for the public conference.
Angelique usually met with the Archbishop alone, one-on-one. Tavalera believed she didn’t think too highly of Overmire: she always seemed unsatisfied, disappointed, after a session with the Archbishop. Now Tavalera sat beside her in front of Overmire’s desk. The smart screens covering the office’s walls showed lists of conference participants, logistical details, food requirements for the dozens of different cultures that would attend the meeting.
Overmire never fully accepted his presence, Tavalera
recognized. The Archbishop always looked uncomfortable around him, suspicious, even though he only came to the man’s office with Sister Angelique, at her insistence.
Sitting behind his broad desk, perspiring noticeably despite the office’s frigid air-conditioning, Archbishop Overmire glanced unhappily at Tavalera, then turned his pumpkin-plump face to Angelique.
“The subject we’re to discuss today is extremely sensitive,” he said.
Angelique replied, “Yes, Your Eminence.”
Eyeing Tavalera again, the Archbishop said, “My security people tell me we shouldn’t allow unnecessary people to take part in these discussions.”
With a slight smile, Angelique said softly, “Raoul has become an indispensable assistant to me, Your Eminence. He’s done as much to set up the arrangements for this conference as I have, almost.”
The Archbishop said, “Mr. Tavalera, you’re not a member of our church, are you.” It was not a question.
Tavalera said, “No, sir, I’m not.”
“Do you consider yourself to be a Christian?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” The Archbishop’s voice rose.
Feeling that he’d rather get up and walk out on this pompous gasbag, Tavalera forced his voice to remain calm even as he replied, “I try to live up to the ideals that Christ taught. He didn’t think you needed anything more than an honest heart to live a good life.”
The Archbishop glared at him while Tavalera wondered if he’d thought of that answer on his own or if Stoner had implanted it in his mind. Get out of my head! he fumed silently. No response.
Angelique spoke up. “Your Eminence, Mr. Tavalera is our link with Stoner, and Stoner is the real reason why we’re arranging this conference, isn’t he.”
Something flickered in the Archbishop’s eyes, Tavalera thought. Some unspoken thought passed between him and Angelique. Tavalera looked from her face to the Archbishop’s and back again.
“Very well,” said Overmire almost sullenly. He pointed a pudgy forefinger at Tavalera. “But you must remember, young man, that what we discuss in this office is extremely sensitive and must not be repeated outside these walls. Not even to Stoner. Do you understand?”
It was all Tavalera could do to refrain from laughing in the Archbishop’s face. While he nodded, straight-faced, he was thinking, Stoner knows everything I know. He’s inside my head whether I like it or not, and this overstuffed jerkball still hasn’t tumbled to that fact.
But Sister Angelique knew, Tavalera saw. He could tell from the stiff expression on her face that she had pretty much the same opinion of the Archbishop that he did.
JO
In the safety of their starship, Jo confronted her two children. “You both took unnecessary risks.”
“Oh, Mother,” said Cathy, “I was perfectly safe every step of the way.”
“Were you?”
To human eyes it would have seemed that the three of them were in a sterile, austere waiting room of some kind. Its soft gray walls were bare and windowless. Glareless lighting suffused from the smooth featureless ceiling. Jo sat on a tall cushioned stool with a low curving back. She was wearing sand-colored hip-hugging slacks with a loose blouse of pale lemon hanging over them. Her daughter, sitting on a similar stool facing her, was dressed in a short dark skirt and sleeveless white starched shirt.
Crossing her legs, Cathy answered, “With you hovering over me every instant? I was never in any danger at all.”
Rick, standing between the two women, grinned at his sister. “You almost sound disappointed.”
“Typical male attitude,” Cathy sniffed.
“I was worried about you both,” Jo said.
“I was okay, Mom,” said Rick. “No problems.”
Jo knew they were right and she was being overly protective. Still . . .“Well, what did you learn that you didn’t know before you went down there?”
Cathy leaned forward slightly, her expression suddenly intent. “It’s just like Dad said: population growth is the root of their problems.”
Jo nodded. “We know that.”
“It’s different when you see it face-to-face,” Cathy went on. “When you see teenagers with a baby on their hip and another in the belly. Educated women who see nothing wrong with having six or seven babies.”
Rick shook his head. “They’ll overpopulate themselves into extinction.”
“Unless we do something to stop them.”
“Something?” Jo asked. “What can we do?”
“Cut down their birthrate,” Cathy immediately replied.
“How?”
“By reducing their fertility rate. See to it that no woman on Earth can have more than two children.”
“You can’t do that,” Rick objected. “Dad’s told us time and again that we can’t force a solution on them.”
“Dad’s wrong,” Cathy said firmly. “We’ve got to help them. Otherwise they’re heading straight toward a cliff. They can’t solve their problems as long as they’re overpopulating themselves.”
“They’ll learn to slow their population growth, in time,” Jo said.
“But they don’t have time!” Cathy insisted. “Dad’s worried that they’re heading toward a nuclear war. Even if they don’t, the underlying problem will still be there. We’ve got to cut down their fertility rate, fix it so no woman on Earth can have more than two babies.”
Jo rocked back on her seat. “That . . . that would mean a massive invasion of their natural rights.”
“No, Mom,” Cathy replied, an impish smile breaking across her face. “Only a very teeny little invasion of their bodies.”
CHAPTER 9
One of the most troublesome problems of arranging the conference was picking its site. The Asians balked at the idea of having it set anywhere in Europe. The Europeans refused to come to the United States. The Americans would not agree to a site in Africa. And so it went until Tavalera suggested picking an island in the Pacific Ocean: Tahiti.
Once an idyllic Polynesian island, Tahiti had become a French colony in the nineteenth century but finally won its independence. More than two hundred years of European influence, sadly, had all but destroyed the original Polynesian culture. European sailors, explorers, and—eventually—tourists brought alcohol, smallpox, venereal diseases, and concrete hotel complexes. Chinese merchants established shops in Papeete, which became a thriving commercial city with an international airport. During the latter stages of the twentieth century the French government even made Tahiti its administrative center for the nuclear bomb tests it conducted in the South Pacific.
Independence lessened the influence of Europeans and Chinese but could not undo the cultural transformations of more than three centuries. Tahitians remained proud of their cultural heritage, but they wore T-shirts and listened to pop music on their clip-on phones, just like people all over the world.
Yet the image of Tahiti as an unspoiled tropical paradise remained in the minds of people everywhere. So Tahiti became the unanimous choice to locate the Global Conference on Peace and Progress.
In addition to planning the details of the conference, Sister Angelique had the additional task of setting up a nuclear warhead in a test range in New Mexico, not far from the Alamogordo site where the first atomic bomb had been detonated more than a century and a half earlier. The purpose of the setup was the ritual dismantling of the bomb before the eyes of the leaders of the world’s nuclear powers: the United States, Greater Iran, and China.
Tavalera thought of asking Stoner if he knew of any other nuclear weapons programs but was still too angry to try to make contact with the star voyager. Yet that night, in the quiet of Tavalera’s own apartment, Stoner appeared anyway.
Suddenly he was standing in front of Tavalera in the apartment’s living room, looking gravely at him with his gray eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” Stoner said without preamble, “I’ve spoken with Holly again and tried to explain what’s going on here. You ca
n talk to her yourself if you like.”
“I like,” Tavalera replied sullenly.
“All right. After we’ve finished our business.”
“Real time?”
Shaking his head, Stoner replied, “I’m afraid not. I can’t do the impossible.”
“Yeah.” Tavalera sat down on the sofa, not trusting his emotions enough to say anything more.
“I see that your conference is coming along well enough,” Stoner said, taking the armchair facing the sofa.
“Hey, it’s not my conference. The whole thing is Angelique’s idea.”
Stoner nodded and stretched his long legs out beyond the coffee table. Tavalera saw that he was wearing old-fashioned cowboy boots, plain brown and unadorned.
“I think we oughtta know if anybody else is building nukes,” he said guardedly.
“The Russians still have a small cache of missiles with nuclear warheads left over from the old days, before the Final Middle East War,” Stoner said. “The warheads have degraded seriously and the missiles are rusting away in their silos. They’re not usable; the Kremlin leaders keep them more as a symbol of their former power than anything else.”
“Could they be fixed up, though?” Tavalera asked. “Made usable?”
Nodding, Stoner replied, “It would take a serious effort. The Russians aren’t going to start a nuclear war. They know better. They’ve seen what the fallout from the Middle East did to the Ukraine and Kazakhstan.”
“So it’s the U.S., Iran, and China.”
“Yes.”
Tavalera clasped his hands together. “She’s setting up a nuke warhead in New Mexico, near Alamogordo. In secret.”
Stoner said nothing.
“They’re gonna dismantle it as a show of goodwill.”
“In front of the Chinese and Iranian leaders?”
“That’s right.”
“Good.”
Silence stretched between them awkwardly.
At last Stoner asked, “It was your idea to place the conference on Tahiti?”
“Yeah. I figured it was sort of neutral territory.”
