Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  “Why should they?” Chang asked. He looked across at the couple curiously. “I was wondering what they want with all that stuff. Anyone would think it’s about to run out.”

  “For the status,” Jay said. Chang looked at him blankly. “It’s okay,” Rastus said. “As long as they pay for it.”

  “That’s my whole point,” Bernard told them. “They’re not paying for it—not a cent’s worth of any of it.”

  “They will,” Rastus replied.

  “How?”

  Rastus looked mildly surprised. “They’ll find a way,” he said.

  Just then Jerry Pernak came around a corner accompanied by his fiancée, Eve Verritty, and two more Chironians. A cart was following them with a few odds and ends inside. He gaped at Bernard and Jay in surprise, then grinned. “Hey! So Jay dragged you out to see the sights, eh? Hello, Jay. Started making friends already?” Introductions were exchanged with smiles and handshakes. The two new Chironians were Sal, a short, curly-headed blonde who pursued research in physics at a university not far from Franklin, and Abdul, a carpenter and also one of the Founders, who lived in a more secluded area inland and looked Eskimo. Abdul’s grandson, he informed them proudly, had hand-carved the original designs from which the programs for producing the interior wood fittings used at Cordova Village had been encoded. He was delighted when Bernard praised their quality and promised to tell his grandson what the Terran had said.

  “And how about this?” Pernak said. “Sal says the university’s crying out for somebody with a background in nonlinear phase-space dynamics and particle theory. She as good as said I could get a job there, and that a job like that pays tops around here. What do you think of that for a break?”

  Bernard gave a pained smile. “It sounds good,” he agreed. “But the Directorate might have a few things to say.”

  “I know, but I figured I’d go take a look at the place anyhow out of curiosity. That can’t do any harm. Later on, well. . . maybe anything could happen.”

  “How are they going to pay you?” Jay asked.

  “We haven’t talked about that yet,” Pernak told him.

  “That’s a personal question, Jay,” Bernard cautioned. “Anyhow, it’s early yet.”

  “Jay told us you’re an engineering officer on the Mayflower II,” Chang said, sounding interested. “A specialist in fusion processes.”

  “That’s right.” Bernard was surprised and felt a little flattered. “I help look after the main drive systems.”

  “We could probably arrange a visit for you too,” Chang offered. “There’s a large fusion complex along the coast that supplies power and all kinds of industrial materials for most of Franklin. Another one’s due to be built soon, and they’ll be needing people too. I could arrange for you to go and see it, if you think you’d be interested.”

  It was interesting, certainly. “Well . . . maybe,” Bernard replied guardedly. “Who do you know there?”

  “I’ve got a friend whose mother works most of her time there. Her name’s Kath.”

  “And that would be enough to fix something?”

  “Sure,” Chang said confidently. “I’ll give you a call when I’ve talked to Adam. He’s the friend. Would Jay like to go too.”

  Bernard hadn’t really thought of that. He saw Jay nodding vigorously, and tossed up his hands. “Why not? If you’re sure it’s okay, then thanks . . . thanks a lot.”

  “No problem,” Chang told him.

  Eve looked at the cart, which was waiting patiently, and then back at Pernak. “We’re through, really,” she said. “Shall we carry on and see the town?”

  “Let’s do that,” Pernak agreed. “I’ll take the things.”

  “They can go on the maglev on their own,” Murphy informed them. “The handler at the village terminal will route them through. You pick them up by the elevator in your basement. What’s your number there?”

  “Ninetey-seven,” Pernak replied. He looked at Eve and shook his head.

  “That’s all,” Murphy said, addressing the cart. “Ninety-seven, Cordova Village. On your way.”

  “One second,” a voice said from behind them. They looked round to find a Chironian robot winking its lights at them. It was a short, rounded type, which made it look tubby. “You haven’t taken any of our special-offer hand gardening tools. Do you want to grow fat and old before your time? Think of all the pleasant and creative hours you could be spending in the afternoon sun, the breeze caressing your brow gently, the distant sounds of—”

  “Aw, cut it out, Hoover,” Rastus told the robot. “These people have only just arrived. They’ve got more than enough to do.” He looked at the Terrans. “This is Hoover. He runs the place. Don’t pay too much attention or you’ll end up buried in junk up to your eyes.”

  “Junk?!” Hoover’s lights blazed crimson in unison. “What do you mean, junk? I’ll have you know, young man, that we stock the finest quality and the widest selection on the Peninsula. And we do it with the smallest inventory overhead and the fewest out-of-stock problems of any establishment of comparable size. Junk indeed! Have you troubled to inspect our—”

  “Okay, okay, Hoover.” Rastus held up an apologetic hand. “You know I didn’t mean it. You do a great job here. And the displays today are very artistic.”

  “Thank you, and my compliments to you, sir.” Hoover acknowledged in a suddenly more agreeable voice. “I hope you all enjoyed your visit and that we’ll see you here again soon.” The cart rolled away to deliver its load to the handling machine. Hoover escorted the group back to the entrance. “Now, next week we’re expecting a consignment of absolutely first-class—”

  “Lay off, Hoover,” Chang said wearily. “We’ll check it out through the net. Okay, maybe we’ll see you next week.”

  In the corridor, the quartet had shifted to Mozart. “Have the robots been kept on as a kind of . . . tradition?” Bernard asked.

  “The kids like having them around,” Sal confirmed. “And to be honest, I suppose we do too. We’ve all grown up with them.”

  “I can remember the one that first taught me to talk,” Abdul said. “It’s still operating today, up there on the Kuan-yin. But the ones you see today have changed a lot.”

  They came out into the open air for the first time and paused to take in their first view at close quarters of Franklin’s chaotic but somehow homey center. “And what about all this?” Eve asked. “Does it go back to the first days too?”

  “Yes,” Sal replied. “Forty years ago this was just a few domes and a shuttle port. The main base that you came in through was only built about ten years ago. Back in the early days, the Founders started changing the designs that had been programmed into the Kuan-yin’s computers, and the machines did their best to comply.” She sighed. “And this is what it ended up like. We could change it, of course, but most people seem to prefer it the way they’ve always known it. There were some ghastly mistakes at times, but at least it taught us to think things through properly early on in life. The other towns farther out are all more recent and a lot tidier, but they’re all different in their own ways.”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I can remember,” Abdul grunted as they began walking again. “Darned machines . . . always did just what we told ’em. For a time we thought they were pretty stupid, but it turned out it was us.”

  “How old were you then?” Eve asked curiously.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . four, five, maybe. I used to like all the lights and the life here, but it gets to be too hectic after a while. Now I prefer the hills. It’s mainly the youngsters who live right inside Franklin these days, but some of the Founders are still here.”

  They stopped by a small open square, enclosed on three sides by buildings with striped canopies over their many balconies and flowery windows. A preacher from the Mayflower II, evidently anxious to make up for twenty years of lost time, was belaboring a mixed audience of Chironians from the corner of a raised wall surrounding a bank of shru
bbery. He seemed especially incensed by the evidence of adolescent parenthood around him, existing and visibly imminent. The Chironians appeared curious but skeptical. Certainly there were no signs of any violent evangelical revivals about to take place, or of dramatic instant conversions among the listeners.

  “It seems irrational to me to argue one way or another about things there’s no evidence for,” a boy of about fourteen remarked. “You can make up anything you want if there’s no way of testing whether it’s true or not, so what’s the point?”

  “We must have faith!” the preacher roared, his eyes wide with fervor.

  “Why?” a girl in a pink jacket asked.

  “Because the Book tells us we must.”

  “How do you know it’s right?”

  “There are some things which we must accept!” the preacher thundered.

  “That’s my point,” the boy told him. “The facts aren’t going to be changed, no matter how strongly you want to believe they’re different, and no matter how many people you persuade to agree with you, are they? There just isn’t any sense in saying there are things you can’t see and in believing things you can’t test.”

  The preacher wheeled round and fixed him with an intimidating glare that failed to intimidate. “Do you believe in atoms?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “Aha!” The preacher made an appealing gesture to the audience. “Is there any difference, my friends? Can we see atoms? Is this not arrogant insolence?” He looked back at the boy and jabbed an accusing finger at him. “Do you claim to have seen atoms? Tell us that you have, and I will say that you lie!” Another appealing flourish. “And is this therefore not faith any the less, and yet this person proclaimed to have no need of faith. Does he not, therefore, contradict himself before us?”

  “Your comparison is quite invalid,” a girl who was with the boy pointed out. “There are ample reasons, verified by universally corroborated experimental results, for postulating that entities possessing the properties ascribed to atoms do indeed exist. Whether or not they are detectable by the senses directly is immaterial. Where are your comparable data?”

  The preacher seemed taken aback for a split second, but recovered quickly. “The world around us,” he bellowed, throwing his arms wide. “Is it not there? Do I not see it? Who created it? Tell us. Is that not evidence enough?”

  “No,” the boy answered after a moment’s reflection. “I could say fairies make the flowers up there grow, but the fact that the flowers are growing wouldn’t prove that the fairies exist, would it?”

  “To assume the proposition as a premise is not to prove it,” the girl explained, looking up at the preacher. “Your argument, I’m afraid, is completely circular.”

  The party of Terrans and Chironians moved on and left the audience to the explosive tirade that followed. “Those were hardly more than children,” Eve Verritty murmured.

  “You seem surprised,” Rastus said to Bernard.

  “Those kids,” Bernard replied, gesturing behind them. “There are some pretty sharp minds among them. Is everyone here like that?”

  “Of course not,” Rastus said. “But everyone values what they have. I said the mind was an infinite resource, but only if you don’t squander it. Don’t you think that makes an interesting paradox?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Still no overture came from the Chironian leaders. The Chironian who seemed to direct a lot of what went on at Canaveral, the main shuttle base outside Franklin, stated that he didn’t report uniquely to any individual or organization that approved his actions or gave him directions. So who told him how the place was to be run? It depended. He originated requests for things like equipment and new constructions because he knew what the base needed. How did he know? Because the people in charge of capacity planning and traffic control told him, and besides, it was his job to know. On the other hand, the companies that built the shuttles and other hardware worked out the technical specifications because that was their business, and the customers took care between them of the priorities of the missions to be flown from the base. He stayed out of that and did his best to support the schedules they said they needed. So ultimately, who was in charge? Who told whom to do what, and who did it? It depended. Nothing made any sense.

  Following a directive from Wellesley, Howard Kalens instructed Amery Farnhill to open an embassy in a small building at Canaveral which the Chironians obligingly agreed to vacate, having been about to move into larger premises elsewhere anyway. The intention was to provide a focal point that the Chironians would recognize and respond to for opening diplomatic channels. Unfortunately, the natives paid no attention to it, and after two days of sitting at his desk with nothing to do, Amery Farnhill pleaded with Kalens for approval to send out snatch squads from his contingent of SD guards to bring in likely candidates to talk to him. Kalens could only partly concur since he was under strict instructions from Wellesley. “If you can persuade them, then do it,” he replied over the communications link from the Mayflower II “A calculated degree of intimidation is acceptable, but on no account are they to use force. I don’t like it either, Amery, but I’m afraid we’ll have to live with the plan for the time being.”

  “Hey, you. Stop.” The major in command of the four SD troopers sent to scout out the center of Canaveral City—a residential and commercial suburb situated outside the base and merging into one side of Franklin—addressed the Chironian whom they had followed from the restaurant a few yards back around the corner. He was well-dressed, in his midthirties, and carrying an attaché case. The Chironian ignored them and kept walking. Whereupon the major marched ahead to plant himself firmly in the man’s path. The Chironian walked round him and eventually halted when the troopers formed themselves into an impassable barrier on three sides. “You’re coming to talk to the ambassador,” the major informed him.

  “No, I’m not. I’m going to talk about air-conditioning for the new passenger lounge in the base.”

  “Say ‘sir’ when you talk to me.”

  “If you wish. Sir when you talk to me.” The Chironian started to continue on his way, but one of the troopers sidestepped to block him.

  “What’s your name, boy?” The major thrust his face close and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “Do you want us to have to drag you there?”

  “Do you want to get out of here alive?”

  The major’s jaw quivered; his face colored. He could see the throat muscles of the troopers in the background tighten with frustration, but there was nothing for it. He had his orders. “On your way,” he growled. “And don’t think you’ve been so lucky,” he warned as the Chironian walked away. “We’ve got your face taped. There’ll be a next time.”

  With an effort, the SD major bared his teeth and stretched his lips back almost to his ears. “Excuse me, sir, but do you have a few minutes you could spare?”

  “What for?” The Chironian in the purple sweater and green shorts asked.

  “Our ambassador would like to talk to you. It’s not far—just inside the base.”

  “What about?”

  “Just a friendly chat . . . about your government, how it’s organized, who’s in it . . . a few things like that. It won’t take long at all.”

  The Chironian rubbed his chin dubiously. “I’m not at all sure that I could be much help. Government of what in particular?”

  “The planet. . . Chiron. Who runs it?”

  “Runs the planet? Gee . . . I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Who tells you what to do?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what I’m doing.” The Chironian looked apologetic. “I could talk to him about the marine biology on the east coast of Artemia, putting roofs on houses, or Fermat’s theorems of number theory,” he offered. “Do you think he might be interested in anything like that?”

  The major sighed wearil
y. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Do you know anyone else around here we should try asking?”

  “Not really. I guess you guys have got a tough job on your hands. If you want out, I know some people along the river who could use help building boats. Have any of you ever done anything like that?”

  The major stared at him as if refusing to believe his ears. “Get outa here,” he choked in a weak voice. He shook his head incredulously, “Just . . . get the hell outa here, willya. . .”

  “It’s impossible!” Amery Farnhill protested to a full meeting of the Directorate in the Mayflower II’s Government Center. “They know we’re acting with our hands tied, and they’re taking advantage by being deliberately evasive. The only way we’ll get anywhere is if you allow us to get tougher.”

  Wellesley shook his head firmly. “Not if you’re talking about roughing up people in the streets. It would undo everything we’ve achieved.”

  “What have we achieved?” Borftein asked contemptuously.

  “We have to do something,” Marcia Quarrey insisted. “Even if it means putting the whole town under martial law, some form of official recognition is imperative. This has gone on far too long as it is.”

  Howard Kalens simmered as he listened. Quarrey had changed her tune when the commercial lobby, whose interests she represented, panicked at the prospect of having to compete in the insane Chironian economic system. The signals coming down the line had told her that she’d better get something done about it and soon, if she wanted to see herself reinstated after the elections, which in turn meant that Kalens had better be seen to back her case if he expected her support in his bid for the Directorship.

  “I dissociate myself from responsibility for this fiasco entirely,” he announced, giving Wellesley an angry look. “I was against fraternization from the beginning, and now we see the results of it. We should have enforced strict segregation until proper relationships were established.”