by Larry Niven
“WALK WITH ME,” Max Addeo said. He looked eerily mottled through the graphic that hung over Sigmund’s desk.
“What can I do for you, Max?” Sigmund asked.
“Walk with me,” Addeo repeated.
“All right.” Sigmund closed the file he had been studying; the holo vanished. He followed his boss to a nearby transfer booth. They emerged onto the front porch of an old home surrounded by a white horse fence. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Rolling, grassy hills stretched as far as the eye could see. Hikers dotted the trail that led up to a nearby ridge.
“Where are we, Max?”
“Sky Meadows.” Addeo pointed to low mountains in the distance. “That’s the Blue Ridge. Shall we walk?”
They walked, Sigmund thinking this was too much of a buildup for good news.
“I’m being promoted,” Addeo finally said. “Deputy Undersecretary General for Security Affairs. The official announcement comes out tomorrow.”
“Congratulations.” Sigmund kept his eyes on the dirt path. “Why tell me first?” And why tell me here? What’s the bad news?
“I’m closing down the Puppeteer task force.”
Sigmund grabbed his boss’s sleeve. “Why? When?”
Hikers turned and stared. “It’s all right, folks,” Addeo said, brushing off Sigmund’s hand. He waited for people to walk away. “That’s why, Sigmund. I imagined you’d respond like this.”
“No, futz it! Why terminate the task force?”
“The thing is, Sigmund, it’s a Puppeteer task force, only there are no Puppeteers. There haven’t been in two years. Even Nessus is long gone.”
“You have no reason to think so,” Sigmund argued.
“And you don’t know he’s still here! When did you last see or hear from Nessus? More than a year ago, as I recall.”
Sigmund’s mind raced. “The promotion is for shutting down the investigation, isn’t it? Pelton always had pull at the UN. Now he’s won.”
“You’re right in a way,” Addeo snapped. “A case can be made the shutdown is because of Pelton—because you are obsessed with him. Just like you’re obsessed with Beowulf Shaeffer. You forgot this was a Puppeteer task force.”
How could he forget? Sigmund said, “Don’t you see? They’re all in it together! Shaeffer gave the Puppeteers their excuse to abandon and betray Known Space. Pelton befriended Shaeffer, making it impossible to investigate Shaeffer.”
Addeo glanced up at a passing shadow. Far above, a hawk circled, effortlessly climbing a thermal. The sight seemed to calm Addeo. Sadly, he shook his head. “How is Shaeffer part of a Puppeteer plot, Sigmund? General Products hired Beowulf Shaeffer to go to the core because they had used him before. You selected Shaeffer back on We Made It.”
Sigmund said nothing.
“Finally,” Addeo said. “You recognize reality. Let it go, Sigmund.”
That Addeo could not be swayed—that was reality. The noninvolvement of the Puppeteers? That was a different matter entirely.
Pelton was a very rich man. Much of his money was off-world, out-system, and very difficult to trace. Impossible, so far, when Sigmund dare not be caught attempting to trace it.
What if Shaeffer were chosen for me? Then so much made sense!
Pelton’s business interests on Jinx awarded grants to the Institute of Knowledge. The institute initiated the BVS-1 mission. If Pelton then used his wealth to ruin Nakamura Lines, then Pelton had guided Sigmund’s choice on We Made It toward Shaeffer.
General Products. Pelton. Jinx. Who were the real puppeteers here? And now—
“Sigmund,” Addeo said with an edge to his voice. “Stop whatever paranoid fantasy you’re concocting to rationalize my promotion.”
“Which leaves me where?” Sigmund asked.
Addeo angled downhill off the packed-dirt trail, toward an unoccupied wooden bench. “That’s the second matter we’re here to discuss. I can influence your next assignment. Your friends’ assignments, too.”
Which begged the question: What did he want?
He wanted to nail Shaeffer and Pelton.
And that suggested the barest possibility of a plan. Could he pull it off? “It’s awfully warm out here,” Sigmund answered. He raised his arms dramatically, emphasizing his ubiquitous black suit. “To be fair, I’m not dressed for here—wherever ‘here’ is.”
“The top of the Shenandoah Valley,” Addeo answered. “Northern Virginia.”
“It’s even hotter than New York,” Sigmund muttered. “Tell you what. How about someplace cooler? Maybe Alaska. Is there an opening in Alaska?”
Addeo shrugged. “Hard to imagine there isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll make room. I owe you that much. The quiet will do you good.”
“Thanks,” Sigmund said, meaning it, although he deserved any posting he wanted.
Why not close to Nome, where Beowulf was now living with flat phobe Sharrol Janss?
• • •
THE TWO PREGGERS hobbled frantically toward the trees. Sigmund heard them gasping for breath from clear across the glade. Tears streamed down the mother’s cheeks.
“They look unarmed, guys,” Andrea radioed. “I’ve got a clear shot. What say I take ’em down and we all go home?”
Feather hadn’t said anything. Sigmund didn’t expect she would. If asked, she’d deny showing herself to the two fugitives. He said, “Hold your position, Andrea. They’re coming my way.”
Mom tripped over something unseen in the blowing grass. She fell, shrieking, to her hands and knees. Dad hoisted her back to her feet, and they scrambled unknowingly almost straight toward Sigmund.
Of what, truly, were they guilty? Heeding billions of years of evolution, commanding them to reproduce.
Sigmund wondered: Do I think more or less of Janss for divorcing Shaeffer because the Fertility Board wouldn’t approve an albino for a birth license?
As the Fertility Board never—ever—approved natural paranoids. I don’t really even want children, Sigmund told himself—but Feather does. And I want a life with Feather.
Nothing had gone according to plan. Janss now lived in the South Pacific, having reacquainted herself with Carlos Wu. Sigmund foresaw babies in their future. Shaeffer had left Earth. The last Sigmund had heard, Shaeffer was sightseeing on Gummidgy, in the CY Aquarii system. Pelton continued shuttling between Earth and his clandestine project on Jinx.
And here, Sigmund thought, in the middle of nowhere, I remain.
“Sigmund! They’re almost into the trees,” Andrea shouted, bursting from cover.
“Stay down, Newbie,” he ordered. “Their rifles may be stashed in the woods.”
Across the clearing, Feather stared. He nodded slightly. “I’ve got the shot,” Sigmund called out. Pfft. Pfft. Dust and shreds of grass spurted at the runners’ feet. “Tanj! Missed.”
As their quarry slipped into the trees, Sigmund couldn’t help thinking: Perhaps, just for today, there is justice.
20
Snack in hand, Nessus’ guest slouched on the armchair behind a partition of hull material. “I wish you’d upgrade your synthesizer,” Max Addeo said. “Humans like variety.”
Nessus considered, astraddle his padded bench. “Perhaps you’re comfortable enough already.”
Addeo laughed. “Why am I here today, Nessus? Apart from the money, of course?”
Money was the one resource Nessus had in abundance, all the vast wealth accumulated over the years by General Products. The challenge was in identifying capable yet trustworthy scoundrels to hire.
“I require clarification on your latest report,” Nessus said.
Addeo spoke around a mouthful of handmeal. “There are more discreet ways to communicate, you know. I use up a fake ID every time I visit, so that I can’t be tracked through the transfer-booth system.”
Because I need company, even if it’s a human traitor’s company. Even if I feel safe only with a wall between us. “Put it on your bill, Max.”
Chew, chew,
swallow. “What do you want to know, Nessus?”
Outside Gamboler, whiteness swirled. What would it be like to cavort in deep drifts of snow? Nessus didn’t ask. The question hinted that snow never fell on Hearth. It fell seldom enough on Earth, already in its early stages of industrial overheating. “Why does the ARM continue to look for us, Max? You assured me the task force has been disbanded.”
“By us I assume you mean General Products.” Addeo stood and stretched. “It’s only been three years since the Puppeteer Exodus cratered the economy. That’s enough of a reason for some, task force or no. Because by the ARM you really mean Sigmund.”
“Isn’t it clear we’re gone?” The undertunes of incredulity were wasted on Addeo, but Nessus couldn’t stop himself.
“Except you,” Addeo said. He laughed at Nessus’ worried plucking at his mane. “I don’t think Sigmund realizes that. He’s seen no trace of you for a long time.”
“Then why?” Nessus persisted. “Ausfaller works beneath you. Why don’t you stop him?”
“I have stopped him, to the extent I safely can. Let me tell you the story about how Sigmund became an ARM.” Addeo fastidiously wiped his hands on a napkin. “Eleven years ago, Sigmund was a financial analyst, a glorified accountant. He was investigating a criminal gang. I remind you, he wasn’t yet an ARM.
“Nonetheless, Sigmund was paranoid. He got there the old-fashioned way, without drugs. It was quite the accomplishment to keep his condition secret and untreated. Then the gang he was studying abducted him. Sigmund should have died. Now ask why he didn’t.”
“Why didn’t Sigmund die?” Nessus dutifully asked. It was better than talking to himself.
Addeo smiled. “Paranoia. He suspected a corrupt United Nations official must be aiding the mob. He didn’t know who. Sigmund set traps, using his own money, for eight different co-workers.
“It turned out Sigmund’s boss’s boss, a guy named Grimaldi, was dirty. When Grimaldi went to gloat, Sigmund offered to ransom himself. The bank transfer identified Grimaldi. ARMs tracked Grimaldi, rescued Sigmund, and broke up the gang. A major coup, Nessus.
“So. Sigmund is savvy and paranoid. Of course he was recruited. Now do you see?”
Such convolution! It made Nessus’ brain hurt. “Truly? No.”
“Sigmund interprets any order to desist—and he has gotten that order—as proof of a broader conspiracy. Hopefully, he thinks the command came from the Secretary-General. Neither you nor I wants Sigmund looking too closely at me.” Addeo frowned. “But if it should occur to you that Sigmund might meet with an unfortunate accident . . . don’t. Based on his history, it’s all too likely Ausfaller has made ‘in-case-of-my-death’ arrangements. There’s nothing like an unexpected death to make paranoid ravings suddenly seem not so paranoid.”
Jinxians and Puppeteers? UN officials and rich industrialists? Nessus couldn’t begin to imagine the plot Ausfaller had constructed from shadows. Mostly from shadows: Addeo did conspire, if not in the way Ausfaller feared.
It was all madness—but loneliness was a kind of madness, too. Nessus desperately needed companionship. The topic hardly mattered. “Explain how Ausfaller ties Jinx into his speculations.”
Addeo exhaled loudly, and tipped back his head in thought. “Sigmund’s job for years was to worry about Jinx. So he did. In a way, you have to admire his persistence. If there were any real danger there, I’m sure Sigmund would long ago have found it.”
“Go on,” Nessus said. “Explain his fixation with Beowulf Shaeffer.”
“If I can. Until Nakamura Lines folded, Shaeffer shuttled between colony worlds. For excitement, he had his pick of bored woman passengers. All very remunerative and mundane.
“Suddenly, he’s had three big adventures. The doomed BVS-1 mission was Jinx funded, and it seemed to involve a weapon that could kill through a General Products hull. Next, Shaeffer leaves from Jinx on a mission that discovers the core explosion. He sends Puppeteers into hiding and economies across Known Space reeling. Then, he leaves Earth in a ship built within a GP hull, only to reappear on Jinx with the same hyperdrive but no hull. Was the GP hull sold, like Pelton claims, or somehow destroyed, as Sigmund fears?”
Nessus’ heads crept lower and lower. Ausfaller knew nothing—and yet much that he suspected was at the fringes of the truth. “And Ausfaller’s fixation with Pelton?”
“Pretty,” Addeo said, now watching the snowstorm. “A projection to disguise this location, of course.”
“Of course,” Nessus lied. “What about Pelton?”
Addeo turned back toward Nessus. “Many reasons. Guilt by association with Shaeffer, certainly. The disappearing-hull trick. The off-world money that Sigmund can’t watch. The secret project—on Jinx. The family’s pull. Futz, it doesn’t surprise me at all that my man Sigmund distrusts Pelton.
“Then there’s a fascinating, decades-old rumor. Lots of folks believe Puppeteers sold Pelton’s great-whatever-grandma the core technology for transfer booths. Sigmund knows the rumor.”
“I see,” Nessus said flatly. It suddenly took too much effort to properly inflect human speech. Because it wasn’t a rumor. General Products had sold that technology. Puck himself had negotiated the deal. . . .
Puck: Three years later, that wound still throbbed. Nessus dragged his thoughts back to the present. Not even a corrupt ARM must ever suspect that Citizens could compromise the transfer-booth system. “Insanely creative,” Nessus said. “It’s hard to believe you’re an ARM.”
Addeo laughed. “Earth needs people like Sigmund, but they creep out the powers that be. At my level, the execs are normal. We’re buffers.”
As I look creepy to my bosses, Nessus thought sadly. Will they ever bring me home?
When Addeo finally teleported away, his report completed, Nessus was more depressed than when his lackey had arrived.
21
Nessus poked at a tangle of freshly synthed grasses. The imminence of change had him too excited to eat.
Hope had been a long time coming.
He’d expected to be without an appetite, but for other reasons: Dealing with Addeo made Nessus feel dirty. Nor was it only Addeo; it was all his recent contacts. Any honorable human would want to find out what secret goals kept Nessus on Earth. And so he met only with felons and, through their connivance, venal officials. Like Addeo.
It had not always been thus. Once Nessus had worked with good humans. Capable humans. Humans to whom he had learned to entrust his safety. Humans with whom he had actually approached a neutron star and lived to tell about it.
What, he wondered, had become of his former crew?
His thoughts fell all too easily into the familiar rut: Those like me, the few able to voyage far from Hearth, had always been a scarce commodity. Always.
And now scarcer.
The core explosion was hardly imaginable to most. Not so the scouts. Its discovery had plunged most scouts into catatonia—and all his friends into a hungry singularity.
Despite everything, reluctantly but obediently, he had stayed behind on Earth, one of a very few remaining scouts. . . .
Who then would guide a trillion Citizens in their flight?
Again and again, his entreaties to help went unanswered. If not me, Nessus had realized, then there must be someone. Trish and Raul, his crew so many years earlier, had exhibited great promise—under his guidance, of course. Why not use reliable humans?
And so Nessus had sent home a bold recommendation. Let watching Gregory Pelton be Achilles’ duty. Pelton, if he meant ever to return to the antimatter world, made his secretive preparations on Jinx. Even now, Shaeffer might be making his way circuitously back to Jinx.
With a will of its own, a head rose from the shallow bowl of grass. Nessus stared himself in the eyes. What Ausfaller-like reasoning!
Better to be like Ausfaller than Addeo.
And finally, to Nessus’ surprise, new orders had arrived. The task of monitoring Pelton and Shaeffer, together with responsibility
for Nessus’ agents in Sol system, had all been reassigned to Achilles. As for Nessus . . . he was recalled home—
To lead the training of a cadre of human scouts.
SIGMUND BROODED IN his darkened living room, eyes shut, immersed in the Mozart Requiem mass. Half a world (and a transfer booth) away waited all the desperate would-be parents of Alaska.
They would be there still for his next shift, and the next, and the next. . . .
“We’re not flat phobes. We can leave Earth. Leave Sol system,” Feather shouted over the music. And start a family, she didn’t bother to articulate. There was no need.
“Not together.” Sigmund sighed. “It wouldn’t be allowed. We know too much.” He opened his eyes. “Medusa, music off. Raise lighting to fifty percent.
“Feather, you know how things work. Suppose we somehow managed to get away and meet up on another world. For the rest of our lives we’d be looking over our shoulders for someone just like us to appear.” And when, not if, the ARM found us? Then who would raise our children?
“Tanj it, Sigmund,” she snarled. “I can’t spend my life on mother hunts. I won’t. I only wish I had the guts to risk pregnancy myself.”
What could he say? That their latest request for reassignment back to Alien Affairs had been rejected. She knew that. That joining the ARM was a one-way trip? Given how he’d become an ARM, saying so would be an accusation. Anyway, she knew that, too. “Let’s go out onto the balcony.”
The fronds of his potted palms rustled in the evening breeze. He and Feather stood side by side, hands on the railing, watching the city lights far below.
Everything looked normal; perhaps that was the point. The Puppeteers were long gone—apparently even Nessus. The economy, though not recovered, was finally improving. Shaeffer was somewhere far away.
Pelton, for all his secretive machination, had harmed no one. Possibly he had found his schemes too fraught with complications. Possibly Max Addeo was right all along and Pelton had no nefarious plans. Either explanation accounted for the absence of trouble from Pelton.
How pleasant it would be to believe such fairy tales.
