It made a nice flame, and he held it out to me. I started to shove Dad's letter into it and changed my mind. “Let's get the goddam hair done,” I said, sticking the letter into a pocket. “Don't you know I'm speaking to the people in ten minutes?"
Marta took a chance. She didn't look up from her work, just said, “And they love you for it, First Intermediary."
Well, they do, kind of. The trouble is a day later they forget what I've done for them, and then they always want more and more. It's so unjust. I won their goddam war for them, didn't I? You'd think that would be enough all by itself. But no. They want more and more and more.
And I give to them, because I'm afraid of what might happen if I stop. “Less talk,” I said, “and more getting me ready there, Marta."
* * * *
What I promised the animals that week, I think, was more public executions on TV. Not just killing somebody by shooting or electrocuting, the way we'd been doing it, either. We'd make a little crime play for it. Like we'd find some photogenic criminal and cast him as a spy from the Arab war, and the good guys catch him when he's trying to get away across the frozen, let's say Hudson River, and they shoot him. Just wounding him, though. Then he falls into the river and can't get out. Then the last scenes are him trying to scratch his way out from under the ice as he's drowning. Powerful stuff. Only when that greaseball Hemphill suggested it I said, “For God's sake, how are you going to get any felon to volunteer for it?” And he had an answer for that. We'd shoot a kind of a pilot where the convict would do all his apparent dying by the special-effects way Hollywood had always done it, morphing and computer-generating and like that, so nobody's really getting hurt. Then we'd tack on a little trailer showing how we did it with the special effects, and we'd have the con sitting in the screening room and looking proud as Punch at seeing himself on the screen. And then, Hemphill said, well pleased with himself and grinning like the asshole he was, we're going to reshoot those last scenes, only this time we don't do any special effects. The con really dies. And that's the version that goes up onto the satellite for the animals to gawk at. But then, see, when we make another one we show the next con we've picked the fake version, and we tell him when it's over he's going to get a pardon and freedom and a new identity so as not to spoil it for the audience. Then he's happy to volunteer for a starring role of his own.
Worked, too. Hemphill had a lot of ideas. I didn't like him having so many of them, though, especially when he began taking bows for them. So now he's retired for health reasons, in the same hospice as my Dad.
Of course, I didn't explain any of that in my broadcast. It went well, according to the instant reads. And then I went back to the war room for a staff conference with my cabinet.
I'm not a micromanager. When it comes to agriculture or manufacturing or crime suppression I leave it to my lieutenants. They do a good job, because they know what would happen if they didn't. What my cabinet is supposed to do is think up exciting new programs for me to promise the people every Tuesday.
They're good at it, sometimes maybe a little bit too good. Hemphill isn't the only pain in the ass on my so-called “A Team.” Danny Kirsten is just as bad. Maybe worse. He's the one I put in charge of Rites and Rituals, which is a big part of the Beloved Experimenter code. Which he knows. And therefore feels free to interrupt almost any team meeting with his inspiration of the week, like right after that broadcast: “First Intermediary! Hey! Listen to this! Suppose we teach kids to count, one to a hundred, using the periodic table instead of numbers. Like hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium instead of like, one, two, three, four.” And when everybody had a good laugh about that, then, “Okay. Then how about this. When somebody's done something bad like, I don't know, murdering somebody or stealing something, maybe we don't just put them in jail the way we do now. What we do is, get this, we shun them. You know? The way the old Amish used to do? So they'll die, all right, because nobody will give them food or even sell it to them, but we're not exactly killing them, you see, because—"
I stopped him there. “Shut up, Danny,” I said. “Has anybody got any real business?"
Then Larry Willett stood up. “Talking about prisons, they're having a lot of trouble in them,” he said, not that we all didn't know that but just so as to lay the groundwork for what came next. “Guards are getting killed, every con has a weapon or two, the cons are pretty nearly running the prisons. I think I know what could straighten that out in a hurry, First Intermediary. How about if we give one of them a little of your thousand-to-one treatment? Lock one of the prisons up, get all the guards and civilians out and then pow!"
I knew what the “pow” was.
I should. I invented it. It was the way I had won the war against the Arab terrorists. For every one of our guys who died, I let the Arabs know, I would bomb, gas, or biokill a thousand of them. Since the Arabs didn't come in convenient thousand-person packs I waited until maybe a hundred or so of ours had been killed by snipers or suicide bombers or whatever. Then I wiped out some Arab town of, say, a hundred thousand.
I mean, after all, the one thing we had plenty of was things to kill people with. I admit that the plan didn't work right away. The whole war escalated. But after I'd done Cairo, Baghdad, Ryad, and, hell, I can't remember all the others, their killing began to stop. It wasn't so much that we defeated them in any military way. It was just that we could kill a lot more people than they could, and we made them see that there was a real chance, if this kept on, that sooner or later they might just run out of Arabs.
I encourage discussion, within limits. Maurie Haglaund was the first with his hand up. “What if we can't get all the guards out?"
"Cost of doing business,” Willett said complacently. “We'll pay indemnities to their families."
"But some of the cons will be there for minor crimes, or some of them getting close to parole. Do they get killed with everybody else?"
Willet spread his hands. “Fortunes of war,” he said. “And what are you worrying about? Didn't you ever hear of collateral damage? In the War a lot of the Arabs we killed were women, seniors, and babies. We didn't let that stop us, did we?"
There was an immediate silence while the others waited to see how I would respond to that. I wasn't angry at Willett, though. I had heard worse. I had been called a mass murderer and a genocider, which I guess I was, though mostly by people who were now in one of those prisons. “Cost it out,” I said. “I like it. And that's about enough for today."
* * * *
And then, back in my own quarters, waiting to see if any of the individual Team members would show up as petitioners, I remembered Dad's letter. I knew what it would more or less say, because all the others had said just about the same thing. All the same I took it out of my pocket, poured myself a decent shot of twenty-year-old Scotch and opened it up.
It said:
"Billy, suppose when you go to sleep tonight an angel, or perhaps just me, your father, appears in a dream and says, ‘Look. If this alien experimenter wanted to make a complete model of a universe wouldn't he make it really complete? Including, let's say, God? And a heaven? And a hell?’ And, dear Billy, are you really so sure he didn't?"
Some petitioner was knocking on the door by the time I finished it. It was not a good time for me to be petitioned. My father was a crazy old fart, all right, but after all these years he could still make me blow my top with rage. I crumpled the letter up and tossed it toward the fireplace, and then I opened the door.
It was that greatest of all shitheads, Danny Kirsten. “First Intermediary,” he said, ducking his head and smiling up at me, “I just want to say how much I hate that idiot, Willett. And I'm sorry to have wasted your time. But what I wanted to ask is, what do you think, could I appear at your side next time you talk to the people? And would you be willing to wear vestments?"
I wouldn't have thought anything could make me madder, but he did it. “God damn you, Danny,” I said—I guess, shouted, “the answer is fucking no.
To that. To anything else you might ask, and to anyone else who might come by this evening to ask for anything at all.” And because I didn't want to actually kill him I turned around and left the room, and I slammed the door behind me.
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Elevated Daniel Kirsten, Who Was Prophesied
If You are indeed there, O God, let me make these facts known to You.
As to the conversion of former churches and other temples: 30 percent of them deteriorated so severely during the interregnum that they can only be pulled down. Another 45 percent are still in the process of restoration, but the remaining 15 percent are completely renewed and reconsecrated, with all old icons and symbols wholly effaced.
As to Divine Science: nearly every old telescope with an aperture greater than 1.5 meters has been refurbished when necessary and set to the continuous exploration of Your infinite universe.
As to Doctrine: a new catechism for senior citizens is now being completed, to add to those already established for adults, teenagers and younger children. The Reproval measures for senior citizens who fail in this subject are the same as for younger children, namely withholding of one or more, but not more than three, meals, and sleep deprivation for not more than twenty-four hours.
As to the Giver of the Word and His Son: they are both resting in the Place of Meditation. Their physical condition is as good as is feasible; the Giver still retains the ability to swallow and stand up. At holidays, Giver de Blount appears on all video channels, fully robed and smiling. That's just His physical image, naturally. His message is spoken by a carefully chosen and morally sound actor, and it is hoped that before long some more sophisticated method of stimulating the appropriate areas of the brain will not only allow us to cause Him to smile but even to lipsync His holiday messages. His Son, of course, is never publicly displayed. It upsets Him. He says troublesome things and becomes unhappy.
Finally, O (I presume) God, when I picked from the fireplace that sacred Letter from the Giver of the Word I supposed it to be a sign from You. I do hope I was right. The thing is, (I hope) God, I don't doubt but I have recently ordered some new measures, including the True Believer Faith Brainscan for every citizen above the age of six, with compulsory reindoctrination for those who fail the test. So, You see, I would hate to think that this, or any of the other measures we've taken, is wrong, because it's getting to be a good deal too late to take them back.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Frederik Pohl.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Pipeline by Brian Aldiss
A Novelette
The August celebration of Brian Aldiss's eightieth birthday is only one event in a very busy year. Brian tells us that the music for his opera, Oedipus on Mars, has been composed by a wizard in Santa Monica. The movie of his book, Brothers of the Head, screens in September nearly simultaneously with Tachyon Publications’ release of his short stories collection, Cultural Breaks. In “Pipeline,” Brian recounts the taut and fast-paced tale of an architect attempting a dangerous journey along the length of his brilliant creation.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Carl Roddard paced up and down the chamber of the Interior Minister. The floor was tiled. The sound of his footsteps drowned out the screech of the noisy air-conditioning. The Interior Minister sat placidly behind his desk. He smoked a cigarette. Behind him hung an oil portrait of President Firadzov, smiling. He looked up at the ceiling of the chamber. Beyond his narrow window, the sun ruled over the city of Ashkabad. Ashkabad, the capital of the Central Asian republic of Turkmenistan, was where the pipeline began.
Roddard ceased his pacing and confronted the Minister across his desk. He said, “Minister, your position is untenable. You do not have it in your power to nationalize the pipeline. Particularly at this late stage."
The Minister flicked ash. “We understand the pipeline is American. But it runs for the first seventy-two miles through territory that is Turkmenistan. Neither fact is under dispute. It is fitting that our forces protect this stretch from terrorism."
A stale odor permeated the chamber, as if it smelt ancient deceits.
"You don't have the fire power,” Carl told him. “You don't control the air. Besides, our contract was drawn up nine years ago. This wild claim was not mentioned at that time. Why bring this difficulty up now?"
With a slight smile, the Minister replied, “There has been regime change since then.” He rose to his feet. “Now this meeting will close, Mr. Roddard. No oil will flow through the pipeline until this matter of sovereignty is resolved. My government will not permit me to turn on the tap till then. Good day."
Carl's auto was waiting in the shade of the Ministry. He told the driver to take him to the American quarter. Once through the blazing streets, and the various checkpoints, he went straight to the Embassy.
Carl was a big man who thought big. He had been in Central Asia, on and off, for nine years. He was Chief Architect of the Pipeline Project, and employed by Butterfield-Chou-Wolff, the biggest consortium on the face of the planet. Still he took his problems to the American Ambassador to Turkmenistan, Stanley Coglan.
Stanley was with his wife, Charlotte, and just finishing lunch. He stood up, wiping his mouth on his table napkin.
"Hi, Stan, Charlie! Sorry to break in."
"Have a chair, Carl. Good to see you. You want something to eat? How was it with that snake of an Interior Minister?"
Carl drew up a chair. “Not good. They've set us up.” He told Stanley of his meeting. “The essence of it is their demand to nationalize the first two hundred miles of the pipeline. It's meaningless—and they know it."
Stanley looked thoughtful. “So what are they after, springing this on us? Can't be money. Money is going to pour into this little tinpot state once the taps are turned. So why do they delay?"
"Search me. National pride?"
Charlotte looked over her shoulder to see that no servants were lingering. She said, “And what will they do with all the money? If precedents are anything to go by, they will not invest it on the infrastructure of the country, on much needed hospitals and better housing. No, it'll go into explosives."
Stanley told his wife, mildly, “Darling, these are not Arabs we're dealing with. Central Asians are rather different."
Charlotte shrugged. She poured Carl a glass of wine. He sipped it gratefully. The wine was imported from Italy, like many supplies in Turkmenistan.
The ambassador swiveled in his chair to stare out of the window. Beyond the small garden, a sentry stood armed and alert at the gate. “Have you spoken yet to the top brass at Butterfield-Chou-Wolff?"
"No. I drove straight here. BCW would probably want to give in. We can't do that. Suoyue has to be in our hands from start to finish. It's Security.” With a tinge of sarcasm, he had used Suoyue, the common Chinese name for the pipeline.
"Of course, Firadzov is behind this,” Charlotte said, thoughtfully. Firadzov, the President of Turkmenistan, was the victor of a coup earlier in the previous year.
"Not a cockroach moves without Firadzov's say-so,” Stanley replied. He gazed at his wife.
"So?"
"Ziviad Haydor."
Both men looked at her blankly.
"Ziviad Haydor,” Charlotte repeated. “That rare thing, a powerful Turkmen dissident. Funded by Moscow, naturally. Come on, guys, when Firadzov took over, and was gunning for him, Haydor ran here to us for sanctuary."
Carl remembered. “Moscow has no use for Firadzov. They wanted the oil pumped north to Moscow, as in Soviet times, when they owned this dump. This guy Haydor was Moscow's man. Where is he now? Syria?"
Stanley thumped the table. “He's still here! One of our permanent lodgers. He lives in a couple of rooms in the annex. No one else will have him. Where can he go? The Arabs hate him even more than the Russkies, because they think he did a deal with us. Of course, Firadzov would kill Haydor if he got half a chance."
Charlo
tte said quietly, “We could do a trade...."
The two men looked at each other. Then they both grinned.
Carl Roddard had himself driven to the offices of Butterfield-Chou-Wolff on the edge of town. Big initial letters BCW loomed on the façade of a square concrete building. It was ringed with a double protective fence. Nearby, the road led to a spot where the city abruptly stopped. A red-and-white painted metal pole was down. Beyond it, the great desert began, stony and drab. The barrier kept out various camels, who stood hopelessly, staring in at this outpost of civilization.
After thrusting his biometric card in the entry-slot to the building, Carl took the elevator to his offices on the fourth and top floor. It was blessedly cool in BCW, where the air-cond unit worked. His assistant, Ron Deeds, greeted him. Preoccupied, Carl went to study the map of the area on the far wall.
A silver marker pen depicted the pipeline running a thousand miles from East to West. It started just outside Ashkabad, to cross the frontier with Northern Iran at the town of Gifan. At the frontier was a fortified pumping station, marked as at Milestone 72.
Ron came over, looking serious, tousling further his untidy fair hair. “The BCW committee met this morning,” he said in a low voice. “It's looking not good. The world is waiting for the opening of the pipeline next week. BCW don't want hitches. They were on the air to Washington and Beijing this morning, saying they would accede to Firadzov's demand for nationalization of the first stretch of pipeline. They will take over control. We'll just have a watching brief."
Carl scowled. “We can't let it happen. Look, Ron, we're going to do a trade. We think it will work. I need your help, okay?"
"Sure. What can I do?"
"We buy Firadzov off with a well-known dissident in our keeping. This nationalization idea is just a bluff. We'll call their bluff. We give Firadzov the dissident, he stops this nonsense. After all, Firadzov needs the oil flowing as much as we do."
Asimov's SF, Sep 2005 Page 5
